#the monster in my closet au | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

edgeray · 1 month

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“LATE NIGHT DEVIL, PUT YOUR HANDS ON ME

and never never never ever let go”- Teeth, 5 Seconds of Summer

Mafia AU! Arlecchino x Reader Oneshot

Author's Note: It's been a while since I've actually published anything on here. Well, my gay ass is back with another oneshot. This one has been in the works for at least a month. I'm considering making a Part 2, but that will definitely take at least a couple weeks for me to publish (if not months). I wish I was kidding. School literally hates me and my teachers are incessant on killing my GPA. This is also a gift for @megistusdiary because it'll be her birthday when I post this. Please go check out her blog for amazing genshin wlw content (especially Arlecchino content!) Would you guys like this on AO3 as well?

Content Warning/Info: This is a long af oneshot (6.3k words), long af descriptions and kinda long intro, Arlecchino is referred to with they/them pronouns, implied female but no usage of feminine pronouns for Reader, general dark-ish content, pet names, Arlecchino is a lil scary, I've never been to a club so I apologize for the very inaccurate information, nor have I ever been apart of the mafia so also inaccurate, a bit suggestive but otherwise sfw, if I'm missing anything feel free to tell me!

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Monsters are said to have lied underneath beds–waiting to ensnare an unknowing victim–or stalk hidden among the depths of a closet–awaiting an opportune moment to strike its next prey. Monsters are fabled entities that are used to scare off children from bad behavior and are quickly eased from the mind by coddling parents. The mere notion of a monster shooed away like a pesky fly, swept underneath the subconscious like forgotten specks of dirt.

You know otherwise. Real monsters don’t lurk on the undersides of mattresses; no, they lurk both in the skies above and the depths below. They do not stalk dark closets because they instead stalk alleys in daylit streets. Monsters are very real, that you know is true since you’ve seen your fair share of them. You’ve met monsters in person–they’ve come to you before. Terrifying is an understatement for them, and each time one has appeared as a client, you’re no less scared shitless.

You’ve learned that even inhumane demons find themselves in need of entertainment; like the sinful creatures they are, they seek self-pleasure. And that is how you found yourself in this particular circle of hell, meant to serve and please demons, devils, and monsters alike. Perhaps it was a revolting job, working at a strip club run by a criminal organization but it paid decent money for being danced on the fingertips of whoever you were unfortunate enough to be assigned to.

If it was a regular strip club, being an exotic dancer would have been fine. It wouldn't be so bad. Lustful and prying eyes can be accustomed to quickly, and so are the flattering compliments and the awkward flirting by middle-aged married men. However, there was a difference between lecherous and predatory gazes. Here, you aren’t even viewed as a person, no, the clients here, those that come in reeking of smoke or blood (though sometimes both), armed with knives and guns on their person, see you as nothing more than a toy or prey for them. Even in the eyes of your employer, you're less than human in their eyes.

‘You harm our merchandise, you’ll pay for it,’ is the warning given to every guest when they first enter. Merchandise. That's what you are. And that single line of words is the only thing that assures you of your safety among mafia members, gangsters, crooks, and whatnot. You've heard that the organization behind this strip club does well in enforcing that rule according to other dancers, but you personally don't want to see if the statement is true. You've been here for a little over a year, and besides bruising grips and pulled hair you’ve surprisingly yet to be seriously injured in any way. So maybe monsters do have a little humanity in them.

You're quickly growing to be a fan favorite as of recently, which means more money goes your way, but you're not sure how you feel about all the attention on you. It's most likely because of how often you offer private dances and private rooms to clients. Whatever gets you the most money; the faster you make money the faster you can pay off your debt and be out of here.

Tonight is supposed to be no different from other nights. You perform on stage, you rile up the crowd, you get showered in tips, and if there is a customer that looks mentally sane enough not to murder you in private, you take them to the back. Except, tonight, you're approached by your boss, who informs you that the entirety of the club was reserved by the Fatui, a well-known mafia more powerful and larger than the one that backs you up, for some celebration. These kinds of occurrences in the club rarely crop up, but when they do, they're often the most opportune time to bag in an abundant amount of money. Big shots like the Fatui pay and tip well, but there's one unsaid risk that comes with this: as a mere dancer like yourself, your life quite literally dangles in the Fatuis’ hands tonight. The organization that owns this establishment can't retaliate against the Fatuis if they so choose to dismiss the warning. They can't even compare to the might of the Fatui.

Simply put, if a Fatui kills you tonight, no one could do more besides bat their eyelashes. You're not at all pleased with this predicament of practically bordering on death, especially when you know one wrong move with one too hot-tempered Fatui could land you at the pearly gates. Keep pleasing the crowd, keep entertaining them, keep racking in the money, you remind yourself as you continue your dance, twirling around the pole sensually, and the customers devour every movement with their eyes. The only comfort you're given is that you've heard the Fatui are quite reasonable and diplomatic most of the time. This is especially true for the Harbingers, you've heard, the twelve most elite members that serve under the Tsaritsa, and the ones that are the most exclusive customers this night. That doesn't mean the Harbingers are any more humane than the average crook. Having worked in a strip club run by the mafia and surrounded by criminal organizations, the more rumored something is, the more dangerous it is. They can be considered devils amongst demons even. That's simply how vile they're supposed to be.

The most concerning problem about the Harbingers is that you don’t know what they look like, only the occasional whisper has alluded to how to distinguish between the twelve. Perhaps, you can survive through the night if you try not to draw too much attention; let the other dancers shine instead and hope you don’t get requested for a private room or dance. That way, you can ensure you don’t end up dead.

Your time to go upstage comes sooner than you’re prepared for. Your hands are clammy, and your form trembles in a way that only happened during your first month. Both reactions don’t make for a very good combination when your survival relies on you not fucking up and disappointing criminal customers. As you approach the pole, just like every time you’ve done, you make sure that the crowd’s gazes are in the backdrop of your mind, and instead, fixate on repeating the movements you’ve been taught and have mastered with your experience. Bet your survival on the provocative sway of your hips, the practiced showcase of your legs, and the allure of your dancing form. Beguile the crowd, but not too much, just enough to wow them. From what you can tell by the volume of the crowd, you’re doing a good job pleasing the Fatui enough. Your body stops tremoring after a few minutes on stage, and with one last final push of courage, you focus your eyes on the crowd before you.

Unsurprisingly, the makeup of the Fatui are men, though there are notably quite a few women. Either way, all of their attention is on you. As your eyes scan across a crowd, for one reason or another, you stop at a particular set of eyes near the back of the crowd. Intent, pitch-black abysses stare back, like they were trying to bore into your soul and devour every single motion of yours. They don’t quite hold the same ravenous desire as many of those before you right now, you mentally note with curiosity. It feels like your form is being calculated, in the way a predator would cautiously observe their next prey, a sensation you’ve experienced a few times, but each is no less chilling. The weight of their engrossed gaze causes you to shiver momentarily, and you snap away from their disturbing gaze to prevent any fumbling or faltering while you’re on stage.

Tonight marks the first time you actively seek out the same viewer while on stage, or even, during your entire time here. For some reason, you feel awfully bold, or curious, whichever two comforts you more, and unlike the meek little rabbit you usually are, you instead search for the viewer’s gaze. You find the pair of eyes with relative ease, as you remember that above their eyes are distinctive snow-white strands with streaks as black as their orbs. You take a moment to study them, and they remind you of a lion–or lioness–among hyenas. The aura they exude varied quite a bit compared to the other Fatui in front of you: not rambunctious, or arrogant; it's apparent they held an aura of indomitable authority just from the way they held themselves. Perfect posture with their clasped hands nested in their lap, with one leg raised over the other. They’re an embodiment of perfected elegance, however, much like a porcelain doll, they’re also expressionless, their appearance unmarred. You don’t examine the Fatui’s form for much longer because their scrutiny on you pricks at your skin irritatedly.

You don’t look for them again throughout your performance. In fact, you hope you never meet those charcoal pits again. You’re afraid that if you do, you’ll be ensnared by whatever beastly claws or fangs you know that Fatui hides underneath that impenetrable mask. The moment your time on stage ends, you rush back to the changing room to shake off your nerves. You sit down at a nearby chair, taking in deep sighs as you attempt to forget how you were stared down like a you were cornered, defenseless animal. And that is what you are, as much as you hate it. There’s nothing that can protect you from the Fatui. Maybe if you hide, never show your face for the rest of the night, they’ll forget they ever saw you and they’ll target another dancer. Surely, that will work, won’t it?

You’re able to steady your breathing before you can delve into a panic attack. Tonight, you decide, you’re not going to take any customers to any private rooms or take any private dances. You’d be missing out on a lot of money, but your life is more of a priority as of currently; not after the ‘encounter’ with that individual, you don’t want to think about how many more are just like them, hiding in the crowd like they were awaiting an opportunity to pounce on your vulnerable form.

Unfortunately, it seems like someone else has other plans for you because your manager storms into the room asking for your whereabouts before his eyes narrow on you. You immediately sit up, stiff as a board when he practically marches his way towards you.

"Someone wants you."

You sigh and shake your head. You should have known. "Not tonight."

He clicks his tongue. "You know I can't allow that tonight."

You bite your lip. "Just pass them to someone else."

"They're not someone you or I can refuse."

"Who?" You question with a shuddering breath, your nails digging into your thigh.

"The fourth one. The Knave. Lord Arlecchino."

Fuck your life. You might as well pull the trigger now. You’ve heard faint whispers of each Harbinger from the customers audacious enough to speak of them. The youngest, the eleventh, charming and boyish. The ninth, money-obsessed but a pretty looker. The eighth, elegant and cold, yet no less alluring. The seventh, as human-like as their robotic creations, which to say isn’t very. The sixth, is hotheaded and mysterious. The fifth, unknown. And the fourth?

Insane. Ruthless. Bloodthirsty. That’s how the fourth is described. You shiver at the horrors that appear on the forefront of your mind when imagining what may come for you. If you're lucky, you'll be alive at the end of the night, more than likely clinging to the edge of living.

“Well? What are you waiting for? Get ready as soon as you can.”

