#you read it and you know you won't stop smiling for hours

[bunnysbrainrot]

Bourbon and Mead

𝙲𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝟸 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 '𝚃𝚘𝚘 𝚂𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚝' 𝚜𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚜, 𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚙𝚒𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚢𝚛𝚒𝚌𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚖𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚊𝚐𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝙷𝚘𝚣𝚒𝚎𝚛'𝚜 𝚜𝚘𝚗𝚐.

Relationship: Joel Miller x f!Reader, Jackson!AU

Content: Alcohol consumption, flirting, slow-burn tension, slow dancing with Joel, teasing, POV switch. Bear with me, folks, this'll be worth it.

Summary: It's been a busy first week in Jackson, but you're finally starting to feel at home. Even still, you haven't made many new connections, but hopefully tonight's big event can help. Despite your nerves, you go anyway, and see some familiar faces.

Word Count: 4,300+

It had been just under a week since your patrol with Joel and his group, and you're settling in rather well. For such a shabby spot, you have decorated your living space impressively, and it settles something in you. After so long, you're really starting to have a place to call home.

Knock, knock, knock.

The noise shakes you out of a stupor, and you make your way to the heavy wooden door, and tug it open to reveal a friendly face, Maria.

You've had little chance to interact with new people since arriving in Jackson - when you're working as a community this directly, a hell of a lot of work goes into it. Which means, everyone's busy. Just about constantly. That being said, outside of your own room, Maria has been your only companion.

She can sense your loneliness, too, but she hasn't let on. The last thing you needed was the pressure of making a name of yourself in the first few days, so she had kept you busy with chores, patrols, hunts, you name it. To her, that plan would help you adjust to how Jackson functioned as a whole, so you could have the foundation of being a community member, to get your bearings.

Her smile is bright as she speaks, "Hey, sweetheart, just wanted to let y'know about the dance happening tonight. If you're feeling up for it, you should stop by."

The offer erupts a warmth in your chest.

"The dance?" You ask eagerly.

Maria nods, "Used to call it a square dance, but not enough folks know how to, so it's more of a get-together now, but we'll have music, drinks, the whole nine."

It doesn't take long for you to choose your answer. You cheerfully tell Maria, "That sounds wonderful. Where is it, and when does it start?"

She starts to describe the layout of the nearby buildings to the dance, waving her hands in front of her methodically, "But trust me, you won't be able to miss it. Just follow the music." Maria ends her sentence with a wink.

"What do I wear?"

There's a beat as she looks you over, and past your shoulder to your chest of drawers, which she helped stock when you first arrived.

Maria waves a hand dismissively as she replies, "Some people take the chance to dress up, some people dress down. You do whatever you're comfortable with, honey."

You flash her a grateful smile, and she issues a small goodbye before walking off.

---

A good few hours buffers you before the dance. The optional dance, but something in you will stop at nothing to go. You need to see people, have some laughs, live a little.

You take your sweet time getting ready, too. Some downtime is well deserved and rare, but it gives you the perfect window of time - debating on your outfit takes the longest. You opt for a casual hairdo, one that won't get your neck all hot and sweaty once you start dancing. The watch on your left wrist reads 6:47 PM up at you.

Whooping voices can be heard outside your window as people saunter down the street, toward the festivities, you assume. You sneak a peek through the curtains, eyeing a gaggle of townsfolk laughing alongside one another. Their eyes are bright, voices uplifted and loud. The men clap each other on the shoulder aggressively, while the women jab each other in the sides with their elbows. There wasn't much to make out, but whatever they were joking about had them roaring with laughter.

Seeing the crowd inspires you to make way out the door. You ensure all your lights are off, save for your nightstand lamp to come back to an inviting space. A deep breath later, and you were out the door, too.

There's a new feeling in the air, and you can place it precisely. Upbeat music plays far down the small Jackson streets, but its effects are widespread. All around, the other residents beam brightly as they go about the evening. Most people nearest you exchange small 'hello's' and wave politely, others still smile your way. Tightness wells in your chest as you realize just how long it had been since you'd seen so many friendly faces.

The music's volume eventually blares as you near the open area for the dance. The weather proves to be fair enough to host the event outside, so rows of string lights hang between nearby poles and sides of buildings. In the back of the venue is a group of people wielding a variety of instruments, nodding and bouncing with the quick beat of what you knew as bluegrass music.

"Hey, look who's here!" A voice calls out. You glance around until you realize the call was for your attention. You turn to the voice and recognize the woman from last week's patrol, who'd given you the rundown of who your partners were.

You greet her in return before registering the rest of the group. A few of them could be familiar around town, but for the most part, new faces.

Except for one.

Joel's eyes aren't on yours when you find him in the group. He's looking to one of the men, seemingly in a deep conversation. Perhaps he could feel your eyes on him, because his eyes flicker to yours for a split second. He pauses, lets his conversation partner speak, while he gives you a polite nod, before turning back to the man.

The fluttering in your gut was a dead giveaway, this is why you wanted to come. The prospect of seeing Joel again was exciting, but usually slim. And here he was. If only he could just move on from his conversation...

A hand lands on your arm comfortingly. The kind woman tells you, "It's so good to see you again! How have you been settling in?"

There's a twinge of an accent in her words, Southern, but more subtle. Her words are as soft as a hug.

"It's been going alright, finally getting to decorating," you start. The woman listens. Wait... did she ever introduce herself? Shit. How were you supposed to see someone this much without knowing their name?

"That was the best part when I got here. Once I had my space set up, it really felt like home," she replies.

There's a beat of silence between you, and it breaks when you ask, "I'm sorry if this is awkward, but I never got your name the first time we met." You briefly introduce yourself before she replies.

Her eyes crinkle when she smiles, "I'm Cara. I never introduced myself, but I wanted you to have at least be one friendly face here."

"I'm thankful for it, I really am. It feels better now that we have names to the faces," you offer with a nervous smile.

Cara looks at you mischievously, softly grabbing your bicep, "Let's get a drink. Whaddya say?"

That kind offer melts your anxiety away, and all that's left is you, Cara, and the joy of sharing a drink with a friend. In moments, you have a glass of homemade mead in your hand.

Someone else from the group calls Cara over, so for a moment you're left alone with your cup of fermented honey goodness. It's sweet, slightly bitter, but leaves your stomach feeling warm as it settles. The burn in your throat is numbed by the warmth in your belly. You make it back to Cara's group and decided to strike up conversation with those folks, thinking that it'd be a good place to start.

The first few conversations are long - a flurry of questions about your background, your journey out to Jackson, and how you've been adjusting to the move. You learn some basics about some of them, but there's a distraction lingering in the back of your mind.

Joel.

A few people in the group break away to leave for the dance floor, the jovial music beckoning them ever closer. You don't follow immediately, which leaves you with a few stragglers, and him.

For the first time in days, you hear his voice again, "What'd you get?"

The question snaps you to attention, looking down into your glass. You glance back up at him and motion with the cup with a swish, "Some mead, I think. Pretty good."

He nods, "Pete makes some damn good mead, 'specially if it's for a party. Pulls out the good stuff."

Part of you wonders if his lighthearted talking is to make up for the blunder on last week's patrol, to ease the embarrassment you still held from it.

"What's in your cup?" You retort.

"Usually it's bourbon, but tonight, it's beer," he replies with a gaze into his own cup. He copies your motion and swirls the cup a few times. A bit of the foamy liquid sloshes out and onto the dirt in front of your, nicer, combat boots. Some of the beer spatters onto your feet and into the dirt.

"Damn, maybe they should cut me off," Joel jokes, reaching into his back pocket and revealing a handkerchief, holding it out to you. "Sorry 'bout that."

You take the cloth, "Making a mess of the place already, and it's not even eight o'clock yet, impressive."

The joke seems to land with Joel; you can tell by the way the corners of his eyes tighten.

Joel

What you say makes him chuckle. It's rare to find someone with a sense of humor these days. That kind of fresh attitude can bring a lot of life in a world like this, especially around here, especially after the loss these people have felt.

New folks were few and far between, given how desolate Jackson had become since the world fell to shit, but there was a wind of change when you arrived last week. Joel could tell from the second he saw you on patrol, even trotting ahead of the group at one point. The light in your eyes when you awed at the mountains tugged at his heartstrings. A type of longing for that kind of simple joy. To be young, without most of his hardships, seeing new parts of the world, even though it had shrunk.

On the patrol, you had gotten too far ahead, in line with Joel in the lead, and you knew it wasn't your place, but you hadn't shied away from him. In fact, you had embraced it, and listened keenly when Joel advised you keep your distance. Normally it'd feel like taming an unruly child, but you had a certain curiosity in your eyes, you were eager to learn.

Joel knows how harsh he can be, let alone to new faces. The worry of how that attitude rubs off on people subsided decades ago - one could say that Joel has truly embraced that 'grouchy old man' stereotype. That attitude has saved his ass more times than he could count, and has kept him safe after all these years. But, there's an unavoidable weight when it comes to hardening yourself up as much as Joel has. It's a truth that he's been evading for years. You make yourself untouchable, but you forget how much you need someone else.

Even so, it's easier that way. You keep losses to a minimum as long as you're not attached. Living that way had gotten him this far.

But now you stand in front of him, with beer-splattered boots and a kind smile despite your new shoes being soiled. You take his handkerchief and bend down to clean your shoes, and hand the cloth back to Joel. His fingers brush against yours when he takes it back - yours are delicately soft against his calloused ones, and it takes him by surprise.

In that split second, Joel's eyes search your face for any change, to see if you freeze like he does, to see if your breath hitches like his did, for any sign that this isn't just some fluke.

It could be a trick of the light, but Joel swears there's a new redness in your cheeks. When you look at him next, it's with bright, innocent eyes, a type of innocence Joel would surely ruin.

"Thank you, Joel," you say softly. His name on your lips is the sweetest thing he's ever heard, it's almost sickening.

Joel clears his throat and gives you a nod, "It's the least I can do."

The sun is dipping behind the mountains, streaking the sky with glorious pink hues against the emerging stars of dusk. A fiddle lilts happily as the song picks up pace, the tune itself serving as an invitation to get yourself moving. In the distance, Cara flashes you a wide smile, and waves a beckoning hand over to her gaggle of folks. You can barely make out her words as she mouths them.

"Let's dance!"

Joel notices your distraction, looking back at Cara trying to whisk you onto the dance floor. There's a good number of people breaking into a flurry of moves, all whooping and laughing as they pass one another. Joel looks back to you, the softness that was there before is seeming to dissipate. His face is hardened again, resigned.

"Guess I'm being stolen away," you say.

"Be careful," Joel replies, "Carried Away Cara doesn't let up. You'll be dancing for hours."

You comment, "Didn't know I signed up for that kind of night."

You've reached the group by now, and Cara is already handing you another glass of mead, and a huge smile to go along with it.

----

You're onto drink number four, you think, and the sky has shifted from a pale pink to a deep indigo, littered with bright stars and a beautiful crescent moon. It seems like the music has blurred together without beginning or end, and your boozy haze doesn't reveal any tiredness, so you keep dancing. Joel was right, Cara's had you dancing for what feels like hours at this point. But damn, did she know how to party.

The song the group's playing begins to slow down, and part of the crowd disperses away. Chattering can be overheard amidst the quieting music. You place a mostly-empty glass onto a nearby picnic table and look around the venue. Folks pass you by with a pep in their step, their faces flushed red from alcohol and relentless dancing.

A breath of fresh air wafts through the venue, rustling through your hair that had tacked with sweat to the nape of your neck. You smile from the sensation, relishing in the cool air across your hot skin. Shit, what time is it?

Your watch beams 10:13 PM back up at you.

Damn, where did all that time go?

The night has given you a rush of adrenaline you haven't found in what feels like months. Something about this dance is erupting a sense of joy you were sure you'd never feel again. Laughter, dancing, good people. Such simple things really do lift the spirits.

You can feel a pointed stare at you off to the side, but do you dare look? Of course you do - it's not like the mead is letting you act composed. Being as subtle as you can muster in your state, you glance to the side, where that looming sense had come from. Far off, leaning against a tall wooden fence, is Joel.

While he had practically ignored you when you'd first seen him tonight, he can't take his eyes off of you in this moment. Your heart skips a beat when he holds the stare, his deep brown eyes never leave yours, even as other partygoers pass between you. It's as if the world had paused, but perhaps just for you, frozen under Joel's gaze, the sole subject of his attention.

He stands alone on the side. No one to interrupt you if you go over...

Before you decide, you wave and smile. A silly drunken grin you'd normally hide. Right now, with his focus only on you, is the most alive you've felt in months. The high of it creeps up from behind, whispering encouragement in the form of a dare. Go up to him.

Your legs make the journey before you register what's happening; your body suddenly has a mind of its own, no way to back down now.

The narrowing distance from Joel pushes your heart to your throat. While your legs carry you smoothly, your senses are turned upside down. The anxiety you have about Joel is nothing but a distant memory. Tonight, you'd overcome your nervousness.

"Not much of a dancer, hm?" You call to him over the music.

A small smile spreads across his lips, "With these knees, I'm lucky to do a damn foxtrot. Someone out there was having the time of their life, though."

He truly has a gift. The moment he speaks, everything else seems to disappear. God, you'd ask him question after question just to hear that voice - deep and gravelly, but the accent is thick and sweet like molasses. A slip of your imagination has you wandering into uncharted territory. Imagine a "baby" or "honey" or "sweetheart" in that voice... Your mind vacates long enough for Joel to arch an eyebrow at you, and you're immediately brought back down to earth.

"I don't know how I went dancing for that long," you exhale.

Joel shakes his head with a chuckle, "You'll get some damn good sleep, that's for sure."

It'd be better if you were sleeping with me.

The unfiltered thought jolts through you, snapping you back to attention. Maybe the mead was making you a little too confident.

Behind you both, the music group's slow beat has pulled folks into a smooth rhythm. The dance floor littered with small groups and couples as the song continued. This new intimate energy could not have been timed any worse. You took a big breath and let it out slowly.

"It's getting late, I should probably head home."

Joel pauses, looking toward the band, then down into a cup of amber-brown liquid. Maybe he resorted back to his usual bourbon.

You follow suit and watch the band play on. A tug in your chest begs you not to go, not yet.

"Think you got time for one last go?" His question snaps your head to him. There's a new spark in his eyes, a softer glint amidst the chocolate brown.

Your answer is immediate, breathless, "Of course."

Anything. Anything for him.

As long as it reveals a glimpse of the man underneath the tough shell. It's still in him.

Joel extends his hand, palm up, to take yours. You lay yours on top plainly, holding a breath at the sensation of your skin against his. It's not like before with the handkerchief. This time, it's intentional, he wants to touch you.

The way his fingers curl to hold your hand settled that debate. His touch is careful. It didn't take a genius to know how rough he could be, with those toned muscles shifting under his plaid shirt; in contrast, he held you with such delicacy, as if you'd break if he gripped too hard.

"You know how to dance at all?" Joel asks.

You bark a laugh, "With this many drinks in me? Highly doubt it."

Joel's laugh is louder this time around. You can actually make it out, and you can feel that it's genuine. "I warned you about Cara. Now I get a drunk dance partner."

"Hey, you asked me to dance. You don't get to give me shit for havin' a good time," your words slur together, proving Joel's point.

Amidst the crowd, Joel manages to find you two a nice spot with plenty of room. The surrounding couples look how you feel - entranced with their partners, focused and attentive, like the other person is the only one left in the world.

"How 'bout this? You lead me."

You freeze, "But, I-I don't know what to d-"

"Do what you want. I'll follow."

