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FEEDBACK LOOP #11: Infinity Knives and Brian Ennals' "Sambo's Last Words"

But do we got to play Sambo? —dälek, “Abandoned Language” (2007)

Unfortunately, I will not be alive to see my name cleared. That’s what this is about, my name. —Chris Dorner, from the “Last Resort” Manifesto (2013)

They were black and loud. And not detainable. And not discreet. —Gwendolyn Brooks, from “RIOT” (1969)

Infinity Knives and Brian Ennals are not detainable or discreet. You can’t dis- them in any manner—they won’t be disallowed to do anything. No hyperbole, harangues, or holds barred: that’s their daily operation. Allow them to introduce, and reintroduce, and reintroduce themselves. They do so repeatedly on King Cobra: “I’m Brian Ennals, and the funny-looking dude behind me is Infinity Knives.” Ennals dares his employer to do something, punking him with his chest puffed out. We know how the New York Post tried to do Ka—a mild-mannered church mouse on the mic when put beside what Ennals is spitting: the phlegm of plague rats. “I’m just waiting for the meeting at work,” Ennals has said, expressing only the slightest concern at the prospect of a boss googling his name. On the other hand, the statement sounds more like a veiled threat of workplace violence.

Infinity Knives knows the ledge—so don’t push him to the point of going postal either. His papers say Tariq Ravelomanana, but his p.k.a. is drawn from The Blade Itself, a post-millennium fantasy novel by Joe Abercrombie. But me, I’m visualizing the Cutlery Corner infomercials I watched as a kid, and I’m hearing the clang of swords that precede the RZA challenging us to bring da motherfucking ruckus. You can never have too many names or blades, but Brian Ennals is out here with his government written across his forehead. “The E-R-I-C-K is my name, I spell,” Erick Sermon raps on EPMD’s “You Gots to Chill.” He later told Brian Coleman: “It was like taboo to say your name in a rhyme back then—you just didn’t do that in rap! But that’s how real we were.” The B-R-I-A-N Ennals, for his part, keeps it realer than Real Deal Baudrillard (that would be hyperreal, for all you hookers, hoes, and semioticians keeping score at home).

Chris Dorner’s manifesto to Amerika begins with a meditation on the value of one’s name, asking, What would you do to clear your name? He writes that it’s more than just a “noun, verb, or adjective.” “Don’t let anybody tarnish it,” he writes, “when you know you’ve live[d] up to your own set of ethics and personal ethos.” Me and Knives used to be humble, Ennals says before the serrated horn frenzy on “Coke Jaw,” but now we fuckin’ shit up!

2. I’m in Chipotle with a robe on.

Ennals channels his inner Fatboi Sharif, rocking a robe with the same bravado that the Savage Skulls rocked swastika-stitched denim jackets in the Bronx in the ’70s. Some real Flyin’ Cut Sleeves swagger. He approaches the Chipotle counter like the Dude saunters through the supermarket, sniffing a carton of half-and-half in the opening scene of The Big Lebowski. “Sometimes there’s a man, uhm, he’s the man for his time and place….” Yeah, uhm, Ennals is the man for this time [100 seconds to midnight] and this place [amerikkka]. He’s a man for all seasons—for all robbin’ seasons, Baltimore-style.

On “A Melancholy Boogie,” he warns of a “swastika on your door,” so his bathrobe is a sort of Robe of Nessus—a garment soaked in centaur blood and hydra venom—eager to tell Nazi Punks to Fuck Off, to smother their faces in the lethal fabric. Call it his own Valkyrie plot, a regular Henning von Tresckow looking to lick shots at Hitler. A negro assassin, in Cube’s parlance. Even when the plan is foiled, he’ll go out gloriously—pridefully and suicidally—falling on a grenade like von Tresckow, who, before pulling the pin, said: “None of us can complain about dying, for whoever joined our circle put on the Robe of Nessus.” Damn it feels good to be a gangsta.

3. Alas, poor Yorick!

Brian Ennals and Infinity Knives are diggity-dead serious, but they’ll just as soon die laughing. Lots of id in the mix, and the idiot box on, because the revolution will most certainly be televised, brother. Ennals might house a burrito bowl at Chipotle, but he’s also Billy Mays, hawking Chipotlaway on South Park: “You love to eat Chipotle, but you hate all those terrible bloodstains in your underwear!” Ennals “wear[s] boat shoes to shoot dice.” He’s ashy-classy: B.I.G. sweating through a Coogi sweater with labored breaths, or LL with the inscrutable single pant-leg rolled up. Despite his partner having the lemniscate appellation [∞], Ennals is the fellow of infinite jest. A rictus grin behind the mic device; a Killing Joke Joker. Hamlet remarked, “Here hung those lips that I have kissed I know / not how oft,” but Ennals holds Yorick’s skull aloft and skull-fucks it. That’s where his gibes, his gambols, his songs, his flashes of merriment are—a ruckus brought forth. Like erasing Rawkus from the historical record by traveling back in time and letter bombing Rupert Murdoch’s son at Horace Mann prep school.

Hamlet was in the churchyard, but Ennals and Knives are “in the sandlot, scared of the beast.” Fretting over the mark of the beast, maybe. Let him that hath understanding count the number of the beast: for it is the number of a man; and his number is Six hundred threescore and six (Revelations 13:18 KJV). RFID microchips implanted in their foreheads that hiss like basilisks when they cross the threshold of the anti-theft antennae at Wawa. They can’t stanch the brain bleed. In beast mode for the smash-and-grab. On a murderers’ row boat down the River Styx—not whistling Dixie but whistling 666. Ennals can be our “most poetic of poets and [our] leader into hell,” to crib one from Frederick Seidel.

Or maybe it’s obvious, just the beast of The Sandlot (1993), a slobbery mastiff named Hercules. On King Cobra, high and low art collapse in on each other like Building 7. A folksy implosion of images that combines barbarism and grace as well as the aforementioned sex-and-hex-crazed senex Frederick Seidel, like when the poet audaciously claims:

I’m Mussolini, And the woman spread out on my enormous Duce desk looks teeny. The desk becomes an altar, sacred The woman’s naked.

Ennals’ rhymes are as unadorned and brusque as Seidel’s, too—point-blank: he doesn’t have time for multisyllabic antics. He’s too busy juxtaposing PF Flyers and prophetic visions from Patmos. He’s like Dorner gushing at the conclusion of his manifesto about The Hangover Part III, which he knows he won’t live to see. “What an awesome trilogy,” he writes. “Damn, gonna miss shark week.”

…when a multitude of shepherds is called forth against him, he will not be afraid of their voice, nor abase himself for the noise of them.

—Isaiah 31:4 KJV

On Brand Nubian’s “Dance to My Ministry,” Lord Jamar took the lead for others to follow: “The shepherd is here to protect the flock, / With my staff I walk through the wilderness.” But, then again, Lord Jamar is a homophobe and Holocaust denier. So Ennals abases him—smashes his phallocentric staff and passes him a staph infection; Ennals is a Debaser. “If you strike the shepherd,” though, you’ve still got to compete with the sheep—the leaderless flock, the lemmings, the true believers. You’ve got to be ruthless, murderous, a killer of sheep.

In Killer of Sheep, Charles Burnett’s 1978 film, kids from Watts—Black boys—go to war, hurling stones and dirtbombs at each other. Richard Wright wrote about a similar episode in his autobiographical sketch “The Ethics of Living Jim Crow.” Wright’s house was behind some railroad tracks, and his yard was “paved with black cinders.” Like clods of earth to the Watts kids, those cinders provided warzone entertainment—a joyful adolescent understanding that life is strife:

…cinders were fine weapons. You could always have a nice hot war with huge black cinders. All you had to do was crouch behind the brick pillars of a house with your hands full of gritty ammunition. And the first woolly black head you saw pop out from behind another row of pillars was your target. You tried your very best to knock it off. It was great fun.

But Wright’s fun ends when trouble arrives with a gang of whiteboys from the other side of the tracks (literally) that deliver “a steady bombardment of broken bottles.” Broken glass everywhere. One of the bottles catches Wright “behind the ear, opening a deep gash which [bleeds] profusely.” Bad to worse, though, when Wright’s mother gets a look at him: “She grabbed a barrel stave, dragged me home, stripped me naked, and beat me till I had a fever of one hundred and two…. impart[ing] to me gems of Jim Crow wisdom…. I was never, never, under any conditions, to fight white folks again.” Wright’s comeuppance is confusing and sets the tone for the remainder of his adolescence in the era of Jim Crow.

Brian Ennals is exasperated too, and tired, like Killer of Sheep’s Stan standing in the slaughterhouse with knives chained to his butcher belt. (I’ll give you one guess as to how many knives he’s got.) But where Ennals differs is his willingness to turn a rudimentary work tool into a weapon of mass destruction.

5. BURN A CROSS ON YOUR LAWN

Birmingham, AL. 1963. The Klan bombs the 16th Street Baptist Church. Louisiana. 2019. Three Black churches burned down in a 10-day span in St. Landry Parish. St. Mary Baptist Church; Greater Union Baptist Church; Mt. Pleasant Baptist Church. Baptism by fire? Must be next time. Or it always has been. “They been burning churches forever, man—that shit ain’t new,” is how Ennals tells it. The 2019 arson attacks were by one Yacubian juvenile named Holden Matthews, the son of a cop (ho hum). Not a hate crime, the authorities said. He had a predilection for Norwegian-style black metal, they said. Burzum be proud. Though they neglected to acknowledge how an adoration of Odin often coincides with Völkish beliefs—that’s Nazis all the way down, stupid. They been burning churches forever, man. Forever, man—like a sanctuary candle on the altar of one of those very churches.

“Niggas’ll look you in the face and say the sky ain’t blue.” Well, I suppose it’s not exactly blue when you consider the billowing black smoke that little Holden’s two-gallon gasoline cans have wrought. So much particulate matter it’s got asthmatics gagging. Ennals says, “A lie’s only a lie if you know it ain’t true.” What a conundrum. The post-truth line is a Gordian knot undone. Like some Wallace Stevens stanza: “...the nicer knowledge of / Belief, that what it believes in is not true.”

How did propagandist peckerwood Joey Goebbels put it? “If you tell a lie big enough and keep repeating it, people will eventually come to believe it.” Seek your truth, and speak the truth like Lateef. The white ones with the power—who manipulate the knowns into unknowns—they want to smuggle that lie into belief, but you Ain’t Gotta Lie ta Kick It. Ennals, like Cube, is in the business of exposing White lies. He seems to have historically been less concerned with telling white lies, more concerned with arranging white lines—despite Melle Mel’s warnings to the contrary. (That coke jaw might mean Ennals took Mel’s parenthetical double-negative [“Don’t Don’t Do It”] as a canceling of the apparent get clean command.) “Lie all the fuck you want,” Ennals summarizes, “just know who you lying to.” Be forthright. Enough with the smoke and mirrors.

6. Smoke circles the room…

Ennals gawks at the same “mystic moon” that Edgar Allan Poe does in “The Sleeper”: “An opiate vapor, dewy, dim, / Exhales from out her golden rim.” But when you’re gazing up, beware as “the pale sheeted ghosts go by.” Ennals’ “sheeted ghosts” are different from Poe's—one ghastly, the other ghostly. When we hear Poe, in his poem, wish that “Soft may the worms about her creep,” we know—in a Nasean twist—the titular “sleeper” is actually ding-dong-dead. Ennals knew it all along. “Taking walks through the cemetery,” he shared on “A Melancholy Boogie,” so that he could “talk to the graves.”

But that smoke-circled moon can function as less bomb-scary, less fright fest, too. Look to Lloyd Addison’s “Umbra,” where he warms to a better vision:

My sun has gone down in drum suite penumbra The mood of this rhythm my body is umbra

That’s a more suitable mood for “roll[ing] joints that look like caterpillar cocoons.” This is an example of Ennals waxing lyrical, poeticizing his most potent pot, but his prototype is blunt. Blunt like I hope Joel Osteen dies tomorrow (“Bluffin’”); or, Fuck Ted Cruz forever—I hope he gets stabbed (“A Melancholy Boogie”); or, The Catholic Church is a pedophile ring that rapes kids (“Bluffin’”). Put a better way, Ennals is Blunted on Reality. King Cobra, in toto, is the sound of renewed focus. “Sambo’s Last Words,” in particular, is a Philly blunt like a chrysalis split with a scalpel. Ennals and Knives surgically remove shredded tobacco leaves from the cavity of the blunt. They cut open a Death’s-head moth cocoon with an X-acto knife. They stare with wonder at all that flutters in Rawlings Conservatory and serenade butterflies: We know we got cha opin.

7. FLYBOY IN THE BUTTERMILK

“Fuck being fly,” Ennals raps, “when my momma turned sixty-five, / It hit me—son, she’s really gonna die.” Fuck being fly; Ennals is grounded in the grittiest of realities, as real as a plot of worm dirt and no souls are ascending the sediment. He addresses himself as son—dropping the illest illeism—just like his momma would. Her voice; his head. She’s one of the faithful. “She believes in heaven,” but Ennals “could give forty fucks” about forty days and forty nights. Even if Ennals did find his way to heaven, he wouldn’t sit down—he’s not looking to settle for any sacramental offerings. He won’t sign on for the lunch counter sit-in. He won’t let himself be pummeled by white-knuckled firsts and conked with vanilla malts. He’ll be sitting out Gandhi’s satyagraha.

In 1992, Paris dropped “Bush Killa” and took a similar stance: “So don’t be telling me to get the nonviolent spirit, / ’Cause when I’m violent is the only time the devils hear it.” Loud and clear, man: these are assassination raps. Ennals and Knives, yeah, they’ve got the “libs mad ’cause [they] shot Joe Biden.” In the spirit and style of Metallica, of Aes Rock, Kill one, kill a few, kill ’em all. Fill ’em all with guilt. Ennals and Knives are out for dead presidents to represent them.

8. HERE TO PREACH THE GREAT AMERICAN FUCK-YOU

Chris Dorner is a motherfucking legend. On NEGRO, Pink Siifu did his darnedest to immortalize the man, but, with this declaration, Ennals clinches the win. On “Headclean,” Ennals raps, “Religion ain’t the answer, / White Jesus is cancer.” In that, he’s kin with Dorner, whose manifesto includes an anecdote from his school daze: “[The principal] stated as good Christians we are to turn the other cheek as Jesus did. Problem is, I’m not a fucking Christian and that old book, made of fiction and limited non-fiction, called the bible, never once stated Jesus was called a nigger.”

“My man robbed 7-Eleven,” Ennals confides in us, only to disappointedly confess, “he got forty bucks.” Ennals' mom may believe in Heaven, but by rhyming her paradise with 7-Eleven, he debases the promised land to that of a multinational convenience store. “I go a level down,” he raps. Bounding down the eight steps of imperfection toward Dante’s concentric rings. “Turning up” and/or getting turnt doesn’t suit his death-drive. He’s asleep at the wheel, channeling Dante’s arrival at the Ninth Circle of the Inferno:

If I had rhymes both rough and stridulous, As were appropriate to the dismal hole Down upon which thrust all the other rocks, I would press out the juice of my conception More fully…

The journey of the soul seems to detour through a Pornhub directory (“dismal hole,” “thrust,” “press out the juice of my conception”) before we receive Ennals’ message. He, too, offers an apostate’s erotic poem: “Satan’s in a blue dress? I’m lifting the Devil’s gown.” For all the Tony Robbins “level up” talk amongst rappers nowadays, Ennals keeps it gully. He flips the script on Michelle Obama’s when they go low, we go high bunkum. Ennals subscribes to the Monstars’ approach: hit ’em high and hit ’em low both.

So it’s no wonder he’s sticking it to the Devil. On “Bluffin’,” he informed us “the greatest trick the Devil ever pulled was making Jesus white.” Tricknology, straight out the cave. Black Francis of the Pixies says this “Monkey Gone to Heaven,” but the racists are intent on sending Black folk to hell. Ennals and Knives load up on drugs to counter the effects of the Yacubian experiments. Simian drugs, simian drugs. Everybody’s in love with our simian drugs.

Meanwhile, Black Francis calculates his own supreme mathematics:

If man is five, then the devil is six, and if the devil is six, then God is seven.

Ennals answers with Seven Eyes and Seven Horns. He’s not strictly anti-Christian, though—he’s irreligious en masse. Ennals and Knives strive for that mass appeal. Even if Cube said he “met Farrakhan and had dinner” on “When Will They Shoot?,” Ennals, again, boils the bullshit down to methane fumes. “Fuck bitches, get money like Elijah Muhammad,” he slanders on “The Not So Tired Sounds of Brian Ennals,” and he all-but-screams “Nation of Islam is Feds” on “Don’t Let the Smooth Taste Fool You.” Ennals establishes a No Hoodwinking Zone, cordoned off with his spine alone—stiff as a bollard. He’s simply intolerant of what Chuck D called “evangelical hustler[s]” on PE’s “War at 33⅓.”

9. NEVA DIE ALONE

…We hafta die. That is our ’pointed task. Love & die. —John Berryman, “Dream Song 26”

“Lost my fucks, I got no more to give,” Ennals raps, breathlessly approaching a last breath. “Sambo’s Last Words,” though—by my count—has six fucks total. But if these are to be his last six (...six, six in the morning, police at my door…), then these objectified obscenities are bundled in a burlap sack and stashed in a trap house for safekeeping, for a rainy day.

When the bullets rain down, Dorner promises to wage guerrilla and asymmetrical warfare. His manifesto is his War Report. He “embrace[s] death as it is a way of life.” Practical, tactical. “I simply don’t fear it,” he writes, “I am the walking exigent circumstance you created.”

“Sambo’s Last Words” is a last will and testament at one turn, a farewell address at the next. Before your hours go missing, let me tell you how to live. In the same way Ennals objectifies fucks, he also objectifies time—“hours” as a metonym for Time (straight from the slums of Synecdoche, Maryland). Ennals rocks a Flavor Flav corpus clock ’round his neck. You know what time it is, or at least you’re familiar with the expiration date on the bottom of your package. The swing of the pendulum grazes the pit of your stomach. But, “shit really ain’t that deep,” Ennals says—organs not being endless, of course, despite your brags of intestinal length. (Despite my musings making the case these depths are, in fact, fathomless. “Stay awake to the ways of the world, ’cause shit is deep,” Inspectah Deck raps, backing me.)