And you do. It’s not long until you stand in front of the private room’s door, your guest is already inside more than likely. The Fourth Harbinger is waiting, you remind yourself, fruitlessly trying to swallow down your stress. You can be dead the minute you step inside, this room could be marked as your grave. Whatever he tells you to do, you’ll obey wordlessly to survive. Just nod along, smile, and do whatever it is that he tells you regardless of the demand. You inhale deeply, regaining some ease of mind, before you bring your knuckles to the door, knocking.

“Come in,” comes a deep, flat voice, slightly muffled by its distance but what surprises you is how feminine the Harbinger sounds. Maybe you got the wrong room. You glance back at the room number plate on the door, and it’s the room you remember your manager mentioning. It’s the right room. Maybe someone else? You don’t have time to wonder, however, as you enter the room, knowing that if it is the Fourth, it wouldn’t be wise to keep him (Her? Them? You’ll just stick with ‘them’ now.) waiting.

“Lord Arlecchino?” You inquire as you enter the room, closing the door behind you. Sucking in a harsh inhale, you instantly recognize their distinct hair. It’s them. Your sight is immediately greeted by the figure sitting on the couch before you, sitting in exactly the same way you discovered them–crossed-legged and lounging back with unfaltering confidence. The Knave wears a scarlet blazer over a black compressed turtleneck, with a matching set of crimson leggings. Upon closer inspection, you’re able to make out red irises in their jet-black eyes. Despite the blatant and literal red flag, something about their appearance draws you in even when they scream danger. They’re… you’re not quite sure how to describe them. You admire the unblemished and pale skin, their elegant and rugged demeanor is like the perfect balance between femininity and masculinity. Are they beautiful, or are they handsome? You think both.

Arlecchino stares back at you like they’re considering devouring you then and there. You can’t suppress the shudder that runs down your spine. You’re a sheep before a wolf. There’s something so chilling about them that even with your experience with other clients, none has ever made you feel this way with just their mere gaze alone. This is what separates the average crook from one of the most powerful mafia members you've ever heard of.

You wait for a response but they only continue to observe you. You take the silence as confirmation to your question and that they’re anticipating something from you. Biting back a sigh of resignation, your hands hook underneath the band of your bra top and you lift it just the slightest amount before a cutting voice makes you freeze.

“What are you doing?” the Harbinger demands, their tone chilling and apathetic, making you want to shrink in yourself immediately. Your blood pumps loudly in your ears and your hands tremble a bit. Something about how designing their gaze makes you suddenly self-aware in a way you’ve never felt before another client–you’re practically half-naked in front of them with your skimpy bra top, undergarments, and fishnets and now is the only moment that you've actually considered how little covering is on you.

Why are they stopping you? Isn’t this what they wanted you to do? Or maybe they just want to do it themselves. Those types of customers always have the most bruising of grips and suffocating of holds. You stiffen at the notion. How are you going to survive this night with a Fatui Harbinger of all things? How many of your limbs are going to be fractured and how many of your bones are going to end up broken?

“I…I’m undressing,” your meek voice sounds out and you hate the crack in your speech. The Harbinger continues to scrutinize you. You don’t dare continue disrobing yourself.

There are several beats of wordless response before they then stand up from the couch.

Oh shit. You’ve fucked up. Are they going to kill you now? Is this your end?

Every thought is telling you to run in the opposite direction as they stalk up to you, but you're petrified as you realize with a chill that they’re taller than you. You’re not short by any means, a bit above average height, but they tower over you, looking down at you from above and casting judgment on you like a god. Once they stride toward you, you avoid eye contact by looking straight, observing their neck and clavicle that protrudes from underneath the fabric. You tense when they raise a hand, their manicured fingers placing themselves underneath your chin and long, carmine nails dig into the underside of your jaw, making you wince. They forcefully tilt your head, raising your focus onto their face.

It’s like they plunged their hands down your throat and ripped out the oxygen from your lungs, leaving you unable to breathe. Up close, the first thing you notice is their lips, plump and red from their lipstick. Briefly, you wonder what color their lipstick would look on your skin. Then your eyes travel up, red-crossed eyes gaze back at you and you gape quietly at the distinct shape of their pupils. You swear that their pupils flash red as you finally lock eye contact with them.

“Did I tell you to?” Their tone is cold compared to the strange softness of their handsome (beautiful?) face.

Something in your gut coils inwardly and you want to look away, but their firm hold on your chin prevents you. You bite your bottom lip to repress a whimper. You’re delicate glass in their hands, and they can break you so, so easily.

“No, sir.” Only the numerous times you’ve said this phrase ensures you don’t stumble over your words. They don’t answer promptly, but as they observe your features, their lips quirk up the slightest amount.

“You know how to address me. Very good,” Arlecchino purrs after several beats of silence, in a low, oh-so-sultry tone, and oh. Oh.

You’re not sure why, but their last two words make your stomach churn, but not in a discomforting way. In the way that lights a fire underneath your skin and spreads heat to every part of your body. You’ve never quite felt this way with another customer. You couldn’t believe that your body reacts this way just from a single praise but it doesn’t stop the pooling heat in your bowels. The chill down your spine still remains in place, but there’s an off-putting equilibrium of iciness and fervor generated from the client.

The Fatui’s eyes stay fixated on you wordlessly until the hand on your chin turns your head, finally breaking you free of their intense behold. Their grip slackens so that they can trace their nails gently down your throat, every inch of surface their fingertips brush against ignites a blaze on your skin. A shuddering exhale leaves your lips and it seems like they take notice because from the corner of your eye, the small uptick of their mouth grows. Despite how sensual and probing the Harbinger’s touch feels, there’s nothing lecherous about it–purely just intrigue and fascination. It’s a touch you both have and never experienced before. Cold nails rake against your throat, not enough to mark or scratch, but enough to invoke shivers.

You’re aware you should be terrified, but for a reason you can’t pin down, you can’t jerk away from their touch. You try to reason with yourself it was only because you’re one upset away from getting yourself killed but that reasoning falls apart when their hand gingerly traces your jawline and you make the softest of groans, a barely audible noise of content. Unfortunately for you, the sound seems to have reached Arlecchino’s ears and their expression softens slightly: their eyes narrow less and their brows aren’t as creased. And that smirk–if you could even call it that from how faint it is–becomes a half-smirk.

They pull their hand away and your trance is broken, reality returning back to you as you remember that the person before you is still a Fatui Harbinger, no matter how bizarrely melting their touch was. They turn on their heel and walk towards the couch in front of you; the slightest bit of heaviness is placed on your heart. You remain stationary where you are, observing them as they seat themselves gracefully on the couch, and their attention encounters yours again. Their black pits hold expectancy in them. At first, you’re clueless as to what the criminal desires from you, but then their legs spread apart, an inviting gesture that beckons you and every rational thought leaves your easily swayed mind. Your heart skips a beat, and you're sure this time it's not out of trepidation.

Even if you didn’t command them to, your legs would take you to their seating figure. You stand before them, feeling blatantly disrespectful to look down at Arlecchino, but you await their order. They lean back, lounging laxly against the couch, their posture never lacking their usual self-assurance. It only ties the knot in your gut tighter. You’re aware of what they’re instructing you to do, but the absent confirmation makes you hesitant. It seems like the Knave picks up on this because the room echoes with one definitive spouted word from their lips, authority and dominance ringing through their husky voice.

“Sit.”

Your legs buckle underneath you from the one-worded response, the demand only stoking the consuming fire inside you. Eager to please, you perch yourself on their lap, straddling them, your knees pressed into the furniture below you and encasing both of their thighs between your own.

Oh, you think to yourself as your legs make contact with their thighs. They're firm. And for some reason, that provokes your stomach to churn in itself even more. You're so close to them, enough to feel their breath cascade against your skin.

As you seat yourself, you nearly clumsily topple over, instinctively grasping onto their shoulders for support. Their shoulders are remarkably broad, you regard, well-muscled as well. Their hands creep up on your hips, steady but gentle hands grasping on each bare side of yours to stabilize you. The heat that radiates from their hands is infectious, regardless of the nails that burrow into your plush waist. For the first time, you flush considerably, a sweltering inferno forming in your cheeks and your head fills with dizziness. Their touch is gentle–something you rarely experience with customers–so, so gentle that you would describe it as heavenly. How can someone so inexplicably vile have heaven on their fingertips?

It's not a position you never found yourself in. In fact, it's far from the first time you've been like this with another client. But here, as you're sat on top of the Fatui Harbinger, and red x-pupils search yours, a foreign feeling passes through you. Placing your finger on it, you dubiously think it's bashfulness, but the heartbeat that sings in your ears and pulses underneath your fingertips tells you otherwise, tells you it's something more. Against that, you remove your grasp on their shoulders and place your palm flat against the couch’s surface behind the Knave.

You squirm a bit, nervousness in your form as you remain as still as you possibly can, waiting for any more instructions. All you need to do is act like an obedient doll for them in order to survive; compliance is the best way of ensuring survival with people like these. You feel like you're merely eye candy from the way that their attention flits across your body, but you're immobile throughout the entirety of their observance. Being looked at is much better than any physical interaction. Their hands still cup your hips, but slowly, they descend to the side of your thighs, making your skin feel tingly.

Impulsively, you mumble out a quiet "Sir…" as strange sensations brush against your skin.

The sound surprises you and you feel on edge as their eyes travel from your lower half to your face. You gulp considerably. From their stare, they expect more of a response, a reason for their addressment, but even you don’t know yourself; it seems like an unconscious calling that just rolled off your tongue. You cow underneath their gaze, even when the two of you are at eye level. When you linger in quietude, their hand releases one of your thighs and lifts to your face, supporting your chin while their thumb rests on your bottom lip, unfurling it just the slightest amount to implore an answer from your now parted lips. Gleaming scarlet pupils grip your regard sternly, piercing into you and instilling you to spew something out. Except, you still can’t, now too entranced and lost in the crimson.

“Doll.”

Despite the pet name, it's devoid of any affection or warmth. It's a word that drips of command, a reminder of your place: simply a toy that they can play with however they want, a manipulated and decorated plaything for their amusement. That means you answer to them, and so when they request a response, you're under the obligation to please them. Your survival is in their palms anyway, if they wanted you to dance, you would just so they wouldn’t strangle the life out of you.