"And if I make a fool of myself?" You question.

His other hand migrates to your waist, holding you gently at your side, "The you better really sell it."

Your laugh is giddy. He lets you have room for mistakes. There's room to be human around him.

A deep exhale later, you place your hands on Joel's shoulders and begin to sway, a slow and steady pace with the beat of the song. Seems the mead has done its work of clouding your judgement - you're locked in the swaying motion.

"Is this okay?" You ask softly, finding Joel's eyes. There's a warmth in them you hadn't seen before.

He nods gently, "You lead the way, sweetheart. Don't worry about me."

Who'd have known that a single word could melt you completely. Your mind instantly hooks on it, cycles it in your mind as if to brand it into your memory.

Sweetheart.

Your smile is instant, but feels like one of those sloppy, stupid drunk grins that reveal how not-yourself you are at the words.

And so, you sway. As promised, Joel follows right along.

He shifts closer, readjusting the hold on your waist, spanning his fingers along the small of your back. A polite caress, not meandering and wandering around like most drunk men you'd encountered. Joel can keep his hands to himself. Joel has manners. Joel has self-control.

There's a lead to follow with his movements, you discover. It does feel more natural to wrap your arms around his neck like this...

In a swift moment you've melted into him, and with it, your nerves.

You also find that it's far more comfortable to rest your head on his chest. A beat later, your senses return, and you raise yourself back into standing position, realizing the crossed boundary.

"Gettin' tired already?" Joel asks bemusedly.

Maybe he didn't catch it. Thank goodness.

"You're basically rocking me to sleep here," you quip back.

Joel reminds you, "You're the one leading us."

You roll your eyes as you shake your head, bringing a laugh from him again. The sound of it lights you up from inside, flipping your stomach. You'd already learned that that sound was rare.

"Some dance partner I am," you say sarcastically. Joel's smile broadens, and the hand on your back shifts. His thumb idly sweeps across your spine.

Somehow, your arms are back around his neck, and your head is against his chest, all without protest. Joel's thumb still caresses your back as a sign. The song in the background changes to something simpler, with fewer instruments, giving highlight to a slow solo from the fiddle player.

"You're right, I think I'm gonna sleep like a log tonight," you murmur.

Joel's chuckle vibrates against your cheek. The huff of his laugh gives you a whiff of bourbon, sickly sweet and smoky, blending in with his deeper woodsy scent.

"You gotta be more careful next time," his voice slows. "We'll get some water in ya, help fight that hangover tomorrow."

You nod against him, smiling broadly, knowing that you're in good hands. Your words come out sheepishly, "I'm sorry I got so drunk. I... didn't think you'd see me like this."

A gentle squeeze on your side.

Joel's breath skirts across your neck when he mutters, "You think I'm gonna blame you for havin' a good time?"

His lips graze the shell of your ear as he speaks, and his words have a secrecy to them, an intimacy you hadn't seen from him before. You pay attention to the feel of his lips on your skin - they're soft and gentle, but know where to drag along in all the right places.

It's enough to leave your knees wobbling in your drunken stupor, high purely off of his touch, head spinning as you search for a new sensation.

"It has been pretty fun," you reply between trembling breaths.

There's a subtle brush of lips against your neck when he speaks, "I'd say I'm havin' a pretty good time."

Your knees practically buckle beneath you.

The rush of it all has you pulled back from him now, staring at him with surprised eyes. It's not that you didn't enjoy or accept that move, just that quickly, in front of so many people...

Joel's look shifts to something of embarrassment, "Maybe I've had a lil' too much."

You let out a nervous laugh, "I think I'm right there with you, I... I'm sorry."

He doesn't ask what the apology is for. He knows exactly which line was crossed. The hardened look returning to his eyes tells you that this moment of bliss is coming to an end.

"You don't got anything to be sorry for," the thick Texas accent is palpable in his reassurance. "I'm bein' a fool."

A fool. For doing this.

Hopefully he can't see the way that word breaks you. You force a bigger smile, a dismissive one that says 'we can just forget this ever happened', with a wave of a hand.

You offer, "Like you said, just having a good time."

His smile is wry. There's something unreadable in his expression.

Nonetheless, his grip of your waist loosens, releasing you as the fiddle in the background song comes to a silent end. Something akin to tension hangs in the air between you, pulled taught like a string to be severed.

"Well, I won't keep ya any longer. I... appreciate the dance. I know you're probably itchin' to get back in bed, so..." Joel says, trailing off, pressing his lips into a thin line.

You nod, collecting yourself, "Y-Yeah, probably good to get some sleep soon. You, too."

Joel smiles again, but his heart isn't in it like before.

He gives you a quick pat on the shoulder, eyes averted, "Get home safe, alright?"

Before you can wish him the same, he's lost amidst the crowd.

Hello, my sweethearts! So glad to be developing this story more, and I hope you've been enjoying so far! If you'd like, vote in the poll below for how'd you like to see this story develop (if you catch my drift)

As always, thank you so much for your support. And if you're new, it's nice to meet you! Love you all!

-Bunny

{all banners/dividers are from cafekistune on Tumblr}

#joel miller #the last of us #joel miller x reader #joel miller smut #tlou #the last of us fanfiction #the last of us 2 #bunny writes #smut #smut writing #fanfiction #tlou2 #pedro pascal joel miller #pedro pascal

[thelov3lybookworm]

You Think I Wanted This? (Part 5)

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4

Summary: Another party??

•○●⛦●○•

A/n: aight so things are starting to heat uppp hehe 😏

anyways, enjoy!

The silence was more distracting than his loud complains, and Y/n didn't know what to make of that sudden knowledge as she turned the page of her textbook, trying to remember even one word she's read in the past ten minutes

If she was being honest, it scared her, the way she had begun to adore his loudness. His constant sighs, his scowls, his frowns.

Her craving for his presence scared her more than her father did, and that was a huge statement.

Now, sitting in her room in her simple sundress in front of her desk, her books open, she wished he was with her too. The silence was just too loud, the air and space too big without his looming presence.

Just as she leaned back, rubbing her face with both hands, the door opened, and in walked her ugly husband.

Not ugly.

Y/n quieted the voice as she sighed, turning to look at him as he made his way to her bed. Technically his bed too, but that was not the point.

As soon as he was settled, laying flat as he stared up at the intricately carved ceiling, Y/n turned back to her work, the medicines and herbs suddenly much more interesting.

"Do you all really do nothing all day?"

Y/n blinked, turning to look at him.

"What?"

"Do you all really just sit around on your asses doing nothing?"

Unamused, Y/n wondered if he was being serious. When she didn't reply, he turned to stare at her expectantly, and she realised that he was, in fact, not joking.

"Father handles the kingdom matters all day. Halden is usually busy with his trainings and studies, so am I. Other than the guards, everyone has something to do."

He clicked his tongue. "Being in Samara was better than this-"

The thud that echoed through the room was more satisfying than it should have been, and Y/n had to work hard to suppress her smile as Xaden turned to glare at the thick textbook she had chucked at his head.

"What is this?"

"My first year textbook. You should read that to pass the time and maybe consider shutting up."

And because she wanted him to know small remedies in case he got hurt while on a mission, but he didn't need to know that.

After all, it would be a real waste of manpower if he died because he didn't wrap an injury quickly enough or used poisonous herbs when needed. He had a very coveted signet, from what she'd heard, and he was also apparently a very good rider and warrior. The kingdom needed people like that.

And because he was very entertaining when angry.

He scoffed. "Yeah, no. I'm not reading some healer's textbook."

Y/n shrugged, picking up one of her books to continue reading. "As long as you don't irritate me, you can do whatever you want."

He was quiet, and Y/n stopped thinking about him and actually started reading when she heard the noise of paper turning.

Try as she might, she could not hide the triumphant smile blooming on her face.

It had almost been over an hour when Y/n stood, stretching her hands high above her head to relieve some of the tension in her body before tuning to Xaden, who watched her curiously.

"I forgot to tell you, but Halden is hosting a party this evening."

He groaned. "Another one?"

A small smile bloomed on her face, because no matter how she felt about him, she could relate to his lack of enthusiasm. "It won't be like the previous ones."

"Oh?"

She nodded, leaning her hip back against the desk. "Party is just a nicer, more appropriate word so no one finds out, but it is basically a revel, with too much drinking and... you know..."

His scarred eyebrow rose, skeptical. "I know... what?"

She sighed through her nose. "People will be busy... interacting."

He blinked "Interacting. Interesting. And it's allowed?"

She rolled her eyes. "Halden sends out the invitations personally, and only people he trusts get them. Those who get invited are bound to stay quiet about the whole ordeal, and as long as it does not get revealed to the general public, father does not care."

"So people partake in group activities?"

Y/n blushed, realising he had something completely different in mind. "No! I mean, I wouldn't know. I've only been to one. And usually, the lighting is so dark you cant see what others are doing. Aphrodisiacs are involved, and everywhere you look, you will find a couple or two being... intimate."

By the time Y/n finished speaking, Xaden's eyebrows had almost disappeared into his hair.

"That's..."

"Mhmm. You can probably find some good company tonight."

Instantly, his eyes hardened. "What does that mean?"

She blinked at the harsh tone, straightening. "I-"

A knock sounded through the room, interrupting her, and she glanced over as the door opened.

The maid walked in holding a tray, a teapot, two cups and a plate of small biscuits and sweets stacked onto it, balancing precariously as she made her way over to the low table in the corner of the room.

Without a word, the maid set down the tray, then glanced up at Y/n to await further instruction.

"I can handle it, thank you."

The maid nodded, and after a look at the smile Y/n gave her, turned and left, blushing.

The whole ordeal gave Y/n time to collect her thoughts, and she was grateful for it.

Y/n and Xaden, though now married, had not consumated it yet. Y/n knew the significance of it, the importance it held in the royal family. Her father had subtly hinted at it in the past few days, to which Y/n had pretended it had happened.

Sha hadn't yet talked to Xaden about it, hadn't told him that in the family, a marriage without consumation was basically a marriage annulled.

The only reason she continued lying about it was because she knew he still had feelings for General Sorrengail's youngest daughter, and maybe, just maybe, also because even though she had known the chances of her marrying for love were almost nonexistent, she still held out hope that she would only ever be intimate with someone she loved and because she wanted to be, not because of responsibility.

Y/n made her way over to the table, beginning to pour the tea into a cup when Xaden spoke up again. "What did you mean, Y/n."

She sighed, already tired of this conversation. "Just forget it, Riorson." She glanced up to meet his eyes. "Tea?"

His eyes hardened further, and he stood, his jaw clenched, a muscle feathering in his jaw. "You enjoy it."

He walked out the door without another word, slamming it behind him, not giving her a chance to do anything but spy the curious eyes of Nash as he tried to gauge what had caused this reaction.

And, even though Y/n knew that he was mad, the fact that her first year textbook was missing didn't go unnoticed by her.

Fourth Wing Taglist: @byyalady @gardenofrunar

Xaden Taglist: @sidrapotter @anniiittttaa @pirana10 @harrystylesfan2686 @artists-ally @riddlesb1tch @thebeautifulmysteriesoflife @bubybubsters

YTIWT Taglist: @thebeautifulmysteriesoflife @wallacewillow0773638 @sherayuki @throneofsmut

#xaden x reader #xaden riorson #fourth wing #fourth wing x reader #rebecca yarros #fourth wing headcanons #xaden headcanon #fourth wing fanfic

[uglyducklingofthe2000s]

hey can I request lando x fem!reader where yn is upset about something lando did and is giving him the silent treatment. irdk where I'm going with this but can you end it with him saying something like "all it took was 14 compliments to finally see you smile."

if it doesn't make sense please just ignore this. it's my first time requesting 😭

One-Sided Conversation - LN

"Baby, I'm trying to do something can you please just leave me alone?" Lando snaps when she asks for his help to open a jar so she can make them dinner.

"Oooh." Max taunts through his headphones knowing his friend just very much fucked up.

Y/n doesn't even react in a moment of shock. Nope, she turns throwing the jar onto the spare seat and disappearing.

"You're in the dog house." Max states without a second thought.

"Fuck. Right, I'm off boys." Lando sighs since he knows Max is right but he flinches hearing the door slam. "And apparently so is y/n."

"She gone out?"

"That or she's trying to break my door from the inside." Lando mutters before saying a final goodbye and logging off.

Y/n is gone and Lando feels the big regret seeping in, he tries calling and it goes to voicemail, he sends messages with a big apologies and she even reads them and leaves him on read.

He sighs picking up the jar of pasta sauce that she was asking for his help to open. It really was a stupid thing to snap at y/n about, he could've easily opened it and sent her on her way without costing him anything in the game.

It's about an hour later that y/n returns with a McDonald's bag in hand. Ouch. Not only did she go get food for herself, she got food that Lando can't touch because Jon would possibly make him go to the chicken and rice diet.

"Baby, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have snapped like that." Lando states but she's practically acting like he doesn't exist. "Baby?"

She unwraps her burger and bites into it, smiling as she feels some satisfaction at the feeling better about having something to eat.

"Alright, baby. You can give me the silent treatment. But you know you can't ignore me forever." Lando sighs, though he is without a doubt he's just set a challenge for her to see just how long she can hold out on completely ignoring him.

Her gaze does flick across him but she doesn't say a word, instead just looking back down at her phone and biting into her burger again.

Lando at home, isn't much of a talker. Y/n is usually the one who rambles and talks endlessly for hours. So the fact he's not hearing her voice is beginning to make him squirm a little.

Filling the void is even harder when the person keeps trying to escape your company and refuses to even give you more than a dead-eyed look.

There is some signs that he's slowly breaking down her defences as she forces frowns to stop the chance of her smiling at his stupid comments and compliments that he's making.

It's when she's in the shower that he takes the chance to strike. She has the door unlocked, and he's wise enough to know that door would be locked if she was truly still unhappy with him.

"You know...I don't think I'll ever get sick of seeing your body. You're always so beautiful, even after managing to devour that McDonald's." Lando states and finally after a good 4 hours of paying endless compliments, he sees her lips curve up and she's tries to turn to hide the smile but it's too late and he's caught sight of it. "You're smiling, stop trying to hide it."

She tries to remain silent but when Lando steps into the shower, fully clothed as he surrounds her in a hug.

"I'm sorry, baby. I'll never ever ever talk to you like that again. I shouldn't have in the first place and you won't even need to ask me for help to open a jar again because I'll have it open before you have to ask."

"Lando, your clothes." Y/n grimaces, distress over the idea of being in wet clothes in a shower making it very obvious that she is struggling just at the feeling of his wet clothes on her skin.

"If you want me naked too, just say so baby." Lando smirks more than happy to comply while she groans a no and shakes her head at him.

"You are so fucking annoying."

"That hurts my feelings." Lando pouts jokingly before he grins at her and kisses her softly, now also completely naked. "Love you too baby."

#f1 #fanfic #formula 1 #lando norris #lando norris x reader #lando norris imagine #lando norris x y/n #lando x reader #lando #norris #lando norris one shot #lando norris fanfic #lando norris fluff #lando norris x you #lando norris fic #lando norris angst #f1 x reader #ln4 one shot #ln4 #ln4 x reader #ln4 fic #ln4 imagine #ln4 fluff #mclaren f1 #mclaren #ln4 x you #ln4 x y/n #ln4 fanfic #ln4 angst #lando norris mclaren

[bookishdreamer28]

𝑩𝒆𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒅 𝒄𝒍𝒐𝒔𝒆𝒅 𝒅𝒐𝒐𝒓𝒔 - Simon Riley x fem reader

(18+, MDNI, smut)

♡━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━♡

His hand was covering your mouth to muffle your whimpers as his fingers were shoved inside your gummy walls, moving in a rapid pace. Your clit was throbbing and as you tried to move you hand to rub the swollen bud, he softly slapped your hand away, and he started circling it with slow movements.