LIVING: A HOW-TO GUIDE by Brian Ennals: “Fuck as much as you can, love your kids, and pray you die in your sleep.” Fuck, love, die. (Picking up where the final issue of Life Sucks Die left off.) Like an Eat, Pray, Love for blasphemers. Edgar Allan Poe died at the tender age of 40 in Baltimore (of all places), childless from his marriage to his 13-year-old cousin. “I’ll sleep when you’re dead,” it was rumored she told him. Fuck as much as you can renders the love-making harsh, impersonal, but Lloyd Addison again restores the balance: “And the silence neuter feminine night / is sighing verb-breaths of love.” Dorner put it less gently: “I thank the unnamed woman I dated over my lifetime for the great and sometimes not-so-great sex.”

10. My mind is right next to where the sun sit…

The proximity of sun and sense—in all their astral fury and incandescence—takes me back to Roque Dalton’s “On Headaches” poem. The Salvadoran revolutionary counterbalances how “great” it is to be a communist with the fact “it gives you many headaches.” His reasoning, though sound, reads like a riddle:

Because communists’ headaches are historical, that is they won’t go away with painkillers only with the realization of Paradise on Earth. That’s how it is.

Plainspoken, but persuasive. Dalton’s closing stanza reveals how communism will be “among other things, / an aspirin the size of the sun.” Pass Brian Ennals the bottle of Bayer then, because “everywhere [he] goes [he] keep[s] hearing this dumb shit….” He’s exhausted. (Dorner: “I have exhausted all available means at obtaining my name back.”) Still, Ennals tells us the specifics of this so-called dumb shit:

Too many niggas, not enough kings. Too many bitches, not enough queens.

Ennals affects the Ludacris voice only to dismiss the sentiment—call it Incognegro, he spits a spiteful chant. He’s got no time for half-steppin’ or hoteppin’ (Ennals is decidedly more Kane than Dr. Umar). Undoing whatever oaths might’ve been made: Fuck that! My niggas, my bitches: go get cheddar. And somewhere Puff Daddy’s affluence raps bounce off satellites in the outer reaches of the solar system, residual space debris from corporate radio: I’m the macaroni and the cheese. But Ennals won’t settle for crumbs; he’ll dine divinely: God’s good. Pussy’s better. This is Brian Ennals kneeling in prayer, reciting a Hail Mary: “I ain’t a killer but don’t push me, / Revenge is like the sweetest joy next to getting pussy.”

In a 1991 episode of KRON-TV’s Home Turf, 2Pac appears as an audience member and responds to host Dominique di Prima’s question about a favorite rap song. Pac, facetiously, answers “U Can’t Touch This” by MC Hammer. He elaborates that Hammer is “diluting rap…playing that Sambo role, and the reason everybody’s buying his record is because he’s no threat, and everybody wanna see Sambo dance.”

11.

The narrator of Ralph Ellison’s Invisible Man (1952) searches for Brother Clifton, only to find him selling Sambo dolls on the street. The sight is devastating:

I saw a square piece of cardboard upon which something was moving with furious action. It was some kind of toy and I glanced at the crowd’s fascinated eyes and down again, seeing it clearly this time…. A grinning doll of orange-and-black tissue paper with thin flat cardboard disks forming its head and feet and which some mysterious mechanism was causing to move up and down in a loose-jointed, shoulder-shaking, infuriatingly sensuous motion, a dance that was completely detached from the black, mask-like face. It’s no jumping-jack, but what, I thought, seeing the doll throwing itself about with the fierce defiance of someone performing a degrading act in public, dancing as though it received a perverse pleasure from its motions.

Clifton, having clearly betrayed his membership in the Brotherhood organization, continues with his sales pitch—now sensationally, rhythmically, spitting entrepreneurial raps like a young Percy Miller:

Shake it up! Shake it up! He’s Sambo, the dancing doll, ladies and gentlemen. Shake him, stretch him by the neck and set him down, —He’ll do the rest. Yes!

He’ll make you laugh, he’ll make you sigh, si-igh. He’ll keep you entertained. He’ll make you weep sweet—

For he’s Sambo, the dancing, Sambo, the prancing, Sambo, the entrancing, Sambo Boogie Woogie paper doll.

This Sambo, this jambo, this high-stepping joy boy? He’s more than a toy, ladies and gentlemen, he’s Sambo, the dancing doll, the twentieth-century miracle.

Sambo-Woogie, you don’t have to feed him, he sleeps collapsed, he’ll kill your depression And your dispossession…

At first, the narrator is “held by the inanimate, boneless bouncing of the grinning doll,” but he eventually looks upon the doll and feels his “throat constrict.” “The rage,” he says, “welled behind the phlegm.” Brother Clifton runs off, pursued by police for his unpermitted hustling, and the narrator walks in the opposite direction, wondering “[h]ow on earth could [Clifton] drop from Brotherhood to this in so short a time?” But he comes upon the pursuit again, and this time Brother Clifton and the cop become entangled, with Clifton delivering an “uppercut that sent the cop’s cap sailing into the street and his feet flying.” The cop regains his footing and fires his weapon at Clifton. For the narrator, “[t]he sun seemed to scream an inch above [his] head.” My mind is right next to where the sun sit…

12.

Infinity Knives has proven himself to be more a composer than yet another (...another) Madlib poser pressing buttons on the SP-404, another Dilla dilettante. “Sambo’s Last Words” is carried by a seething synth line that sounds like Stevie Wonder’s clavinet on “Superstition” if Little Stevie had not been blind since birth but instead gouged out his peepers in a meth-induced psychotic episode, à la Kaylee Muthart.

King Cobra’s opening prelude, “’Neath the Willow’s Leaves,” communes with the music of “Sambo’s Last Words.” Both equally forlorn but in different registers, a fabrication of salix alba and Saxo Grammaticus. Knives has cited his sources, but I refuse to believe he’s not corresponding across time and consciousness with the ballad “Bury Me Beneath the Willow” (#410 in the Roud Folk Song Index, you suckers!). The willows weep in the wind, overdriven and distorting. Ophelia’s body, drowned, floats downstream: “There is a willow grows aslant the brook, / That shows his hoar leaves in the glassy stream. / Therewith fantastic garlands did she make.”

“Sambo’s Last Words” is nearly a minute in when we hear a haunting banshee wail—a windy ghoul vocal. No denying it: this is the spirit rising from beneath the willow leaves. Her keening over the ever-steady synths mantle the track like hoarfrost.

But with Knives’ compositions, sometimes the willows wither away in wattage—he goes full electro[cution]. He’ll arrange decade-spanning sounds with soulsonic force, an Arthur Baker writing scores for any night of the living baseheads. He summons ghost-in-the-machine spirits. Neve console! Prophet-5! Micromoog! Lexicon PCM 41 Digital Delay Processor! His studio shouts and susurrations stimulate the central nervous system. Like something out of Shakespeare, Knives “buzz[es] these conjurations in [our] brain” (2 Henry VI, 1.2.102). His beats fluctuate from nerve-racking to numbing agent—they’re a helluva drug. The post-apocalyptic Run-DMC need their mutant Rick Rubin—the same cowl of hair, but less plunderphonics; more polyphonic. Less barefooted guru; more blister-footed Orc. Max Richter bumping uglies with E Double’s “Richter Scale.”

13.

I wanna be a stupid and shallow motherfucker now. I wanna be a tough-skinned bitch, but I don’t know how. —Sparklehorse, “Pig” (1998)

Brian Ennals incites the crowd like an Intelligent Hoodlum. He possesses the ravenous raps of a young Canibus freestyling on a DJ Clue or Tony Touch mixtape, but only if Canibus stopped studying his own alien deoxyribonucleic acid and, instead, took a class with Fred Moten and studied the Undercommons. Ennals, you see, raps for the people. He’s got no time to do a tap-dance, a shoeshine, or a soft-shoe. There are more pressing concerns.

We can’t define, precisely, how Ennals’ be dropping these mockeries of Socrates’ philosophies and hypotheses, but the impact is felt like a bludgeoning. “They worship pedophiles like Socrates,” he exclaims on “Don’t Let the Smooth Taste Fool You.” For Ennals, Western education is forbidden. He flexes with boko haram inked on his biceps.

On “The Badger,” Ennals settles his outstanding rent payments the best way he knows: “I’mma kill my landlord, so I got a heater, / Specifically, a nigga got a 9 millimeter.” Killing landlords…glorifying outlaws…it’s nothing new. Peep Fanon in The Wretched of the Earth:

For example, the gangster who holds up the police set on to track him down for days on end, or who dies in single combat after having killed four or five policemen, or who commits suicide in order not to give away his accomplices—these types light the way for the people, form the blueprints for action and become heroes. Obviously, it's a waste of breath to say that such-and-such a hero is a thief, a scoundrel, or a reprobate. If the act for which he is prosecuted by the colonial authorities is an act exclusively directed against a colonialist person or colonialist property, the demarcation line is definite and manifest. The process of identification is automatic.

Same as Woody Guthrie’s “Pretty Boy Floyd” who knew what to do when “a deputy sheriff approached him”: he “grabbed a log chain [and] laid that deputy down.” Or Dylan's “John Wesley Harding,” another folk hero who “trav’led with a gun in ev’ry hand.” This is why Ennals calls Chris Dorner a motherfucking legend. Because he knows we’ll be telling tales of him for years to come, and he does his part to make it certain. Ennals dons a Chris Dorner costume—his cindered LAPD uniform—and Dorner is the Sambo-no-more. These are his last words. Ennals is the medium for Dorner. Together, they come to understand “the American flag [is] the same colors as cop lights.” Ennals is the medium, and the medium is the massacre. BLACK COP! BLACK COP! KRS-One shouts on “Black Cop” from Return of the Boom Bap (Roy Christopher has noted the seated and spitting similarities between KRS’s album cover from 1993 and King Cobra’s). “Stop shootin’ Black people, we all gonna drop!” When you look for a motive, look no further than that.

14.

Admittedly Sambo, but a man’s gots to eat… Gladly buck dance and show teeth. For that kind of paper? You crazy? —billy woods, “DMCA”

In ’98, Boots Riley wasn’t seeing it woods’ way. On the Coup’s “Busterismology,” he had this to say: “If you ain’t talkin’ ’bout ending exploitation, / Then you just another Sambo in syndication.” Pam the Funkstress cuts crazily while Boots paraphrases Nas for the chorus: When we start the revolution all they probably do is snitch. Ennals allies himself with this Bay Area camp, this armed cell. But his focus is on revenge plots for the time being. On “The Badger,” Ennals is joined by Jim—his Iraq War vet companion, his accomplice—who’s schizophrenic. Ennals himself is a 21st century schizoid man, but it’s Jim who sees crimson and starts spraying during the home invasion. Let me remind you of Roque Dalton, my guy—these headaches are historical. And history keeps happening.

On 2007’s “Runaway Sambo,” Hell Razah emerges from the shadows of the Black Market Militia to set the record straight to hell. “They try to tell me I can’t blow ’cause I ain’t tap-dancing like Sambo,” he raps. He refuses the syndication trap that Boots spoke of: “We not no Buckwheats or Little Rascals, / Or Diff’rent Strokes, or whatever-have-you.”

In “Angel Puss,” a Looney Tunes cartoon from 1944, “Li’l Sambo” is paid “four bits” to drown a black cat in a lake, though he’s too daft to notice the cat sneaking out of his sack. The cat paints himself pure white, disguising himself as an angel. He haunts and hunts Li’l Sambo down, enticing him with the sound of a set of dice shaking in his paws. Li’l Sambo, though, eventually figures it out and stalks the cat into an armoire before unloading his blunderbuss.

Li’l Sambo needs to turn the blunderbuss on himself, though—that would be a merrie melody. Travel back with me to Yorick’s skull—that stark symbol of inevitable death. Li’l Sambo needs to kill the buffoon in his head with a hollow-point bullet that can penetrate the Stahlhelms that sit atop the craniums, just as they’re depicted in the embroidered patches of the Savage Skulls. Li’l Sambo needs to break into his own mind, get all “Conscious Rap” sick wid it and trespass on his subconscious. In Larry Cohen’s 1972 black comedy Bone, the titular character, played by Yaphet Kotto, busts in on the Beverly Hills property of Bernadette and Bill. Bone holds the couple captive, forces them to empty their bank account, and threatens to rape Bernadette (don’t worry: when it comes down to it, he can’t maintain his erection—his, erm, boner—and the white lady of the house seduces him instead). Through all these funny games, Bone’s blue shirt is bleach-stained from the original poolside tussle with Bill, the husband—a Big Bang of chlorine chaos, a clever mark of Cain inversion.

In his career-spanning sequence of poems, The Dream Songs, John Berryman also attempted an inversion of the Sambo caricature. Berryman’s subject voice is in constant flux, always switching, in the poems. One “Henry”—who is “sometimes in blackface,” according to Berryman himself—goes by “Mr. Bones” when he rubs on the burnt cork. “Dream Song 273” reads like Ennals bars:

Survive—exist—who is at others’ will optionless; may gelded be, be put to stud, and were sweating sold; was sold. —Mr Bones, dat slavey still is of our former coast. —When they make me, Bud, I show my genitals, cold.

………………………………….. Come closer, Sambo. I planting in your face ilex. Your face. You jus like a flex where the bulb failed. Flail

…at one hundred-odd degrees at four in the morning, where the ofays’ cameras were dutyless.— Muscle my whack. We gotta trickle. Seize them Moslem testicles, and pull. Please hurt my owner, twice.

“The Sambo stereotype,” William Tynes Cowan explains, “served two social functions on the plantation: it helped the individual slave to survive, to hide true feelings and true intentions from the slaveholder; and it allowed the slaveholding class to maintain its belief that the institution of slavery was not only benevolent but was a necessary shelter for their innocent, enslaved ‘children.’” On King Cobra, Brian Ennals and Infinity Knives make their true feelings known. There’s zero chance of misinterpretation. They’re not children—that much is obvious. And for any white folks who feel them charming enough to put on a shelf as novelty knick-knacks, they are here to disillusion such crackers, to disabuse them of that belief. They finish what KMD started on the cover of BL_CK B_ST_RDS: they tighten the noose on that Sambo hanging from the gallows.

Images:

Chicago Seed advertisement page, c. 1970s (detail) | The Big Lebowski, dir. Joel and Ethan Coen, 1998 (screenshot) | The Number of the Beast is 666, William Blake (1805-1810) | Killer of Sheep, dir. Charles Burnett, 1978 (screenshot) | Killer of Sheep, dir. Charles Burnett, 1978 (screenshot) | Anne Moody “Sit-in at the downtown Woolworth’s in Jackson, Mississippi,” Anne Moody, May 28, 1963 (detail) | Gustave Doré, Satan in the Inferno is trapped in the frozen central zone in the Ninth Circle of Hell, Canto XXXIV (1861-1868) | Bone, dir. Larry Cohen, 1979 (screenshot) | Kerry James Marshall, A Portrait of the Artist as a Shadow of His Former Self (1980) | The Conjuration, John Opie (1792) | “Angel Puss,” Looney Tunes, dir. Chuck Jones, 1944 (screenshot) | KMD, Black Bastards, album cover, the EMEF (1993) | “New York City street gang the Savage Skulls,” Jean-Pierre Laffont, c. 1970s (detail) | Chicago Seed advertisement page, c. 1970s (detail)

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cassiestarfox · 4 years

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My @pokemonsnapzine arrived!!!

This is one of the first zines I’ve ever purchased (the first I’ve received so far at least lol) and I am so happy I decided to get it, all of the art is so beautiful and the pin is so cute ✨✨

Thanks so much for putting together such an awesome project!!

#low key have never played the original pokemon snap game but I am excited about the new one #those graphics!! it looks so beautiful #can’t stop looking at the pages #the details of some pieces are so beauitful #can’t wait to put the pin on my denim jacket #i think my niece will like this too!#pokemon #personal

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letarasstuff · 3 years

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One kind of intern

(A/N): This was requested by @greenslifestuff :) It took me a week or two because I had to interact with my friends in order to get the inspiration I needed 😅 Summary: The team gets to work with a gen z teenager. Let’s see how that goes.

Warnings: Swearing and gen z humour

Wordcount: 2k

✨Masterlist✨

___________________________________

“Team, this is (Y/N) (L/N). She will be interning for the upcoming three months alongside this team. (Y/N), these are Agents Emily Prentiss, Jennifer Jareau, David Rossi, Derek Morgan and Doctor Spencer Reid and our Technical Analyst Penelope Garcia”, Hotch introduces a teenage girl to his team like this happens every day.

“Wait Hotch, we don’t get interns. What is she going to do, no offense, but getting us coffee or what?” Morgan eyes her suspiciously. She looks like any teenager grabbed from the street. A band t-shirt, a torn pair of jeans and a cup from starbucks in her hands. Nothing you would expect to even enter a federal building.

“No offence taken, Agent Morgan. I know having an ugly pickly bitch working with professionals seems weird. It’s just I have summer break and I thought it would be a good thing on my resumé if I already interned in the FBI, because I just graduated and I wanted to go to the academy this fall. But if you wanna do a vibe check with me first, that’s fine by me. Whatever floats your boat.”

The room falls silent. Then out of all sudden everyone turns to Garcia, who puts her arms up in defense. “I don’t even know half the things she said, ask her yourself.”

That’s how the BAU gets their first contact with Gen Z culture and let me tell you it is a wild ride, so buckle up your seats, drink your tea up because we aren’t going to make any stops.

“(Y/N), I need you to come with me. We are going to the M.E. getting the latest reports from our last case”, Morgan tells her while passing her desk. In the blink of an eye the teenager is ready, putting her denim jacket with various pins and bits of patches on.

“Derek, can we get starbucks on the way back? The pumpkin spiced latte is back on their menu and I am on withdrawal. Pleaaaaaasseeee”, she looks at him with a pouty face. Morgan smiles. “Ok, under one condition: We both get one, take awesome pictures and send them to the group chat and then we act like we didn’t get them anything, but we actually buy them their usual.” He got the hang of it pretty fast. “Deal, Sis.”

While they are in the car on their way to the M.E. the agent groans. “Ugh, road work ahead.” “Uh yeah, I sure hope it does!” Morgan eyes her from the side. His whole demeanor says ‘old and confused’.

“What was that, kid?” But (Y/N) begins to laugh. “Don’t you know vines? Short dumb and funny clips people made?” It’s safe to say that this afternoon he learns to speak in vines, getting on Rossi’s nerves because nothing makes sense anymore.

“Ok, I heard you wanted to become a profiler. So I thought I would show you some old cases and then you try to figure out the profile. I’ll present them to you like I do to the team, alright?” JJ and (Y/N) sit in her office, safe from curious eyes. “As right as the law, Ma’am.”