However, its implication doesn’t prevent the tingling shudders that wrack your body nor the involuntary clenching of your thighs around theirs. Was it the gravelly voice that aroused your behavior? Your cheeks flare at the knowledge that Harbinger sensed the physical reaction. It shouldn't be possible. It shouldn't be possible, your thoughts repeat, but then they're interrupted by:

"Oh?" Arlecchino inquires to themselves, a stark amusement in their speech. Their red glare illuminates slightly, replacing the lost darkening with a faint glow in their pupils, and the corner of their mouth curls up. It is only then that you discover something entirely new: that monsters can be sinfully, cataclysmically, terrifyingly beautiful and the sight before you is the most exquisite example. A devil has you wrapped in its claws and its fangs readied for devouring but it’s disguised as an ethereal angel; blinded by their perilous allure, you mistake their snow-white hair, their lustrous piercing rubies, their flawless porcelain skin, and their burning, fleeting touches as traits of a seraph. From a measly smirk, you forget the atrocities lying underneath their fingertips and dismiss the hazard their presence holds.

The hand on your thigh rakes its fingers up, red nails trailing across the surface of your fishnet, wrenching out a breathy gasp from you as they travel inwards. Tingling pleasure injects into your veins as you subconsciously lean in, imploring for further sensual contact. A plea sits on your tongue and nests in your eyes as you beg them through your pitiful expression. They drink in your desperation with a slow swipe of their tongue over their lips, and that single action is debauched enough to elicit a soft groan from your throat.

“Well, aren’t you an amusing toy?” They drawl out with a preposing rasp and dark abysses glint with an insatiable hunger.

They smirk enticingly, their thumb running across your bottom lip and smearing your lipstick on their thumb pad. Their grip on your chin tightens a bit, pulling you even closer to them before a shadow casts over you when their face nears. Before you can even fathom their intentions, they descend upon you, closing the distance between the two of you. Your lips are greeted with something pillowy soft and fervently warm, and you sharply inhale from the sensation. Every one of your nerves sings frenziedly, your muscles tense all over, and your heartbeat drums deafeningly in your ears–all of this as your body is engulfed in a fervid tornado of heat that makes you lightheaded with pleasure. It takes you several beats to realize the reason for this is that Lord Arlecchino, the Fourth Harbinger, the Knave is kissing–no, kissing is far too intimate, devouring–you voraciously like they're trying to rob you of any air, trying to imprint themselves on your mouth. Their mouth dominates yours, pushing against them with a deep fervor and famished urgency, eager to swallow every bit of shocked noise you make.

You close your eyes and allow yourself to indulge.

You first taste lipstick with a waxy flavor hitting your tastebuds. It’s cold against your lips, yet warm at the same time. But the physical texture and flavor of their lips are irrelevant; there’s only one true manner you would distinguish their taste:

They taste like sin.

The type of sin that’s chocolate coated and sprinkled with colorful toppings; depravity so sweet and charming it makes you reconsider the bounds of right and wrong. Degeneracy is far, far tastier than anything you’ve indulged in before. How can something so evil be so heavenly? Cushiony soft, placidly warm, flatteringly zealous, it’s like having a dance with a devil; so unequivocally immoral but no less gratifying. You question if they really belong to the Fatui because how can something like this come from such? You want to engrave the texture of their mouth onto your memory, feel this faux intimacy even when you’ve long parted. The Fourth Harbinger, you surmise as you surrend your will to them, is decadent–the only word that can be defined as both wicked and delectable at once–the perfect word to describe them.

The last remaining bit of reasoning comes to the backdrop of your thoughts and begs you to not be swept away in the heavenly embrace. You discount it in favor of accepting this godsent gift by leaning further with a weak imitation of their ravishing lips and pressing back. It’s a feeble attempt to match their insatiate nature, far too domineering and forceful than you can manage but they display a token of appreciation when they squeeze your thigh, indenting your skin shallowly with the burrowing of their nails. The action exposes just how sensitive you’ve gone underneath their touch and you reward them with the sweetest of sounds.

“Arlecchino,” you mumble with half-lidded dazed eyes in between ravenous exchanges and it evokes a depraved throaty growl from the Fatui, like provoking a call from a starving beast. They lean deeper to indulge in your taste. The gruff sound reaches your ears and it’s like a psalm–you shudder from its musical melody.

Their clutch on your jaw releases and their fingers outline your jawline before snaking to the back of your head. Well-manicured digits entangle themselves in your hair, and there’s a gentle shove against your skull that forces you deeper into the kiss. Your hands clutch onto the couch underneath you as tight as you physically can for any sense of grounding and your knees attempt to close in even more to feel more of their body against yours. The hand on your leg, in turn, caresses the length of your thigh.

Every graceful touch, stroke, and brush exudes an unyielding and infectious warmth that only adds to the stoking fire in your gut, and you’re bathed in so much swelter from the ecstasy that you feel dizzy. Yet, you never want it to end, you grow more addicted and drunk with each encounter of their lips. That, paired with your strained breathing, prompts your stamina to falter much sooner than the Harbinger’s. You let out a soft whine to signal your depleting oxygen, and their mouth unlatch with yours, pulling away despite your ache for more. With the separation comes a small string of saliva attached between the two of you, evidence of the shared intimacy that’s snapped when they lick their lips. The hand behind your head detangles from your hair and you silently mourn over the loss of contact.

You heave for air, your chest rising and falling rapidly. You’re a little perturbed when you notice that they’re not even out of breath, a small but firm reminder that they’re as inhuman as humans can be. That knocks a sense of reality back into you. Customer, mafia, Fatui, Harbinger, it comes back to you like a train. Here you are swapping spit with them while in the lap of potentially the most dangerous criminal you could ever meet, but fuck were they a good kisser–you’ve never experienced anything that came close to this in your lifetime.

Any foolish doubtful contemplation of the morality of this interaction is swept away just like that when you hear:

“Greedy little thing that you are,” they regard with the most cunning and handsome of smiles, discrete amusement dripping from their words. Their dark pits behold you entirely, the same way they have always done when it seems like they were contemplating what part of you to savor the most. Only this time, you’re not so disturbed by the notion. If anything, the swirling heat in between your legs suggests the opposite.

Greedy wasn't a word often associated with you, yet you couldn't more correctly describe yourself in that moment. Greedy. Greedy for a Fatui Harbinger no less. As ashamed as you should be, there's no use denying that you crave for their touch, for their gaze, for anything and everything they're willing to give you. You want everything and more. The more you contemplate, the more it seems obvious why you wouldn’t. Are they a devil disguised as an angel, or are they an angel that fell from grace? Regardless, they bring nirvana to you. An incessant desire bubbles inside you, your throat swelling up with an urgent request on the tip of your tongue. Would they allow such a thing if you plead? Would they be offended by your impudence? Would they punish you for such? But the necessity outweighs any reconsideration of your insolence and the supplicant beg tumbles out of your loose lips.

“Can I… touch you please, my Lord?” You croak out, wincing at just how wretched it comes out. The response from them is not immediate as the two of you stew in silence, a building sense of dejection inside of you. The expression on their face noticeably contorts, smile lessening, their brows furrowing, and their red x’s glinting dimly. Their free hand raises to near your neck and you suck in a harsh breath as their fingers enclose around your throat. The mere action sends a stinging reminder to your lust-dazed thoughts about their position, and a chill pierces you.

Mafia, Fatui, Harbinger, the Fourth Harbinger, the Knave–the labels cycle through your thoughts. Though their grip is lax, not exactly suffocating and giving ample space to breathe, their fingertips does acutely jab into your skin, a display of their impressive grip strength. You have no doubt that they can suffocate you with one hand alone, snap your neck, or, as your mind ventures into more harrowing territories, crush your skull. Those thoughts alone has you breathless with anticipation. A heavy weight suddenly appears in your gut, so heavy that you feel like you can’t move so much as a muscle.

Did you just go too far? Was that too much to ask? Was this how you were going to die?

The reflex to gag and inhale combat each other in your throat, a discomforting sensation that crawls up your spine while you tremble. You’re almost certain that the nails have penetrated the layer of skin, drawing beads of blood that’ll trail down your mark. You whimper at the prickly pain. Yet, in all your unease, the most masochistic thought arrives briefly at the forefront, and you can’t help but consider: this position is just as intimate as all the other interactions. You’re already so vulnerable in their lap, does the hand around your neck change your peril in any way? No, you’ve been a defenseless lamb to a slaughter the moment you’ve stepped into the domain of a menacing wolf.

Ah. Even now, you can’t dismiss the warmth of their fingertips.

“Do you still want to touch me when I do this?” They demand callously, their voice harsh and reverberating through the room. Their grasp closes more around, and you feel your supply of oxygen inhibited. Tears begin to brim your eyes, but you’re undeterred. Unlike Arlecchino’s, your answer is instant and breathless. Your eyes intently lock on theirs, the hardened expression enough to satisfy their question. There’s no need for contemplation. Danger, you determine, is addicting.

“Yes.”

The previously small smile stretches across their lips considerably. Content, or dare you say it, thrill writes itself over their face and the boulder previously pressed against your shoulders is lifted. Your throat is freed from their hold, but their touch doesn’t halt there. Instead, they rotate your head for you to face to the left, exposing your side profile to them. From the corner of your eyes, you watch as their face draws closer to your skin, hot breath cascading across the small dents her nails created. The one on your thigh finally leaves, moving to one of your hips, tender strokes across your flushed surface. They lean forward, and moist, plush skin meets yours. Lips traverse over the length of your neck, teeth scraping against, making you weakly groan. It takes all of your will to still your body, only allowing for the Harbinger to do whatever they desire to your form. Their touches are burning, burning, burning–so hot that you wonder if you’re experiencing a heat wave. Peppered kisses follow the edge of your jawbone, all the way up to your earlobe. A wet kiss graces your ear and then the most sinful of statements dignifies your eardrums, like a devil whispering hymns directly into your ear.

“I think I’ll keep you to myself after this.”