"Shh sweet girl, you have to be quiet like you promised me you would be hm?" You could hear his voice trembling a little as he tried not come himself by the sight of you lost in pleasure from his fingers.

Your teasing back in the meeting room was something Simon did not like at all, and he found it hard to not let himself get carried away and lay you down on the hard surface of his desk, as he pounded some manners into you in front of everyone. So after the meeting finished, he hurriedly led you into an empty small room so he can give you what you've been craving for.

You almost cried out as he took his fingers out of you. Tears started streaming down the softness of your cheeks and he instantly cupped them.

"Ssh you know I'm not done with you. Now come sit on my lap sweetheart and let me feel your dripping pussy wrapped around me" he groaned and you obediently turned around and walked towards him. You sat on his lap and once you were comfortable he drugged his throbbing lenght along your silky lips, and the moan he let out made you even wetter.

"So beautiful and perfect, sweet girl" he whispered against your ear and softly grabbed your chin to turn your head to him and sloppily kiss you.

When you felt his cock slowly sliding into you, you moaned and Simon rested his head on your shoulder as he started moving.

"So fucking tight" he gritted his teeth and started moving faster. Your mouth was hanged open as small whimpers escaped from it. You turned your head and you locked your lips onto his once again, a kiss so impassioned that made his hard length pulse within you.

"Such a good girl for me" he murmured against your lips and moaned at the feeling of you clenching around him. He felt like he was going to burst at any moment.

"Simon" you whined and turned to look at him.

"What is...fuck...what is it sweet girl?" He could hardly speak. You arched your back and you started moving your hips too so you can meet his thrusts.

"Fuck yeah" Simon breathed and stopped his thrusts as he watched you pleasuring yourself on his hard and throbbing cock in awe.

"I'm com-" the wave of pleasure made you roll your eyes to the back of your head and you tried to hold onto Simon. Then he grabbed your hips to make you stay still and started thrusting fatser again. He kept going with the same pleasurable pace, and he looked at you with his mouth slightly open and brows knitted together.

"Look at you, a fine piece of art" he murmured and when you felt his length twitching in you, you both came and your moans filled the quiet dark room.

Simon slowly turned you around and when he noticed that your was slightly trembling from the pleasure, he enveloped you in his arms, spreading warm and comforting kisses all over your face.

"You ok pretty girl?" He whispered and you ave him a small nod before you tip toed to give him a kiss.

"I think I should tease more often" your murmured and smiled at his somehow socked expression. He then smirked and placed a kiss on your cheek.

"And I think you need to be a good girl and make sure to act like one and won't make me go through 2 unbearable hours of you teasing me with your hand under the table, if you want me to let you come after again hm?" His words made you squeeze your thighs together and the way he calls you good girl, has always been your weakness. He patted your thigh softly and carried you to his all the way to his room, so you can sleep together.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

I juat had the need to write something smutty with Simon 🙈

Thank you for reading *mwah*

#simon riley #simon riley x you #simon ghost riley #ghost call of duty #call of duty x y/n #call of duty #ghost x y/n #ghost x you #ghost cod #cod ghost #cod x reader #fanfic #ghost smut #simon riley smut #my writing #simon riley x y/n #cod x you #cod fanfic #cod #18+ only #fanfiction #x female reader #cod x female reader

[libraryofgage]

I realized Steve is absolutely that kid whose parents put him through piano lessons solely so they could have another way to show off at parties and shit. And then that thought morphed into a little Steddie plot bunny and here we are lol:

Steve doesn't know it's the last time he'll sit at the grand piano, the last time he'll press down its keys and let music fill the empty room before bleeding out into the empty house.

He doesn't know that when his parents next come home, his mother will notice how horribly out of tune the instrument is. He doesn't know that it will be sent off somewhere for repair (his parents won't tell him where, no matter how he asks, and he'll never quite understand why) and lost to him. He doesn't know his parents won't bother buying another one; it was only ever there to impress party guests when Steve sat down and played some Bach. Without those parties, company or otherwise, there's no point in getting another one: both the piano and Steve will have outlived their usefulness.

He doesn't know that he'll be storing away his sheet music, carefully placed into folders and in a waterproof box for safekeeping. He doesn't know that he'll soon become too consumed by high school and dating and monsters to idly write down notes on a staff. He doesn't know that when he's swinging a nail-ridden bat in the future (to destroy monsters, sure, but destruction is destruction, right?) he'll ache with the pain of missing the act of creation as a means of stress relief.

He doesn't know any of that, so Steve sits down at the grand piano with a soft smile, gently trailing his fingers over the keys before lining them up in the Middle C-position. He runs through a few warm-ups, letting muscle memory take him away, so he doesn't have to think. Without another thought, he seamlessly transitions into idly playing, bits and pieces of everything he remembers and songs he's heard blending together.

Mozart's Air morphs into Beethoven's Fur Elise into Queen's Bohemian Rhapsody. It doesn't all sound good together, but that's not the point when Steve plays by himself. All that matters is letting his brain shut off for a bit, letting the notes and echoes mingle together to create something new and joyful.

After two hours on the piano, his wrists are aching; he always forgets to hold them in the proper position when he plays alone. But it's a good ache, one that reminds him of the music still dancing around in his brain.

Steve takes a deep breath and slowly releases it, feeling the last of his tension dissipate. He lets his hands linger on the piano for a little longer before standing and leaving the room, tragically unaware of his imminent and unavoidable loss.

--------

Steve is sprawled across an old couch in Gareth's garage, reading Eddie's well-loved copy of Lord of the Rings. He'd promised to at least give it a go, and he had to admit he was looking forward to finally understanding some of the references Hellfire Club and the kids make. His progress is slow, but he's almost halfway through after two weeks of work. Reading while Corroded Coffin practices helps; the background noise of their music is perfect, letting him ignore all other sounds and focus.

Of course, that's provided they actually play continuously instead of starting the same song over and over only for Eddie to stop them halfway through. When it happens for the sixth time, Eddie growls in frustration, tugging harshly at a lock of hair. "It still sounds wrong!" he cries, dropping into a crouch while cradling his guitar close.

"Stopping us halfway through isn't helping," Gareth points out, idly twirling a drumstick as he watches Eddie's lament.

"Do you know what's wrong yet?" Asher asks.

Steve can longer focus on Lord of the Rings. Instead, he places the book on his chest and looks at the band to watch how this plays out. Eddie scowls and looks up at Asher. "Unfortunately, Ashy Baby, no."

Jeff, meanwhile, has locked eyes with Steve. And because Jeff knows the perfect way to get Eddie off their asses is to get him on Steve's instead, he says, "Why don't you ask Harrington what he thinks?"

Eddie whips around to look at Steve, eyes wide and hopeful. He doesn't even bother standing from his crouch, instead waddling his way over to Steve and testing his ability to hold back laughter at the sheer ridiculousness of the sight. "Stevie, baby, sweetheart, lover boy, please tell me that wonderful brain of yours has an idea so your favorite boyfriend can finish this rocking song."

"You're my only boyfriend."

"Which automatically makes me your favorite," Eddie points out, grinning as he leans closer. With Steve still laying down, Eddie's the perfect height in his crouch to kiss him. He lingers for a few seconds before pulling away, and Steve knows his own smile matches the dopiness of Eddie's.

"Have you considered adding a piano?" Steve asks.

"None of us know how to play," Asher says, and Steve would look at him if Eddie's face and hair and shoulders and everything weren't filling his entire line of sight.

Without thinking, Steve hums and says, "I do."

"Do what?" Eddie asks.

"Know how to play piano."

There's a silence that follows his sentence, one that makes Steve's stomach lurch as he wonders if he's maybe fucked up the shaky peace and friendship he's finally managed to build with the other members of Corroded Coffin. He doesn't know how his words might have done it, but he's scrambling to somehow take them back when Eddie slaps a hand over his mouth, the bands of his rings pressing against Steve's lips.

"Gareth, you still got that keyboard?" he asks, keeping his eyes locked on Steve. There's a light dancing in them like he's just discovered magic is real, like Steve has amazed him beyond imagination.

With a grunt, Gareth gets up from his drums and steps into his house. The rest of them stay in silence while waiting, Eddie refusing to remove his hand no matter how much Steve licks his palm. When he finally gives up and just glares at Eddie, his boyfriend grins brightly back.

"It's a little dusty, but it'll work fine," Gareth says when he comes back, and Eddie finally moves his hand and body, allowing Steve to see Gareth setting up a keyboard a few feet away from his drums.

"Okay, sweetheart," Eddie says, taking the book from Steve and carefully setting it aside before pulling him off the couch, "you've heard the song enough. Play what's missing."

Steve hesitates before walking over to the keyboard. Eddie sticks to him like a shadow, sliding his arms around Steve from behind once he's standing in front of the white and black keys. An odd nervousness churns in Steve, tugging at his spine and making his palms clammy, but he knows it would be much worse without Eddie there. If he had to play in front of the band without feeling like anyone was on his side, he'd probably just throw up instead.

"It, uh, it's been a while," he says quietly, easily falling into the muscle memory of tracing the keys and finding Middle C and dancing his fingers through warm-ups despite his words.

Eddie squeezes him tighter as Jeff asks, "Since you've played? Why?"

Memories of his grand piano rise in Steve unbidden, overwhelming him in a rush of longing for the instrument itself and the relaxation of playing. "My parents paid for lessons and had me play at company parties. They, uh, sent it off to be tuned, but it got damaged, and they didn't get another one."

"That sucks, Stevie," Eddie murmurs, soft and reassuring and Steve suddenly feels far more confident.

He looks up at Jeff. "Can you start playing again?" he asks, flashing a grateful smile when Jeff nods and starts strumming the song's opening notes.

Steve listens closely, breathing in the tune he's heard so many times and letting it take hold. He doesn't allow himself to actually think, letting Jeff's guitar and Eddie's arms and hair and scent drown out everything else. Before he knows it, he's playing a hesitant tune that grows with confidence as he follows the song laid out before him. He's always a measure behind, chasing the guitar's echoing notes as they fade.

He and Jeff make it through the whole song without Eddie telling them to stop. When the final notes of guitar and piano echo together, the latter still chasing the former even at the end, Steve is shaking with excitement and anxiety and grief and joy.

He lets out a slow breath, feeling tension he didn't even realize had lingered for so long finally draining from his shoulders and dissipating. Steve can also feel Eddie's face pressed against his neck, a smile searing into his skin as Eddie squeezes him even tighter.

"I love you so fucking much, Stevie, that's exactly what was missing," Eddie says, his words the only warning he gives before pulling Steve away from the keyboard and off his feet and spinning him around. His surprised yelp quickly morphs into laughter that still lingers even after Eddie has set him down again.

Gareth and Jeff and Asher have already started discussing how the other parts of the song might change with the addition of a keyboard, but Steve is too busy turning in Eddie's arms and kissing his smile away to pay them any mind. He can worry about inevitably being roped into the band's practices later, after he and Eddie are breathless and flushed and smiling bright.

#steddie fic #Steddie #Steve Harrington #Eddie Munson #Corroded Coffin #Stranger Things #My writing #I got this plot bunny and fucking ran with it

[lowkeyremi]

JJK CHARACTERS AND THEIR ICKS

basically things they do that make you upset. this is a joke so please do not attack me. y'all already know i never miss a chance to slander gojo!!! credit to my sweet mutual lene (@satorisoup) for giving me this idea!!! GO READ HER'S (if you're into haikyuu)

Gojo

PLEASE. He 100% leaves his clothes on the floor and it really grates your nerve when the hamper is RIGHT THERE!!! and he just leaves them right in front of it. It's so embarrassing when you have guests over and they just pull a dirty sock from between the couch cushions.

Yuji

I love him but I just KNOW he leaves toothpaste in the sink. It's like he doesn't understand the concept of rinsing the sink out after you brush your teeth. You'll finally be making your way into the bathroom to brush your teeth and there's dried spit and toothpaste in the sink.

Megumi

Always. talks. back. It does not matter he always has something to say. "Well you could have just taken out the trash like I asked you to." and he'll say something snarky like, "Maybe if you weren't so soft spoken I would have heard you." BOY SHUT UP BEFORE YOU GET SLAPPED.

Geto

He is a HUGE gossip. "Mimiko was telling me about xyz yesterday." He just doesn't know when to shut up. People think Geto is a very quiet and kept to himself kind of person but when he knows you he will not stop talking shit.

Toji

There are so many things I could say but the worst of them all is the fact that he will wear the same pair of underwear more than twice. "Toji... are those the same fucking boxers you had on Thursday?" You can see the hem line of his boxers and it looks like the same pair from Thursday. He sets down his cup, "Uh, probably. What's today?" ... "IT'S SUNDAY. JUST WASH YOUR CLOTHES!"

Nanami

He's overbearing with tasks. He forgets that you know how to do things and will bug you until he knows you've done them. "Don't forget to take your car to get an oil change soon." You nod.

A few hours later when he returns home, "Have you gone down to get the oil ch-"

"Kento! The love of my life. I know. I'm going tomorrow." ... "Oh, okay. I'm sorry."

Nobara

Leaves her plate/bowl/etc on the table. You've reminded her on multiple occasions that she needs to do it but she just forgets. "Food was great!" She yells with a smile. In no time she's up from the table sprinting to the living room. "Nobara.. your plate." She freezes, "Oh shit right. I'll get it!"

Maki

She snores. It's not the cute kind either, it's the loud obnoxious kind that prevents you from sleeping. You've tried to get her to change her sleeping posture and find other ways to help but it does. not. matter. By the end of the night she will be holding you close. Your back pressed against her front and loud snores ringing in your ear.

Inumaki

Never gives you any kind of warning when he's going to fart he just does it. HE KNOWS they're a lethal weapon but finds it funny whenever you're screaming at him and gasping for air. God forbid he ever farts while you two are in bed because a dutch oven from him is probably enough to kill you.

Shoko

She laughs whenever you trip or get hurt in any kind of way. She doesn't even mean it she just does it. Like say she sees that the pavement is uneven she doesn't say anything and watches you trip, just to laugh about it. "Okay okay okay, I'm so *giggle* sorry. I should have said something, let me help you up."

Sukuna

Thinks because he's lived for a long time he knows everything and then he gets mad when, "This stupid little talking box won't work." (his phone) "This shit is broken again." He complains throwing it to you. "Dude.. it's powered off. 'Mr. I Know Everything.'" He rolls his eyes at you, "I do know everything you shit for brains." You scoff, "See if I ever help you turn on your 'talking box' again."

Choso

He's always second guessing you. He doesn't even realize it either. The two of you will be driving and he's like, "Are you sure you know where we're going? Should I pull up GPS." YOU KNOW WHERE YOU'RE GOING CHILL. He's just really cautious though which is why he asks a million times.

#jjk #jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen #jujutsu kaisen x reader #gojo x reader #geto x reader #yuji x reader #megumi x reader #toji x reader #nanami x reader #nobara x reader #maki zenin x reader #shoko x reader #sukuna x reader #choso x reader

[emocheol]

sharing the bed with seventeen

how they sleep next to you

seungcheol

tucks you into his side and keeps you there all night

will not let you move, even if you complain that it’s too hot

his dramatic ass will say that he’ll die if he can’t sleep with you in his arms

pouts at you if you don’t go to bed at the same time as him

if you want to stay up later to watch tv he’ll stay up with you, falling asleep in your lap on the couch while you watch your show

“baby, just go to bed without me”

“i can’t get comfortable unless i’m with you”

jeonghan

a little shit

teases you whenever you want to cuddle up with him

but if you refuse to cuddle him he’ll pout until you cave

if you try sleeping away from him he’ll pull you over to him and smother you

loves to feel like he’s protecting you

always the big spoon, needs to be holding you instead of the other way around

“can i be the big spoon tonight?”