“Good, this is a case from several years ago. It happened here in D.C. Three men were murdered execution style in the middle of the night in an alleyway. They were all from different backgrounds. The only connection between them was that they were evicted for some form of sexual harassment or assault. The UnSub also had a signature: A shot into their groin while the men were alive.”

Unfaced by the presented facts (Y/N) pops a piece of gum into her mouth. “It do be like that.”

“What?” “I mean, it’s obviously a woman. She experienced any harassment or assault herself. She also has excess to the files, I assume she works as a paralegal, since most of them are women. Female serial killers are extremely rare, but they are better organized. The only thing left to say is good for her getting revenge.” The blonde looks at the teenager with wide eyes.

“I-I guess but you know you can’t say anything like that to Hotch, do you?” She asks concerned. “JJ, I’m dead inside, not dumb. I know this.” But the agent shrugs. “Good. Though I really want to see his face.” “Mood.”

Penelope Garcia is the closest one to relate to Gen Z culture, since a great part of her time is spent on the internet. She happily learns about all the phrases and their meanings as well as the newest trends and hypes.

“Purp is sus, I tell you”, is heard from the lair into the hallway. Spencer and Derek look at each other with concern on their faces. “Do you think they are alright or do we have to-” “IT’S A SELF REPORT I SWEAR PENNY! YOU WORK WITH PROFILERS IN GANDALF’S NAME!” Spencer’s question is answered by that.

“Baby girl, crazy girl, are you doing good? Do you need help or something?” The older one asks warily. But it’s drowned in another screaming match. “I TOLD YOU PURP WAS THE IMPOSTER BUT YOU HAVE TO TELL THEM I VENTED WHEN I DIDN’T! I WANT ALL TIKTOKS I SENT YOU BACK!” “YOU DON’T DARE TO REVOKE MY TIKTOK PRIVILEGES!” “WATCH ME GARCIA!”

“Whoa girls, what about taking a break?” Morgan tries to diffuse the situation. “Yes, I think JJ got new pictures of Henry and Emily brought cookies this morning”, Spencer adds.

The girls, who mere seconds ago were ready to jump each other's throats, look at the other one. “You get the cookies and I go to JJ, deal?” (Y/N) asks. “Deal!” Without sparing the boys another glance they run out of the lair. Their devices are still lit up. A red figure shines into their faces. ‘AMONG US’ is written underneath it. “I think we get too old for this stuff, don’t we Reid?”

Spencer always thought he was young. Of course, his mind is older, but physically he is not that old. But the intern proves him wrong. And boy is he wrong.

“Spencer, is there anything interesting to know today?” (Y/N) takes a seat on his desk, distracting the genius from his paperwork. It is a common occurrence for her to go to him to ask for a fun fact.

“Do you wanna learn something about sloths?” His knowledge (or the writer’s) on this subject is astonishingly big.

“Spill the tea, sis.” “Did you kn- What? But I don’t have tea to spill. And I don’t wanna spill anything, I-” Reid rambles in confusion.

“It’s just a saying, Spencer. There is no deeper meaning to it then ‘Tell me everything about it’. You know, it’s mostly used for gossiping, but I don’t really like to gossip. That’s why I use it in a different context. You got it?” (Y/N) explains it to him in a soft manner, knowing her generation can be complex.

“Yeah, I think I do. Thank you for telling me. I really like the phrase. It has a nice ring. What about you spill the tea about all the phrases you know and I tell you some things from my knowledge?” “I think you got yourself a teacher, genius. But now tell me about the sloths, I love them.”

A few days later Rossi catches her doing some weird moves. “Are you having a seizure or what is your problem, youngster?” Even though he tries not to show it, David took a great liking to (Y/N), thinking of her like a granddaughter. Still, most of her actions confuse the hell out of him.

“I’m practising a dance for tiktok. My friends and I worked on a choreo we wanted to film later. Come here, I can show you.” And that’s what she does in the conference room. The teenager walks him through every move of the choreo, explaining the meaning to it and how it correlates with the song.

“And then you move your arm like that. Exactly like that! You did a great job, David! Are you sure you don’t want to come with me later? We can make you your own account and name it ‘Grandpa-on-tiktok’. You can promote your books over there and it’s a way to float with the trend!”

Seeing her this excited Rossi can’t do anything but agree to the idea. Also, he secretly liked doing the dance thing. It made him feel young again.

“(Y/N), you said you graduated this summer. But your file said you are 16?” Emily asks her one boring day filled with paperwork and countless cups of coffee. “It is what it is”, she mindlessly answers, too focused on filling out the work in front of her.

“I mean yes but how?”

“Emily, smart people exist. I know, coming from me hits different, but here we are.” Finally (Y/N) puts her pen away looking at the raven haired woman.

“What are you talking about? I can’t really follow you.” The more the intern says the more confused gets Emily.

She sighs. “I don’t want to leave you on read here. I kind of am smart somehow. Apparently I was smart enough to skip a grade or two. But it’s no biggie. Many peeps do this, so I don’t sweat it.”

“Even though I feel like you are selling yourself short here, I know you are an incredibly intelligent person. Someday you will be an awesome profiler and any team will be lucky to have you. I really hope we will be the lucky team. But I’m still not sure if this is what I should say in this context.”

“Emily, you are goals. This fam is squad goals. I really hope to be a part of this someday”, (Y/N) admits. “I’m sure Hotch will do his best to get you on the team, you became a great part of it. I can’t imagine a future without you.”

Sadly Prentiss has to get used to a time without the team’s beloved intern. On her last day (Y/N) knocks at Hotch’s door.

“Hey, I wanted to say thank you. The time with you and all the others was amazing and I learned so many useful things for not only the academy but also for my daily life. I really had a glow-up here”, she says after coming in.

Hotch motions towards the chairs in front of his desk. “Take a seat, (Y/N). I got something for you. See it as a compensation for not getting paid for your internship. You really did great work and a better job than some agents, who are doing theirs for many years already but don’t know half the stuff you do. You are a valuable member to the team.”

“Wait, you speak in presence tense. I leave you all this afternoon, you know that, do you?” But the Unit Chief only gestures to a white envelope on his desk. Quickly the teenager takes it and reads it.

“Are you serious Hotchner? Because I will cry you a river if you joke”, she threatens him.

“I’m dead serious, (Y/N). Even though half of your talks are difficult to understand, the other half is twice as useful and important. Additionally to that, you are like a fresh breath of air that the team needed. That’s why a place here will be available for you as soon as you graduate from the academy. I trust you that you will pass with flying colors, I had to promise that to Strauss.”

“Of course, Hotch. I swear on my Animal Crossing Island that I will do my best and more. Thank you so much”, she leaps into his arms.

The others watch the interaction from the bullpen, pretending to not get teary eyed. Their favorite Gen Z Kid will come back to them after all.

Taglist:

Spencer Reid

@calm-and-doctor

#spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x teen!reader #penelope garcia x reader #penelope garcia x teen!reader #derek morgan x reader #derek morgan x teen!reader #david rossi x reader #david rossi x teen!reader #aaron hotch x reader #aaron hotch x teen!reader #emily prentiss x reader #emily prentiss x teen!reader #Criminal Minds #criminal minds fanfiction #x reader #reader insert #x teen!reader #jennifer jareau x reader #jennifer jareau x teen!reader

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ericspinkhair · 3 years

Text

teasing the teacher

pairing: teacher!younghoon x fem student!reader

synopsis: y/n teases her teacher with a pink dildo and he takes her on his desk

word count: 2k

warnings: teacher/student sex, masturbating in class, dildos, cum on face, fingering, oral

a/n: please don't actually have sex with your teachers!

requests are open!!

masterlist + requests

from the moment he stepped into the math classroom on the first day of senior year and introduced himself as 'mr. kim' you knew you wanted him.

he was tall, handsome and naturally charismatic so it was no surprise that many of the lower class students had a crush on him. whispers followed him through the halls and you'd often hear girls say out loud the same inappropriate thoughts you were having.

you showed up to math class regularly which was something you never had done as you didn't see how knowing how to solve the quadratic formula was going to benefit you in your life.

you spent the lessons studying mr. kim and, from his youthful complexion and attitude, figured he couldn't be much older than you. he was maybe 23? 24? you didn't concern yourself with it. you were of age and sought for someone more mature to fulfill your needs.

in his black collared shirt and tailored pants, he was looking like a real snack today and you stared at him from your seat, devouring this man with your eyes. he caught you staring and you thought he'd avert his gaze but, to your surprise, he looked you up and down, lingering at your cleavage for a moment, before he smirked.

even when you were working on questions on your own, you could feel him observing you. you made sure to bite your lip and wet it with your tongue to look as seductive as possible. when you left the classroom, you noticed that he had placed a jacket over his lap.

knowing that your strategy to get his attention was working, you figured out a plan over the weekend. he was clearly attracted to you but since he was your teacher you couldn't just go up to him and be like 'hey, wanna fuck?' no, you needed him to make the first move and you were going to make sure he was.

you dressed up in a tiny skirt that ended at the middle of your thigh and in order to prevent unwanted attention you wore safety shorts underneath. your denim jacket covered up a white cropped shirt with a zipper stretched over the chest.

before math class, you removed the shorts in the bathroom and stored them in your bag. the next step was risky but essential in your plan to seduce mr. kim so you took a deep breath and prepared yourself.

when you sat down in your seat, you made sure to pull the zipper all the way down so that the inner sides of your breasts were mostly exposed. you didn't need to worry since you were the only one sitting in the back row and no one would see.

an exam was coming up so you had time to practice today and mr. kim was just sitting at his desk, watching over the students while doing something on his laptop. everyone was, more or less, engaged in the work and he let himself focus on you. he noticed how your shirt was barely holding your boobs which were threatening to spill out. he had never seen a girl as sexy and bold as you and felt his dick harden in his pants. you noticed him looking and what you did next sent a sudden rush directly to his cock.

you spread your legs apart, revealing something round and pink between your legs. you gave him a clear view of your vagina clutching onto a huge dildo.

you looked him dead in the eyes as you grabbed the base and slightly pulled it out halfway just to ease it back in. you repeated this action multiple times, grabbing your tits with the other hand and gave him a show by massaging and squeezing them.

lust clouded his eyes and he licked his lips. his tight pants were restraining his painfully hard cock and there was nothing he could do to get relief while he was in class. he tried to concentrate on what he had been doing on the laptop again but it was difficult when all he wanted to do was to replace the dildo with his cock and fuck you into oblivion.

you saw how worked up you had gotten him and decided to push him over the edge. you pulled out the dildo and sucked on it while keeping direct eye contact. you let your tongue graze over the tip before fucking your mouth with it.

after what felt like hours of torture for your teacher, your shenanigans were interrupted by the bell.

'okay, class. pack your things and go,' mr. kim urged the students.

you quietly slipped the dildo back inside and stood up to join your friend. she gave you an amused look. she was aware of everything that was happening since you had shared your plans with her in advance.

you wanted to frustrate mr. kim even further so you ignored him and passed his desk nonchalantly.

'y/n, wait! I need to talk to you.' you inconspicuously fist bumped your friend and turned around.

'how can I help you, mr. kim?' you asked, batting your eyelashes, acting all innocent. he rolled his eyes.

as soon as the last person had stepped outside, he locked the door.

'what do you think you're doing, wearing no underwear and masturbating in my class? you have violated school policy and I can't let you get away with that so easily.' the tent in his trousers was huge and there was a small wet spot where his pre-cum had leaked through. he stepped closer to you and you backed up against the wall.

'you do need to punish me, sir,' you admit. you wrapped your arms around his neck and pulled him down so that your lips were brushing against his ear. 'I've been a bad girl.'

he pinned both of your wrists to the wall behind you and forced his mouth onto yours. you smirked into the kiss, knowing you had succeeded, and opened your mouth to grant him easy access. he slipped in his tongue and began exploring the insides.

he pressed himself hard against you so that your stiff nippels grazed his chest through your shirt. his solid length burned against your lower belly and, when you moved against it, he let out a groan.

'on the desk. now,' he ordered and dragged you by the wrist. he pushed his hand down on your upper back to bend you over and you obliged more than happily.

he jerked the skirt up to expose your dildo filled pussy. you moaned loudly as he spanked your right butt cheek. he watched it jiggle in fascination.

'count,' he ordered you and spanked the other side.

'two,' you heavily breathe out. this dominant side of him was a bit unexpected and every slap made your muscles clench around the fake dick stuck deep inside you.

'three, four,' you cried out as he left red marks on both sides, soothing them afterwards by rubbing gently.

every time his hand came down, the volume of your moans increased. by 'ten', mr. kim had enough of this.

'you seem to be enjoying your punishment a bit too much, y/n,' he pointed out. 'time to move on.'

you suddenly felt empty as he took out the dildo swiftly. you gasped as your arousal began running down your thighs. mr. kim knelt down and licked it away. you raised one leg and placed it on the desk, fully exposing your pussy to him.

'so desperate,' he mumbled and began tracing your folds.

he eased two of his fingers inside and your hole swallowed them effortlessly. he pumped them in and out in a steady, fast rhythm, listening to the desperate sounds coming from both your vagina, as well as from your mouth. your upper body rested on the hard surface as your teacher was fingering you good. unlike all of the other guys you had been with, he knew what he was doing and moved his fingers in a way that quickly brought you close to your orgasm.

he didn't let you have it though.

when he pulled his dripping fingers out, you turned around and sank to your knees. you made quick work with his belt and soon pulled down his pants and underwear to his ankles. his cock was an angry red, waiting impatiently for you to end its torture.

you heard a sharp intake of breath as you put it in your mouth and started sucking. mr. kim grabbed your hair tightly to guide you; it did hurt a bit but it mostly turned you on even further. you took him as far as you could, hollowing your cheeks to avoid brushing against it with your teeth.

his cum tasted salty and made you even more thirsty for him. you wanted to savor more of his aroma but he pulled out after not too much time.

he made you stand up, grabbed your butt cheeks and lifted you onto the desk. your legs hugged his torso tightly and his hard dick stood proud in front of your entrance.

'you still have time to change your mind,' mr. kim informed you. he reminded himself that he had to ask you for your consent before he were to do something you didn't want to.

you, however, were sure you needed him and pushed his tip inside by pulling him closer with your legs.

both of you moaned loudly as he fully slid inside you, filling you up to the brim. you were so tight for him that he had to force himself to start slow in order not to come right here and there.

mr. kim pulled down the cleavage of your shirt so that your naked tits bounced out. he massaged and pinched your nipples as he pounded into you. your tongues were fighting for dominance and he could taste himself on you. you couldn't get enough of his sweet lips.

'look how desperate you are for your teacher. clenching around his cock like this.' his dirty words sent shivers through your spine.

you wove your fingers into his hair and gently tugged at it as your walls tightened around him.

feeling that you were close, mr. kim picked up the speed, sucking purple bruises on your neck.

your threw your head back and hard wrenching spasms stole your ability to move and think. you leaned against his heaving chest and nibbled on his earlobes.

'fuck,' he cursed. he lifted you down to the ground and stroked his dick in fast motions. you knelt to taste his cum as he finally exploded with a satisfied groan.

most of it landed in your mouth and the rest ran down your cheeks or was caught in your eyelashes. you swallowed the sticky substance and licked your lips to reach more of his load.

mr. kim panted heavily and had his eyes closed while trying to calm down his breathing. when he opened them again he saw his cum dripping down your face and quickly went to get you a paper towel.

'clean that up properly. no one can know what happened.' suddenly he felt a rush of panic. if anyone were to find out that he had slept with a student, he was going to be fired. he couldn't lose the job he had just started.

'don't worry,' you assured him as you wiped your lashes clean. 'as long as you'll write me an excuse for why I'm late for my next class everything will be fine.'

you turned around to leave but he held you back by grabbing your hand.

'don't do this during lessons again. if you want me to fuck you, just tell me and we can arrange something outside of class.'

'sure thing,' you said and winked at him as you stepped outside.

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hansolmates · 4 years

Text

jjk; off-league

summary; you decide to do a little boudoir photoshoot for yourself—a little sexy lingerie, some bunny ears, maybe even a little nudity to make you feel more body positive about yourself. that little photoshoot doesn’t end up being for yourself anymore when you accidentally send those sexy pictures to your stupidly hot, stupidly talented childhood friend who you haven’t spoken to since middle school graduation. pairing; photographer!jk x fem!reader genre/warnings; childhood friends to lovers!au, flangst, mutual pining, feelings of insecurity and body image, suggestive language, nudity w.c; 6.2k a/n: i was feeling a lil meh about this fic after finishing it but a month later it finally makes its debut! for @btsghostiewritersnet BGW Bingo Bash! today’s trope is “childhood friends to lovers” which surprisingly isn’t a favorite of mine so it was definitely a challenge to write!

“C’mon, I need your opinion. Deadass. Don’t just say shit to make me feel better.”

“Gimmie those nudes, baby girl,” Johnny makes an impeccable fuckboy impersonation, making you feel a little squirmy to your stomach.

It’s an hour away from being the ass-crack’o-dawn and your impromptu pin-up photoshoot just needs the sexy-star-of-approval from your best friend. Johnny Suh is also up for reasons unmentioned, but you had a feeling his pretty boyfriend is fifty percent of the reason.

You look at yourself in the mirror, smoothing your frame against the black bodice of the sheer teddy. The only parts that are fully concealed are the parts that don’t matter. The sheer bodice reveals your pert nipples concealed by a thin black mesh, coupled with the deep V in the sweetheart neckline, accented by a little black bow in the dive of your highlighted cleavage. The silky a-line raceways to a set of black garters hugging your thighs, barely hanging onto a pair of lace thigh-highs.

It doesn’t leave you butt naked, but enough to make you feel confident about yourself. These pictures are for you, and Johnny. And Johnny’s boyfriend if he’s being nosy.

You tug off the silk bunny ears from your head, flinging it somewhere in your room. The wire started to dig in your brain, giving you a major headache.

“Sending them now,” you hang up and start compiling the pictures in a folder on Google Drive. Once that’s done you copy the shareable link, sending it to Johnny’s number. It happens all so fast, and you feel kind of giddy. As you were posing for the camera, taking your time to find all the right angles, you felt good, you felt sexy in your little get up. Channeling your inner Ariana Grande was one of your childhood dreams, your fifteen year old self would be proud.

Five minutes pass, fifteen, and by the twenty-five minute mark you’re pissed. What’s taking Johnny so long?