A short hum follows afterward.

“If you want to touch me, you’ll have to work for it. You’re only mine for tonight, aren't you? Entertain me. Give me a private dance, doll. After all, you have me for all night.”

---

Link to M-Alexa's amazing art and how I imagine Arlecchino to look like in this oneshot.

#arlecchino x reader #arlecchino x you #arlecchino #genshin x reader #genshin x you #genshin impact fanfics #guys I'm so tired it's 2AM rn #i have school tomorrow guys #i chose to finish this tonight despite the shit ton of homework I have to do #arlecchino brain rot does that to you #def worth it #genshin impact x reader #genshin impact x you #genshin impact arlecchino #genshin arlecchino #genshin fics #arlecchino smut #edgeray.writes #edgeray.blog

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the-fluff-piece · 10 months

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Moving in together

Finally, you found a flat and will live together!

How will this work out with monster three, Law and Smoker?

Modern world AU headcanon about moving and living to together. Sfw and funny

Also check out my masterlist

And headcanon masterlist

Zoro

Doesn't own furniture

He basically lived in Nami's closet, paying her full rent. One day he just left his stuff at your place and said "hope it's ok". Now his name is on the doorbell next to yours.

Cannot assemble ikea furniture. The orientation of wooden parts relative to the other parts is a mystery to him. The first week, you will sleep on a mattress on the floor

His clothes will fit in two drawers

He'll be running around the flat naked very often. You don't mind.

Will build a little gym in one corner and work out daily

Law

Previously lived in a basement, is overwhelmed by windows and high ceilings

Brings mostly generic furniture, but has a few Antique gems in his possession

Says things like "can't wait to have you in my bed for good" when you decide to sell yours and take his antique bed with beautiful wood carvings

Even though he doesn't seem excited about your big, fluffy blankets in pastels you'll soon find him as a blanket burrito on the couch

Cannot hide his grumpiness from you anymore, has to confront it by silently cuddling up to you

Sanji

All his stuff is second hand but in good condition, probably from flea markets

Has already planned your shared Home long before you brought it up

Has several breakdowns during moving because he is a perfectionist, needs lots of kisses and hugs and a cooking break to function again

The flat has an extra room which he loves to think of as the nursery, starting a loving family of his own is always on his mind since he met you

Luffy

Moves out from a strange flatting situation with his friends, basically brings them with him

Will hang the walls with posters of insects

Wakes up every morning full of energy listening to his favorite playlists, jumping through the flat. Since you taught him how to use the coffee maker, he at least serves you some coffee

your fridge is always either full of stuff - or empty. there is no in between.

Smoker

All his things are grey and generic. Except his old army stuff, that's army colored

he ist the most efficient mover ever. He carries your freezer up to the third floor without an elevator

He is confused by some of the stuff you bring with you. Why do you need all those stuffed animals? Shawls? Blankets? It's soft though. He likes to touch your soft things when he feels like no one's watching.

Other things openly excite him. Like all that underwear, your sexy outfits. Now he can look at all of them and suggest what you could wear for the next date...

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ragsforless · 27 days

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Dune crack!au (4)

Irulan: Hey, Feyd.

Feyd: Yes, princess?

Irulan: I’m bored.

Feyd: Do you want to play smash or pass again?

Irulan: Fremen Edition?

Feyd: Atreides.

Irulan: Fine. You go first.

Feyd: Duncan Idaho.

Irulan: Obviously, smash.

Feyd: Same. Now your turn.

Irulan: Lady Jessica? She’s

part of House Atreides, right?

Feyd: To be totally honest with you, she’s a closeted Harkonnen at heart but I’ll pass.

Irulan: Why? She’s very pretty.

Feyd: I don’t like space witches. They’re weird and very mean.

Irulan: Like mother, like son.

Feyd: She’s also my evil creepy uncle’s super secret daughter.

Irulan: *sighs* And our monster mother-in-law.😔

Feyd: Don’t remind me.

Irulan: Fine. Thufir Hawat.

Feyd: Pass. Mentats freak me out.

Irulan: Feyd, babe, I thought you like math?

Feyd: Of course I like meth. I even started selling a ton of meth to some of Chani’s fanatical Fremen friends for a very good price.

Irulan: Let me guess, Stilgar?

Feyd: He’s my business partner.

Irulan: Nevermind. Your turn.

Feyd: Doctor Yueh.

Irulan: Does he still counts as part of House Atreides?

Feyd: He tried to kill my creepy uncle and brother. So I guess, yes?

Irulan: Pass. He was married.

Feyd: Your turn.

Irulan: Duke Leto.

Feyd: NGL, I’ll marry, kiss, and smash that one.

Irulan: But isn’t he like your distant uncle or something?

Feyd: You do know that we’re all related to one another, right?

Irulan: Right. We’re all married to Paul. So let’s play another game.

Feyd: How about we annoy and ruin our husband’s very important, very crucial business meetings again?

Irulan: I wish we could, Feyd, but the last time we did that, Emperor “I’m so special, I’m the Lisan Al Gaib” Paul punished us severely-

Feyd: Severely?! He just forced us to water all of his “sacred” arrakis palm trees for 2 weeks!

Irulan: Well, he’s currently talking to that angry looking Gurney Halleck guy. So-

Feyd: All the better!

Irulan: Better? For you?

Feyd: Gurney Halleck hates me. So I want to ruin his day as well.

Irulan: To be fair, Feyd, Gurney only hates you because you’re a living breathing Harkonnen.

Feyd: No, he hates me because I’m obviously perfect and pretty.😌💅

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the-dendrophile-bookdragon · 2 months

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Play with me

Pairing: Modern!Daemon Targaryen x fem!reader

Warning: Sugar Daddy AU, dark dom Daemon, slight obsessive behaviour, slight dacryphilia, ass slapping, none proper use of a belt, masturbating, orgasm denial, smut, a sprinkle of slight soft dom Daemon

Summary: Daemon needs his favourite toy to let off some steam.

A/N: This piece is a contripution to @targaryen-dynasty sleepover challenge. Reblogs and comments are appreaciated. Have fun! Please note, English is not my first language.

Walking into her apartment she felt like falling into bed and waking up when her aching body had healed itself. She threw her bag on a chair at her dinner table and sat down on her couch. She threw her head against the back of the couch.

Her eyes were only closed for a moment as her phone rang. A deep sigh escaped her lips before she opened her eyes to look at her phone.

Her heartbeat was faster as she read his message. She thought long and hard about what she would answer him. Coming up with only a simple one.

With bated breath, she watched as the three dots appeared on her screen. She could feel her anxiety slowly growing. She knew she had broken a rule. The sound of a new text brought her out of her head.

She texted him back immediately. Her hands slightly shaking.

What she didn’t expect was a phone call. It must have been urgent if he was too impatient to answer her via text message. She picked up, her voice meek as she greeted him. “Why did you not come into office today?” He barked out. She shrunk slightly.

He seemed on edge. His voice filled with rage and something far darker. “I have written it in the calendar. I was at a meeting, representing the company. Representing you.” She whispered.

She could hear a drawn-out sigh. “Be naked when I come home.” He growled before he hung up. Her body shivered. She let her phone fall onto the cushion of the couch. Her shaky legs moved to her bedroom.

She got undressed quickly. Her clothes disappeared into the hamper or her closet. She knew he didn’t like it when she was messy.

Patiently she waited for him on her bed. Her knees began to hurt as she leaned on them. But she knew he liked it when she was in slight discomfort. Her body slightly shivered as the cold air nipped at her skin. She wrapped herself in her duvet until she heard the click of her front door. She unwrapped herself as fast as she could and put the duvet into order.

She could hear the frustration from Daemon’s actions and how he threw his briefcase to the floor. Or how he threw his shoes into the foyer. His walk to the bedroom sounded like a monster was approaching it. Fear softly crept up on her. The sound of his belt opening made her gasp softly. He was beyond frustrated with her.

“Bunny, I hope you are naked as I ask you to.” He called out to her. His voice was slightly strained. He walked inside with his leather belt in hand and a dark look on his face as he saw her kneeling naked on her bed.

He walked up to her and grabbed at her chin, holding her chin up with his index finger and thumb. “Here I am, giving you a stable job, a stable income. A beautiful home. And all I ever ask of you is to tell me where you are.” He made a clicking noise with his tongue. “Maybe I should install a tracking app on your phone. Or give you a necklace with a tracker in it.”

His hand moved from her chin to her throat. He held her, not squeezing it. “How will you repay me, kitten?” He asks with a dark smirk. She looked at him with slight fear in her eyes. “My loyalty.” She whispered.

Daemon chuckled darkly. “Oh, the same loyalty you ignored today. You want to repay me with that?” He bared his teeth at her as he spat his words in her face, applying slight pressure on her throat. A soft gasp managed to escape her throat.

“No,” she whispered gently. Her hands slowly moved to his dress pants. As she opened the button, he stopped her. “No!” He barked out. Her hands immediately went to her side. She looked up at him with wide eyes, waiting for his command.

“When I let go of your throat, you will lay down on the bed and start playing with yourself.” He squeezed her throat a little tighter. “Understood?” She nodded, which didn’t please Daemon in the slightest. “Use your big girl words, sweetheart.” “Yes, daddy.” She rasped.

Daemon leaned down, kissing her harshly. “Good girl.” He whispered into her ear. “Now, I want you to touch yourself.” He let go of her throat and sat down at the armchair in the corner of her room.

She looked at him like a deer caught in the headlights. He cleared his throat and raised an eyebrow at her. She scrambled on her bed trying to work against his impatient nature. Positioning herself so he would have a good view of her.

His fingers impatiently tapped at the armrest of the chair. He watched her like a hawk. The shadows of the room cast a mysterious shadow around him.

Her hands began to snake between her thighs. She could feel her arousal had already spread onto her thighs. Her fingers softly caught on her sticky thighs. Daemon smirked as he saw the glistening of her juices spread across her thigs and tripping down her womanhood.

Her fingers went lower. She gasped loudly as her index finger made contact with her aching pearl. Her back arched slightly. “Permission to touch me, sir?” Daemon only grunted. With small circles, she began to tease herself.