“no”

“but-!”

“absolutely not”

joshua

loves his personal space

literally cannot fall asleep if he’s touching someone, which he feels bad about

but at least he can sleep next to you!

will try to read you bedtime stories to make up for it

googles ‘best bedtime stories’ and ends up reading you goldilocks and the three bears

“why are you reading me a child’s bedtime story?”

“shhh we’re getting to the best part”

jun

blanket hog

you’ll have to sleep with an extra blanket next to your side of the bed so you can pull it on when you wake up in the cold

will claim that he’s not doing anything and you’re just imagining it

even when he hogs all the blankets he’s still searching for your touch

so, you might wake up cold but your hand is warm, engulfed in his

at this point you’ve stopped mentioning it to him so he doesn’t feel bad

plus the warmth of his hand is enough to show you he loves you

“i didn’t steal all the blankets again, did i?”

“nope”

hoshi

nuzzles his head in your neck

likes to be as close as possible

literally a baby tiger

so what if he feels safe in your arms? sue him

likes it when you talk about your day or tell him a story, your voice soothes him to sleep

“can you tell me the one about when you fell off your bike again?”

“honey, i’ve told you that story 10 times already”

“but it helps me sleep!”

wonwoo

surprisingly, is the little spoon

he’s sick of having to be so strong, loves being babied by you

gets sad when you go to sleep first, but he’s playing video games deep into the night, so who’s really to blame here?

but, will feel even worse if you stay up late just for him

“are you ready to sleep yet?”

“just one more round”

“fine, i’m going to sleep without you then”

“no, wait!”

jihoon

usually doesn't sleep until very late

is always working on producing and will even spend nights in his studio

when he comes home you're almost always sleeping already, he feels bad that he can't hold you and soothe you to sleep

but he opts for crawling into bed and holding you while you sleep

you'll subconsciously curl up into him, it always makes him smile

you constantly badger him about getting more sleep and he always promises that he will (he won't but he knows it eases your mind)

“when did you get back last night?”

“not too long after you fell asleep, don't worry”

(he came home after you'd been asleep for 5 hours)

minghao

doesn’t tell you that he does/doesn’t like cuddling

literally just doesn’t give you any information

some days you’ll wake up in his arms and then other days you’ll wake up about to be kicked off the bed

but, even if you wake up away from him when you try to get out of bed he’ll grab your arm and keep you there

“don’t leave me”

“i was just going to make breakfast”

“i said don’t leave me” :(

mingyu

smothers you

literally will not let you breathe

claims he needs to hold you to fall asleep, pouts if you don’t let him

you can try to put a barrier of pillows between you but you always wake up in a death grip

“you’re sleeping on the couch until further notice”

“i promise i won’t do it again!”

he does it again.

seokmin

cuddle bug ™

loves being close to you, absolutely obsessed with skinship

genuinely cannot sleep if he’s not holding you which is why it’s so hard for him to get sleep when he’s overseas

plays with your hair while you’re asleep

will not get out of bed without you, so he’ll just lay in bed and watch your sleep until you wake up

“have you been watching me sleep?”

“of course, i could never get bored of your beauty”

“you’re a sap”

“funny way of acknowledging that i’m madly in love with you”

seungkwan

big old teddy bear

sleeps peacefully as long as you two are smushed together in any kind of way

big spoon, little spoon, he doesn’t care if it’s with you

let’s you play with his hair, plays with your hair

he just loves you so much he’ll take whatever he can get

going to bed with you is his favorite time of the day

“kwannie? i’m tired, you ready for bed?”

“always”

vernon

very specific about how he sleeps

quite literally cannot sleep if he’s cuddling, also says it’s impractical

will link his pinky with yours or grab your hand in his sleep, though

if you wake up and get out of bed before him he’ll pout a little bit, he likes spending time in bed with you

your presence next to him is enough, even if you think you’re bothering his routine

“you sure i’m not messing up your sleep by being here?”

“i’d never not want to be with you”

dino

wants to be a cuddler but is a kicker

you can fall asleep in each others arms but you will be woken up by him kicking you and pushing you nearly off the bed

you’ll try and get back to a normal position with him but he will still kick you, making you grab a pillow and blanket and go sleep in the guest room

he’ll wake up to an empty and cold bed and feel absolutely horrible

will rush into your guest room and shake you awake

“did i do it again? :(”

“don’t worry about it, honey”

#seventeen fluff #seventeen imagine #seventeen imagines #seventeen x reader #svt fluff #svt imagine #svt imagines #svt x reader #seventeen scenario #svt scenarios #svt scenario #seventeen scenarios #mingyu x reader #mingyu fluff #scoups x reader #scoups fluff #wonwoo x reader #wonwoo fluff #vernon x reader #vernon fluff #jeonghan x reader #jeonghan fluff

[devilfic]

❝late-bloomer❞

plot: you've never been kissed before. on a completely unrelated note, what if your best friend offered to be your first? pairing: tasm!peter parker x gn!reader. cw: post-tasm 2, gwen stacy mention, angst, self-deprecating thoughts about being undesirable and insecurity in love, best friends to wouldn't you like to know, eventual fluff, attempts at andrew garfield accurate rambling, he definitely talks you through it I mean who said that. words: 4.3k.

a/n: entirely self-indulgent because I wrote this after crying over being a late-bloomer for an hour ahahaha

Peter is reading something for research when you suck in a breath and finally ask, "What was your first kiss like?"

You hear his voice die in his throat. The small whispering of test results and calculations fall short, but you don't dare to look back. You're hunched forward so he won't see the way your eyes burn and brim with tears unshed because if he did, he'd ask about it and then you'd really start crying. Instead, you busy yourself with your phone, idly scrolling as if your question was pure curiosity alone.

You watch his ankles uncross, hear him sit up and then lean against the headboard again, fumbling for your train of thought, "Uh... sticky, 'cause I was six," Peter laughs, "You should know. You're the one who kissed me."

No matter how many times he tells you this, you can't remember the day you'd been so bold as to plant one right on Peter Parker's lips. You felt like you'd remember that, but you'd been such an impulsive child back them. Bolder. Thicker-skinned.

But Peter remembers, and so does Aunt May who swears up and down that she'd caught it on camera ("If only I could find that damned photo album"). You're the only one who doesn't. It's like it never happened, "No, God... no. I mean like your first real kiss."

"Like with tongue?" You hear the humor in his voice and even your sullen mood doesn't stop you from smacking his knee. "I dunno what you're talking about. That kiss was real to me."

"I'm serious, Pete."

He hums. You're so, so tempted to look back and see what he's thinking, but it would give you away too easily. "It was... it was a kiss. I mean, Gwen- you know. You know. I was crazy about her. I didn't think I just... kissed her."

"How did it feel? Do you know?"

"I felt like I needed to do it. I felt like if I didn't, I'd throw up. Not actually, just... like I'd explode with all the feelings I had for her."

Your finger hovers over a tweet. In your wondering about that feeling of almost nearly exploding, you try to picture that rooftop kiss that Peter had relayed to you between classes, with hushed whispers and childish laughter. It was windy, and I was breathless, he'd said, and I wanted to lay myself bare. And I just... pulled her in. Shot a web and swept her up and kissed her. I think I've lost my mind. You remembered pressing your back against the school lockers to cool yourself as you imagined the scene, the steps it took for you to settle the uneasy churn in the pit of your chest. The euphoria and panic upon realizing that your Peter was growing up.

You felt overwhelmed just imagining it. You barely hear Peter ask why you want to know. "No reason. Was just curious."

You think that Peter accepts that as good enough reason because the room is silent again. You keep scrolling, keep taking subtle deep breaths to keep the tears at bay. You see a picture of a couple on your timeline and scroll faster.

A few minutes of peace pass before Peter broaches the subject again, "What about you?"

"Hm?"

"I don't think you've ever told me about your first kiss."

Your shoulders tense. No good effort hides the strain in your voice, "I haven't?"

A beat passes. You glance over your shoulder and see Peter staring right at you, his lips upturned in a small, resting smile, but his eyes are inquiring. He's trying to read you. Perhaps he's just noticed the heavy cloud hanging overhead. "Nope." He pops the "P". He's waiting.

You could lie. You could say it was Flash Thompson who stole it, mention that field trip to the zoo in middle school when he'd sneaked next to you at the peacock exhibit and pestered you about you and Peter. Peter wouldn't question Flash about it. Even if they'd made amends, any conversation about him would send him over the edge with memories of his childhood bully and how much he pitied you for having your first kiss with him. And all of you were far too old now; Flash Thompson had gone to another state to play football the minute he got his diploma. It'd be so inconsequential, such an easy lie.

But the longer it takes you to deliberate on it, the worse it makes you look. You should've offered up an answer easily, jovially, unbothered. It should be inconsequential. Anything more and Peter would call your bluff because he knew you better than you knew yourself sometimes.

At some point, you feel the brush of a lone finger at the base of your spine and it startles you. Peter's slipped his finger under your shirt, stroking along the middle of your back, "I won't laugh. If that's what you're thinking." He says softly.

Of course Peter wouldn't laugh at you. As much as your relationship was teasing, he knew where you were tender.

But it wasn't laughing you worried about.

"I know." You say, in lieu of a real answer. You fear you've given yourself away.

Now there are two fingers stroking your skin, "You don't... you don't have to tell me, if you don't want to," but you can hear the discomfort in his voice when he says it, like the thought that it's something you don't want to tell him concerns him, "it's up to you."

Just lie. Your breath shudders and immediately you regret it. There's no way he hadn't heard that.

Before you can recover, you're feeling the heat of his entire hand on your back now as it slips further up, as he sits up in bed beside you and rests his chin on your shoulder. The closeness of his breath makes you feel claustrophobic all of a sudden, "Hey, hey. I'm sorry. Did I push? I'm sorry. I didn't mean to upset you."

You struggle to shake your head, but now your eyes are burning again and you don't think you can stop the tears this time, "You didn't." You insist.

"You're crying, bub," he laughs (not mockingly, never mockingly, never when you cry) and reaches a thumb up to brush away the first warm tear, "what's wrong?"

There's a million things you could say. I've never been kissed before, I don't know what it feels like to be longed for like that, I want to be longed for like that, why haven't I been longed for like that? But it all feels so heavy. Peter picks his chin up to kiss your shoulder and that really does it, "It never happened."

Peter's lips still against your skin. Their warmth slowly peels away, though you feel his breath ghost over the curve of your bone, "What hasn't?"

"A kiss. A first kiss, Peter. I've never had one."

"That's..." Peter sounds almost shocked, disbelieving. He never picks up that thought.

You turn your head away and toss your phone onto the bed, no longer interested in pretending you could distract yourself with anything else. You try to shrug your shoulder out from underneath Peter's mouth but he's quick, the hand at your back locking around you and you can't escape him even though you want to, even though you need to get away from his sweet smile and lovely heartbeat that thuds a little faster against your side.

It was already so much to tell him you hadn't had your first kiss yet, to admit to your best friend who—despite popular Midtown High opinion—has always been so irresistible to lovers, that you haven't gone as far as something so... simple. Something teenagers running your old stomping grounds have probably experienced ten times over by now. You don't think you can handle his pity too, "Peter, please."

"There's nothing wrong with that. Nothing at all. Everyone moves at their own pace."

You hiss through your teeth. You don't mean to, but the spite overwhelms you like red hot heat for a minute, "It's easy to say that when you've done it already."

You catch Peter's eye and immediately regret it. His untamed brows are drawn together, expression more analyzing than pitying. Even though you're brimming with feelings, he seems as if he's trying to wade through them, search for the gnarled root at the center of it all.

Then, and he says this so carefully that the meaning takes a moment to catch up with you, "There's nothing wrong with you."

It's the sincerity that does it. You shove his hand off of you, jerk away from him in a scramble to stand, but Peter is fast and lithe and he's always been two steps ahead of you even before the bite. He's up on his feet before even you are, coming to stand in your way when you go to grab for your bag, "Peter, move."

"Look, can we... can we talk about this?"

"I really don't want to. Move."

"Why are you shutting me out?"

"Because I want to go home. Move."

"Is it because of what I said?"

"Yes!" You blurt, growing frustrated the longer he blocks your path, "yes. Because I'm sick of being told there's nothing wrong with me when clearly..." Your voice tapers off, afraid to give him the reason he needs to worry about you, "Please. I'm just tired. It'll go away on its own, it always does, I just can't be here right now."

The standoff between you two lingers, feels like you might have to fight him just to escape. It takes everything in you just to keep eye contact with him and not burst into tears.

Peter clearly doesn't want to let you go. You can see that genius brain of his running every possible scenario in his mind in which he convinces you to stay, cry it out, leave happier than you came. None of them come soon enough. You brush past him when he realizes he's got nothing, and even the hand that grabs for you is halfhearted, shrugged off with little force.

"I'll see you later, Pete."

You let his front door shut on its own.

It hasn't been great.

What typically took a few hours to shake off had settled over you like a dark cloud ever since you'd stormed out of Peter's place. Even though you texted him like everything was fine (and dodged any phone calls so he wouldn't hear the truth with those freakishly good best friend senses of his), you had yet to see him again. Had yet to let yourself be seen.

You told yourself that it was just you missing Peter, and you believed that to be true, but you also believed that when he looked you in the eye and told you "there's nothing wrong with you", you hadn't been prepared for the nakedness of it all. He'd dug deep, right to the source. That kind of thing was hard to move past.

So you avoided him. If he came by your place, you pretended you weren't home. If he showed up at your work to take you to coffee, you lied and told him you had plans with a coworker. It had been several days now and you felt more and more cowardly by the minute.

It was Peter. Of all people, it was Peter. Your best friend. You could tell him anything (most things, some kept a little closer to the heart). You should be able to.

And it was silly. Being embarrassed about not kissing anyone. Plenty of people were in the same boat as you and they didn't ice their best friend out about it.

Ugh, now you were just making yourself feel worse.

You'd had enough. You'd end this pity party today. As you make your way through your apartment door, you promise yourself that after you've showered, after you've made yourself a filling dinner, after you've settled into bed, you'd call Peter and ask him to meet for pizza this weekend. You'd talk like civil adults who understand that life isn't a race. You'd share your couch, laugh about the whole thing, and maybe, just maybe, the hollowness in your chest that longed for someone's desire to fill it would finally-

He's sitting in your kitchen.

Legs dangling off the island, mask rolled up to his nose, and a spoon clattering out of his mouth and into a bowl of ice cream. Your front door shuts gently behind you.

You stare at each other for a few seconds. Then you glance through your bedroom door, cracked open just enough for you to see the breeze rustling your curtains. You turn back to Peter, who's cleaning off his bottom lip of raspberry sorbet. "Did you climb through the window? You have a key."

Peter sets the bowl down beside him, shrugs, "You weren't returning my calls."

Your shoulders sag and you drop your things to the floor, "Peter-"

"No, no," you watch him slide off the countertop and bounce over to you, and the nearness you aren't prepared for makes you back away an inch or two, "No Peter. I'm not Peter. I'm Spider-Man. See?" He gestures to the suit.