Makeup scrubbed clean and face bare, you shuffle in your duvet, far too tired to be waiting up this long. Punching in his number once more, you cry, “Hey! Why haven’t you looked at them yet?”

“What?” your friend’s voice sounds pebbly through the line. Was Johnny sleeping? “You never sent them!” he whines tiredly.

“No, I definitely sent them!” you pull the phone away and keep Johnny on call, ready to prove him wrong.

But to your surprise, the last message you sent to Johnny was this afternoon.

The most recent message is to a person named John Kook.

You scream.

Johnny screams back at you with an equal amount of force, “What the fuck? Did someone break in? Are you being mobbed? See, this is why I wanted to put the baby monitor in your room—”

“Worse!” you’re well prepared for any break in, but not for this. “I sent my pics to the wrong John!”

“Well… is he at least cute?”

“I mean, in the fourth grade he looked pretty cute with that front tooth missing,” you find your output of frustration, your bunny plush, pulling it by the ear and hitting it against the bed. “His name isn’t even John! It was just his English name for a silly project we did in middle school. This is so embarrassing, all I can picture is a twelve-year-old Jungkook mortified from sexual harassment. I basically sent him nudes!”

“Tasteful nudes.”

“I’m gonna die.”

“He’s gonna die, of happiness.”

Jeon Jungkook was a classmate from elementary through middle school. Time and time again was he the object of your affections, from the first grade at the roller rink to the speech he made at graduation. But really, who cares? You’re old and have a job, and it’s not like you’ve communicated with any of your former classmates.

Your horror amplifies when the Delivered receipt is changed to Read 3:41AM.

“Fuck! Fuck me with a fuckin’ fuck nugget he saw it!” you cry, “does he still have my number? What if he deleted my contact, would that be even weirder?”

“Girl, stop.” Johnny sighs, and you can already picture him running his thumb between his brows. “This doesn’t change anything, alright? You two don’t know each other anymore. Block his number and go to sleep.”

Johnny leaves you alone after that, and you’re left alone to mull over the implications of sending Jeon Jungkook your nude photoshoot.

You do block his number, knowing that waiting for a reply would drive you nuts. The one thing that you do which is possibly worse, is look him up on Instagram.

Of course, he’s stupid hot.

He doesn’t seem to like being on the receiving end of the camera however, in favor of his timeline being filled with romantic shots of the beach and city. In between the picturesque views and watercolor sunsets do you see glimpses of him and his current life. You can’t help but smile when you see him with his brother and parents during his college graduation, easily towering over all of them. He looks tall with fluffy cocoa hair, big pearly whites gleaming proudly at the camera. He grew up well.

To torture yourself even more, you even look through his story. Twelve hours ago, he was at the gym lifting weights. Normally, you’d be disgusted by people trying to show off their grunt faces drenched in sweat, but of course Jungkook has to have on a silly smile and pump his fist up after he deadlifts. The sweat clinging to his shirt is also a high plus. His gorgeous display of abs has your hands fluttering over your own belly. Maybe you need to exercise more.

Four hours ago, you see him and a pretty woman with their cheeks squished together, using the puppy filter. Of course he has a girlfriend.

Reluctant, you open up your Google Drive and scroll through your photoshoot. Deflated, you frown at the pictures that once made you beam with pride, picking at every little detail that bothered you. You really can’t believe you sent these to Jeon Jungkook, no longer a fourth grader with one front tooth, but a man way out of your league.

By the time you will yourself to sleep, the sun peeks from the horizon, telling you to move on.

“Hey Gyu,” you tiptoe over to the table much too small for Mingyu’s frame. The string bean is slumped over his iPad pro, drawing intently at some chibi OCs. “Got a plot for that one?” you ask, pointing at the little pink and blue creature decorating the screen.

Mingyu grunts in reply, obviously engrossed. It isn’t until you slide him a matcha frappe from Starbucks that he becomes intelligible, muttering a “thank you” as he blends with his pen.

Sensing that it’s going to be awhile before you get through to him, you take your usual rounds around the front desk and lobby of the cosy photo studio. There’s pretty pictures of Mingyu’s work, along with the other employees Minghao and Hoseok. Each section of the wall features a different taste of each person’s interest. Mingyu is a divine lover of soft bed sheets and hot tea, many of his photographs and paintings featuring cafes or perfectly messy beds you’ve seen on hotel advertisements. Minghao is a tasteful artisan, splotches of color retaliating against neutral backgrounds. Finally, Hoseok manages to find balance in the people, large cityscapes telling both large and small stories.

“Alright,” Mingyu’s deep voice forces you to curl your head, where he’s sipping at his drink with haste. “What’cha here for?”

You frown, “Don’t you remember? I told you last week I’d be stopping by to get my photos developed,” you gesture to the Pentax in your hands, an heirloom from your great-aunt. While you did take digital photos for sending them to Johnny, the ones you wanted developed were taken side-by-side with the film camera. You figured that film would give a little more authenticity to your photoshoot.

“Shit, that’s today?” the camera falls like deadweight, slapping against your sweater as you watch Mingyu frantically look through his digital calendar. He looks at you, dejected. “How many prints?”

“I don’t know, maybe like six. Or eight?”

“That’s gonna take too long, I’m heading down to Hidden Grounds for a vision meeting at two.”

“Alright, I’m free all day. What about after?”

“Nah, you came all this way. I can just let the new guy help you.” and Mingyu makes a show of cupping his hands in the direction of the open hallway, “Yah, Jeon Jungkook! Get your cute ass out here!”

The Pentax around your neck suddenly feels like weight akin to a two-ton boulder, and you surge forward, not caring that the corner of the table is digging into your belly. “Mingyu,” you garble, and Mingyu is shell-shocked by the desperation in your eyes. “Isn’t Minghao around or something? Or I can come back another time? These photos are really personal and I don’t feel comfortable having a stranger see them.”

“What? We’re professionals, don’t belittle us.”

“No, seriously,” you whine, you tug at the collar of his denim jacket, noses practically touching. “These pictures are different. My tits are out and my legs are spread—”

“—interrupting something?”

You hear some shuffling, and you turn around to see Jeon Jungkook’s back, comically turned to face the entrance.

And damn, he did have a cute ass. Nothing is going to hide the glory in those jeans, absolutely nothing.

“Hilarious,” Mingyu drawls, and you push him away. “Forget it, Kook. She doesn’t feel comfortable letting a stranger develop her photos.”

Sensing that it’s safe to turn around, you watch as his black bangs flutter as he faces you. You hope your body language doesn’t betray how you’re really feeling, because you are a mere mortal and you’re weak in the presence of god-like figures.

“Oh, what a relief then,” he smiles at you, and his voice sounds like honey. If there was malice or surprise in his tone, his good-natured expression betrays it. “Because I’ve known this friend since elementary school. We go way back.”

You ignore the burn in the back of your head, as you are positive Mingyu knows you’re hiding something.

“Really, what a coincidence.” Mingyu replies carefully, and you feel utterly stuck between these men and their banter, locked up like cream in an Oreo cookie.

Nothing argues against Jungkook as he easily weaves through the thick wave of awkwardness, hands reaching out to touch your camera. “Wow,” he marvels, holding the object in his hands, “my dad has one of these.”

“A-ha,” you take a step back, only to bump into the corner of the table, again. Ouch. “It’s okay, Jungkook. I’m actually busy today so I can come when Mingyu’s free–”

“Oh, I thought you were free all day,” Mingyu drawls, looking up through his lashes as he sips languidly at his drink.

“Don’t worry about it,” Jungkook says good-naturedly, as if Mingyu just didn’t out you. “We got a lot of catching up to do anyway, c’mon.”

Jungkook moves to place a hand in the small of your back and that’s enough to get you to rev up. Refusing to let any contact get between the two of you, you zip ahead down the familiar hallway, turning your head to catch Mingyu grinning with all canines, shooing you with his fingers like a puppy.

You send Mingyu a stream of “fuck yous” into his inbox for later, unwilling to settle with this curse. Busying yourself with your phone, you avoid eye contact with Jungkook until you reach the dark room. The red light turned off at the top of the doorhenge signals that the room is not in use. Jungkook makes a move to open the door and that’s when you pounce, blocking the doorway with your small body. It’s comical, really.

Jungkook raises a brow at you, but says nothing.

“I really can wait, Jungkook,” you steel yourself, forcing a sympathetic smile. “I’m sure your girlfriend wouldn’t like you developing my pictures—”

It’s then that his pretty cupid’s bow unfurls into a full-fledged grin. “Girlfriend... you’ve been keeping tabs on me?”

“Fuck, well I had to!” your face is as red as the dark room’s alert light, now on because Jungkook flicked the switch and he’s between your arm to unlock the door. Your hand brushes his as you both reach the knob. “I’m really really sorry I sent those pictures. They were for Johnny—you remember Johnny Suh from English class? And I saved you in my contacts as “John Kook” so it was an honest mess up.”

Jungkook hums, so light that the breathiness in his chords flutters your grip on the knob. He forces the door ajar, and you’re left to follow him in the dark room, cluttered with solutions and fancy equipment.

“Thought so,” Jungkook shrugged, giving a one-over at the materials in the room, mulling over his next steps in developing your film.

You’re still petrified at the doorway, holding your Pentax between both hands like a lifeline. Jungkook’s head lols to you, and you get a pretty view of the way his bangs brush over his forehead, Adam’s Apple bobbing. His expression is a little tired, but overall unreadable. He sighs your name, lethargic.

“We’re already here, so might as well get this done,” he gestures to the camera in your vice grip. “Do you wanna pick the shots or do you want me to?”

He’s already seen the digitals, what’s so different about getting a couple prints? With a slight pout you drag your feet over to him, relinquishing your camera. “I’m thinking you have a better eye for this than I do.”

“You think right.”

You fight the urge to roll your eyes. Cocky, but what you’ve seen on Instagram definitely justifies his sentiment. Jungkook pays no mind to you, busying his hands with the various containers in front of him, measuring the solutions for the developer, stopper, and fixer. You were always entranced by the process of developing film, especially in highschool where their photography club holed themselves in the darkroom like a secret lair.

“Alright,” he pops open the canister, carefully laying out sections of the film in groups of four. “Want me to pick a random one for a tester?”

You frown, “At least put some thought into it.”

“Always,” it looks like he already decided way before he popped the question, immediately taking a negative and placing it in the carrier.

His fingers are nimble as he takes the time to clean off the dust and any debris that could potentially ruin the image. Then he turns off the lights and begins the process. You dive around him, trying to keep your distance but still too curious to leave his side. If he’s annoyed he fails to show it, in favor of humming whatever song comes from his Echo Dot.

You always got the solos in choir. You wanted to reminisce, but you’re too nervous to say it out loud.

Even though it’s his job and he’s being a professional, you romanticize the experience, watching as he carefully puts the print in each liquid process. Your image blooms to life, and you feel your stomach churn as the photo develops before your eyes.

After a final dip in the solution stopper, he places the first product in a bath of water. Even though you are mere centimeters away, you can clearly see the image of you swimming around the container.

“Alright!” Jungkook hangs the finished picture on a pastel pink clothespin, tacking it in place. “Whaddya think?”

Your breath catches in your throat, feeling heavy as you look at the image of you reflected in the glossy paper. You’re perched on your bed, a hand splaying between your legs as the other hand toys with the silk bunny ears. You’re leaned slightly, giving an ample view of your cleavage. However, the image of you is definitely different from being blown up in comparison to the negatives, and you squirm uncomfortably at your full display.

“I look,” you bite your tongue, internally debating whether you like it or not. Not to spare Jungkook the theatrics you shrug, “It’s good.”

The lack of enthusiasm seems to dissatisfy Jungkook however, as he has to take a double take and look back and forth between the image and the real thing. “What’s wrong with it, do you think Johnny’ll not like it?”

“What?” you furrow your brows, breaking into a nervous laugh. “Johnny has a boyfriend. I just wanted his opinion. This photoshoot is for me, y’know? Just something to make me feel good about myself.”

Jungkook’s lips morph into a little ‘o’, and you see a little bit of the child you once knew in the way he’s mulling over the situation.

“Then can I give you my honest opinion?” Jungkook clips off the half-dried photo, holding it between you two. “Stop thinking so hard about every little thing you don’t like about yourself. If I was your boyfriend and you gifted this to me, I’d be creaming my pants. You look fucking sexy, all grown up since you cried in the fourth grade.”

You’ve just been flung a litany of words you have no brain capacity to digest. Along with that, the immense heat you didn’t know you’ve been suppressing surges to your belly, low and simmering. Jungkook stares at you in earnest, despite his sudden gush of honesty, you don’t know what to say. There’s a dash of pink staining his cheeks, betraying the confidence he previously displayed. He stiffens when you don’t reply immediately and moves to clean his materials, his sudden bout of bold honesty quickly shrinking.

“Y-you know,” you look down at your feet, “the only reason why I cried in the fourth grade was because you told me Santa wasn’t real.”

Jungkook softens, tilting his head. “Sorry about that.”

“Thanks though,” you gently reach for the photo in Jungkook’s grasp, looking at it without contempt. “But won’t your girlfriend be upset if she knew you were saying things like this about someone else?”

He chuckles, shaking his head. “Well, if you looked through the rest of my Instagram story,” Jungkooks cards a hand through his already mussed hair, splitting the ends. “You would see that she’s not my girlfriend, but my tattoo artist.”

For added measure, he wiggles his fingers in front of you, revealing pretty ink and silver bands across his knuckles.

“Oh,” your voice is feather light, and you’re sure you’re drooling as you stare far too long at the letters that mark his hands, curious as to what they symbolize.

“So, as a singleton telling another singleton,” he continues, “I know it’s meaningless if you don’t believe it yourself, but I’m telling you, you’re attractive.”

“Thanks,” you hold the picture tightly in your grasp, eyes flickering to the negatives in the room ready to be galvanized into a full-fledged picture. “Why don’t we wrap this up, huh? We can continue another time.”

If he notices how much the paper wilts in your grasp, he doesn’t comment on it. “Are you sure? I know it takes a lot of time, but I don’t mind.”

“I’m sure,” you force a smile, one hand on the lightswitch. “I’ll let you know when I’m ready, okay?”

Jungkook swallows, nodding mechanically. “Okay.”

“It was really nice seeing you, Kook.” you blurt before you could chicken out, letting the room bask in darkness a little longer so he can’t see your flustered state. “I’m not even going to downplay it, you look great.”

You half-expect a cocky remark, or a little chest pumping from the compliment. At the sound of his nickname however, 4th grade Jeon Jungkook resurfaces and he shoves his hands in his pockets. “Like I said, so do you,” he replies easily, sending you a soft smile and opening the door for you.

The door closes shut behind you and you exhale, patting your cheeks and willing for the chilly air to calm you down.

When you get home that day, you shuck off all your clothes and crawl into bed. You cry out when the metal framing of your bunny ears stabs you in the back, and you fling it to some unmentionable part of the room. You reach for a bag of half-opened sour gummy worms, flipping open your MacBook to continue streaming the soft magical girl anime you’ve been hooked on these past few weeks.

Not even Sailor Uranus can distract you; however, by the time it’s dark and you’ve run out of distractions, you finally pull the plug and unblock Jungkook from your list of contacts.

Your phone buzzes, the incessant vibration relaying all the messages you’ve missed.

[March 12th, 3:53AM]

You: https://drive.google.com/drive/u/1/folders/0343…

John Kook: ???

John Kook: you probably sent this to me by accident… sorry i clicked on it

John Kook: is it weird if i said you’ve done a massive glow up since the middle school dance?

[March 12th, 12:02 PM]

John Kook: are u mad

John Kook: you’re mad

John Kook: am i makin this weird by continuing to text you

John Kook: im making it weird.

[March 31st, 6:24 PM]

John Kook: https://drive.google.com/drive/u/1/folders/049…

You tilt your head at the folder link, it was sent only a few hours ago. With a click, you’re enlightened to a set of digital photos. Your photos from your photoshoot, but not quite. They’ve been expertly edited, not too much to distort your looks, but only to enhance your features. A small, barely there smile creeps from your subconscious, ultimately touched by the gesture.

John Kook: sorry if i pushed too hard today.

Guilt overrides your nerves, prompting you to immediately press the call button on his contact. Not to your surprise, Jungkook’s light voice calls your name through the line after the second ring.

“Don’t be sorry,” you blurt, forgoing the hellos. “It was the right amount of push, I feel better, really. If anything, I’m sorry. I blocked your number because I was scared to read your reaction.”

You hear him sigh along the line, and you feel that breath ripple through your nerves, as if he’s right next to you. “It’s fine, I would’ve done the same thing.”

“The pictures you just sent, they’re really beautiful. You did a good job.”

“Thanks, I had a bit of help. I didn’t have to do much.”

“Oh, did Mingyu come back from his meeting?”

"No, I uh," Jungkook chuckles, and while you don't really know why, the sound is nonetheless pleasant. “It was mostly the lighting and coloring I fixed up. Didn’t need to do much since you already looked so pretty as it is.”

You choke on your saliva.

“You okay?”

“Y-yeah,” you cough, “just choked on a snack I was eating.” he hums in reply, and you pray he doesn’t hear your stomach fervently retort that you haven’t eaten since lunch. “So, I think I’m up for developing more of the film. When can I drop by?”

“I’m free Saturday,” Jungkook chirps, “I have a shoot until noon but you can come anytime after that.”

“Sounds good, I’ll be there,” you clutch the phone with both hands. “I can bring lunch. What do you like to eat?”

“Oh, you don’t have to do that.”

“I’m already buying for Minghao,” you lie, “do you like burgers?”

“I can’t say no to a good burger,” Jungkook’s smile feels almost palpable against the line, “do you remember our field trip to the national museum of history? We had burgers on the street!”

“Oh, those were so good,” you moan, fuzzy memories of a middle grade field trip resurfacing to clarity, “but you ate like, ten of them!”

“I still get nightmares,” he warns, “don’t let me go to bed like this.”

You giggle, letting your body meld further into your warm mattress. “Maybe I’ll just show up with ten burgers for you tomorrow.”

“I’ll throw up on you, try me.”

Minghao’s adjusting the frames on their display wall by the centimeter, and it’s pissing him off.

“Ah, it’s off,” he mutters to himself when you walk in, indicated by the electronic bell. He turns to you briefly, pulling a leveler out of his overall pocket. “Doesn’t this look off?”

“Uh,” you look towards Mingyu at the front desk, who is paying no mind as he continues scribbling on his iPad. You tilt your head towards your former college classmate. “It doesn’t look off from over here?”