Daemon watched with glee as her thighs began to shake softly. “Faster.” He grunted out. She obeyed immediately. Her whimpers become louder. It was music to his ears.

His eyes roamed over every inch of her glorious body. Mine. He growled under his breath as he watched her pleasure herself. “Add another finger and put pressure on your clit, baby.” She obeyed. Her moans get louder. “What a good girl you can be for daddy, hm?” She nodded. Her mind was nearly gone from the pleasure she was feeling.

“Stop!” He growled suddenly. She whined but obeyed. He observed her. Seeing how her chest was rising and falling rapidly. How her breathing was rigid. He saw her thighs tremble slightly. How her toes were curled into the duvet. “Look at you.” He taunted. “Such a needy kitten. Do you want fingers inside you?” He knew her body like the back of his hand. She was close to the edge. She whined but knew she wasn’t getting far with it. “Yes, sir.” She croaked. “Get on with it, kitten!” He demanded.

Her fingers slipped down her womanhood. Her body shook faintly as her fingers ran down her sensitive pussy. Her back arched as one of her fingers slipped inside of her. “Slowly.” Daemon chided her. She nodded, moving her finger slowly in and out of her. Her eyes closed at the torture feeling, imagining his fingers pumping in and out of her.

“Add another one, kitten.” He demanded. She did as he said, much to his enjoyment. His grin widened. His eyes never left her fingers pumping in and out of her.

He could feel his cock straining against his slacks painfully. Slowly he opened them. Slipping his fingers inside his briefs and softly palming his aching member. “Such a good kitten for daddy.” He breathed out.

A soft whine escaped her lips. A noise Daemon had mistaken as one of discomfort. He leaned slightly forward, his hand slipping from his trousers as he brazed both on the armrest, ready to stand up if she needed him. “What is it, darling?” His concerned voice rang through the room. She could see the worry dancing in his eyes. “What hurts?”

She whined again as she pumped her fingers in and out of her core. “They are not enough.” She whispered hoarsely. Daemon leaned back and relaxed into the back of the chair. His concern disappeared in an instant. “Oh, and here I thought you were in actual discomfort.” He clicked his tongue in disappointment. “That is what you get for leaving me alone in the office.” He taunted her. “You have to be grateful for what you get. As did I. Had to use my fucking hands like a teenager again.”

She moaned pitifully, trying to get him to yield. “Bunny, you know I am not that gullible.” He taunted her. “I am sorry, daddy.”

Daemon went back to palming his cock in his trousers. “I thought you would check your calendar.” She whispered. Daemon chuckled humourlessly. “Why do you think I would do that if I got you to do it? It is your job I gave you, bunny.” A shuddering breath escaped her lips. “It will not happen again, Daddy.” She whispered.

Daemon grinned. “I hope you remember your words. Next time you can crawl back to that shitty apartment you had in Flea Bottom.” She whimpered softly. “Are you close, bunny?” He grinned wider. She nodded, “Yes, sir.” She mumbled.

Daemon groaned. “Get your hands away from you and hold them up.” She obeyed. He stalked over to her. Like a predator walking closer to his prey. “What a good girl I have here.” He huskily whispered as he took the hand where her fingers were inside of her and licked at her fingers.

She watched him with bated breath as he licked her fingers clean. His dark eyes looked down at her. His grin showed around her digits. With a pop, he let go of them. “Have you seen my present for you?” She nodded softly. Her body shifted to her nightstand. Her hands closed around the cold black leather of the chocker. She held it up for him to show it to him. “Put it on, kitten.” He urged her.

She followed his plea, putting on the chocker as tight as she felt comfortable. Daemon’s smirk widened as he watched her put it on. “So beautiful. It looks good with your black Louis Viton dress I got you last week, don’t you think sweetheart?” She nodded softly. “It would.” She agreed meekly.

“Turn on your stomach. Let me see those soft cheeks.” Daemon growled. She obeyed, turning on her stomach.

She could hear him snarl before the leather of his belt made contact with her bare ass cheek. She cried out in pain and pleasure. “Count!” She did, loudly. When she whimpered out eight he stopped. Softly caressing the abused flesh. “Eight fucking hours without you in the office. I thought I would shoot myself just to feel something else than boredom.” She whimpered as he seethed into her ear. “I am sorry, sir. It won’t happen again.” She whispered. Tears running down her cheeks.

Daemon chuckled softly. “It better won’t.” His threat went straight to her core, clenching around nothing. He tsked at her body's reaction. “Be patient, kitten.” He slapped the right cheek of her ass again, this time with his large hand. She moaned softly. The pain mixed with pleasure.

He quickly removed his clothes. Pumping himself he leaned close to her ear. “I hope you had your shot this month. Because a pill won’t protect you this time.” He whispered into her ear before sheathing himself inside of her in one go. She cried out at the stretch. His pace was brutal from the beginning. He didn’t even give her time to adjust to him.

She held on to the duvet beneath her as he rutted into her. “I will fill you up so many times, you will feel me for days inside of you.” He grunted out. His hands grabbed at her hips harshly. She knew there would be bruises the next day.

“Maybe I buy a plug for you. So it would stay inside of you longer.” He grinned. His pace growing faster. She moaned out his name. The pictures in her head began to dance in front of her closed eyes.

“Next time you are at a conference I am with you. Physically,” He thrusted deeper into her. Daemon was nearing his peak at a fast pace. All his built-up anger turns into uncontrollable lust and arousal. With two hard pumps, he stilled inside of her. She cried out as she felt the twitching of his cock and the hot spurts of his cum painting her sensitive walls. “Or in another form.” He moaned out.

He stayed inside of her for a few more minutes. Feeling his spend mixed with her juices run down his thighs. “What a mess we made.” He chuckled. “You gonna clean me up, bunny?” She nodded eagerly. The cocky smirk returned to his face. “Later. Get your ass up. I need to fulfil my promise to you.”

Main Masterlist

Can't get enough? Tell me about it...

#daemon targaryen x reader #daemon targaryen smut #daemon targaryen imagine #daemon targaryen x you #daemon targaryen fanfic #daemon targeryan #daemon targaryen #daemon targeryen x reader #daemon prince #prince daemon targaryen #aemondtarqaryenssleepover

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vanwritesfan-fiction · 8 months

Text

Dad!Travis One Shots and Concepts Masterlist

One Shots:

Special Guest

Training Day

Coming Home To You

Without You

I've Been Keeping A Secret

“Because I Don’t Wike It!”

Welcome to the World, Alex

"Catching" Up To You

Overjoyed, Over Loved, Over You

Best Friends Forever

The Last Days of Summer

Alex's First Steps

My Protector

I And Love And You

The First Night

Sweet Love

Always Be My Baby

All Of Me

One-Sentence Requests:

"Wyatt was right, you are sneaky"

"I'm not mad, just really disappointed"

"Is all of this for me?"

"How lucky am I to get to love you forever"

"But dad please! I'm 16, I want to go on this date!"

Concepts:

Travis yells at Alex for acting out

Travis and Sav spend the morning together

Alex has a bad dream

Alex's first Christmas; Reader dealing with PPD

Travis dealing with diaper blowout at press conference

Alex and Sav walk in on Travis recording his podcast

Travis and Alex love reader's new haircut

Morning after Superbowl win

Savannah is scared of the monster in her closet

The family gets a new puppy

Travis is irritated with kids while driving

Travis talks with his girls on FaceTime while filming a Chiefs TikTok

The first night home with newborn Alex

The family greeting Travis after a win

Travis takes care of the kids alone while you're in the hospital with Laylah

kids doing something reader gets irritated w but Travis finds hilarious

Kids get caught late night snacking

Headcanons:

Daddy Daughter Date with Sav and Laylah

Insta AUs:

The Little Things

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jupitercomet · 7 months

Text

The Boogeyman

summary - Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw was ruthless, a stone cold killer both in and outside of the ring—with the belts and trophies to prove it. When a miscalculation results in a target being put on the back of his trainer's daughter, Bradley finds himself facing responsibility he never signed up for. You're a whole new challenge. And Bradley doesn't think you're one he can fight his way out of.

warnings - DARK THEMES, boxer au, language, Bradley is 6′6″ because I said so, brief mentions of blood, stalking, smoking, descriptions of scars, mentions of nightmares, no use of y/n

this blog is 18+, minors please do not interact

word count - 4.5k

there's not a whole lot of edits on this one so sorry about that, but later chapters will have more significant changes - bugs

monsters in the dark masterlist

“That’s it?” Adler’s eye twitches incredulously, his hands gesturing to the photos on the table. “All of this is happening because of a fucking jacket? Jesus, Rooster, when’s the last time you were nice to someone in public?”

Bradley bites his tongue, knowing Adler probably doesn’t want him to answer that. If he were to answer, he’d say that he wasn’t even that nice to you. That the picture makes it look way worse than it actually was. And that, really, none of this is his fault because, if Adler had heard the things Razor was saying about Nat, he would have punched him too.

But Bradley doesn’t say any of that, he just glares wordlessly while Adler scolds him like a child.

“Dad, would you leave him alone?” You seem to have gained some confidence in the time your father was chewing him out, shifting in Natasha’s embrace to get him to notice you.

“Leave him— Leave him alone?” Adler sputters, almost more angry at the fact that you don’t want him to be angry. “I don’t think you understand the severity of the situation we’re in right now.”

“I do understand, dad. But—”

Bradley raises his eyebrows in disinterest. “It’s Razor, Coach. You know he isn’t gonna do shit.”

“Of course I know Razor isn’t gonna do shit. You think I don’t know that?!” Adler’s on him again, looking about a second away from popping a vein before he takes a breath. At Bradley’s expression—or lack there of—Adler lets out an exasperated laugh. “God, you have no idea, do you? Look at this, Rooster,” he gestures towards the photographs on his desk, “you think Razor is smart enough to do any of this by himself.”

Bradley looks at the photos again. How they’re taken over multiple days, at multiple times of day, with a quality that doesn’t look like someone’s iPhone camera. Unless Razor was living out of his car and watching you for almost every second—and was way smarter than anyone gave him credit for—it might have been his idea, but it certainly wasn’t his execution.