You reach your hand up and pinch his exposed cheek, then narrowly avoid his teeth before he tries to nip you, "I'm not in the mood. I said I'd call you later, I'm just... busy."

"Busy avoiding your best friend."

You can feel him trail after you as you walk away, beginning to undress. He catches your coat when you throw it toward the couch and hangs it up all neat on a hook. He kicks your shoes to a wall and tugs your belt from your fingertips once you've undone it. Then, unexpectedly, he hooks said belt around your waist and yanks you back to face him.

The momentum throws you fully into his chest but he's sturdy, unmoving as you grip his shoulders and give him the most hostile look you can muster. You attempt to wiggle out of the trap but he pulls the belt tighter, forcing you closer, and then you start to panic as the space between you both disappears, "I haven't been avoiding you, I just needed space." You quickly explain.

"And I get that," he admits, "but you scared me. I've never seen you like that before. Not with me. Not ever."

Of course he hadn't. It was why you kept all of this a secret in the first place. Because you knew he'd worry, and you knew that there would be nothing he could do to fix it. Not like he usually could.

"It was a... brief lapse in self-esteem. That's all. You're making it into a bigger deal than it should be."

"It's not a big deal?"

"No! That's what I keep trying to tell you."

"So it doesn't matter at all."

"Correct."

"Right."

"It's just an arbitrary milestone that means nothing." You grip the leather of your belt but you're nothing against his superhuman strength. Pleading with your eyes, you do your best not to slip back into that vulnerable place all over again. Peter made you feel safe to do that. Way too safe to do that. "I promise. I'm not avoiding you."

You get sick of staring into the whites of his mask and so you grab the edge of it and pull it up to his hairline, little tufts of curls poking out as his face is fully revealed to you. You stare into those sharp, probing eyes of his, forcing yourself to stand the test of Peter Parker's perception.

Suddenly, you're released.

You stumble back a bit, the belt clanking against the floor, as Peter throws his arms up in defeat, "Alright, alright. I get it. I should've let you breathe the other night. I was just worried, is all."

You smile, "And I appreciate that."

Peter quickly glances at you and then away, making an exaggerated show of kicking imaginary dust off the floor. "First kisses really mean nothing then, huh?"

"Zilch. Nada."

"So... doesn't matter when it is, who it is..."

You watch him carefully, "If this is about when we were six-"

"No, no, I know that didn't count. You don't even remember it," his face contorts in a wince, "I was just thinking. Something."

Your eyes narrow, "Uh-huh."

"Well, I mean, is that why? Because you don't remember it? Or... is it because it was me?"

"The kiss?" Peter blows a raspberry, looking more bashful by the second, and nods without looking at you. "It's... it's because we were six. And we didn't know what we were doing. I was just mimicking what we saw. We didn't know anything."

"And now we do."

"Yeah. What are you getting at, Pete?"

He sits on the back of your couch and kicks his feet out in front of him. "If all that matters is that we both know what we're doing, and a first kiss is just a meaningless milestone to you, then I thought that maybe we could give it another go. You know. So when a real kiss comes along that actually means something, you'll have an idea of how it's supposed to go."

You're six years old again.

You and Peter Parker are sitting in the dirt, mouths covered in sticky ice cream that the summer sun melted right up. You're both talking about Flash Thompson's trip to Florida and the hilarious sunburn he came back with when you spot an elderly couple across the park, pressing their mouths together over and over.

You're looking over at Peter and asking about it, sure it couldn't possibly feel good, and he's telling you that when Uncle Ben kisses May good morning in the kitchen he always looks away because it's gross.

And you're thinking... you start thinking something.

You're thinking it would be funny—that Peter would hate you for it, but you're just so curious—and you're pressing your lips to his so quickly that he doesn't get a chance to pull back before you're giggling in the grass. And May's voice flutters in the background, a shrill and delighted, "I caught that!" that makes you both turn tail and run toward the swings.

Peter's still staring at you, waiting.

Part of you feels like it's pity. Like he doesn't want you to feel bad about yourself. Like he doesn't know how else to fix it, because he has to fix it. He has to fix everything. He has to be your hero.

But the other part? A restless and selfish part wants to take it; it's curious.

You take a step forward, the two of you watching each other, waiting to see if the other might back out at the last second. He stays exactly where he is, legs parting slowly, and the silent invitation makes you feel hot under the collar.

When you're standing between them, you feel his knees bump your legs on either side, his hands planted firmly into the couch cushions. You notice the grip he has on them, "Are you sure?" You pause.

Peter tilts his head in that strange, spider-like way. As if he cannot fathom why would you ask such a thing, "Of course. I'm the one who offered."

Your hands shake as they consider where to put themselves, and you get about halfway to his shoulders before he takes them and places them on either side of his face, mumbling something about how it might help you feel more in control, quell your nerves a bit.

Peter's cheeks feel so warm in your hands, and you can feel each swallow he makes the longer you take in his expression. "Should... I move in first? Or..."

He laughs, short and high-pitched, "I guess I can go first."

You know you're supposed to close your eyes, but as he comes in close, you can't help but keep them lidded, taking in every twitch of his mouth as he inclines his neck, shuts his eyes, and kisses you.

Your brain reacts a half-second after his lips touch yours. You've probably stopped breathing, and you have to force your lips to unstiffen so that you could actually feel him. His lips are a little wet—he'd been rolling his bottom lip between his teeth since he'd sat down—and they taste faintly of raspberry. They're not cold though, and the feeling isn't unpleasant.

You don't know how to react to it, don't know if you should move or not, and so instead you curl your fingers into the silk of his nape and wait for the pounding in your chest to stop.

You feel him mouth at your bottom lip just once, and then pull back. "How'd that feel?"

You recall the sensations that went through your brain (all that it can recall anyway, when Peter's looking at you like that), "Slimy...?"

Peter's face falls, and then he bursts into laughter, shakes with the force of it, and drops his head on your shoulder. "There's got to be a better word than that."

"I don't know! I was just thinking about the feeling."

"I don't want to know what it felt like, I want to know how it made you feel. Did you like it? Hate it?"

"I don't know. I'm- I'm nervous."

"Hey, that's okay," his hand rubs your hip, warming the skin there, and you find yourself leaning into it for comfort, "everyone is their first time."

Peter is so, so gentle. Your heart feels like it might give out, but a little less now that it's over and he's not looking at you in disgust. You don't know what you expected, but... this was better. By far. That part of you that felt selfish takes over again, "Can we try again?"

His eyes widen a bit, but he's immediately nodding, "Okay. Yeah. Okay. We can try as- as many times as you want."

You nearly choke on your spit. "Can we?" Your voice comes out a meek whisper.

Peter nods. He brings his legs in so that he's sitting properly now. "Of course. You wanna move me? I can sit somewhere else. Or you can sit if you want."

"No, I like you here," you say, feeling your stomach tighten when his thighs lock against your legs, "um. Is there anything I can work on? How did I feel?"

"Warm. Soft. Just try to loosen up, alright?"

You force yourself to release the tension in your body and move in first this time. Images of rom-com kisses flood your brain, how you memorized their rhythms and the placement of their mouths. You try your best to mimic it, make it feel as good as it seemed to look, when you feel one of Peter's hands slip behind your head and angle you away just a hair, "You're tensing up," he warns, making you pause, "it doesn't have to be perfect. It's just you and me. Breathe for me, okay? Turn your brain off."

You feel your stomach flip a bit, and nod along mindlessly. You try again.

This time, it feels a little different. Not wet or stiff, even if it is still awkward. It almost overwhelms you when, as you're mouthing at Peter's lip, he returns the favor, but you keep your brain empty. You can't focus on the details because it won't feel right. You can't focus on the way it looks because it won't feel right.

So you focus on Peter. You focus on the hand on your hip drawing you closer and the hand on your neck rubbing circles into the knot there. You focus on the feeling of his suit under your pinkies. You focus on the small hum he makes when, with quite a bit of building up to it, you pass your tongue over his.

Almost as soon as you do it, you pull back. Peter is flushed and it makes the beauty marks on his skin stand out more. His eyelashes flutter, a half-smile on his lips that are kissed red. By you.

You open your mouth to ask but he beats you to it, "I think you've got it now... yeah. Definitely." You're so relieved you sigh, sagging away from him, but he catches your hands before they can can leave his face completely and holds them in his lap. You don't dare move them. "How about you? Did you like it?"

You nod, speechless.

Peter laughs and squeezes your hands in his, "Okay, good. Good. I love you, you know? I know it doesn't... replace what you're looking for, but you're wonderful. You're insane and funny and stunning and there's nothing wrong... you know? You're perfect. Take it from your loser best friend who had to get bit by a radioactive spider to get to first base."

You snort, "I mean, if that's all it takes..."

Peter shakes his head and stands, but his hand remains on your neck as you follow his eyes to his full height, "So, we good? No more ignoring me?" You bite your lip, nodding your head. Peter smiles. "Good, cause I'm starving and I need you to split a pizza with me."

"You just polished off a tub of ice cream and you're still hungry?"

"I'm a growing spider, honey. And I missed you." Without warning, the hand on your hip hooks around your back and hoists you into his body, throwing you off balance once more, "I'll swing us there and cover cheese sticks too. Sound good?"

You know you don't have much room to argue when he's being so generous. And not when he's beaming at you, so genuinely relieved to have you back that it would knock you off your feet if he wasn't holding you up.

He was right; this wouldn't replace what you were looking for, but it gets pretty damn close. Closer than you expected, actually. But it's just the adrenaline. This didn't change anything.

Did it? You stare up at Peter.

"We can try as many times as you want."

You might have a very different problem than you started with.

taglist: @yikes-buddy @alexxavicry @theclassicvinyldragon @marina-and-the-memes

#peter parker x reader #peter parker scenarios #peter parker imagines #peter parker fic #peter parker fluff #peter parker angst #peter parker #spiderman x reader #spiderman scenarios #spiderman imagines #spiderman fic #spiderman fluff #spiderman angst #andrew garfield #spider-man #marvel #mjwrites #tasm

[venusbby]

characters/pairings: itoshi sae x reader

warnings: fluff. the reader is an avid reader lmao so funny. sort of clingy sae? annoyed sae? just sae. maybe ooc too but idrc.

note: self indulgent because i've been reading this one book nonstop for the past week and can't think of anything else. wondered how sae would act with a reader who likes to read a lot like me lol this is lowkey bad forgive me sorry for typos

🌊 summary: sae starts to get annoyed because you won't stop reading your book. (and also because you won't give him your attention, but that's a secret— that isn't as well kept as he thinks it is.)

"y/n," sae muttered. he watched you with a glare, noticing how you had heard him clearly yet still ignored him, continuing to smile to yourself with your bottom lip between your teeth. he rolled his eyes, trying again, this time resting his hand on your thigh. his fingers impatiently tapping against the soft skin.

"y/n."

no response. you even giggled as you read the lines in that book you had been attached to all day long. that little 600 page romance book that entertained you so much more than he could— what the hell was it even about?

sae knew you loved books. you visited the library nearby almost every week, and he couldn't even decide if it was because the lady there was so nice to you or because you wanted to get away from him. there was no way he was that boring, right?

it was always sae who accepted all your amazon packages for the books that hadn't yet arrived in the library— and although the sight of your excited smile when he told you it was finally here was something, he never understood the hype at all.

why would he, when his sport was his all-time focus? books weren't ever as exciting to him as they were to you. so as long as you got any and every book you wanted (he made sure of that) he was alright.

but right now, sae had this urge to hide all your books from you.

especially this one.

because it stole you from him.

sae was annoyed. and he was even more annoyed that he started to think about hiding your books away from you like a madman, because it's fucking embarrassing that he's going borderline insane just because you haven't talked or even looked at him for the past two hours. and he's been in bed next to you this whole time.

he cursed under his breath and subtly thrashed around under the covers like a child who didn't get the toy he wanted. he shifted closer to you in the midst of his little quiet tantrum. "y/n. look at me."

"yeah?"

when you finally looked at him, it was as if he'd found oxygen.

and he hated it even more. why was he like this for you?

but then you went back to that book.

that stupid fucking book. again.

sae was going to cry.

fuck no, he wasn't. he won't. not ever. that's lame. so lame.

whatever. if you liked your book that much, maybe he should find something else to do too, he decided.

he turned around with his back to you and shut his eyes.

and then he heard another sigh. a dreamy one, at that.

"alright, enough. give me that." he jumped up from his sleeping position, grabbing the book from your hands. he didn't even know how to properly hold a book, but he didn't find it in himself to care as he shut it close, a breath of relief escaping from his mouth just as you started to whine.

"sae, no," you struggled, trying to get the book back, but you knew better than to fight against your boyfriend who was glaring at you like that with his lips pressed in a sad, thin line. his hair was still a little damp from the shower he took while you were just into the first 60 pages of the book. he swept his hair back, setting the book beside him, where you couldn't reach— atleast not without getting through him.

"i was almost done," you said slowly, trying your best to explain now that you were out of that world. "i promise, just gimme it now 'n i'll finish the first part in just 20 minutes."

sae scoffed. "fucking no."

he stared at the book placed near his side, literally judging it by its cover. "what's in this that has you giggling so much? some dude?"

you gasped, dramatically. "okay, he is not some dude. he is my husband."

"oi," sae groaned, things still not getting better for him even after that book had been closed and put away from you. "i'm sleeping next to you shirtless, and you've been giggling with your book husband?"

"you're always shirtless, though."

"that doesn't fucking matter." he retorted, huffing and looking to the side, chin up. you pursed your lips, placing a soft hand on his back, and leaning closer to leave a kiss on his shoulder. he always smelled so nice. he shook you off.

"baby, my sweet sae, if you wanted me to stop reading, you could have just said so." you smiled, watching him run another hand through his hair, his fingers pulling on his roots this time.

"first of all, i don't want your attention." he said blankly, finally looking at you. "and second, you ignored me when i said your name. guess you were too busy with your husband."

you laughed quietly, incredibly amused. about an hour ago, you were actually expecting sae to go back to sleep after showering— but for some reason, you were glad he didn't. this new side of him was so adorable that you never wanted it to end.

you sighed, lying back down, urging him to do the same. he listened as you explained, with you on your side facing him. "you know, i love this book a lot."

"i can see that."

so snarky. you resisted the urge to kiss his slightly puffed out cheek.

"it's really romantic. it's about the relationship of this newly married couple, how it develops day by day, and it's so cute. the main guy— my 'husband', is so good to the main character."

sae raised an eyebrow lazily, still opting to look at the ceiling and didn't respond. you weren't going to gain his attention this easily after that.

you went on. "and this guy reminds me of you. like, you guys are similar to an unhealthy extent. and the reason i was so invested in it was because there was a particular scene where things got a little hot."

"so?" he asked, still not convinced.

your cheeks were reddened from embarrassment. "so, whenever he said or did something, i thought of you. and that is why i was giggling."

sae turned to look at you. his eyes looked much more focused on your lips. he had forgotten how much he missed the feeling of kissing you. again, feeling another annoying pang in his heart because seriously, it had just been two hours. he had to stop acting like you'd been away for days.

"so basically you were having sex with 'book me' in your mind."

"oh god, no!"

"that's exactly it."

"you're so wrong."

"shut up, i'm right."

you groaned, covering your face with your palms and closing your eyes. you felt sae's arm slowly trailing around your stomach, him shifting closer until you could feel his breath fanning against your neck. you giggled out of nervousness and embarrassment, both. "that was not what was happening, okay?"

his lips twitched slightly at your state. "you know i'm way better than him."