Tacking the leveler on one of the frames, he whines, “It’s five degrees off.”

Mingyu puts his pen down to reach over the counter and grab the paper from your hands, steaming with the scent of fast food, “He’s been like this for hours, don’t mind him.”

He doesn’t even ask whether the food is his, Mingyu sees grease and he claims. Reaching for an oil-wrapped parchment, he unfolds the paper to reveal a handsome burger with all the fix-ens.

Barely satisfied, Minghao steps away from the art display. There is a sizable gap in the display, now divided between four artists instead of three. You wonder how Jungkook’s work will look amongst the other artists.

“Cute ‘fit.” Minghao mumbles, nodding approvingly at your clothes as he digs into the bag for his own burger.

You send a half-smile his way. If an outfit is Minghao-approved, that means you’ve gone above and beyond. At least, you tried to play it off like you didn’t try to look cute. It’s not like you’re intimidated by Jungkook, living with a major fifteen-year glow up. After all, he’s already seen more than you can imagine.

Mingyu takes notice, eyes going south to where your white blouse meets your cleavage. You hurl a fry at his face, “Eyes up here, perv.”

He scrunches his nose, lifting a greasy thumb to slide a manila envelope over to you. “Here’s the developed pictures. Intercepted Kook and I finished them this morning.”

You frown, “Jungkook’s not done with his photoshoot yet?”

“Oh, he’s been done.” Mingyu’s eyes roll back to one of the studios. “But I’m saying is, you got what you needed. So you can leave if you want,” but he grins at you, canines so sharp you feel his stare jabbing you in the proverbial neck. “Unlesssss you want to go in and say hi.”

If he has any inkling of what’s going on in your head, it’s definitely confirmed when your face turns hot. Damn body, you’re betraying me! With a flourish you grab the fries from under Mingyu’s nose, along with whatever’s left in the fast food bag.

Minghao’s smiling through his burger, knowing if he pulls any type of savagery his lunch would certainly be pulled from under his chin.

“Whatever you’re thinking, drop it or the burger will be going in your ass instead of out.” You mean to sound menacing, but the Min-squared and their boisterous laughter follow you down the hallway and into the occupied studio.

“Hey Jungkoo—wow.”

You’re sure you look like Alice, enthralled by the little wonderland she just stepped into. The set is beautiful, right out of a fairytale. It has a very old-romance vibe, like Morticia and Gomez Addams. There lay a couch made of the darkest, richest wood, with velvet red cushions covering the body. Across the floor laid hundreds of black rose petals, blanketing the floor in a sea of ebony.

“It’s for a wedding, gothic themed.” Jungkook supplies helpfully, still fiddling with whatever he was looking on his digital camera. He’s looking utterly soft in a matching grey sweat combination, something that would easily disgust you during high school, but unfairly works with him.

“The shoot must’ve been beautiful.”

“It was.”

“I uh, got this for you.” Your fingers start to sweat from clutching the bag so hard, and you place it on his work table.

He finally looks up from his camera, giving you a wan smile. “I thought you got those for Minghao.”

You mentally slap your cheeks, trying to ignore the way his smile made your stomach do somersaults. “He got his own. Your portion has a cookie in it, so.”

His cute teeth unveil themselves at the mention of sweets, and you can’t help but smile back at the familiarity.

The two of you take your time in enjoying your lunch, not meaning to stay but the very back of your mind hoping he’d like to share a meal with you. After all, Mingyu and Minghao are probably at the front relishing in your very obvious attraction. What can you say, first crushes never die.

Between sips of your milkshake, you’ve taken to flipping through Jungkook’s portfolio. There’s a myriad of different subjects: beaches, people, the occasional squirrel. Each section of the portfolio feels like you’re being transported to a new side of Jungkook and his artistry, and you ached to know more.

“Wow,” you point at an action shot of two girls in a dance studio, “this duo looks like Chungha and Hyoyeon.”

He swallows his (second) burger, having the audacity to sink sheepishly in his sweater. “It is Chungha and Hyoyeon.”

You nearly choke on your cookie. “That’s amazing.” you say breathlessly, looking closer at the image. In fact, the beautiful women photographed are famed hip-hop choreographers Chungha and Hyoyeon. You can’t imagine how good Jungkook must be to manage a photoshoot with them.

As proud as you are of Jungkook, it reminds you that since middle school you two have lived completely different lives. You wonder if Jungkook gets these kinds of gigs all the time, hanging around with gorgeous, talented people like himself.

Jungkook says your name once, twice. He looks at you concerned, and you’re melting in his large carmine eyes. If he notices your usual overthinking, he doesn’t say anything, and gestures to the section at the end of his portfolio. “This isn’t my best work, but it’s one of my favorites.”

There’s something familiar about this set. A playground with a busted swing set. Children riding on bikes and colorful class shirts. Ice cream melting on fists.

Thirteen-year-old you hanging on top of your middle school’s leafless tree, clutching your baseball cap as you shade yourself from the sunset.

“Was this the first time you took pictures?” you ask, thumbing the picture of yourself.

“Yeah. It’s when I decided it’s what I wanted to do the rest of my life.”

“I know we didn’t know each other that well and we’ve only recently connected but,” you give him a shy smile, “I’m really proud of what you’ve grown up to be, Jungkook.”

He looks like you’ve hung him the moon and stars, his half-eaten burger loosening in his grasp. His lips are parted cutely, like a kitten who’s just been offered a fresh glass of milk. You cough at the sudden pause in conversation, feeling self-conscious of your impulse confession. You don’t even have it in you to be disgusted when Jungkook hastily shoves the second half of his burger down his throat, tips of his ears pink.

Leaving him be, you press a palm to your cheek, looking at the wedding set.

Jungkook downs half a water bottle before he speaks again. “Y’know, it would be a shame to clean up this set already. It was kind of expensive.”

“Yeah,” you echo, standing up and kicking off your slippers. You kick your feet in the air, watching the black petals kiss across your ankles.

“I have an idea,” he wipes his hands on his sweats, “why don’t you go back home and get an outfit you really like. Lingerie, a cute outfit, whatever. Let me give you a photoshoot you’d love.”

You look up from your petal dance, balking. “Jungkook! That’s not necessary, I told you the photos I took were okay.”

“Yeah but, you didn’t seem entirely happy. C’mon, I got a camera and a beautiful set. Why waste it?” his hands naturally gravitate towards his charging camera, already turning it on. “I can do lighting, I know all your good angles. What’s stopping us?”

Really, what’s stopping you? Your hands fiddle with your open flannel, the soft material comforting you as you look across the set. You try to imagine yourself, your body draped across the velvet pillows and black petals. Would it look good? Would you feel good? You think back to how you felt the first time, how scared you were when someone other than Johnny would be looking at your photos. You remember how something weird and sour contorted in your stomach when you scrolled through Jeon Jungkook’s Instagram, no longer the little boy you knew but a man who could have everything he wanted—

“Stop thinking about it.” Jungkook suddenly snaps, and you break from your reverie to catch him looking upset. It’s been awhile since you’ve seen him like that.

“Thinking about what?”

“Thinking that you’re out of my league.”

“Excuse me?”

“You were like this the other day too,” and he looks sad, and puts his camera down to come closer to you. “Why are you feeling this way. Is it me?”

“Not necessarily,” you huff, hugging yourself.

“Do you not feel beautiful? Do you not like your body?”

“No, I do.” you say to yourself, and you mean it. Even though there will inevitably be days where you may not feel one-hundred percent positive about yourself, you know at the end of the day, you love you and all its parts. “I don’t know, Jungkook. I had no problem letting Mingyu develop the photos originally, because he knew me in college and I was already sure of myself back then. But I guess when I sent them to you, I felt like I did when I was a little girl, y’know? Going through puberty, and worrying about what other people think.”

And it’s not like Jungkook teased you or made you feel lesser of yourself. In fact, Jungkook was the student you wanted to be when you were younger. Someone sweet and caring, and unabashedly confident about himself.

“I guess seeing you so successful and the fact that my stupid childhood crush came back from a time where I always felt low, made me feel a little insecure again.”

Something sinks in and you feel hyper aware of how crushed Jungkook looks at your declaration. “There’s no leagues, you got that?” he says quietly, walking so close that he’s hovering over you, sneakers brushing. “I get it. I get unsure and insecure just like you. Hell, I was nervous this morning, wondering if you’d really come. We may not feel insecure over the same things, but middle school wasn’t that great for me either.” He makes a funny face, and you feel a smile twitch across your lips. “But it’s okay. Because we’re human and we grow. But now, you are successful. You’ve grown from your time growing up and you’re a wonderful, powerful person. I’m proud of you too.”

“I know,” you mumble, leaning your forehead against his chest. His arms wrap around you in response, holding you snug.

“And for the record, I thought you were the most beautiful person in the world in fourth grade. Even though my world was pretty small back then, I can say now that what I thought back then still stands true.”

You look up from his embrace, where he’s leaning down to press a slow, cotton soft kiss to your forehead. He backs up a little to read your face, and you give a tiny nod in response to signal it’s okay. Jungkook exhales in contentment, relaxing against your frame.

“Thanks, Kook,” you crack a smile, feeling your insecurities slowly evaporate. You feel better, light, knowing that these negative feelings are only temporary, and you’re not alone. Being in Jungkook’s arms, an honest boy turned man you’ve known all your life, it feels almost like home.

You two stay like this for a while. Exchanging feather-like kisses, feeling irrevocably young and hopeful. Suddenly feeling emboldened, you tug him by the strings of his hoodie to press a long, hot kiss to his lips. There’s a stutter, and you’re pretty sure Jungkook choked on his saliva at the sudden change of pace but you continue, letting Jungkook catch up and follow your lead.

“Wow,” Jungkook pulls away and his lips are shiny and flushed. Adorable. You think 7th grade Jungkook would be rolling in his Naruto sheets if he knew you two would inevitably end up together. Conversely, 7th grade you would be squealing in your kitten plushie, proud that you managed to nab your childhood crush to live out all the fantasies you’ve imagined since the 4th grade.

“Jungkook,” you let your flannel fall to the floor in a heap, only leaving your baby blue top in a thin ruched camisole. “I think I want to do the photoshoot. Can’t pass up these pretty petals, y’know?”

He runs a hand through his hair, gaping. “Really?”

“Yeah,” you press a wet kiss to his neck, “anyway you want me, baby. Full creative control. I want you to like this as much as I do, okay?”

With the permission to hold the wheel, Jungkook’s lightheaded and spinning. His eyes rake up and down your gorgeous form, wondering how many good deeds he’s done in his past life to earn a right just as this.

“In that case,” he presses a palm to your shoulder, pushing you to sit along the velvet cushion, “strip for me.”

#jungkook fic #btsghostiebingo #goldenclosetnet #jungkook fluff #jungkook smut #bts fic #bts scenarios #jungkook scenarios #jungkook x reader

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domesticblisss · 3 years

Text

Nice to Meet You

Jay White x Female Reader Requested Prompt: “Hello! Thank you for opening requests. How about one with Jay White where he’s in New Japan and reader is in WWE and they end up following each other on ig or something and after awhile of messages and such they finally meet and get together? You can change things up if you want I just love the idea of 2 people from separate companies getting together lol ❤️ ” Rating: PG-13 Word Count: 1306 Warnings: Nothing, fluff as fuck with a tiny little bit of angst and some between the lines pinning and a little cursing. Summary: Mutual friends aren't enough for you to meet, but the internet is. A/N: Sorry it took me so long to post it, work has been crazy, then writer's block hit and when the inspirations finally got back to me, I had the shittiest week ever so I couldn't bring myself to write it. I hope it's at least a little bit good, and that my dear requester and you all like it. 💕

He always heard about her and she always heard about him. Only good things.

Shelley always gushed about how their styles were similar, Sabin went off countless times on how they should wrestle as a duo, and against each other, and Candice kept mentioning how they would look cute together.

But the friends in common weren't enough to make them meet each other and their hectic schedule never coincided. Soon, Jay shipped off to Japan full time and she finally got her NXT contract signed.

Jay was the one to take the first step. It was on a late saturday night, one of his few days off, when he finally decided to watch her debut match against Asuka after seeing it trending across social media and different news outlets.

She lost the match, but she gave the NXT Women’s Champion a run for her money. Hard kicks after hard kicks, asuka locks being countered several times, and the most incredibly performed top rope DDT he had ever seen. It was the hardest hitting women’s match he had seen in a while and he was amused with her talent, so amused he had to let the world know.

“@thisisfuryWWE nxt debut match was the best one I’ve seen in a long time. Can’t wait to see more of you 😉”

The message made her smile, the recognition from someone she always thought so highly of warming her heart.

“@JayWhiteNZ thank you! this means a lot coming from the #switchblade 🔪❤️”

With that came the mutual following on social media, then the likes, the casual comments turned into dm’s, turned into phone number exchanges, and soon, they didn’t know a life without each other.

Every day a “good morning” text would be sent by whoever woke up first and “sleep well” texts closed off the night. The time zone was messy, but they always found a way to talk to each other, losing count of how many nights were poorly slept and the amount of coffee they drank on the morning after.

Little “this made me think of you” messages were sent whenever a dog picture or a meme came their way, friends' dinner/lunch dates through FaceTime became a thing and every Instagram post got commented with an inside joke. Friends and fans started to notice the change in their relationship and soon their mentions were bombarded with speculating questions.

“Are you guys together?”

“When are the two of you getting married?”

“@thisisfuryWWE and @JayWhiteNZ get a fucking room already”

“I would if she was near me 🙄”

She was the one who took the second step. After a lot of talk with Candice, she finally realised her true feelings towards the kiwi. It wasn’t easy accepting them at first, she took longer to respond to his messages, the “good morning” texts were no more, and her answers were always short, until the fateful day where she completely stopped answering him.

→ I don’t know if I did something wrong, and I am so sorry if I did, but please talk to me.

She knew that ghosting him was wrong and that she needed to tell him the truth, even if her anxiety got the best of her.

The clock on her phone announced that it was 12:45pm, meaning it was almost 2 in the morning for him and that he probably had just gotten back from the monday tapings, tired and wanting to sleep. “Fuck it, he texted me. It’s now or never.”

Ring.

He picked up on the third ring, his long, dyed black hair wet, sticking to his forehead, the droplets of water running down his chest.

“Hey! Sorry it took me a while to pick it up, I was just taking a shower. How are you?” He panted like he had just ran a marathon to pick up the phone. “I missed you.”

She had never seen him so vulnerable, the small tone of his voice shot a tinge of pain to her heart. “Can we talk? I need to talk to you.”

“Sure, just let me put some pants on.” Jay laughed.

He sat the phone down on the nightstand and she kept staring at the cream ceiling of his hotel room, thinking about everything and nothing at the same time.

“Is everything okay, I was worried about you.” Noises of shuffling fabric were noticeable in the background, paired with a string of curses after what she was pretty sure was him bumping his pinky on some furniture.

“Everything is fine. Is your toe still alive?”

“Yeah, yeah…”

She looked at him, really looked at him. The dark hair dryer, messy and no longer sticking to his forehead, probably the work of him aggressively running the towel over it. His fair skin pink after a hot shower, blue eyes shy, almost anxiety ridden with anticipation of what could happen next. She let out a modest smile, running the words she had thought about telling him countless times in her head.

“What is it, honey?”

“Jay, I- I need to tell you something. I don’t know how to say it but just let me finish first or I’ll die.”

He only nodded.

“I like you. Really, really like you. That’s why I’ve been off these past few days, I’ve been trying to understand my feelings and I ended up scaring myself because I’ve never felt this way for anyone.” she stopped for a few seconds, hands running over face and hair, taking a moment to breath. “Jay, I– fuck, I appreciate our friendship so, so much and I don’t want to ruin it, but I get it if this makes you uncomfortable and if you want to cut ties.”

Jay kept quiet, staring at her through the small screen, smile getting bigger and until it turned into full, hearty laughter.

“Jay, this is not funny. I’m not–“

“This is why you vanished? God, can’t you see I fucking love you too, you idiot?!”

Silence engulfed the pair again as they looked at each other, not believing what had finally happened. They exchanged smiles and lingering stares before continuing the conversation.

“I’m crazy about you, honey.”

“And how are we going to do this, Jay?”

“I am constantly going back home, you can come over when you have some free time. We will figure it out, baby.”

Three weeks of messages and video calls, three weeks of “I love yous” and “can’t wait to see you”, three of the longest weeks of their lives until they finally meet each other.

Jay opens instagram, her story bubble being the first one to show up. He clicks on it and is met with a picture of her in a red envelope dress and white converse, the same one he was wearing, and a caption that said “today is going to be a great day! ❤️🔪”.

🔥 reaction and a “see you in forty, love” reply sent, her phone vibrated in her purse just a few meters away from him. Little did he know she was waiting for him in the landing room, holding a small poster with “Mr. White” written and little switchblades drawn all over it.

She grew anxious as everyone but Jay left the plane, checking the time and if she was on the right gate constantly.

Five minutes passed, five minutes that felt like hours, and Jay finally came out, with sunglasses covering his eyes and his denim jacket in hand. He stopped dead in his tracks when he saw her, a smile growing on his face as she ran to him. He engulfed her in a tight hug, kissing her lips in small pecks that grew into one big slow kiss.

They touched foreheads after, smiling and laughing, not believing they were finally in each other’s arms.

“Hey, stranger.”

#jay white x reader #jay white imagine #jay white #wrestling imagine #njpw imagine #wrestling fanfiction #jay white fanfic #DB Writes

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meat--grindr · 3 years

Note

NFSW with Yandere Harry Warden.

Finally, after like, ten thousand years, it’s here! I’m so sorry this took so long. Both the Christmas break and the 46-page essay I wrote just before really swallowed my routine and motivation whole. But! I think I’ve found my words again, which means it’s back to the grind, baby!

Just some notes before we get going: as with the previous Yandere ask featuring best-boy Brahms, I feel I should give out a little warning. In general, I am not really a fan of the whole yandere thing, and I have some real issues with it when it comes to NSFW scenarios. I’m not judging if that’s your thing, I’m just saying it isn’t mine. That being said, I find the more possessive/protective aspect of the yandere troupe fits really well with slashers (possibly because I find it attractive on the lowest of keys asdkaskah). As was the case with that previous ask, I have taken some liberties that tend more toward ‘possessive’ than properly ‘yandere.’ As always, if this isn’t at all what you were hoping for, my DMs are open. Perhaps we could figure something else out together!