Bradley looks back up at Adler, who seems to have calmed down slightly, but the older man still wears a grave look on his face.

“It’s not Razor that I’m fucking worried about.”

Had Bradley known that that conversation would lead to an outrageous amount of skirts being moved into his spare room’s closet, he would have fled the fucking country.

“Oh my gosh, you have fish? Dad, look, he has fish!”

“I see ‘em, kid. Would you go help Nat with the rest of your stuff?”

Bradley waits until your voice becomes distant down the hall, before he turns to Alder with a glare. “Remind me again why you’re making me her fucking babysitter?”

Like they’ve had this conversation a million times—and they have—Adler meets his glower with a dead expression. “Because you messed around with someone you shouldn’t have, and she refuses to stay with me because she doesn’t want to rope her mom into this, and if anything happens to my daughter—which, again, is because you decided you wanted to try and debunk evolution with your ape brain—I will stick Reaper on your ass so fast.”

“What is he? Your fucking dog?” Bradley scoffs lightly, which Adler matches with the single raise of a brow.

The two halt their conversation as you and Natasha each come in with a box, chatting quietly as you walk to the spare room that’s now serving as your bedroom. Adler smiles at you briefly. Bradley spares you a small nod of acknowledgement. They wait for the door to close.

“How. Long?” Bradley grits quietly.

“Until I don’t have to worry about her being used as some kind of leverage against you,” Adler says flatly, matching his volume. “Maybe it’ll teach you some impulse control.”

The door opens again and the two men stand awkwardly in the living room, silent until you and Natasha are far enough down the hall again.

“What if I say no?” Bradley challenges, crossing his arms in defiance.

“Then I’ll make sure that you never fight a good fight again in your life,” Adler narrows his eyes, the threat coming out in a tone that promises he means the threat. “I hear that Hangman’s coming back and he’s just as good as you. I’m sure he’d be happy to take all your fights.”

Bradley glares at him, but says nothing. He could argue that Maverick would never let that happen, but both men know that’s not true. Bradley could be the best boxer in the world—and, really, he is—but to Maverick, he’d always be expendable. And clearly, it seems, he’s expendable to Adler too.

“Look,” Adler drops his coach persona for a moment, letting out a sigh as he wipes a tired hand over his face. He looks older suddenly, aged. “I get that you don’t want this, I’m not exactly thrilled about it either. But you’re a good man, Bradley. And I trust you. You’re smart, and you know what to look for in dangerous situations. I just feel better knowing she has someone like you looking out for her. She’s been through enough as it is.”

Bradley’s brows furrow and he wants to ask Adler what exactly he means by that, but you and Natasha re enter his apartment with, what looks to be, the last load of your stuff. Natasha bumps her hip into him purposefully as you two walk past and Bradley suppresses an eye roll.

“Thanks for helping,” she says sarcastically.

He grunts. “You're welcome.”

“Yeah, thank you!” You smile at him genuinely. “Your place is really nice.”

Bradley can’t tell if you’re doing this on purpose or if you’re just stupid. Because it’s pretty obvious that every other person in the room—for one reason or another—isn’t exactly jumping for joy about this new living arrangement. And it’s even more obvious that Natasha was being entirely passive aggressive, but you seem completely sincere.

Bradley opts to give another nod instead of responding, though you don’t seem offended. Too sweet for your own good.

“Is that everything?” You wouldn’t be standing in Bradley’s living room if it wasn’t, but Adler asks anyway.

“Yep!” You lift the box in your hands slightly. “These are the last ones.”

Adler’s eyes flit over the box. “And you’re sure you have everything you need?”

“She does. And if she doesn’t, she can just ask Rooster.” Natasha answers for you.

Bradley wants to furrow his brows in protest, but he stops himself. With the amount of stuff you’d moved in, he doubts you’ll need anything. Bradley spares a glance at you, to see you already smiling at him, and he looks away quickly.

“Alright then, Rooster, you and I will talk to Mav about all this tomorrow. I doubt he wants to get the cops involved,” Adler sniffs. “We’ll… regroup after, I guess.”

Bradley clears his throat. “You’re leaving?”

Again, it’s Natasha who opens her mouth, looking at Bradley with a shit-eating grin and he can already tell what she’s thinking.

Natasha and Callie had been attempting to set him up for months now, after he complained once about the groupies always waiting for him after a fight. After that it was ring girls, or bar tenders, or friends of friends. He weaseled his way out of it every time, so he’s sure Natasha is loving this. Why she thinks trying to play matchmaker for him and his trainer’s daughter is a good idea is beyond him, though.

“We wouldn’t want to intrude on dinner.”

Bradley genuinely doesn’t know how he’s stayed friends with this woman for so long.

“Oh, I can make pasta?” You offer.

“No, that’s fine,” Natasha raises her eyebrows at him like she’s daring him to disagree. “Rooster can make something.”

He knows there’s a part of her that’s still mad about how he handled things with Razor, especially now that it’s resulted in a threat to your safety. And Bradley hadn’t ever actually apologized yet for doing the exact opposite of what Natasha asked him to, so he can imagine that forcing him into the role of “welcoming host” is giving her some sick sense of justice. He doesn’t want to give her the satisfaction though, so he just nods, staying quiet until both Adler and Natasha leave.

“Are you sure? It’s really no trouble if I make something,” you turn to him almost as soon as the lock has clicked in place. “I won’t even tell Natasha, I promise.” You hold your pinky out, though Bradley promptly chooses to ignore it.

“It’s fine, toots,” Bradley shakes his head, reaching for his phone to order something off of a food delivery app before thinking better of it and instead grabbing his car keys. “You like burgers?”

Knockouts was an establishment that felt like it had been around for almost as long as Bradley had. It was one of those “blink and you miss it” kind of buildings, having the misfortune of being placed next to a significantly nicer looking Denny’s. Freddie Kasinski, Knockouts owner, would be the first to remind anyone that “Knockouts was here first. And you don’t wanna eat any of that corporate bullshit. All nice on the outside, empty on the inside”. Bradley supposed there was some truth to that given that, with the option of them both readily available to him, he still chooses Knockouts.

You’re bouncing with excitement in his passenger seat, taking in the accents of light blue on the outside of the building as well as the flickering, cursive, neon sign. Bradley’s only mildly surprised you’ve never been here before, but you look like the type who’s put together enough to make home cooked meals so he guesses it isn’t as much of a stretch.

Bradley glances over the cars in the parking lot, taking brief note of any that look out of place. There’s no truck with dried blood on its side mirror so Bradley locks his own car, only making half acknowledging noises as you ramble beside him about his burger order and whether or not he likes pickles. He opens the door for you, his hand finding its somewhat familiar position on the small of your back.

“Hi, welcome to Knockouts. Are you dining in or taking out?” A waitress greets them politely, two menus already in hand.

Bradley glances around the various patrons of the diner. “Taking out.”

There’s an older couple in the back left, speaking to each other quietly over a single basket of fries. At a booth near the door is what looks to be a group of high schoolers, passing phones over various burgers and fries. Two of the girls are turning into each other in hushed whispers, sending him quick glances behind emptying milkshake glasses.

Subtly, Bradley flexes his fingers against your back, pulling your attention away from the menu above your head and you shoot him a smile. “What do you usually get?”

“Their cheeseburgers are good.” He says simply, deciding to just ignore the giggling girls to his left. He lets his gaze fall to your waiting eyes. “Do you want a milkshake too?”

“Yes! I was looking at their oreo one! Have you ever had that?” You light up at the suggestion, continuing to ponder over the flavor options Knockouts offered as Bradley’s eyes dart to the teenagers again.

“Oh shit, I think he has a girlfriend.”

“He’s so tall though…”

“He also looks like he’s 30 fucking years old, Kendra. Don’t think you stood a chance anyway.”

“Shut up, Devon!”

The waitress returns, somewhat of a grimace on her face as she makes her way to the cash register with a slight limp. You frown and before she can even open her mouth to ask for your order, you’re speaking.

“Are you alright?”

“Sorry?” The waitress looks down before she seems to realize what you mean. “Oh, yeah, I’m fine. These shoes are a little small,” she chuckles awkwardly. “I, um, I haven’t gotten around to getting new ones yet.”

You nod in understanding. “I know this great secondhand store on Myrtle street. It’s where all the rich people live, so they’re always donating really nice stuff.”

“Oh, um, thank you?” The waitress blinks.

You seem to be rearing up for more conversation, while your waitress looks more like a deer in the headlights. Partly for her sake—and also because he wants those high school girls to stop staring at him—Bradley clears his throat to order.

“We’ll have three cheeseburgers and one oreo milkshake.”

The waitress nods, clearly relieved, taking a ticket back to the kitchen. Bradley stops himself from pulling out his wallet when he notices that you’re frowning again.

“What?” He thinks that maybe he shouldn’t have ordered for you. Natasha always said that women never liked guys who talked over them on a date.

Not that this was a date. Bradley just didn’t need you hating him and snitching to your dad who had already threatened to ruin his fight schedule.

“You didn’t want a milkshake?” You question and Bradley doesn’t really know what to say because, up until this point, he’s been operating his life under the assumption that he doesn’t look like the type of man to ingest milkshakes.

“It’s okay,” you’re smiling again and Bradley wonders if your face muscles are sore from how much you use them. “You can have some of mine.”

“I don’t drink milkshakes, toots,” he grunts.

You laugh. “Everybody drinks milkshakes, Bradley.”

He grunts again.

The waitress comes back with your food, taking Bradley’s card for a brief transaction before she hands over the to-go bag. She looks hesitant, her lip caught between her teeth as she passes the bag over to Bradley, and he’s almost positive she’s going to attempt to ask for his number. Which would fit in perfectly with how the rest of his day has been going.

Instead, she turns her attention to you. “Um, I just wanted to say thank you again for the recommendation. I’ll check it out.”

“No problem!” You smile brightly.

Bradley doesn’t know if he should feel embarrassed or relieved. But you don’t give him a chance to figure it out, turning back to the entrance with a final wave to the waitress. Bradley’s shoulders drop tiredly and he follows after you.