"...are you, though?" you peeked one eye open, dragging out your words, guilty. fictional men were just different—

"ah, do you need proof?" he said, a smug look on his face as he began hovering over you. your laugh echoed through the room as you smacked his chest playfully, your arms going around his neck to pull him down on top of you.

"i don't need proof, thank you very much." you said softly with another laugh, letting sae rest his head on your chest. "but i wanna make it up to you for ignoring you. im sorry, my sae. i'll be better. you were just really cute."

"don't do it again," he said, staring up at you from his comfortable position. "or else you might have to go back to your 'husband'."

"i won't really mind— wait, baby, don't go! i was joking!"

taglist: @hyomagiri @yoimyas @beanxiv @hqfeatbetty @shuvvloverrr 🤞🤪

#blue lock #blue lock x reader #blue lock manga #blue lock headcanons #bllk #blue lock fluff #bllk x y/n #itoshi sae x you #itoshi sae x y/n #itoshi sae x reader #sae itoshi #itoshi sae #sae itoshi x you #sae itoshi x y/n #itoshi sae fluff #itoshi sae headcanons #bllk x reader #bllk x you #bllk sae #sae itoshi x reader #itoshi sae imagines

[wordsarelife]

"why are you always flirting in near death situations?" With Mattheo and bestie reader or girlfriend reader please. I love your imagined so much and this is my first time requesting 🥺

—willow

pairing: mattheo riddle x fem!reader

summary: mattheo has a brilliant idea for a date.. not

warnings: mentions of sex, a bit suggestive but no actual smut

notes: this was so fun to write anon, thank you!! please send more of these asks in the future! at the moment i mostly enjoy writing for mattheo or theo (or theo and belle -> from my fic call it what you want)

"this was the stupidest idea ever" you mumbled walking next to mattheo "you really outdid yourself this time"

"isn't it romantic?" he gestured in the air around you

you looked around confused "horrifying is more the word i would use"

"don't be so negative all the time" mattheo outstretched his arm and intertwined your fingers "this is the perfect spot for a quickie" he smirked

"you disgust me" you rolled your eyes, while still watching around you uncertain. mattheo had dragged you outside for a walk. in the forbidden forest. at night. "you really are pushing your luck"

"ahh" mattheo almost made a noise that sounded like a giggle "you wouldn't leave me"

"go on with that behaviour and you'll find out" you smiled sarcastically. mattheo relaxed when you squeezed his hand "can we please go back now?" you muttered

"are you scared?" mattheo laughed

"of course not" you shook your head "i just don't want to explain why my boyfriend disappeared"

"are you planning to murder me?"

"no body, no crime" you shrugged

"yeah.." mattheo trailed off and you grew suspicious

"matty?" you asked

"huh?"

"you do know where we are... right?"

"pfff" mattheo looked behind you "of course" he raised his arm to point in a general direction "there's that thing back there"

"you have no idea" you sighed, more to yourself than to him

"i was busy looking at you"

"don't do this right now" you breathed "this is just great" you turned around, trying to find a hint of the way that would lead you back to the castle "did you never read hansel and gretel?"

"what?" he asked flabbergasted

"the muggle tale about the siblings getting lost in the forest, who find their way back using bread crumbs" you got a bit heated and started speaking louder

"no?" mattheo replied offended "why would i?"

"because we are in the exact same position as they were, aren't we? where are our bread crumbs?"

"i'm not sure what you mean, the kitchen has been closed for hours" he said confused

"i'm not talking about actual bread crumbs" you replied frustrated while messaging the space between your eyebrows.

"ooh, yeah.. i understand what you mean" matty nodded and for a short second you had the hope that he put a bit of planning into this idiotic idea "whatever the equivalent of bread crumbs is.. i did not bring it" mattheo admitted and shrank under your gaze

"did you bring anything? a map at least?"

"ehh.. no"

"what was your plan exactly, matty?" you crossed your arms

"well" mattheo said, scratching his neck "my plan was to come here and have sex behind a tree. yeah.. that was it"

"do you ever think with your head?"

"not about you, no"

"okay" you tried to calm yourself down "i'm gonna get us out of here"

"i'm so proud to have such a brilliant girlfriend"

"flattering won't get you anywhere tonight, baby" even though his strategy didn't work, mattheo was glad that you didn't seem as angry as before

"sure" he nodded "what are we gonna do"

"first we're--" you paused, suddenly noticing something that send a shiver down your spine

"baby?" mattheo asked, confused why you had suddenly stopped talking "is everything alright?"

"no" you shook your head, before you grabbed his arms, gently turning him around so he could see what you did

"shit" mattheo said as he noticed the webs and the signs, that had warnings of spiders plastered all over them

"this is my worst nightmare" you panicked. there was nothing, really nothing in the world you were more scared of than spiders. mattheo knew that. his eyes softened as he noticed you shaking and grabbing at his hand.

"don't worry" mattheo whispered to calm you down, suddenly remembering something very important "i did bring a map" he took out a parchment and held it in your direction. theo had been as impressed as you by mattheo's stupid idea, so he had drawn a map, just to make sure you both would survive the night. "theo coulnd't talk me out of it, but he gave me this"

"i need to tell theo that i love him" you said relieved. theo's handwriting was neat, so you had no problem to read what he had drawn.

"this kinda turns me off, baby"

you send mattheo a look. "you better be kidding. why are you even turned on in the first place?"

"you look so hot in that dress" mattheo smiled "my pretty lady" he kissed you on the neck longingly

"why are you always flirting in near death situations?" you asked, impressed how he was still able to concentrate on sex while you were literally surrounded by possible danger

"we're not dying, are we?"

"i suppose?"

"i will never not get turned on by you as long as i can breath"

"matty" you giggled as he sucked on your sweet spot "i'm not gonna have sex with you right now and definitely not here"

"too bad" mattheo acted disappointed "how about my room? i'll get rid of theo"

"don't you think he already did enough for us tonight?" you asked, raising theo's map "we can go to my room" you sighed "but get us out of here first"

"yes ma'am"

#mattheo x y/n #mattheo riddle x you #mattheo riddle x reader #mattheo riddle #mattheo x you #mattheoxreader #mattheo riddle smut #benjamin wadsworth #hogwarts school of witchcraft and wizardry #harrypotterimagine #harry potter #slytherin #slytherin boys x reader #slytherin boys #theo nott x reader

[norrisleclercf1]

It’s Too Early

Pairing: Charles x Pregnant!Reader

Rating: PG-13

Warnings: Tough pregnancy, premature birth, PCOS (polycystic ovarian syndrome), IVF mentioned, angst, fluff at the end

Synopsis: Being pregnant hasn’t been easy, especially when Charles is away for the season and can’t be with you 24/7 like he wants to be. So what happens when he finds out you went into labor from a reporter? Chaos, utter chaos

A/N: Wrote this morning and I picked PCOS because that's something I suffer with all the time, and felt the need to write a fic about now, everyone's experience with PCOS and the topics discussed in this are different, I did research and put my own hardships and feelings in this, I hope everyone reads with an open mind and enjoys this but also Dad!Charles who could give up Dad!Charles

Charles would kill for you; he really would. And right now, he wanted nothing more than to kill the FIA, who would refuse to let him sit out this season to be with you, his pregnant wife.

Finding out you were pregnant was the happiest day of his life, but soon it turned...not a nightmare, but a living hell. You were classified as a high-risk pregnancy due to polycystic ovarian syndrome, something you let Charles know when you first started dating.

He was there through the painful periods, the cramps that left you defenseless and laying in bed all day, to the doctor visits and the mood swings. Through it all, he was still with you and loved you more and more each day.

When you both married and settled down a bit more, the conversation of becoming pregnant came up. Charles knew the risks and had done research before bringing it up with you; he even explored other ways of having children. But you told him you wanted to try naturally and go from there before discussing different ways and seeing what happens.

After 3 years of trying and doing everything, even trying IVF, that damn stick showed that fucking plus sign. You sat in the bathroom for hours just staring at the positive test, and that's precisely how Charles found you when he came home. On the bathroom floor, staring at the test.

He can still feel the tile on his skin as he hugs and kisses you, calming your fears away from the worst thoughts in your head.

It hasn't been an easy pregnancy, from cramps to horrible morning sickness, to the doctors worried you might give birth way too early, even being put on bedrest for the rest of the pregnancy due to worries of preeclampsia. Charles fought hard with the FIA, saying he needed to be with you, but they refused to listen and told him he needed to race. You talked him off the ledge as he called to quit and stay home.

"Charles stop; this is ridiculous. You love racing; you aren't quitting because of me." You groaned, going in circles with your mess of a husband.

"No! What's ridiculous is that the FIA won't even see why my wife has a high-risk pregnancy and that I'm needed home, not driving in goddamn circles!" He snaps, slamming his phone down and pulling his hair.

"Char, breath." You whisper from the bed, in agony, simply because you can't get up and comfort your husband.

Charles, almost sensing your dilemma moves from the end of the bed to laying down next to you, placing his head on your chest, careful of your swollen breasts, knowing how much they've been hurting lately. No words are said as fingers run through his hair to calm him down and stop him from making a huge mistake.

"Charles, I'll have your mother here with me. Me and the baby are going to be okay. Listen, if anything changes, I will call you immediately. You can't miss this; you have a real chance this year and must show the world that Charles Leclerc will be a World Champion." Your words convince him as he lets off that familiar defeated sigh of his, making your smile grow at this.

"Immediately. Do you understand? I don't care if it's stupid like your back itches you call me." He bargains, making you laugh and nod in agreement.

Pascale has been staying with you for only a month, and you finally reached the safe zone, where if you did go into labor, it wouldn't be so dangerous for you or the baby. It was race day, and Charles was in Silverstone, needing to finish P2 or higher to challenge Max for the title.

It was a typical day as Pascale fixed you a light snack as you weren't feeling well, your lower back was hurting, and it felt like your pelvis had its own heartbeat. You didn't think much of it as it was a hot day in Monte Carlo, and you had read in books that it was customary to feel this, so you didn't say anything to Pascale to not worry her. The race was halfway through when the first real cramp startled you to the point you dropped your cup; thankfully, it was rubber, so it didn't break.

"Y/n? Honey, what's wrong?" Pascale was right there in an instant picking up the cup, looking over you.

"Just...a cramp, it's nothing." You mummer rubbing your stomach but flinch from how much it hurts to touch it.

"Y/n, when did this start?" Pascale asks calmly, knowing it was wise to keep you calm and not start to freak out because you might be in early labor.

"Last night, but it's picked up this morning. It's nothing, Pascale, honestly, just the baby moving." You try to reason, not wanting to jump straight to labor.

"Y/n, I'm calling for an ambulance, okay? I think you might be in early labor, and with you being on bed rest, they need to help me, alright." She mummers pushing your hair back, trying everything to keep you calm.

"Okay, okay." You repeat as the cramp passes, and you hear her on the phone telling them everything as you force yourself to pay attention to the race and not to the growing pit in your stomach that you might be in labor.

They get here fast as you breathe through another cramp. Tears start to flutter down your cheeks, the realization of you possibly in labor while Charles isn't here, but in the UK. They ask you question after question and share a look, a look that sets you off.

"No! No! I'm not in labor, okay? I'm just having some cramps, which is normal; I have PCOS; okay, nope, I'm not." You argue as the medics alert the hospital to your condition.

"Mrs. Leclerc, I understand that you are only 29 weeks and you're scared, but right now, you are in early labor, and we need to get you to the hospital as soon as we can, okay?" The friendly medic tries to reason with you, but you refuse to see reason.

"I'm sorry, but no. Charles isn't here; he should be here; I can't do this alone. I'm sorry, but I'm not going anywhere." You argue as Pascale packs your bags and looks over at you.

"Y/n, I know you are scared, but Charles isn't here right now, but he will be okay. I'll call him when the race is over and let him know immediately what's going on. But, please, if you wait, it'll be worse for you and the baby." She can reason with you, finally getting you to the hospital as you try hard to stay calm and not make things worse.

But of course, Pascale could never make the phone call as everyone was too busy keeping you calm.

Charles was on top of the world. He had won Silverstone and was only 4 points behind Max now. Sticky with champagne, he checks his phone, looking for the standard text from you, but not seeing a text from you, he hits dial, calling you. But, you don't pick up, making him call you again, yet again, you don't pick up.

He reasons you must be asleep, knowing you had been super tired lately, and his mother said everything was fine. You're eating normally and just sleeping or reading. He moves and takes a picture of the trophy, telling you he won it for you and the baby and he couldn't wait to get back home to you both. Sadly, he's pulled away from his phone to go do media even though he wants to head to the airport and go home, but he needs to do this first.

Only 4 more hours before heading to the plane, then another 5 to 6 hours before he's back home to you.

He makes it through all 5 interviews before coming to the last one, Pierre on his right and Carlos on his left as they all give their final interviews.

"Charles, amazing race. I have to say that it was fabulous to see you win this and to have your teammate and your childhood best friend up there. It must've been something." The reporter gushes, making Charles smile at how genuine the reporter is.

"Yes, um, having Carlos and Pierre be there next to me was something. I mean, the Red Bulls put up one hell of a fight, but we know not to get too comfortable and that we really need to start pushing it more and more each day so we can close the gap and pull in front of them." Charles smiles.

"Yes, this must be a wonderful day with you; with what winning Silverstone and your wife going into labor, you must be just on top of the world." Charles freezes, hearing the words come out of the reporter's mouth and let's put a nervous laugh.

"I'm sorry? My wife isn't in labor," he argues, starting to fidget and lick his lips.

''Really? Reports are that she went into labor at the start of lap 23 and has been at the hospital, your mother." Having cut the camera, realizing that Charles honestly had no idea.

"Nope, she's not, okay, she's not in labor. She would've called." he snaps, hands fumbling for his phone, trying to call you again. This time, it goes to voicemail, sending his heart plummeting to his feet.

"Alright, that's enough for today." Pierre voices and grabs Charles leading him away from prying eyes as he keeps calling you repeatedly.

"Charles. Charles, stop!" Pierre yells, snatching the phone away as his friend cries. Fear takes over Charles as he starts to imagine the worst. What if something was seriously wrong, and you went into early labor. You're only 29 weeks. That's 6 months. Yes, the baby would be okay, but would you?

"Come on, let's go to the hotel. Get your stuff, and you and I will fly out and call your mom. Okay, let's go." Pierre reasons, dragging his friend away and to the cars trying to calm down Charles.

'Pierre calls Pascale and puts her on the speaker; thankfully, the woman picks up after 3 rings.

"Why the fuck didn't you call me the moment she went into labor? I wouldn't give a damn if I was still in the car. Why didn't you call!" Charles rips out before Pascale can say anything, and Pierre groans, knowing that if the situation was different, the Ferrari driver's mother would bury his ass in the ground.

"Because Charles, I've been trying to keep her calm. She's freaking out because you're not here, and honestly, honey, I forgot, as I was trying to make sure your wife's blood pressure doesn't get worse; now, get here as fast as you can because she's almost fully dilated and she needs you Charles, and she needs you to be calm and strong for her because right now she's not." Pascale hangs up, leaving the car in a stiff eerie silence.

"Get me to the airport as fast as you can," Charles whispers, making Pierre nod to ensure he'd get there.

"I can't do this, Pascale; nope, I'm sorry, but I can't. It hurts too much, please, make it stop." you cry as your mother-in-law soothes you. She tells you Charles is on the way. But that did nothing to comfort you. It only made you more anxious about the fact that this would happen.

"Y/n, I know you're scared but Charles will be here soon, okay? But you can't stop pushing, okay? All these nurses and doctors are here to help you, ow let them." She urges as you scream out from another contraction.