Under the cut you will find two different scenarios which follow a similar premise—you were flirting with someone else at a bar to make Harry jealous. When you get home, he takes matters into his own hands. Honestly, this is just borne out of my deeply held belief that our Valentines’ Slasher is a switch ;)

Jealousy: A Double Feature (Yandere [?]) Harry Warden (Gender Neutral Reader) – NSFW

The Set-Up:

· Harry had been with you all night, that much you knew, though you had only caught sight of him once. He was tucked away in a dark corner of the bar, the brim of his hat pulled down low over his eyes. You spotted him over the shoulder of the friend of a friend—a stranger really, though that hadn’t stopped the pair of you from orbiting one another all night. You knew he was the perfect choice from the moment you set eyes on him. He was tall, broad shouldered, cut rough around the edges, but he had a sweet smile and an open face. It was one that said there would be no hard feelings at the end of the night if he didn’t end up going home with you. It almost made you feel bad, leading him on as you were. Almost.

· The way you smiled and laughed at his (admittedly quite funny) jokes, the proximity of your hand to his on the table, the way you pressed your cheek to his, feeling the scrape of stubble along his jaw—none of it meant anything. You knew it and you were pretty sure Bradley (Braden?) knew it too. Harry Warden definitely knew it, but as you peaked over a flannel clad shoulder, you could see, even from a distance, the tight set of his jaw, and the tension in his shoulders. You smirked at him and leaned in to whisper into the stranger’s ear.

· It was something utterly trivial—a compliment about his jacket, or a comment on how badly you needed another drink if your friend was going to play that song on the jukebox—nothing of substance, but you knew it would make Harry’s blood boil all the same.

· When Happy calls last orders, you stand, exchanging lengthy Maritime goodbyes with close friends and friendly-for-the-night-strangers alike. Casting a glance around, you can’t find Harry. He must have slipped out already, not wishing to be spotted as the crowd thins. Coming out at all had been quite the risk for him and had taken more than a little convincing on your part.

· You expect to meet him in the lot, but his face was not among those still milling about their cars, stuffing drunken friends into backseats or beginning tottering journeys down the street.

· You count the alleys on Atlantic Street as you pass them, sure you’ll catch him in your peripherals, but you find each unoccupied, save for one. A pair of rats fight over a scrap of bread, their beady little eyes and slimy coats catching the dim light of the streetlamps in a greasy fashion that makes you almost ache for a shower.

· Your eyes scan the streets as you walk, senses on high-alert for any sign of his presence—the puffed clouds of his breath in the cold or a late-night smoke curling up toward the streetlamps in the distance, a kicked pebble scraping across the pavement, anything. You find yourself jumping the gun and mistaking familiar landmarks for a more welcome shape in the darkness—the saplings you’d helped Mr. Hastings plant in his front yard in the summer, the devotional cross behind the hedges at St. Andrews Presbyterian, the statue of the town’s founder in the square. Even with each disappointment, your mind jumps to the next place he could be waiting for you: the grocer’s lot, the schoolyard, the ballfield—all empty.

· It isn’t until you turn into your driveway that he materializes, as if from the darkness itself. His face is bathed in shadow, his shoulders hunched against the cool breeze. He follows you up the drive, hands dug deep in his pockets. He’s utterly silent, but you’re relieved to see him anyway. He slouches up the steps, bracing a shoulder against the weather-worn siding. It creaks beneath the pressure.

· “Well, you sure got here quick. I didn’t see you leave.”

· He makes no attempt to respond, merely waiting for you to produce your keys and let him inside. While his silence is not wholly unusual, this one feels…pointed. Perhaps you had upset him more than you had intended.

· You chew your lower lip as you contemplate this, fishing your keys from your pocket and turning them in the lock. The grating screech of rusty door hinges proclaims your late-night return into the silence. You cringe as the sound carries, echoing around the enclosed back porch. You hope your neighbours are heavy sleepers, as if not there would surely be some comment made in the morning. The folks around here are nice enough that you doubt there would be any legitimate animosity in it, but sometimes their friendly commentary comes off more passive-aggressive than not, and their interest in your life more condescending than genuine. You know they mean no harm, but that doesn’t stop them from getting on your nerves now and again.

· Fixing the hinges would have been a quick and easy thing, sure—a drop or two of WD-40 and a filthy rag were enough to work a quick miracle around these parts, but you knew they would only rust again when the heavy snow came in a few months time. And despite the optimistic predictions of a mild winter folks were spouting around town, come you knew they would.

· The snow would drift in, creeping up the porch as it always did. First just a dusting, thin and powdery as icing sugar, easier to remove with a broom than a shovel. Then, almost overnight, the heavy snow would come, whipped by the wind as it howls across the harbour into great peaked dunes, waist-deep and packed tight against your door. On more than one occasion, you had found yourself climbing out through a first-floor window to dig a tunnel just to get the damn thing open.

· No, it would be far less of a hassle to simply leave the hinges as they were—at least until the spring. By that time, there would hardly be a scrap of metal in the whole damn town that wasn’t oxidized nearly past the point of usefulness. Let the neighbours complain then, as if their hinges wouldn’t be squeaking just as badly.

· Pushing through the second screen door, you stumble into the kitchen, already in the process of kicking off your boots. Your companion slips in behind you, allowing the screen to bang against the doorframe as it closed. The noise echoes around the tiled kitchen, battering your ears. You wince, but at least it wasn’t quite as piercing as the protesting hinges.

Part One—Domination or Mine, Mine, Mine:

· The metallic music of jangling coat-hangers greets you as you throw open the closet and hang your jacket. Your fingers smooth over the wrinkled denim in a vain attempt to make it look even a smidge more presentable for the next time it’s worn. Deep down you know what it really needs is a good pressing. But you hated pressing clothes and would probably put it off until it couldn’t wait a moment longer.

· Behind you, you hear the screen door woosh open again—probably Harry going out for a smoke, you think. Then the scream of the hinges pierces the night, and the resounding SLAM of the outer door shakes the house. You hear the lock click into place, a quieter sound, though it’s no less forceful. You whirl around, equal parts frightened by the noise and irritated by the man who had caused it.

· “For Chrissake, Harry! It’s late, would it kill you to be more qu—!” You don’t get the chance to finish your reprimand before Harry’s strong hands catch you around the waist. He swings you about, storming forward to slam you against the door. The wood shudders with the impact, the flexible mesh of the screen warping around you; a thin net between the rough wood and your shoulder blades. Your head cracks against the door, white light bursting across your vision, blotting out the dark kitchen and the even darker shadow of the man who stood before you.

· Even as the blinding brightness behind your eyes dissipates, you struggle to make out his features in the darkness despite your proximity. Then, his lips press against yours and the breath stills in your chest, unable, or simply unwilling to rise beyond the catch in your throat. They are warm and wet, tasting of bitter liquor and a recent cigarette—du MAURIER’s, you thought. You’d never seen more than the very tip of a pack peaking from a denim pocket or the rolled cuff of a shirtsleeve, but the red box was distinctive. He must have smoked it on the way home. The thought comes to you sluggishly, stuttering through the few sparking neural pathways that hadn’t shut down entirely when he’d first grabbed you. Dimly, you are aware that it’s an utterly absurd thought to have in this moment. How can you think of anything at all when Harry’s got you pinned against a door and he’s kissing you like a man starved? Maybe you’d knocked your head harder than you’d thought.

· You try to clear your mind, directing your focus away from cigarettes and packaging and back to the matter at hand—Harry Warden.

· You can almost feel the anger rolling off of him. It’s in the tightness of his jaw, the rough press of his hands against your hipbones, and the strength with which he keeps you pinned against the door. It thrums through his lips where they press against you and jolts through you when his teeth clash against yours, or his fingernails dig into the sensitive flesh just above the waistband of your jeans.

· You reach for him with trembling hands to cup his jaw and kiss him harder, to wrap around his neck and pull him even closer, to feel in your hands somehow, anyhow, solid, and warm. But he catches your hands, pinning them roughly against the door, his grip so tight it’s nearly painful.

· A keen, stinging pain blossoms on your lower lip as his teeth sink into your flesh, hard and sharp. Then he’s gone, melting into the shadows of the dark kitchen. You’re left there, back braced against the door, breathing coming in short, ragged gasps. Quite suddenly, you realize you’ve gone hot all over, as though a fever had dug its claws deep into you in a manner of seconds. Your brain struggles to restart its thinking processes through a fog of unsavoury thoughts and debauched imagery. So, this was to be the consequence of your actions. I can live with that.

· With a shaking hand, you feel your way up the wall to your left, groping along in the darkness, until you find the light switch. With a muted click the kitchen is bathed in a soft glow. After so much time spent in the darkness, the light, low as it is, is dazzling where it bounces off the white tile floor. You raise a hand to shield your eyes but catch a quick glimpse of Harry. He’s standing over by the table, a hand on the arched back of a white-washed chair. His head snaps to the side, dark eyes fixing upon you, unwavering.

· His voice is low, a gravely growl that rumbles from deep within his chest, “Turn it off.”

· You blink at him, stupidly, one hand still hovering over the switch. He wrenches the chair from its place at the table, swinging it around and slamming it down before him with a BANG. He takes a menacing step toward you, never once taking his eyes from yours. “Turn. It. Off.”

· You jump, rushing to do as you were told, flicking the switch again. As the darkness settles over the room like a blanket, your eyes, now more accustomed to the light, struggle to pick out his shape in the gloom. A small patch of sodium-orange light streams through the window above the sink, staining a patch of floor before the chair. Beyond that pool of light, you can see nothing.

· Your ears, however, do not fail you as your eyes have. You can hear him rifling through a drawer. From the rattling, you assume it’s the junk drawer—a messy collection of odds and ends that seemed to have no other place in the house. You were always saying you’d get around to cleaning it out one of these days, but it only ever seems to accumulate more junk.

· You peer into the darkness and find, if you squint, you can just make out what you think is Harry’s form. He’s hunched over the drawer, picking through the bits and bobs, looking for…something. Maybe if you had cleaned the drawer out, he’d have an easier time of it. Alas.

· Then, he stills, the drawer slams shut, and the room goes silent. The hazy smudge retreats further into the gloom, and you lose him again.

· For a long moment, the silence fills the room, pressing against you, an almost tangible force. Then, with a single word, it is shattered, “Strip.”

· Despite the bright bolt of heat that single syllable sends thrumming through your gut, you almost laugh aloud. “I-In the kitchen?” Your incredulous tone does little to mitigate the warmth rising to your cheeks, nor the desire that flutters to life within your chest.

· Harry does not respond. You can feel the command hanging in the air, and with it, the weight of what he has asked of you—a display of willing vulnerability. Your gaze is once again drawn over to the kitchen window. Set above the sink it faces out onto the street. The blinds are raised, as you had left them after dinner, and the lacey white curtains do very little to obscure the view in either direction. Usually, you see this as a blessing, watching the comings and goings of the world as you eat breakfast or dry the dishes, but now it makes you squirm in discomfort, “I don’t know, baby…the window’s open. Someone could see us…”

· You peer into the darkness again, craning your neck, hoping to catch another glimpse of him, but everything beyond that smudgy patch of orange light remains lost to your eyes.

· Harry’s voice rings out from the opposite side of the kitchen, much closer than you had realized. You hadn’t even heard him move. He was so quiet you’re sure the neighbourhood cats would swat at his boots in a jealous rage as he passed…if they could hear him coming that was.

· “You didn’t seem to care who saw you with that fuck in the bar.” His tone is even, but there is a tightness about it that betrays him. “You know this town. You know how people talk. It’ll be all over by tomorrow. ‘That lonely soul from 214 out on the town. With a man no less. Could be the start of something.’ They’ll ask all about it, I’m sure. And you’ll just brush it off like you always do, but they’ll speculate all the same. Little do they know; I’ve already got my stamp all over you.” There’s a short pause, “Now, strip. I won’t ask you a third time.”

· You turn your head to face him, but are met with nothing but the seemingly endless, empty void. Usually, you wouldn’t have any qualms about pushing back against his commands. You both got off on it in fact—you know just how much he likes putting you back in your place, though sometimes he lets you get away with misbehaving. But you could usually see his face. You knew by the set of his jaw, or the narrowing of his eyes, just how much harder you could push him. Now, however, you could hardly place him in the room, let alone determine how much pushing he was willing to tolerate. If the sharp, impatience of his commands was anything to go by, you could tell the answer this time around was little. Very little.

· You eye the window again, weighing the risk. Sure, someone could pass by and see you, but it was late—so late it was almost early. Plus, it was dark enough inside someone would have to press their nose up against the glass to get much of a look, and if that was the case, you likely had a much bigger problem on your hands. And you cannot deny the thrill that shudders through you at the thought of stripping down for Harry when he gets like this: all demands and possessiveness. Then there are the thoughts of what he might do to you once you have. Those come quick and easy: his lips on your throat as he hoists you up onto the counter, strong hands on your thighs as he sets to work on your most intimate spots with his tongue, his cock stretching you open as he takes you in that chair, bent over the table, spread out on the floor. You feel a damp patch beginning to form in your underwear, a heat spreading between your legs that wants and wants and wants.

· Fuck the risk.

· You fumble with the button of your jeans, fingers trembling with a jangly mixture of excitement and trepidation. You peel them down your thighs, the thick denim seams scraping against your skin. You kick them off and into the darkness, not caring where they land. Your shirt quickly joins the pile, a rumpled ball of coloured cotton. It’s only as your fingers dip below the waistband of your underwear that you meet resistance from Harry.

· “No.” The command echoes, again, from a new spot—this time somewhere behind the chair. “Leave them on.” You frown a little, but obey, leaving the cotton garment alone…for now. “Sit.”

· You edge forward, socked feet sliding against the tile. Your legs are trembling, something you hadn’t noticed with the door against your back, assisting in keeping you upright. You knew it had nothing to do with the night’s boozy beginnings. When you’d left the bar, you could feel the pleasant hum of alcohol buzzing at the base of your skull, but now, in all honesty ever since that kiss, you would swear you were stone cold sober. No, this shaking has nothing to do with the drink, and everything to do with the man who waited for you in the darkness, and the promise of what he was going to do to you.

· Not wanting to push your luck, you slip around the patch of light on the floor. If you caught so much as a glimpse of someone through that window before you had even started, you knew you would lose your nerve and that would be that.

· When at last you plant yourself firmly in the chair, you jolt, squawking in surprise, knees reflexively shooting up to your chest. “It’s freezing!” You curl in on yourself, wanting as a little of your bare flesh touching the chair as physically possible. You hear him chuckle, a dark, rich sound that makes you shiver almost as much as the sudden chill. “Poor baby.”

· You wrinkle your nose at him, huffing in indignation. You were no baby. It was just cold. Still, you take a grounding breath or two before you can find the courage to press your temperature-sensitive flesh back against the cool surface of the chair. You know the wood will warm beneath your skin in no time, but your muscles jump and twitch regardless, making their opposition known. It’s not an unbearable chill, despite the wave of goosebumps slowly spreading across your exposed skin; perhaps a touch uncomfortable, but it will pass.

· Your ears prick up as you hear Harry approaching from behind. “Hands behind your back.” He says, his breath stirring the little hairs at the nape of your neck as he bends over you.

· When you comply, he grasps your wrists roughly, winding something coarse around them—it feels like a length of cord, old and fraying at the edges. You squirm in your seat, rolling your shoulders and wriggling your hips, not quite fighting against Harry, but not making it easy for him either. Still, he manages to wrangle the rope around you and pull the final knot tight. He pushes two fingers beneath the cord, exploring the space between it and your skin. Clearly satisfied with his handiwork, he withdraws, sweeping around the chair to face you.

· Dropping to one knee, he forces your legs together and binds them at the ankles in a similar fashion. You notice, however, that he does not tie your ankles to the chair itself, merely to one another. With a little squirming and tugging, you discover the same to be true of your wrists. Again, he ties the final knot, and eases a finger between your skin and the cord. He looks up at you, his handsome face only semi-visible in the gloom. You realize, after a long moment, that he’s waiting on your approval. You give the ropes a little pull each, and nod.

· Harry is on his feet in an instant, looming above you. “‘magine my surprise,” he says, voice low and dangerous, “When I see my baby making eyes at some other cocksucker in a bar.”

· You supress a smirk. You’ll play along with his game, sure, but that doesn’t mean you won’t have your own fun along the way, “Some other cocksucker? You really are a man of many talents, huh?”

· His hand is around your throat in seconds, pressing you back against the chair, but not squeezing enough to cut off your airflow, “Keep mouthing off, see where that gets you.”

· You roll your eyes, though you’re not sure he can see it in the dark, “C’mon, Harry. You know it didn’t mean anything. We were just talking.”

· His hand snaps upward, abandoning your throat in favour of your jaw, blunt fingernails digging into the soft flesh beneath. His face comes into focus, mere inches from your own. You can see him clearly for the first time: the sneer on his lips, his eyes alight with jealousy. “Yeah, you’re real good at that ain’tcha? Had him hanging off your every word.”

· You swallow hard. The waver in your voice is only half-forced, as most of your bravado evaporates in the face of Harry’s dominating presence. He’s a small fellow—short and slender—but somehow, he’s able to fill out the meager space his physical body takes up as though he’s twice his size. It’s in the way he holds himself, coiled like a snake about to strike, like he’s used to throwing and dodging punches alike. He’s rough around the edges, scrappy, and though you knew he’d never lay a hand on you that you don’t want, it doesn’t make him any less intimidating when he looms like this. “Doesn’t mean I was interested, Harry, you know I’m yours and—"

· Your words are squeezed into a premature silence as Harry squishes your cheeks together, pushing your lips into a pronounced pout. His thumb sweeps soothingly across your cheek. “I know that,” His grip tightens as he leans in closer, his lips a hair’s breadth from your own, “I think you might need a little reminder of jus’ who ya’ belong to.” His eyes flicker down to your lips, and for a moment, you’re sure he’s going to kiss you. But he simply releases your jaw and melts back into the shadows.

· From further back in the kitchen, you hear him say, “Can you be good for me and let me remind you?”

· You swallow thickly, feeling the heat pooling in your gut with every word he speaks. God you want nothing more than to be good for him. You nod emphatically, then with a jolt, you realize that if you can’t see him, he likely can’t see you either. You croak out a wavering, “Yes,” through a throat that’s suddenly far too dry.

· “Yes, what?” You can hear him rummaging around again, though by the sounds, you’d wager he’s searching the countertops this time. For what you couldn’t say, but that pronounced clink was certainly something bumping up against your sugar jar.