The door shuts behind him, the bell ringing to signal your departure, and a man looks up.

He’s sitting in a booth in the far right corner, under a hanging light that flickers every so often. He doesn’t stand out against the retro theme of the diner, clad in deep blue jeans and a leather jacket. He should be entirely forgettable. He knows he isn’t though, not with the jagged scar on his left cheek.

His eyes stay on you until you get into Bradley’s car. He watches, sitting in a booth in the far right of Knockouts, until Bradley’s antimatter blue Bronco pulls out of the parking lot. He watches until it’s just tail lights in the distance.

He picks a french fry up between two fingers. The fries are greasy, so much so that he’s gone through a fair few napkins, but they’re salted enough to make up for it. If he looks, he can see the salt granules coating the fry. But he doesn’t look. He watches that antimatter blue Bronco drive away.

Bringing the fry up for a bite, the salt stings at his chapped lips and his nose twitches. Another bite. He finishes the fry. He wipes his fingers on a grease speckled napkin. He takes a sip of water.

“Excuse me.”

The waitress walking by his table halts at his words. She turns around with an expectant smile, though it falters when she takes in his face, eyes widening slightly at the sight of the thick, pinkish line that cuts from his cheek bone to the corner of his lips. His own eyes flicker down briefly to read her name tag. “Malory”.

“Can I smoke in here?”

Malory shakes her head, recovering from her surprise and plastering a pleasant smile onto her face, brown hair bouncing on her shoulders. “‘Fraid not, sir. But you can smoke outside if you like.”

The man nods, picking up another fry as his eyes drift back to the parking spot that once housed an antimatter blue Bronco.

“Shame,” he says.

Maverick scratches at his cheek in thought, looking over the photos again. “Well, I can tell you it doesn’t look good.”

“Thanks for the insight, Pete. Real helpful,” Adler deadpans. “Remarkably, we were able to figure that out for ourselves, so if you’re ready to actually be useful, that would be great.”

Bradley’s eyebrows raise almost undetectably, if only because he’s never heard anyone talk to Maverick like that.

Pete “Maverick” Mitchell was a man that always fell on the cusp of being nefarious. He paid his fighters well, didn’t take advantage of them, but you have to be a certain kind of person to get into the business of parading young men around like show horses. He cleaned up messes, no questions asked, but he also made a fair amount of messes. Most importantly, in this instance at least, Maverick had connections.

Maverick leans back in his desk chair. “I am being useful, Joe. I’m sayin’ that, if you’re saying this is Razor, Abnesti’s not involved.”

“You figured that out from a coupla pictures?” Adler crosses arms, unconvinced.

“No, I got it from Abnesti,” Maverick rifles through a desk drawer, pulling out a pack of Marlboros and a lighter. “Steve Abnesti is the kind of guy who’s good at keeping secrets, but isn’t good at keeping that he has a secret. If he had any part in this, he’d have said something to me by now.”

His lighter flicks on and he holds it to a cigarette, before wrapping his lips around the rolled paper and sucking in a breath. Bradley’s nose wrinkles at the smell, but he doesn’t flinch, unmoving as Maverick blows smoke into the air slowly.

“You’re makin’ a mess,” Bradley notes, sparing your milkshake-covered lips a glance after he’s swallowed a bite of his burger.

It’s all over your shirt too—that’s what you get for trying to take a sip while practically lying down — and you tilt your chin down to look at it. You frown slightly at the spot of cookies and cream on your front, moving your thumb to try to rub it off.

Bradley grabs the oreo milkshake from your other hand before you can spill it on yourself again—the cup tilting when you get distracted trying to clean the stain—and you smile nervously. “Sorry.”

He grunts in response, setting your milkshake down on the coffee table, and turning his attention back to the television.

After much convincing—and the condition that he could pick the movie—you’d convinced Bradley to have a movie night while you ate. Bradley had begrudgingly agreed. A movie meant he couldn’t eat his burgers as fast as humanly possible and spend the rest of the night in his room, but it also meant he wouldn’t have to talk to you.

He should have known that you’d try to talk to him anyway.

“You know, I think this is one of Matt Damon’s best roles,” you say through a mouthful of burger, gesturing to the screen of the television.

Bradley makes a small noise of agreement, keeping his eyes trained on his choice of movie—The Bourne Identity—and he regrets not ordering fries because you’re almost done with your burger and clearly can’t be trusted with a milkshake so soon there will be nothing left to keep your mouth occupied.

“Have you watched all the Jason Bourne movies?”

Bradley nods.

“I have too, but it was a while ago— Oh, we should watch them all this week!”

Bradley freezes. This was going to be a recurring thing?

“I have training early,” Bradley provides as an excuse and it’s not technically a lie.

“Oh, okay,” you deflate only slightly and Bradley thinks that maybe you’ve gotten the hint that he doesn’t want to talk. Instead he gets three minutes of quiet before you’re voicing another idea. “Well, maybe I can watch them and then we can talk about our favorite parts together?”

Smoke tickles Bradley's nose and he blinks as Maverick takes another drag off his cigarette.

“Well, if it’s not Abnesti, who is it?” Adler’s eyes are trained on the pictures of you.

Maverick also glances at them thoughtfully, tapping the ash off his cigarette. “That’s where I’m drawing blanks. These looked practiced, whoever took them knows what they’re doing. But—and no offense Rooster—I can’t think of anyone that organized who’d be willing to waste their time and resources with some insignificant boxing rivalry.”

Adler says something but Bradley isn’t listening, shifting to pull his phone out of his pocket. With a glance to check that the older men in front of him are still somewhat distracted, he unlocks it.

Bradley watches you navigate his kitchen for a quick breakfast, looking through his pitiful amount of tableware and groceries. You land on yogurt and granola and Bradley’s brows furrow when he realizes you’re making two cups.

“Give me your phone.”

You jump at the noise, turning around quickly, and it’s the first time in the past 24 hours that Bradley’s seen you look scared.

“Why?” You ask hesitantly, eyes darting between his own like you’re trying to read him. Despite your apprehension, you unlock your phone, handing it to him anyway.

He doesn’t respond for a moment, tapping away on both your phone and his before he hands yours back to you.

“So I have your location,” he explains. You insisted on going to work, even though Bradley thought it was a stupid idea. You argued it’d be stupid for you to stay at his apartment all by yourself and even more stupid to follow him around as he trained at Maverick’s, and Bradley couldn’t exactly disagree. “You have mine too.”

You look down at your phone in your hand, staring at the small dot of Bradley’s contact that’s right on top of your own. You swallow. “O-Okay.”

“Are you ready?” Without thinking, Bradley reaches for the yogurt parfait you made for him.

You nod.

“Alright,” Bradley pockets his phone, reaches for his keys, and turns to the door. All with a cup of yogurt in his right hand. “Text me when you need me to pick you up.”

Your Find My icon is still appearing at the animal shelter, just like it had 10 minutes ago. And 10 minutes before that. Bradley hadn’t realized that your Apple ID would autofill his contact photo for you—a picture of you, eyes scrunched closed mid-laugh while you’re surrounded by hyper puppies greeting him every time he checks your location. Bradley looks at it for a moment.

“I have a few guys down at the station on payroll,” Maverick shrugs, snubbing his cigarette in an ashtray as the conversation comes to a close. “I’ll reach out, maybe they’ll see something I don’t.” He gestures down at the photographs. “Can I keep these?”

Adler nods, looking a smidge more relieved than he did when they entered Maverick’s office. “Thank you, Pete.”

“You’ve saved my ass more times than I can count, Joe. We’ll figure this out,” Maverick claps his shoulder.

Bradley pulls his eyes away from your contact photo and turns off his phone.

Bradley sits up off his mattress at a sudden noise of distress. For the past half hour he’s thought he’s heard things, but this was the first time it was loud enough to confirm as real. He holds his breath, listening for anything to clue him in to what’s going on. The sounds are too clear to be coming from your room, probably the living room if he had to guess. Light dances through the crack under his door. The television is on.

There’s another noise and Bradley gets up. It doesn’t sound like anyone’s in the apartment. The floors creak no matter how light you are so he’d have heard something by now if it was someone trying to break in. Still, he’s guarded as he opens his bedroom door.

He pads past your room, the door wide open and bed empty. As he suspected, he finds you in the living room, stretched out on the couch cushions as you sleep. It’s dark, your body only lit up by the light of the muted television, so Bradley isn’t positive, but it looks like you’re wearing the hoodie he gave you.

Another whimper takes him out of his thoughts and your face scrunches in anguish. Bradley doesn’t know what to do, nightmares had never been an issue for him, even when he was a kid. He can also recognize that waking up from a nightmare to see him looming over you would probably be more terrifying than whatever you were dreaming about, so he knows he needs to do something to ensure that you don’t wake up.

Wordlessly he sits on the cushion that is being occupied by your feet to get out of your line of sight. A more panicked whimper leaves your lips at the movement and Bradley’s hand shoots out to your ankle instinctively. He freezes as soon as he feels the soft skin of your ankle bone, holding his breath as his eyes trail back up to your face. Your brows are still furrowed, but strangely you’ve quieted.

Bradley swallows, his thumb tracing soft circles against your ankle before he fully realizes he’s doing it. A minute passes. And then another. And then your face begins to relax. Your features soften and your breaths even out. The light of the TV dances across your cheek bones and casts shadows onto the crevices of your face. It has Bradley’s breath catching in his throat. You look like one of those renaissance paintings Bob tried to show him once.

After another minute of peace, Bradley carefully gets up, giving you one last glance before he heads back to his room. He feels strange, like there’s a piece of this puzzle he’s missing. Maybe it’s just because you fell asleep watching The Bourne Supremacy, he tries to reason. But deep down, Bradley knows that isn’t right. Maybe you just have nightmares. Maybe it doesn’t mean anything. Maybe he’s overthinking all of this and should go back to sleep.

His hand hasn’t even reached the door knob of his room door before another whimper cuts through the silent air. Bradley sighs.

“Alright, toots. I hear you,” he grumbles quietly as he turns back around, though it’s entirely void of its usual bite. More of a mumble, if anything.