"I want Charles." You sob, collapsing against the bed from exhaustion. This was too much for you, the pain, Charles, and everyone in the room; you can't do this.

"Baby!" A familiar voice cries out as the door swings open, and Charles runs in. His hair is messy, and he looks so bewildered you could kiss him, but all you can do is scream.

"WHERE THE FUCK HAVE YOU BEEN?!" Making Pascale and everyone else jump, Charles just smiles and pushes everyone out of the way to get to your side.

"I'm sorry, I was on a plane, and my phone wasn't working." And lies, not wanting to tell the truth of no one telling him but a reporter that you were in labor.

"You're lucky I'm giving birth right now or so; help me go-" Your words get cut off by another contraction, making you grab Charles's hand and squeeze it so hard he'd thought it'd break.

"Okay, Mrs. Leclerc, we need you to push." the doctor instructs while Pascale slips outside, startled to see half the grid in the hallway.

"Come on, let's give them some privacy." Pascale smiles, wrapping an arm around Pierre as she leads the boys down the hallway.

"I love you," Charles whispers, kissing your forehead, not caring for a minute you are drenched in sweat.

"I love you too, but we're adopting or surrogacy next time." You cry as you get one more contraction, everyone yelling at you to push, and soon your cries are mixed in with smaller ones.

"He's here. He's here." Charles repeats, kissing you all over and making sure you are okay. He wanted to check on his baby, but first, he needed to ensure you were alright.

"It's a boy? We had a little boy." You whimper, leaning into Charles's chest as you cry in relief that everything went as smoothly as possible.

"He's perfect, Y/n, all ten toes and fingers, and god, I love you so much." Charles mummers finally kissing you while the nurse cleans up your son.

"Here you go." the nurse smiles, handing you your son, who cries his little lungs out but soon stops when he's placed on your chest.

"He'll need to go to NICU for just a night so we can go over everything and make sure there are no complications, but after that, he can come down here and stay with you, Momma." the nurse smiles, going back to help make sure your vitals and everything else was good.

'Charles, and you can't help but stare at your little boy while you start to feel that ache and tiredness settle in, but Charles holds you both, his entire world in his arms.

"We need a name," Charles whispers, making you hum in agreement.

"I've got the perfect one. Also, tell Pierre I say thank you for getting you here."

Charles blinks down at you, confused, but you just giggle.

"I can smell his cologne." Making Charles laugh right along with you.

You fell asleep after picking the name, and the nurses follow Charles to the waiting room where everyone is, Pascale the first to see her son.

"Everyone," Charles starts making the others turn their heads, Isa and Carmen gushing at the tiny little baby in Charles's arms.

"Meet Pierre Hervé Jules Leclerc." Charles announces, making everyone laugh as Pierre stands there stunned, looking at his best friend holding his son.

"Really?" Pierre asks, making Charles nod. "Of course, if it wasn't for you, I wouldn't have gotten here in one piece. Also, Y/n says thank you." Charles smiles but adds, "she could smell your cologne on my clothes." Making everyone laugh at this.

"Can I hold him?" Pascale asks, but Charles shakes his head no.

"Sorry, but he won't be held by anyone but us and the staff for right now; he's got to go to the NICU overnight, and frankly, I want Y/n to get a say who holds him first after us, Mother." Charles smiles, but Pascale just beams, seeing Charles transform before her.

"Say goodbye to all your uncles and aunts, Pierre," Charles whispers, laying him in the trolly as the nurse reassures him that he'll be fine and he can come up and visit if he'd like.

Everyone watches as the Ferrari driver just smiles at his boy and leans down, whispering something to the baby before pulling away and watching the nurses take him a floor up.

"What did you say?" Pierre asks his friend.

"We'd always love and protect him, and he's only allowed to root for Ferrari." He laughs, making Pascale slap her son on the arm, everyone joining in on the laughter, a memory no one would forget.

#f1 #f1 x reader #f1 x y/n #formula 1 #f1 fandom #f1 imagine #f1 2022 #f1 scenario #formula one #charles leclerc #charles leclerc imagine #charles imagine #charles x reader #charles x y/n #f1 charles leclerc #Charles leclerc angst #dad!charles #tw: pregnancy #tw: premature births #tw: pcos #tw: rough pregnancy #charles leclerc blurb #charles leclerc fic #charles leclerc x reader

[kentopedia]

when nanami dies, there's a box of letters waiting for you.

months pass before you find it. it's not until you're cleaning out his things, wondering if you can stand to get rid of them, that the letters are there waiting for you.

its no bigger than a shoebox, dark wood engraved with an intricate design, one that you're certain kento picked out specifically for you. you've never seen it before, and you open it with shaky hands, tears already pooling in your eyes at all the memories your lover left behind.

inside, there's a stack of letters, each one dated at the top with kento's name intricately signed at the end. some are in sealed envelopes with beautiful stamps. some multiple pages long and include some little haikus that are far too lovely to be about someone like you. and some are just quick little notes scribbled on napkins.

your spread them across the floor, staring down at each of the tiny little hearts he'd drawn next to your name on each note. even though you'd been together for years, you had no idea that he'd been writing all of them—hours of his life dedicated to this little pastime, and you'd been clueless.

they're like journal entires. insights into kento's life and your relationship, both the good moments and the tough ones. he leaves behind everything to you, entrusting you to keep his entire existence safe in your hands.

you read the letters with tears streaming down your face, and you choke on your sobs, trying so hard not to smear the ink from the wetness on your cheeks.

when you pull one out with shaky hands, you realize it's a decade old. the writing has faded a bit, and the paper is yellowing, but it's kento's handwriting, nonetheless.

it makes you near sick to read it. for a minute, you have to set it aside, cry into your knees as you curl into a ball, wondering when you'll ever stop feeling this empty.

this letter is from a sixteen year old kento; a quiet boy who had a silly little crush on girl in his year that was much too pretty for him. and in the letter, he says he knows you're too good for him, but he can't help but love you. he can't help but hope that one day, in a few years, you'll want to marry him as much as he wants to marry you.

it hurts, burns in your chest because even back then, kento had known you were the one. he'd known and he wrote you these letters because he'd felt that his life would be cut short. he'd felt like that since haibara died, and geto left, and it started to seem like the life of a sorcerer was always doomed to be an unhappy one.

kento had been so afraid that his friend died without knowing how much he meant to him, and he refused to make the same mistake with you.

there are letters from even when you weren't together. from the years that you were eighteen, nineteen, twenty, and kento had been so desperate to leave jujutsu behind that it meant he had to leave you too. even then, even when you were nothing more than a shadow from his past, he adored you.

you feel so outside of yourself, nauseous and filled with so much grief that you're not sure where to put it.

sometimes, you’d doubted if kento felt as loved by you as you did by him. but there's pages and pages of him speaking of how special you make him feel, even when you were separated, and he missed you so much that the thoughts of you consumed him.

you spend hours going through the letters, and then, you see one dated halloween, 2018. even breathing feels hard, but you can't stop yourself from reading it, even though you know it will destroy you, know that you won't be able to leave the house for days after reading it.

in the letter, kento says he loves you. he talks about the day before, when you'd convinced him to watch some halloween movies, and though most of them were silly, he didn't care how he spent his time with you as long as it made you smile.

he says that he feels bad for cancelling your dinner plans, and he's going to be thinking of you when he's in shibuya. that it's such a shame that being a sorcerer is so much more fulfilling than a salaryman, because it cuts into your time together, and you’re the most important part of his life.

he says he loves you again. that he really hopes he makes it back from shibuya because even though he's never told you, he wants a family with you.

he says he’s decided he'll bring it up when he gets home safe and sound. he’s not sure how you’ll feel about it, but you better know that he’ll always love you no matter what you decide, even if what he really wants is a little girl that looks just like you. and lastly, he hopes that you don't stay up too late waiting up for him—you’ve been so tired lately, and it’s making him feel bad.

his name is at the bottom with another little heart.

you let the letter fall from your hands.

#AHHH #so this is the aforementioned nanami thought <3 #im definitely coping very well #i miss him :( i love him :( #beloved kento 💋 ୧⋆ ˚｡⋆ #nanami x reader #kento nanami x reader #nanami angst #xoxo rylie 💌 ୧⋆ ˚｡⋆

[arminsumi]

OFFICE PLAYTIME

↳ NANAMI ななみ + fem!reader

"...I think you deserve a raise..."

1.3k

Summary : Nanami and his secretary... doing "work" in his office.

Warnings : 🔞 minors do not interact/read : smut/explicit content : daddy kink, unprotected sex, public setting (office sex), secretary x boss trope, namecalling (wh*re, sl*ut, +++), taboo fantasy (sexual relationship with your boss), creampie, m*sturbation (reader), sex on desk, blowjob, mean dom Nanami + soft sweetheart Nanami, praise, dirty talk, light humiliation, horny!reader, implied breeding kink, referring to c*m as "baby batter"

Note : this came from the heart 👍 i love boss nanami. and he's my true daddy (the rest r fake!!!!!) even if i don't write much for him. reqs open. bring me nanami thank u!

"Daddy... I n-need you..."

Nanami raises his brows, looking down at you pawing his clothed bulge while he's sat in his office doing paperwork. His throat constricts as his length starts hardening under your touch.

"Hm, what? What does my angel need?"

You squeeze the outline of his shaft and nearly moan.

"I need you to fuck me..."

"... well aren't you vulgar?" he stifles a laugh. "Alright. Work for it."

"But I need it so bad!"

"Work for it."

"Please, I'm so wet, j-just stuff your cock in me..."

He finally lets out a laugh, and firmly grabs your hand to stop your movements. "You're being such a slut today. Is it because I fucked you raw this morning? Hm? Is that it? I know it is. You're just a cock hungry slut. Is that right? You just want your boss to fuck you instead of putting that brain to work."

"Daddy's s-so mean..." you sigh erotically. Your bedroom eyes make his tip twitch. He practices self-discipline and refrains from shoving his dick down your throat right then.

He lifts your chin, making you look at him. "But you're the one with a kink for it, aren't you? You begged for me to be meaner. So now I will be. And that wasn't a suggestion... that was a command... work for it, slut."

Nanami looks at you coldly while you rip off his belt eagerly and thumb over his leaky cockhead. He's a silent man. So eliciting a groan or erotic noise from him means you're really doing something good... or maybe he's just sensitive. Or both.

"Such a pretty face... and a slutty mouth." he husks as you lower your lips down his cockhead, swirling your tongue around and around and relishing in the feeling of his meaty cock.

"Daddy..." you try to speak om his cock, and he groans at the vibration of your voice. That nickname drives him insane. He's not been much of a kinky man, but calling him daddy? He insisted you do it from day one. It's his weakness but he won't admit it.

He stoically observes you sucking his cock. "How's that pretty hole feeling? Eager to get stuffed I bet."

You nod and sputter "mhm!", your saliva and spit sloppily dripping down his cock. He admires the sight of your mouth being wide open and filled to the brim with his cock, what's a better way to spend boring office hours than with his secretary on his knees like this?

His big manly hand goes to the back of your head and helps you work up and down on his length, making you take more than you can handle while you whorishly smile.

"Damn slut... imagine if your coworkers knew you called your boss "daddy". Do you think they'd still respect you if they knew you were a fucking whore for me? Bet you'd love for them to walk in on you while you get your throat stuffed like this... f-fuck..."

He broke his stoic expression for a moment when he felt a particularly good pang of pleasure shoot through his cock. Nanami usually has lots of stamina, but when when he's using your throat in his office... well the naughty circumstance makes him bust quickly.

You feel him pulse as he creampies your throat, holding you down on it to make sure not a drop of his precious baby batter is wasted.

"Fuuuck... that's a good little slut..."

You frantically dip your finger into your hole and massage it. It's so sensitive even teasing feels too good.

"Don't play with that pussy without daddy's permission." Nanami seethes.

He forces you to stand up and folds you over his desk roughly, carelessly. A stapler and pen box crashes to the carpeted floor and some coworkers turn their heads, but then return back to focusing in their cubicle.

"Sh-shit... you're this wet for me...? Nasty whore. I'll fuck you good. You better be quiet or you're fired, understood?" he threatens half-heartedly while rubbing his cock sideways on your pussy, slapping and rubbing it through your slit a few times.

And you swallow an erotic squeal as he plunges his meaty cock into your eager pussy. Just the sensation of his length gliding past your folds sent a shockwave of pleasure through your body.

"Da—ddyyy! Fuck! You're so fucking big!" you exclaim.

"Sh-shit... not so loud, not so loud... ghnnnn..." he stifles a grunt and starts pounding into your clingy pussy.

A sloppy slapping sound echoes off his office walls, but he can't slow down or go easier on you; it feels way too good. And you're being too slutty for him to think straight. So what if people hear him fucking his secretary? He doesn't care what anyone thinks when he's balls deep in your hole.

"Fuck that's it... that's it... just let yourself feel me. Feel daddy split you open... oh, god that slutty little hole is gripping me so good today..."

He grits his teeth and holds in his groans. A few grunts slip past his lips, it sounds like they come from deep within his chest.

"I'm gonna cu—mmmmf!"

"Then cum and shut the fuck up. Don't need to announce it to the whole office, do you? Or does thought that make you wanna cum even more?"

His words bring you over the edge. He gulps at the sight, because truly it's so beautiful to see your body freak out while orgasming.

"Fuck... oh you're such a good secretary for daddy; I think you deserve a raise." he groans, pressing a heated kiss to your lips.

Your face is so purely erotic. He's entranced by the way your pussy contracts and squeezes tightly, nearly clamping down on his dick.

"That's it... fuck! Ahhh, milk daddy's dick. Milk me with that slutty hole. Take my creampie."

Just as he cums, you cum too, rubbing sluttily on your clit; it totally breaks him to feel your sweet pussy convulsing around his slick shaft. You feel him pumping cum deep into your hole, his cockhead throbbing scaldingly hot as he snuggles it against a sweet spot.

"Ooh... good girl... good fuckin' g-girl..." he slides out, admiring the sheen on your pussy and the cum streaking his cock.

He soothes your shaking body with his big hands, placing a tender kiss on you.

"You're so cute when you're a horny slut." he gives a light smack to your thigh.

You giggle and let out a small noise as his cock slides out with a pop. There's a string of thick cum connecting from his cockhead to your slit, it drips slowly and melts against your hole.

Nanami's frown is so funny, but he's serious about not wasting his baby batter. He fingers it into you slowly.

"Tighten up. Don't wanna see another drop spill out." he commands. "You did say you wanted daddy's babies this morning, didn't you?"

You nod. "Yeah~"

"Good girl. Now get back to work."

Nanami helps you clean up and compose yourself before shoving you out of his office with a playfulness.

He's trying to focus on his papers, but ohm.. your juices soaked them. And now he's thinking about how you're sitting at your secretary desk with his creampie oozing out of your loosened hole.

"Fuck..." he mutters under his breath.

He texts you a short message;

📨 1 NEW FROM : KENTO NANAMI

Check your balance. Use it to buy a pretty outfit. I'm pampering you tonight, so rest up. ❤️ — Daddy

#mdni #smut #kento nanami #nanami smut #nanami x reader #nanami kento smut #jjk smut #jujutsu kaisen smut #jujutsu kaisen x reader smut #kento smut #kento nanami smut #kento nanami x reader #nanami kento x you #nanami x you #nanami kento x reader #nanami x fem reader #nanami x y/n #nanami kento #jjk nanami #jujutsu nanami

[uglyducklingofthe2000s]

So Messy (For Everyone Else) - LN

Summary: Lando might have been harshly criticised for his choice to not join Red Bull and stay happily in the team he loves. But his girlfriend encourages him to count his blessings that suddenly he's not at the forefront of criticism and drama now.