· “Yes, Sir.” What could possibly be on that counter that was more important than you, bound and promising him your good behaviour? Nothing obvious springs to mind, and yet he keeps searching all the same.

· “Good.” A shudder passes through you, and you know you’d do almost anything to hear him say that again. At this point, the impact that word had on you was damn near Pavlovian, especially when he said it like that, with a smirk on his lips and a rumble in his chest.

· The room falls silent again as Harry puts hands on whatever it is he’s looking for. In the quiet, you get the distinct impression that he’s looking at you, even if he is unable to make out your form in the dark. Maybe he can see you, maybe he can’t. Either way you know he can hear you just fine. Why not give him a little show?

· You whine, long and low into the darkness, struggling against the bonds and rubbing your thighs together, seeking any sort of stimulation that might abet the growing heat between your legs. As expected, you’re sorely disappointed with the results. Huffing your displeasure in what you hope is Harry’s general direction, you hurl a desperate plea out into the kitchen, “It’s so cold, Sir. Please come touch me. Please.”

· You hear him let out a shaky breath. You know how much he likes to hear you beg and frequently use it to your advantage. Harry wasn’t one for poetry—the point of pretty words was mostly lost on him—but a blunt statement of exactly what you wanted from him—how deep, how fast, how hard—tinged with the desperation of needing him and needing him now? Well. That was a different story altogether. Begging was usually an easy way to get exactly what you wanted out of Harry Warden. This time however, much to your personal frustration, he manages to collect himself in record time.

· He tuts softly as he strides past you, visible for only the briefest of moments as he passes through the patch of light. “What have you done to deserve my touch?” He stops behind you, “An’ no, flirtin’ all night wit’ a stranger don’t count.”

· You throw your head back to look up at him, a pout on your lips, “Wasn’t flirting.”

· “G’way witcha. You were so.” His hand whips out and grasps your chin. “I can’t have that. See, you’re mine.” He’s wearing his gloves, though not the soft leather pair you’d bought him for Christmas last year. Those, in all likelihood were stuffed into his coat pocket. No, these were his old work gloves. The tough leather was cracked and torn in places, exposing the cotton padding. They smelled heavy—like dust, like the depths of the mines. You didn’t even know he still had these.

· “You know what I think?” He leans forward, scraping his teeth against the sensitive skin just below your ear, relishing in the shiver it elicits, “I think you was doin’ it on purpose.” He trails a line of searing, open-mouthed kisses down the side of your neck, murmuring against your skin, “Trying to make me jealous. Well, guess what?” He sinks his teeth deep into the meat between your neck and shoulder, “It fucking worked.”

· You cry out, the mix of pleasure and pain stirring up the heat that had been steadily blooming inside of you. Sharp and bright, it spreads up through your gut, filling your chest and seeping out into your limbs. You can’t help but smirk up at him, “Good.”

· He presses his lips into a thin line to keep from smiling too, “Uh-uh. That’s bad. You’ve been real bad, haven’tcha?”

· You chew your lower lip, pretending to mull it over, “Maybe…”

· “I think you have.” He trails a gloved hand down and over your shoulder, pressing into the bitemark he’d made. The shredded fingertips of the glove burrow into the indentations left in the wake of his incisors. A dull ache pulses to life beneath the skin, forcing a pained hiss of air between teeth clenched tightly together.

· “Aww, does it hurt, baby?” Condescension drips sweet and thick from his words as he digs his fingers in harder, you nod frantically, face scrunched up in discomfort, a gasp tearing from your lips as you attempt to flinch away from his touch. “Poor little thing.” A second, gloved hand joins the first, trailing down the other side of your neck. The texture of the old leather ignites a new wave of goosebumps, spreading with the shivers that race across your skin. His fingers trace the tendons in your neck, lingering over your pulse points, scraping gently against the sensitive spots he knows so well just to watch you squirm, “Mine.”

· The chair creaks as Harry leans over your shoulder, reaching further down your body. He lavishes your collarbone with gentle touches, exploring the dips and hollows he finds there with a rare patience—one you see in him only when he is well and truly set on teasing you. He drags his fingers down, ghosting across your chest, circling your nipples, and tracing your ribs. You shudder beneath the cool leather. It isn’t right. Harry’s hands should be warm and calloused, two points of bright heat against your chilled flesh. That’s what you really crave: the felling of his skin, bare and burning against yours. You open your mouth to ask him, beg him to take the gloves off and touch you properly, but your mind goes fuzzy and blank as his lips find their way to your neck, leaving soft kisses and pressing the points of his teeth into the skin above your pulse.

· His narrow chest presses hard against your shoulder as his hands roam even further down, trailing across your stomach. You can feel his heartbeat. A little thrill jitters through your chest when you realize that despite his calm outwards demeanor, all steady hands and cocky words, his heart is racing—jackhammering against his ribs so hard it must be painful. A giddy wave washes over you then, knowing he wants you with the same mad desperation. Of course, you had known that from the start, from before that even, still it made your heart shake and your lips twist into a dopey grin.

· Deft fingers press against your sides, teasing the ticklish spots that make you squeak, and wriggle beneath his hands. A soft chuckle rumbles through his chest, though he decides to take mercy on you, sliding his hands down to caress your hips and the tops of your thighs. “All mine.”

· One hand drifts, pressing against the seam where thigh and hip join. The pressure feels strange, the muscle jittering beneath his touch, though it doesn’t hurt. His fingers follow the natural curve of your body, pressing into the space between your thighs. You try to part your legs for him, but the cord binding your ankles only lets you go so far. Still, it’s enough for Harry to slot his slender hand into place, fingers pressed tight against the wet spot that’s been steadily spreading across the cotton fabric of your underwear.

· His tongue flickers over your neck, a snicker bubbling up in his throat, “Well, well, well. Aren’t you just a little fucking slut for me tonight?”

· You whimper, the sound sitting high in the back of your throat, “Take the gloves off and touch me.” What was meant to be a command comes more as a cracked plea, half-whisper, half-sob.

· The bark of his laughter is muffled against your skin. His fingers remain pressed against you, but they stay frustratingly still. The pressure is delicious, sparking your touch-desperate nerves, but not providing the stimulation you so desperately crave—you need him to move. “Who said I was gonna keep touchin’ ya’ ‘t’all?”

· “Please!”

· Deaf to your pleading, he remains utterly motionless, and you feel something inside of you shatter. Perhaps it was your patience, perhaps it was the last of your inhibitions. Whatever the case, Harry had chipped away at it, cracking it piece by piece with his teasing. Now it lays in shards within you, and you know the only way to get what you want is to take matters into your own hands.

· You buck against his fingers and for a moment, the pleasure swallows you whole. Your head falls back against the hard wooden back of the chair, a moan tearing itself free from your throat unbidden. Your toes curl as you begin to move your hips, grinding against his fingers, glassy eyes rolling toward the ceiling.

· Behind you, Harry growls. Dimly, through the fog of pleasure clouding your mind you realize you may have made a mistake. A split second later, his fingers disappear. Your hips jerk forward, desperately trying to follow. You thrash in the seat, a sob wracking your chest, as the pleasure deflates into a dull throbbing. “No!”

· You feel the smile slide onto Harry’s face, more teeth than lip, “Oh no, no, no, Sweetheart. You’ve gotta earn that.”

· The simpering edge to his voice has you bucking into the empty air again, “Then let me.” Your struggle to catch your breath, craning your head to look at him. “Let me earn it.” The silence stretches on in the darkness. Was he considering it? Would he refuse? Not if you could help it, “Please, Harry. Please.”

· A soft sound leaves him then—when you say his name like that, a prayer—a sound like he’s been punched, a rush of air accompanied by a soft groan. Though he’d never admit it, your voice had such an impact on him. Especially when you sound like this, husky and wrecked. Desperate. It takes him nearly a minute to find his voice again, and when he does, it’s rough, a rocky rasp caught low in his throat, “Maybe I will.”

· He slides back up your body, his weight lifting from your shoulder. You give the joint a quick roll, working out the stiffness you’d failed to notice growing beneath the pleasant weight and warmth of his body. Quick as a flash and silent as a shadow, he sweeps around the chair, appearing before you.

· With strong, sure hands, he seizes you by the arms, dragging you to your feet. He kicks the chair back, sending it sliding across the floor with the screech of wood against tile. In the darkness you hear the snick of a switchblade. You still, a prick of fear piercing your chest despite yourself. Harry drops to the floor. In a matter of moments, your ankles are freed from their restraints. Though you expect him to do the same for your wrists, he flicks the knife closed, leaving you partially bound. You hear something land nearby on the floor, though for all your squinting, you cannot make it out.

· He reaches for you then; with a gentleness usually reserved for after your more…strenuous encounters. He strokes the back of his hand down your cheek, and you jolt against his touch, realizing it’s the touch of bare skin. You attempt to lean into it, but he’s already pulling away. His other hand snakes up, fisting roughly into the hair at the nape of your neck. Instinctively, you arch your back, craning your head and bowing against him to lessen the sting.

· He presses down, forcing you to bend toward the ground until you lose your balance and collapse, bare knees colliding with the cold tile. Your arms jerk against the cord, as you attempt to catch yourself, but the knots hold firm. You wobble, momentarily thrown off balance by the sudden change in position but manage to remain at least partially upright.

· Even before you hear the jangle of his belt buckle hitting the floor you know just what he wants from you. You readjust yourself, sitting higher on your haunches. The rustle of his jeans hitting the floor makes your heart flutter with excitement.

· Harry looms before you, a great dark shape. Though he isn’t overly tall or broad, he towers over you when you’re on your knees for him. The pad of his thumb traces your lower lip, the rough skin dragging against your flesh. Your tongue flickers out to meet it and he stills. He hooks the digit into the corner of your mouth, pressing it into the soft meat of your cheek. You press your tongue against it, sucking gently and he groans. “I think my baby can handle somethin’ bigger, yeah? You want something bigger?”

· You whimper your affirmation, letting him slip his thumb from your mouth, waiting patiently as he pulls his cock from his underwear. He presses the tip against your lips, hissing as your tongue slides wet and warm against it.

· “That’s a good pet. Open up.” You open your mouth, pushing your lips down over your teeth as he presses into you. “That’s it, baby. Take it all. Show me how good ya’ can be for me.”

· Breathing deeply through your nose, you try to remain as still as possible as his cock slides into you inch by inch. Your jaw is already beginning to ache from the stretch, but a sore jaw will certainly be worth the reward if you can be good for Harry now.

· The tip bumps against the back of your throat and you have to fight not to gag. “Fuuuck.” He presses in further, hips canting forward as you choke around him. The tip slips down into your throat, and you panic. The sensation is entirely new, never having taken him so deep before. You jerk back, a string of saliva connecting your lips to the head of his cock. You gag, doubling over in a fit of coughing that wracks your body. Harry’s hand is in your hair again, tugging gently. You look up, vision blurry, and the tugging becomes a gentle petting, his fingers carding through your hair soothingly, “Are you okay?”

· You take a shuddering breath, but nod. Your voice comes out in a shredded whisper, “Just s-scared myself is all.” You draw yourself back up onto your knees and take his cock into your hands.

· “Take your time, pet.” He groans as you begin pumping his length slowly, but you can hear the grin in his voice, like he knows he’ll get what he wants from you sooner or later. “I’m in no rush.” Cocky bastard.

· You trace the vein on the underside with a finger and he pulses in your hand, a bead of precum dripping down his length and onto the floor. You dip your head to kiss along the shaft, following the thin wet trail as you work up the courage to take him into your mouth again.

· You take a deep breath and sink down onto him, relishing in the growl that rips through the air above you, “Mmm! Mind the fuckin’ teeth, Sweetheart!”

· Your legs begin to cramp beneath you, but you press forward, swallowing around the length in your mouth. He bucks into you, the tight heat drawing him deeper in, the tip once again bumping against the back of your throat. This time, however, you’re ready and manage to keep control over your gag reflex. You swallow around him again, and the hand in your hair tightens, dragging your head back. His cock almost begins to slip from your lips, before he pushes his hips forward again. “Let me fuck your mouth, yeah?” You moan around him, letting the slackness of your jaw speak your permission for you.

· Curses tumble from his mouth as he rolls his hips into your waiting mouth again and again—a litany of ‘fucks,’ and ‘Christs’ and disjointed praise mixed with a constant stream of ‘Mine, mine, mine.’ The sound of his voice and the drag of his cock over your tongue is nearly hypnotizing. You flatten it against him, hollowing your cheeks as you do, and his hips stutter, your name suddenly the only thing on his lips. It makes you throb. You just need a little friction to take the edge off, to ease the dull ache between your thighs. You squirm, twisting your wrists against the bonds. Harry makes a sound above you, and for a moment, you freeze. Had you been caught? You glance up at him, but you find his head tilted back in pleasure, eyes cast to the ceiling.

· Feeling a little braver, you begin to bob your head along with his thrusts. His grip on your hair tightens in response, and he moans long and low in the back of his throat. He seems far too occupied with your mouth to take any notice of your hands.

· You twist your wrists again, feeling the knot beginning to loosen. So, you keep at it, working the cord further and further up your hand until it pops free. Your body jerks with the momentum, momentarily thrown off balance, but you recover quickly, forcing yourself to choke, as though Harry had pushed too far into your throat again.

· The ruse appears to work, as Harry’s hips buck forward and still, lost in the tight squeeze of your throat. You ease your thighs apart and slip your fingers between them. The cotton of your underwear is soaked, likely to the point of transparency. You can’t help but moan long and low around Harry’s cock as you brush your fingers against the drenched fabric. The wave of pleasure that rolls through you is heady and electrifying. You want more. Right now. Your fingers press harder and your hips jerk up against your hand.

· Even in his pleasure, this gets Harry’s attention. Looking down at you, he almost laughs, the sound caught somewhere between a snicker and a moan. You feel your cheeks heat with the shame of being caught, though by this point you’re so tightly wound you can barely find the brain space to care. You can practically hear the cocksure grin on his face, “You greedy little whore.”

· You try to pull your hand away, but Harry’s boot comes down over top of it. He doesn’t press down hard, but you can feel the thick treads grinding against your flesh, indenting the pattern into it. Your fingers are trapped right where you wanted them: pressed against the damp fabric of your underwear and the sensitive nerves beneath. They spark and throb against your fingers, begging for more stimulation and you can do nothing.

· You sob around Harry’s cock as he begins to thrust into your mouth again. “You wanna touch it so bad, baby, I know,” He presses down harder with his boot, and you whine around him, “But’cha can’t.” He’s pushing deeper into your throat now with every thrust, “You can’t touch what doesn’t belong to you.” His hips begin to stutter now, losing their rhythm as he picks up the pace chasing his release. His voice has gone taught, shaking with both the pleasure and the exertion, “You’re all mine, Sweetheart. All mine.”

· His cock throbs against your tongue. He pushes to the back of your throat one final time, and he’s cumming, letting it fill your mouth and leak down your throat. You sputter, swallowing around him in a desperate bid not to choke. His thrusts have gone shallow and lazy, but he doesn’t stop. Groaning, he grips your jaw, “All fuckin’ mine.”

· You swallow a final time, and he pulls out. You cough, gasping for breath. Dimly, you’re aware of the rustle of denim and the metallic chirp of a zipper being done up. Regaining control of your breathing, turn, cleaning your drool covered chin on your shoulder. You inspect the wrist of your free hand. The skin feels tight and raw but doesn’t appear to be broken. You assume the same is true of the other, where it remains trapped under Harry’s boot. “Fuck, baby. You take it so well for me.”

· You tilt your face up toward Harry, chest tightening with the praise. “Harry,” Your voice is raw, your throat aching from the fucking it had just endured, but you beg him anyway, “Please, I was good. Touch me…or let me do it myself. I-I’ll put on a good show for you!” You buck up against his boot, throwing your head back and whimpering.

· He grinds his boot down against your hand, and your vision fills with white spots. You jerk against him, unable to still your hips. His voice floats down to you through the fog of pleasure, as though from far away, “I’m not so sure you’ve learned your lesson.”

· You sob, bucking against both boot and hand alike, until he presses down harder, and the blinding pleasure becomes a crushing pain that sucks the breath from your lungs, “Harry! Harry, you promised! Fuuck, please! Please! Ow! You said If I was good—"

· The pressure lessens, “Now, now, baby. Don’t get so worked up. I said I might let you cum. Never said when.” He laughs at your devastated expression. “We’re just getting started.”

Part Two—Submission or Yours, Yours, Yours:

· The metal hangers burst into a jangling song as you fling the coat-closet open to hang your jacket. The padded denim will probably see you through another month if you layer properly beneath it. Too much longer than that and you’ll be pushing your luck. Perhaps tomorrow you would go through the ‘winter clothes bin’ and bust out the ole’ windbreaker. Of course, to do that you’d have to spend an hour sifting through the assorted piles of junk in your basement to actually find the ‘winter clothes bin.’ Now that you think of it, despite the numerous trips you’d taken down into the dark and dingy space, you haven’t actually laid eyes on the bin since you had put it into storage last spring. Ugh.

· Though, maybe Harry had seen it. Three days ago, you’d woken up and stumbled to the bathroom to find a steady stream of water pouring from the cabinet space below the sink. It must have been leaking for a good long while before you found it, because the floor was soaked—the bathmat was so saturated with water it had actually squelched underfoot.

· Luckily, it had only taken Harry around five minutes to fix the problem—a loose ring nut of all things—but he’d spent a good deal longer than that tearing the basement apart in his mad hunt for the toolbox. After a great deal of shuffling, banging about, and swearing, he’d found it wedged between the wall and a cardboard box of assorted holiday decorations. He’d rushed up the stairs, breathless and wild-eyed, “Christ, but it’s a mess down there. This?” He’d said, brandishing the toolbox in his left hand, “stays in the porch from now on.” He’d swept passed you then, leaving no room for argument as he marched off to save your bathroom from any further water damage.

· Point is, Harry’s ‘leave no stone unturned’ approach to impromptu basement reorganization may just free up your afternoon and save you a headache—he’d probably seen the bin and with any luck would remember where he’d moved it. If not, finding the damn thing would be tomorrow’s problem. Still, it couldn’t hurt to ask while you were thinking of it.

· “Hey, Harry? When you were down in the basement the other day, did you see the—” Turning to face him, you’re shocked to find that he isn’t standing behind you anymore. You could have sworn you’d felt him there with you right up until you’d turned around. You call his name out into the darkness but receive no response. You roll your eyes, sometimes he got like this when he was in a mood—preferring silence to a solution.