He sits back down by your feet, settling into a comfortable position as his fingers resume their patterns on your ankle and he feels you relax under his fingertips. Bradley picks up the remote with his other hand, turning on the closed captions of The Bourne Supremacy and rewinding to start it from the beginning. He watches the movie with his hand on your ankle.

Every couple of minutes, his eyes can’t help but fall to your sleeping features.

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euphoricfilter · 10 months

Note

pt 3 smut for yandere mafia yoongi please!

consumed by you:

pairing: yandere! yoongi x f. reader

genres: fluff || smut || non-idol au || mafia au || yandere au || established relationship

summary: yoongi is finally home and you have a special way of showing him how much you missed him

word count: i wrote on tumblr for once so idk 🕺

tags/ warnings: fluff, pwp, smut in the forms of; hand job, fingering, oral (very brief: m. receiving), titty sucking, unprotected sex (don’t be stupid, this is fiction), creampie, cum play,

notes: im somewhat getting back into writing, so finally here’s the third installment of the yandere yoongi drabbles!! it’s months late but it’s my page so what are you gonna do about it ‼️

this can be read as a stand-alone!!

other drabbles for this series: how time has changed you || it’s all in your head

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

a week.

it had been a whole week, seven wretched days, and 168 full hours since yoongi had seen you. and even then, when he’d gotten home, and taken a slow peek into your room, you’d been asleep. ever so soft, curled up beneath an array of blankets, edges of your bed bordered off with pillows and plushies and all the soft things you loved.

soft things that built up a wall to protect you from all the bad that awoke when the sun would set, and laze in the darkness.

and maybe that’s why yoongi chooses to close your bedroom door, and decides that he’ll let you sleep in your own bed tonight. because some days he thinks you forget that he’s worse than the monsters you fear sleep under your bed, or the beady eyes that peek through the cracks in the closet.

he’s sluggish as he showers, lethargic, irritated, and ready to sleep for most of the morning before he wakes and smothers you with a weeks worth of love.

it’s when he’s sat up in bed, there’s a light knock at his door. heart rate skipping at the flitting sound.

“come in” he calls out, running a hand over his face.

his gaze falls onto you, head peeking into his room; hair mused and eyes heavy with lingering sleep. but even then, yoongi thinks he sees a halo surrounding you, a warm little glow like a precious little angel toeing past the lines of sin.

“yoonie?” you slip past his door, pushing it shut with the tips of your fingers.

“hmm?” he hums, beckoning you closer with a cock of his head.

the velvet blanket you have tucked under your arm drags across the carpet as you slink closer.

you barely make a fuss when his fingers wrap around you wrist, tugging you down until you’re laid belly down over his lap; legs hung over the edge of the bed.

his hands trail up the expanse of your back, gentle motion tugging your night dress further up your thighs. an unintentional tease that has him changing his motions.

the tips of his fingers explore further down your body, skimming over the backs of your thighs, easing over the swell of your cheeks.

you wriggle, soft whine barely making its way past your lips when his hands drag up the hem of your dress over the curve of your ass.

something feral— something raw claws it’s way through his chest when he sees you’re not wearing any panties.

“don’t tease” you turn your head, cheek resting against the sheets as you try and catch a glimpse of your boyfriend. the scar across his face illuminated by the light of the lamp.

he’d always been so pretty. so pretty and rough, and soft and rigid. a living contraction it had your mind spinning, spiraling so fast really all you could think of was him.

yoongi hums when your fingers dip below the sheets, tracing the waistband of his underwear. nails tickling the bare skin of his stomach before dipping that slight bit lower.

“now you’re the one teasing” he inches his fingers closer to your pussy, thumb parting your folds. already so wet and slick, awfully amusing considering he’d barely had his way with you yet.

“sorry” you murmur, eyes flitting across his face as you dip past his underwear. tips of your fingers nudging against the base of his cock.

you trail up his length before pulling the sheets down and then his underwear, hard cock slapping wet against his stomach.

yoongi’s head tips back, uncoordinated as his thumb dips ever so slightly into your cunt; your thighs twitching at the unexpected intrusion.

you spit onto the palm of your hand, eyes meeting yoongi’s as you wrap your fingers back around his shaft.

“good girl” a smile pulls onto his lips, reward coming as two fingers slipping into your pussy, curling over your sweet-spot.

you squeeze his length, hips rutting back into his fingers.

“hold on” you bat his hand away from your cunt, sliding off his lap onto your knees on the floor.

yoongi cocks his head to the side, “you don’t know what you do to me, when you get on your knees like that, my love”

you wet your bottom lip, a smile toying at the corners of your lips. balancing your elbow on the edge of the bed, your free hand takes hold of yoongi’s hard cock.

he simply watches you, watches as you trace the tip of cock over your bottom lip. how your gentle tongue slips past the petals of your mouth, swallowing down his precum and then letting your saliva dribble down his length.

his hand covers yours at the base of his length, tapping the tip against your bottom lip.

your jaw falls open, blinking up at yoongi through your lashes. his free hand tangles into your hair, pulling you down to feed his cock into your awaiting mouth.

your fingers dig into the meat of his thigh, eyes falling shut as you sink further down his length.

he pulls you up, tip resting on your tongue. barely having to guide you as you take him back into your mouth.

your lips close around his cock, sharp intake of air filling your lungs through your nose as his cock-head pushes into the back of your throat. squeezing it’s way into your windpipe.

you hum, thighs squeezing together, clit throbbing with an incessant want as you drool over yoongi’s cock. the mere act of being stuffed so full of him sending you reeling.

he groans, a little mean as he tries to get the last few inches into your mouth, your throat swallowing as you try and take him further.

you pull off with a dry heave. “s’ too much” you whine, kissing over his slit.

“yeah?” he murmurs, pushing your hair from your forehead, “all your holes are too small for my cock, huh?”

you shake your head, “not true” you suckle at his tip.

“no?” he mocks, tone that tinge of condescending that he knows burns under your skin perfectly.

you were a shameless little thing after all. and he watches as your thighs clench, your needy little fingers twitching to sink into your wet pussy and thrum at your clit until your thighs are shaking and nothing but incoherent words slip off your tongue.

you pull off his cock, tongue licking up the precum that clings to your bottom lip.

you shake your head to his earlier question.

“come here” he tugs you up onto the bed, impatient fingers pulling your night dress over your head.

he palms your tits, thumbs running over your pert nipples as you line him up with your cunt.

you drag his cockhead through your folds, hips twitching when it nudges against your clit; unabashed moan vibrating from your chest at the flash of pleasure that flits up your spine.

“no teasing, love” he wraps his lips around your nipple, tongue flicking over soft skin as you nudge his tip over your eager entrance.

your thighs quiver as you sink down yoongi’s cock, tip of his cock splitting you open deliciously.

yoongi’s hands fall to your hips, lips still kissing over your chest, nipping over tender skin; blossoms of red staining your skin with the rawest form of his love— feral art over your pretty skin.

your hands fall to his shoulders, hips rutting forward, messy and uncoordinated as you chase your own pleasure. always a little greedy and pleasure drunk, though yoongi never minded. not when you looked like the epitome of sin, beautifully depraved and eager to please yourself.

weak little moans slip past your lips in quick succession with each jab of his cock over your sweet spot.

“yoon” you whine, nails digging into his skin. dragging down the length of his arms.

his kisses trail up your neck, tongue licking at sweaty skin. traveling upwards to your cheeks, then to your lips.

you let him lick into your mouth, let him consume every little moan and gasp and whine and cry for more more more. a slick mixture of yours and his saliva coating your lips and chin shiny.

you bounce in his lap, thighs starting to burn.

“s’ too much” you murmur against his lips, tongue lax and brain barely there as his fingers find their way to your ass; digging into your flesh.

your hands trail down your stomach, two fingers flicking over your clit as yoongi thrusts up into you. a lewd harmony of both your moans mixing thick in the air.

“i’m close” you pant, stomach clenching as you near your peak. yoongi crashing close behind you.

“me too. be a good girl a play with yourself”

a thick sheen of your arousal coats the length of his cock, thick ring of white clinging to the base with each wet slap of his balls against your ass.

your fingers lose their rhythm over your clit, messy as you climb higher and higher until something inside of you snaps and you’re tumbling so fast; little hiccups of moans catching in your chest as you ride out your high.

you feel yoongi’s cock twitch between your walls, his hands sliding back to grab onto the meat of your hips as he holds you down. cock fully tucked between your walls.

you feel his cum flood your insides, thick ropes of it coating your pussy with his heady release.

“so good” his head tips back, knocking against the headboard, “did so good for me” his hips roll upwards, your cunt milking him. final spurts of his cum stuffed into your wet pussy.

your thighs shake, hands finding purchase over your tender tits as your hips stutter forward.

yoongi groans, pleasure bordering overstimulation as you chase those fleeting sparks that make you feel ever so good.

“no more, darling” he laughs, soft cock slipping out of you.

you make a noise in the back of your throat, pitiful little pout tugging at your bottom lip as you look down at him from where you’re sat on your knees.

your pussy clenches, and you watch down the length of your body; unable to take your eyes away from your pussy. watching as a thick dribble of yoongi’s seed spills out of you, puddling over his stomach.

he closes his eyes, barely opening them to look at you as you scoop up his cum with your fingers. insatiable as you push his seed back past your walls.

he wets his lip at the slick sound of your cunt.

“how greedy” he laughs, breathy and gruff. another wave of arousal licking down your spine.

your fingers stay buried within your cunt, curling and unfurling.

“go on” he nods his head towards you, “put on a show for me. and then we’ll wash up”

a devious little smile pulls at your lips, a third finger joining the other two already stuffed inside your pussy. a newfound vigor unraveling in your chest.

“okay” you chirp, fingers slipping out of your pussy. already hell bent on grinding over his cock until your legs gave out and the pleasure made your brain nothing more than a puddle.

#bts fanfic #bts fluff #bts smut #yoongi fic #bts yoongi #yoongi fluff #yoongi imagine #yoongi x reader #yoongi fanfic #yoongi #bts non idol au #bts fic #bts imagines #bts x fem!reader #bts mafia au

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