Soft-hearted/shy!reader

Also because people keep replying asking for part 2s, and even though it is on my page (I don't expect everyone to go look at my profile just to ask for a part 2) that I explain I write one shots to remain as one part. I figure it's just easier to put at the top of fics. This is not to be mean or passive aggressive, it's just so people aren't commenting getting their hopes up for a follow up part when I won't be writing a part 2.

No part 2 requests please

Lando had to physically restrain his girlfriend who does not have the same self-control as Max when it comes to knowing when to stop defending Lando because all that happens is her blood boils at the sight of any negativity towards him.

She's got a mouth and she willing to use it to put people in their place.

Lando had practically confiscated her phone so it became a matter of waking up before him and trying to retrieve her phone from his side of the bed.

"Ah!" Lando groans making her body jump as he grabs her wrist and uses it to instead pin her into a hug. "Let's just stay here for a while."

"I don't know how you go from trying to leave me bed bound to be a teddy bear. But it's jarring." Y/n states earning a smirk from her boyfriend.

"I just want your love and attention in every form that you can give it." Lando smiles whole moving both hands up and drawing a heart shape with his index fingers around her face. "You're so pretty."

Y/n's hit with a wave of shyness over his comment, ducking her head down to hide in his chest while he laughs, always a fan of the effect his words have on her. He thinks she's adorable.

"Can't hide there forever." Lando teases rubbing her back as he hugs her tightly.

"I think I can." Y/n mumbles earning a laugh. "Can I have my phone yet? Just to check the time?"

Lando already knows it's well into the afternoon, he woke up and saw the times a few hours ago and it'd just gone 11. But with all the travelling they've been doing, he figured there's no damage in sleeping a little excessively.

Y/n grins getting up and straddling her boyfriend as she reaches for her phone. And while she is focusing on her phone, Lando is taking the time to admire his girlfriends body. As he often takes the opportunity to do when she's not paying attention because otherwise she gets shy and just tries to cover herself again.

"Fuck me. What the fuck?" Y/n gasps as she read something on her screen. "Lewis is moving to Ferrari. Holy-Did you know?"

"No. How the would I know?" Lando laughs then snatching her phone. "Are you lying? Because that doesn't sound-oh fuck."

"Not confirmed...but it's definitely looking like it's going to happen." Y/n states managing to get her phone back. "That's insane...really took the shine off the Haas launch-be nice. You wouldn't like the McLaren launch overshadowed."

"Not likely to happen." Lando scoffs earning an eye roll.

"Apparently they'll be confirmation-Lando...it's Carlos' seat. Charles had his announcement the day before yours."

"Don't-no, baby. Do not cry. Carlos is a good driver, he'll get another seat." Lando states laughing as his girlfriend tears up for his former teammate. "You're so silly, baby. You don't need to cry."

"I'm so glad you're not in Ferrari, they treat their drivers like shit when they decide to replace them." Y/n pouts then sighing and tossing her phone away as if it's offended her. Then a thought strikes her. "Maybe people will finally keep your name out their mouth."

"Hopefully, but they'll be a few who are more obsessed with me than you are and they'll manage to still make it about me." Lando hums which makes her click her tongue but she doesn't say anything because really she knows he's right. Though of course she feels like she has to make some sort of comment.

"It's not your fault that you're success and they've got no accomplishments to actually brag about."

"See, that is why we don't let you go online and speak your mind. Because that sort of thing is going to get us both in trouble." Lando smiles earning a hum. "Anyway, it's like 3...so how about we make something to eat and kill time till we find out what's going on?"

Y/n hums in agreement to his plan, smiling at her while she sighs softly.

-

Y/n kept an eye on the time and she cried when it was all confirmed. Crying at the fact Lewis isn't retiring with the team he gained so much success with, crying at Carlos' confirmation of his departure and crying at Ferrari addressing Lewis joining the team, but making no effort to address Carlos.

"Baby..." Lando laughs as she sniffles and rubs her eyes. "People change and swap teams all the time and Carlos is in Ferrari for another year."

"They don't deserve him." Y/n pouts while Lando smiles pulling her over to his lap, almost replicating their position of her straddling him like she was when they learned of the news.

"You have the biggest heart, baby." Lando sighs while cupping her face and wiping his thumbs under her cheeks to get rid of the tears. "I sent Carlos a message and he said he's got plans. You don't need to worry about him...I'd be more worried about how Mercedes might prioritise George now they know Lewis isn't going to be giving something to them."

"Lando." Y/n whines since that's not at all making her feel better and more tears threaten to spill over.

"It's the truth." Lando laughs before pulling her forward into a kiss. "I'm getting my new helmet tomorrow. You can look forward to that."

Y/n pouts, but he can see her eyes lightened at that knowledge.

-

Y/n seeing Lando's helmet, she's obsessed (though she does miss his original design that had been carried through his career, inspired by his motorsport hero).

"Do you want to model for me baby?" Lando grins catching her attention from the video she'd been capturing of his stunning modelling skills. "Come on, baby."

"Alright, bossy." Y/n jokes while he rolls his eyes pulling the straps and shifting it around before he successfully pushes the helmet down on her head.

The next photos are mainly a sequence of Lando looking at her through the helmet in a way which really captures just how much he loves her. One specific moment captures when he lifts the visor and wiggles his finger in the space watching her eyes crease as she smiles and laughs at him.

Though what even earns an "awww" from the photographer, is when he lifts the helmet up to sit just on top of her head, leaving it there as he cups her face, almost blocking her from the camera entirely from the size of his hand covering her cheeks as he kisses her.

Then she's squished in a hug which lets her hide her face, too flustered to be captured on camera. Though the moment of her hiding is captured anyway.

"She's shy." Lando laughs continuing to hug her and let her hide, pulling the helmet the rest of the way off her head. "Is that all the pictures we need?"

"Yeah, I think we got them all."

-

"I think right now McLaren is out of the park with being considered problematic. You're about as problematic as Williams right now." Y/n comments as she scrolls through her phone. "Although, I'm not sure how Alex and Logan could be problematic."

"I'm sure the best of F1 haters will find something to hate them for if they try hard enough." Lando hums before he smiles brightly at her.

"That's true." Y/n hums before finding her phone snatched from her. "I wasn't going to say anything."

"You have that look on your face." Lando smirks since if there's one thing he's perfected in his life, it's reading his girlfriend like a book. Though he checks her phone and finds that he was right, she already had half a tweet written. "Baby..."

"I can't help it."

Lando knows since he really understands it goes against her true nature for her to not say something when she believes someone is saying something with no justification behind it.

"I'm enjoying the peace, you should enjoy it too." Lando states locking her phone and putting it down. "Because soon it's going to be chaos and you, future mrs Norris, are going to be by my side for it ever step of the way."

"Future mrs Norrs? I need a ring before you give me that title."

"It's your name in my phone, and don't pretend you don't love it." Lando smirks while knowing he's triggering her shy complex into wanting to hide being being torn between using him and pushing him away because he's the cause. "Sorry, I'm sorry."

Y/n is sitting up on the kitchen counter so he stands between her legs and laughs as she leans forward hugging him and leans over, her chin on his shoulder before she tilts down to rub her face into his top.

"You are the cutest and somehow most protective girlfriend on the planet." Lando laughs gently kissing her neck while pulling her closer to his body.

#f1 #fanfic #formula 1 #lando norris #lando norris x reader #lando norris imagine #lando norris x y/n #lando x reader #ln4 x reader #lando #norris #lando norris imagines #lando norris mclaren #lando norris one shot #lando norris fic #lando norris x you #lando norris fanfic #lando norris fluff #ln4 x you #ln4 x y/n #ln4 one shot #ln4 #ln4 imagine #ln4 fic #ln4 fluff #mclaren f1 #mclaren #mclaren racing #ln4 fanfic #mclaren formula 1

[baldval]

Hey!

Do you have an Head Cannons on morning or night routines for the cast?

This stuff has been very fun to read :) keep making things! (No pressure ofc just fun to see people being creative)

MORNING ROUTINES W HAZBIN!₊˚⊹♡

characters: vox, husk, valentino, lucifer, adam

warnings: slightly ooc adam (lets be fr this man does NOT wash his face)

VOX:

☀︎ vox wakes up at 5 am

☀︎ he says he needs to "seize the day"

☀︎ he probably got that from the time you watched dead poets society together

☀︎ of course, he clearly took the movie differently

☀︎ you'll wake up some time after him, to find him already working

☀︎ "you know, you talk about 'seizing the day' yet i don't see you really enjoying it"

☀︎ "that's because you hadn't woken up yet" he walks towards you as he pulls you by your waist and kisses you

☀︎ leaving his coffee cup in a nearby table

☀︎ "how many already?" you ask, nudging towards the cup

☀︎ "only like- 3, i think?"

☀︎ that man is addicted to coffee it's crazy

☀︎ as the sun rises higher in the sky, you find yourself looking for vark's leash

☀︎ ready for your daily walk to the park

☀︎ hand in hand, you stroll as you chat about nothings

☀︎ sometimes you don't even have to talk

☀︎ you simply find his presence comfortable

☀︎ and he very much finds yours comfortbale as well

HUSK:

☀︎ genuinely, you and husk could spend hours laying together in bed

☀︎ secretely, husk is one of the clingiest people you'll ever meet

☀︎ he's just that good at hiding it

☀︎ and at that moment, both of you cuddling in the bed, he knows he doesn't have to hide it

☀︎ he honestly doesn’t care the position, he’ll big spoon, little spoon,

☀︎ really just likes to be able to see you

☀︎ and he loves when you play with his fur

☀︎ sometimes, he'll play with the fabric of his clothes ☀︎ “husk that tickles stop,” you says one night, between giggles, as he plays with the hem of your shirt

☀︎ but truly, you enjoy his touch above everyhting

☀︎ he looks so happy and adorable

☀︎ really, he’s just obsessed with you

☀︎ if you’re happy he’s happy.

VALENTINO:

☀︎ valentino is the type to drag you to keep sleeping

☀︎ especially if you have something else to do

☀︎ one morning, you and him are curled up together in bed

☀︎ he’s scratching at the nape of your neck, playing with your hair

☀︎ he has your favourite stuffed animal held to his chest in a vice grip with his other arm

☀︎ you kiss his chest, falling in and out of consciousness

☀︎ that day you had a very important work meeting and you were probably going to be late already

☀︎ "val, please. you know this is important"

☀︎ he groans as he shifts in your embrace

☀︎ "at least kiss me goodbye"

☀︎ the kiss is long, soft, loving

☀︎ he still presses a million kisses to your crown before you’re gone

☀︎ he texts you nonstop

☀︎ before you're already there, you have 14 texts from him

☀︎ i know this is morning routines but let's say you come back early enough to find him still laying in bed

☀︎ still hugging your stuffed animal

☀︎ "seems like you love that thing more than me"

☀︎ "you know, i can't seem to get out of bed whenever this thing is near me"

☀︎ referring to the stuffed animal

☀︎ “really? why not, val?”

☀︎ “i think it's 'cause it smells like you.”

LUCIFER:

☀︎ waking up besides him is always a surprise

☀︎ he's probably the biggest fan of cuddling

☀︎ it doesn't matter what position you fell asleep in

☀︎ you could've been meters apart in bed, backs turn against eachother

☀︎ you'd still wake up with him wrapped around you in some way

☀︎ "hey," you murmur

☀︎ he turns around to face you

☀︎ "morning," he mumbles

☀︎ a big smile on his face as he just looks lovingly into your eyes

☀︎ you nestle closer, comfortable in his warmth

☀︎ minutes pass in comfortable silence

☀︎ his breaths syncing with yours, creating a rhythm of their own

☀︎ before you know it, you're asleep again

☀︎ you won't realise how or when it happened but suddenly you are alone in bed

☀︎ lucifer already changed his clothes, brushed his teeth, did his hair...

☀︎ to this day you still don't know if it has to do with his powers or if he's just incredibly fast

☀︎ all you know is that, after you're done tidying yourself up, there's breakfast ready

☀︎ if there's something lucifer loves in this world, it's cooking breakfast

☀︎ especially if he's cooking breakfast for you

☀︎ you enter the kitchen to find him mixing something up that smells amazing

☀︎ you hug him from behind as his smile grows

☀︎ "look who's up"

☀︎ "this smells amazing"

☀︎ he turns around to meet your eyes, holding your face with his hands

☀︎ "you're amazing"

☀︎ you cringe a bit at his cheesiness but can't help blushing as he places a kiss on your nose

ADAM:

☀︎ adam is definitely a slow morning person

☀︎ and even more so when you are with him

☀︎ the alarm will go off and he will immediately roll over and take you in his arms and cuddle up with you

☀︎ "adam!"

☀︎ you'd giggle as he buries his head in your neck and mumbles

☀︎ "five more minutes"

☀︎ you'd run your hands through his hair as he'd press a couple kisses to your neck

☀︎ you'll stay like this for about ten minutes or so.

☀︎ and eventually you get into the habit of setting your alarm a little bit earlier, so you can make sure you have time for adam's morning cuddles.

☀︎ when you are finally able to drag yourself out of his arms, you get out of bed and he follows a few minutes later

☀︎ you brush your teeth and hair in tandem

☀︎ and he often likes to nudge your elbow, causing you to smear toothpaste on your cheek

☀︎ cue his familiar giggling

☀︎ you take turns washing your face and doing your morning skin care

☀︎ whoever does theirs first makes the coffee for the both of you

☀︎ after lounging on the couch together drinking your coffee, you make breakfast

☀︎ you do most of it while adam 'helps'

☀︎ his way of helping often includes his arms wrapped around your waist as he hugs you into his chest

☀︎ sometimes swinging you side to side

☀︎ or squeezing you to make you laugh

☀︎ he is a food thief as well

☀︎ he can't wait until it's done he has to eat it as soon as he see's it

☀︎ the two of you eat breakfast together, often with your feet intertwined under the table, or your leg's propped up on his lap

#hazbin hotel x reader #hazbin hotel imagine #lucifer morningstar x reader #lucifer morningstar imagine #lucifer morningstar headcanon #hazbin hotel headcanon #hazbin hotel adam headcanon #hazbin hotel adam imagine #hazbin hotel adam x reader #hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel vox #vox x reader #vox x you #valentino hazbin hotel #valentino x reader #valentino hazbin hotel headcannon #husk #cursed cat alastor #husk x reader #husk headcanons #husk imagine #husk hazbin hotel #husk hazbin hotel headcanon

[2kmps]

vampire x reader one-shot | 16.1k

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

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

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

thank you, @ceruleansol for the excellent proofreading.

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

Another internet search bore fruit.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Again, odd, but it was his house.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Why haven't other housekeepers worked out?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"The police," you said.

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

Your nod was weak.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

༺ ♰ ༻

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

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

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

Montague had moved her body but to where?

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

Where did he take her?

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

You weren't sure you could stomach it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

༺ ♰ ༻

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It wasn't fucking fair.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It didn't sound like you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

༺ ♰ ༻

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was a normal joke.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

༺ ♰ ༻

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Clean it up."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It wasn't loud enough.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh, now you were begging.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But you still felt everything he was doing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

༺ ♰ ༻

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Ignore it." you said.

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

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

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

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

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

The air exploded.

Just once.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Roscoe readied his aim. "Parasite."

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

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

"He doesn't mean that."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then, you saw bodies.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Just like Montague said you would be.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You regretted all of it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

divider by; @/anlian-aishang

dc divider by; @/benkei-bear

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