· Your left hand finds the wall, feeling your way along the cool plaster until your fingers find the switch. Light floods the kitchen momentarily flaring too bright against your retinas, and you realize he’s not even in the room anymore. You hadn’t heard him leave, but he’s certainly not still here, unless he’s somehow managed to master the art of invisibility without telling you. He’s a remarkable man, you’ll give him that, but you highly doubt he’s that remarkable. In all likelihood, he’d just popped out for a smoke. Though you’d love to know how he managed to sweettalk the squealing hinges into silence.

· Crossing the room, you pull the screen door open, bracing it against your hip to keep it from banging closed on you. You crack the main door open just enough to poke your head out. You go slowly, easing it open bit by bit—the hinges whine high and thin into the night, but it’s nothing compared to the fuss they’d made when you first came in. peering out into the darkness, you don’t see Harry in his usual late-night smoking spot—leaning out over the porch railing, one hand curled around a cigarette, the other cradling his chin as he stares out into the relative seclusion of your back garden.

· Around this time of year, it wasn’t much to look at—the leaves mostly gone from the trees, the shrivelled corpses of your flowers littering the rapidly browning grass—but in the spring, it was a sight, bursting with blossoms and buzzing insects alike.

· You suppose it doesn’t matter though, Harry never gets to see the butterflies and bees anyway. Not when he only comes out to smoke at night. On the bad days when he’s stressed, or tired and really croaking for a smoke before the sun dips down into the harbour, he usually retreats to the basement, cracking one of the tiny windows that looks out onto the street. But otherwise, he’s an exclusively nocturnal smoker.

· One night in the summer, when it had been far too muggy to do anything but lay in bed and sweat, you’d given up on sleep to sit out with him. Outside, the air was no less close, but even the pitiful, sporadic gasps the breeze offered had felt so good against your feverish skin you couldn’t bring yourself to complain. He’d stood there, leaned out over the railing, the cherry of his cigarette flaring red-hot in the darkness. You had hopped up onto the railing beside him, dangling your legs out over a bed of wilting marigolds—even they were flagging in this heat, not that you could blame them.

· For a long while, neither of you spoke, content to simply inhabit the same space at the same time. It wasn’t long before you were lost in thought; staring up at the stars and marvelling at how the scent of your little lavender bushes almost covered the stink of the harbour. Almost. Then, Harry blew a cloud of smoke out into the darkness, which drifted sluggishly across your vision, bringing you back to the present moment. To this day, you don’t quite know why you’d asked the question, nor where it had come from, “So…you only smoke at night, huh?”

· He’d frowned a little, his eyebrows pulling together as though he was only realizing this for the first time. He’d maneuvered the dart into the corner of his mouth so he could speak around it, “I s’pose so…”

· “What’s up with that?”

· He chewed on the end of the cigarette, jaw working as he thought, “Probably got somethin’ t’do with spendin’ so much time in…” He raked a suddenly shaky hand through his hair, “…the pit.”

· “You were a miner?” You had known so little about him in those days.

· Again, he ran a trembling hand through his hair, the silence stretching long into the humid night. “It…uh…fucks your sense of time real good. Y’get used to it bein’ dark all the time.” He takes a deep drag, letting the smoke curl about in his lungs for a good long while before letting it go with a heavy, rushing sigh. “‘N ya’ get to like it better that way.” With a practiced flick of the wrist, he taps the ash from the end of his cigarette, scattering in on the wooden deck-boards beneath his boots. “I’d rather not talk about it.”

· And so, you’d let it go. But the pieces had begun to fall into place: Why he never went out with you, why he was so hesitant to talk about where he’d come from or what he’d been running from the night you found him shivering and soaked to the skin at the end of your street, why he’d asked you to keep quiet about him, why he hadn’t told you his last name—a name everyone in town both knew and feared.

· He’d told you half the truth then you suppose. After all, he is a night-owl, and that probably did have something to do with his previous profession. However, you think his late-night smoking habit likely also has something to do with risk. You know now who he is and what he did. If anyone knew he was back in town, there would be trouble no doubt. Of course, the rumours that would start flying about if a strange man were spotted hanging around your place would also be trouble, just the type you were more accustomed to handling. There had been jaw about you in town before and there would likely be again. You could deal with a few stray comments from old folks with nothing better to do than gossip and young folks who did but wasted their time on it anyway. You knew for certain that you could not handle the sight of Harry beaten and dragged off to God-knows-where by a mob of angry townsfolk or worse, the police. No, if it came down to it, you’d take the rumours.

· Shuddering, you close the door, locking the knob and sliding the deadbolt home. You lock the screen door as well, something Harry always teased you about. You could picture him now, leaning against the counter, hands in his pockets. An easy grin slides across his face as he watches you, ‘Now what’cha lockin’ that for? S’not gonna stop nobody from comin’ in if they really wanna.’ But you always locked it anyway—it made you feel safer. Sometimes you’d tell him so, but that smile would only grow as he pushes off from the counter and scoops you up into his arms. He is really quite strong despite his small stature. ‘Don’t need locks for that no more, Sweetheart. You got me.’

· But he doesn’t know. He doesn’t know you’d never locked your doors before he came along. Not once. There was never any need to. The community was small and tightly knit. With only one notable exception—the cause of which now shared your bed on the regular—the crime rate was so low hardly anyone locked their doors at all. But since Harry, you had felt compelled to do so. Not out of obligation to the town, rather an obligation to Harry. They didn’t need to be kept safe from him—they had already paid for their mistakes. If they were smart, they’d never give him reason to shed blood again—no you locked the doors to keep Harry safe from them.

· Though there was a memorial plaque dedicated to the lives lost in the mining accident right there in the middle of town, it was something the residents rarely spoke about. Most were content to forget it—and the grisly murders that followed—entirely. But when February rolled around again, an oppressive tension swept through the streets. Even as people pretended to carry on with their lives like nothing was wrong, their hushed whispers and conspiratorial glances spoke the truth plainly—they hadn’t forgotten at all. They couldn’t forget. Harry Warden had stained their community, perhaps forever, and they hated him for it. Many would rather see him dead than locked up and you could think of one or two who might actually try if given the chance.

· Maybe there was a time when you would have let them, out of fear or some misguided sense of morality. But now that you knew him, everything was different. That night, when he’d finally told you the truth about who he was, what he’d done, the place he’d escaped from, he had seemed so small—trembling on the floor of your living room, fingers digging hard into his arms, unable to look at you for fear of your reaction—and you’d decided then and there you would stand between him and that hatred. You would keep him safe. Locking that door was just one of the thousands of small ways you had found to do so. Maybe a part of him knew that. Maybe not. Still, that door stayed locked at night.

· Now, if he wasn’t outside and he wasn’t in the kitchen, where else could he be? You pad quickly through the kitchen, your thin socks only able to protect you so much from the chilly tiles. On your way by, you pop your head into the den, wondering if he’d decided to curl up on the sofa in front of the TV—a favoured spot for a deep sulk. If his attitude in the driveway told you anything, this had been be a pretty good guess, but the room is as dark and empty as the kitchen. Strange.

· Rounding the corner at the end of the hall, four doors stand before you: the bathroom, the office, the guestroom and your bedroom. The bathroom door is closed, and through the crack beneath, you can see the light is turned off. The same can be said for the office, and upon closer inspection, the guestroom as well. You suppose he could be in any of the three rooms, but if that’s the case, it’s safe to assume he really wants to be left alone.

· Perhaps you really had hurt him in your silly attempt to make him jealous. You both knew it was dangerous for him to go out, but you’d pushed him anyway, and he’d said ‘yes,’ because he trusts you and he loves you. And what had you done? You cuddled up to a stranger all night and let him watch. When you think about it like that, a hot wave of shame rolls through your gut. You feel nauseous.

· You stand there in the hall, chewing your cheek and wondering what you should do. You could knock, calling his name softly and apologize. Maybe he’d open the door and come to bed with you, maybe he’d choose to sleep on the sofa and send you to bed alone. Either way he’d know you were sorry. But trying to force a conversation Harry wasn’t ready to have was often like talking to a brick wall—a brick wall which could get up and leave the room. Perhaps it would be better to let him come to you when he was ready. But if you leave him alone, he might think you don’t care. But if you push him, he might not take you seriously. As you weigh your options, a flicker of movement from further down the hall catches your attention.

· Your bedroom door is open just a crack, and through it a quavering light pools on the carpet. At once confused and curious, you creep down the hallway. Pressing your ear to the door, you don’t hear anything out of the ordinary. In fact, it doesn’t sound like anyone is in there at all, and yet the light from within flickers as though something is moving in front of it. Curiosity burning in the pit of your stomach, you press your palm against the faded wooden door and give it a push.

· Candlelight spills out into the hallway, its warm glow washing gently over you. There must be a hundred candles in the room, as every available surface from the dresser to the desk is covered with votives and pillars, tapers and tealights. Were these all yours? You can’t recall ever buying so many, yet here they are. The air is filled with their mingling scents: apples, beeswax, and fresh linen, but beneath that the smell of smoke and the sulfurous scent of the matches he’d used to light them all linger in the air. It can’t have been long since he’s finished lighting them.

· Harry himself kneels on the floor at the foot of your bed, thighs spread wide. Though he’s facing the door, he hadn’t looked up when the it opened. His eyes remain trained on the carpet before him. His hands though firmly clasped behind his back can’t have been there for long—both the button and zipper of his jeans are fully undone, the fabric stretched wide and slung low across his hips. Beneath the jeans, his boxers have been pulled low, exposing his cock, already hard and drooling precum onto the carpet beneath him.

· Stunned by the unexpected sight before you, you can do little more than stand there in the doorway, gaping. Harry had certainly never done this before—he’d knelt for you on occasion, sure, but never without being asked first. A tight heat begins to stir within you as the blood rushes from your head to much more…important areas. Feeling a little lightheaded, you find yourself leaning against the doorjamb for support. Though your legs feel as though they’ve turned to jelly, you find your words again with your shoulder braced firmly against a solid surface, “What’s all this then, baby?”

· He makes no attempt to look at you as he answers, his eyes glued to the floor in a clear sign of submission, though his tone is anything but. There’s bite in his voice, an anger that thrums through his every word, and vibrates through you even from your spot in the doorway, “Jus’ wanna show ya’ I’m good.” He clenches his jaw, eyes burning holes into the carpet, “Make you forget all about him.” He spits out the word like a mouthful of rotten fruit.

· You grinned. So, he is just jealous after all. Good.

· “Look at me, Harry.” His eyes flash in the low light, still blazing with anger even as they find yours. His while body is tense with that rage, every muscle coiled and ready to strike, through he remains still, head bowed, arms folded behind his back. His voice is tight, enunciating very clearly, his usual industrial drawl combed into something smoother, “I want to show you I can be just as good for you. Better even.”

· You smirk down at him, “Oh really?”

· “I can—” He begins to shift, the movement dragging his shaft against the rough denim of his jeans. He shudders, the words momentarily dying on his tongue. His fingers sink into the carpet at his sides, knuckles going white as he struggles not to roll his hips, bucking into that coarse pleasure. His cock pulses and another bead of precum oozes from the tip. “Fuck,” He takes a shuddering breath, his eyes squeezing closed for a brief moment, “I…I can prove it.” There is a pause, his jaw working as he struggles to force the next word out, “Please.”

· Oh, he really is wound up. Begging doesn’t come easily for Harry Warden, but that just makes it all the sweeter to hear when he does.

· “Please, let me prove it to you.”

· You can’t help the grin that slides across your face. “And just how do you intend to do that, baby?”

· He goes still for a moment, eyes narrowing, still angry but acknowledging the challenge. His gaze slides down your body, dark eyes drinking in your form, coming to rest on the carpet at your feet. “I’ll do anything.”

· Your grin widens, “Anything?”

· He swallows thickly, nodding.

· “Anything?” You’re just teasing him now.

· “Yes.” His voice is tight and there’s tension building in his shoulders, but you think you can push him a little further.

· “Anyyyything?”

· His head snaps up, eyes boring into yours, ablaze with frustration, “Yes for Chrissake! Anything. Just,” He sighs through his nose, bowing his head again, “Just tell me what to do, and I’ll do it.”

· You push off from the doorjamb, managing to wobble only a little, as you saunter into the room to stand before him, “Shirt off.”

· It takes him less than a second to respond, pealing the white cotton shirt over his head, exposing the hard planes of his chest and stomach. “Mm, good boy.” You flop down on the bed, tucking your legs up beneath yourself. “Now, touch yourself.” He reaches for his cock, “Ah, ah, ah. I didn’t say ‘touch your cock,’ Harry. I said, ‘touch yourself.’”

· Harry makes a noise caught halfway between a sigh and a whine but does as he’s told. He sits up straighter, his neglected cock bobbing against his stomach. His hands trail up his sides, pressing against toned muscle and bone alike. He shivers as his fingers brush against the scars that litter his chest, remnants of the accident that nearly took his life. “Feel good, baby?”

· He wrinkles his nose a little, “Not…really? They’re numb kinda…”

· “Keep going then, you can’t stop until it starts to feel good.” He swallows and brushes his fingers across his nipples. His jaw goes tight, fingers stilling for a moment. You know he doesn’t get much out of touching himself like this, much preferring to fist his cock fast and hard until he finds his release. This is mostly for you—he cuts a lovely figure half-undressed, hands roaming across his body—but if it’s the only stimulation he’s allowed, you figure he’ll find some enjoyment in it. And this hypothesis seems to be correct thus far, as he continues to play far more attention to his chest than he usually would, the fingers of one hand digging into the flesh of his pectoral as his thumb rubs a slow circle around his nipple. His other hand is trailing up his neck, pressing against the sensitive spots just beneath his jaw.

· His breath is coming harder now, and he’s making lovely little sounds at the back of his throat. His hips press forward, seeking stimulation. “A little lower now, baby.”

· As commanded, his hands slip down across his ribs, over his stomach. His hands hover about his hips, hesitating, waiting for your instructions. “Oooh, there’s a good boy. Let’s test your self control, shall we? How close can you get to it before you can’t keep still anymore?”

· He heaves a shaky breath. His fingers dip below the waist of his jeans, tracing the bones of his hips and the tops of his thighs.

· “You can do better than that. Closer.”

· You can see his thighs beginning to shake as his fingers slip ever closer to his cock, teasing the inner most spots on his thighs and the seams of his hips, spots you know he loves and hates to find your mouth in equal measure.

· It isn't until his fingers brush against the sensitive flesh just above his cock that his hips stutter forward and a soft cry tears free from his lips.

· You slip from the bed to kneel before him, pressing your face close to his, crooning praises into his ear. “Is it too much for my good boy? That’s okay, you follow orders so well.” You can feel his cheeks heating us as he flushes a deep red in the low light.

· Cupping his face, you tilt his chin up, forcing him to look up at you. “Good boys deserve rewards, don’t you think.” Despite the deepening blush, his haughty expression tells you he’ll get you back for this someday. Every word of simpering praise, every degrading kindness will be repaid in full. You can hardly wait. You tilt his head up and down in answer to your own question, “Yes they do. So, let’s give that cock some attention, hmm?”

· In that moment, Harry forgets himself. His hands shoot out, reaching down to wrap around his length. “Stop!” You bark the order, and he freezes, fingers curling against the air, rather than his throbbing length as he so desperately wants. “Not with your hands.”

· A long breath hisses out through his teeth. His tone is petulant, “Then how am I supposed to—”

· “Is that backtalk I’m hearing? Because if it is—”

· “No!” And just like that the attitude is gone, replacing with a stumbling apology, “I-I’m sorry, I’ll do what you asked. I was just…just clarifyin’. How do you want me to…get off?”

· “No one said anything about getting off.” You press a finger against his chest, slowly dragging it down over his pecks, his sternum, his stomach, until you find his cock. Your touch merely ghosts over his sensitive flesh, but he trembles beneath it, moaning low in the back of his throat.

· Your finger finds the tip of his cock, and slips to the underside, stroking roughly against his frenulum—the most sensitive spot on his body. In an instant he’s bucking against you, your name tumbling from his lips along with a litany of trembling pleas for more. While it’s tempting to indulge him, you don’t want this to be over quite so quickly. With a lopsided grin, you withdraw your hand. Harry whines in frustration at the loss, his hips stuttering against the air.

· His cock drags against the rough denim of his jeans, and he sucks in a sharp breath. He hesitates for only a moment as he looks at you for permission. You nod and his shoulders slump forward, his hands shooting forward to catch himself. His fingers sink into the carpet before his knees, and his thighs slide further apart to accommodate this change is posture.

· The drag of coarse denim against the over-sensitive flesh of his cock can’t have been the most comfortable sensation in the world, but one wouldn’t get that impression from watching Harry’s expression. Though his head is tipped forward, you can see still his eyes, screwed shut in pleasure. His teeth catch his lower lip tightly. It’s really such a pity, because you know he’d make such lovely noises if he would just open his mouth. You suppose you could just order him to let you hear him, but it was always so much more satisfying to pull the sounds from him yourself.

· Dipping your head, you press your lips into the column of Harry’s exposed throat. For a moment he goes utterly still, shuddering beneath your mouth. In between peppering every available inch with little kisses, you murmur, “Keep going baby,” against his skin. It takes him a moment to process your command. His lust-fogged mind is able to focus on only a few things at a time, and your lips are taking precedence over everything else. But when it finally clicks, his hips jerk back into motion

· You graze your teeth along his jaw, catching the spots his fingers had toyed with earlier. Like a latch clicking open, his teeth release his lip, and he moans—a soft sound, almost a sigh. Beautiful. You fall into that spot, nipping and sucking at it until the sounds—moans, whimpers, and curses alike—are tumbling from Harry’s lips one after another.

· You dig your teeth in hard, and his hips slam forward, a gasp on his lips. The force of his movement pushes his cock further through the opening of his jeans, and the teeth of the zipper drag across his flesh. He hisses, sharp and sibilant, as the sting overtakes the pleasure. God you wish you could see his face—the pleasure swiftly transforming into agony then back again. Though you’re sure your imagination pales in comparison to the real thing, the pictures your mind conjures are enough to send a throbbing wave of want through you. The tortured mix of pleasure and agony on his face is a sight, second only to the beauty of Harry’s expression when he cums for you.

· As though he could read your thoughts, Harry’s hips jerk down, rutting against the fabric from a different angle. His pace becomes quicker, more frantic as his orgasm looms large on the horizon. You grin against his throat. “Are you close baby?”

· Harry doesn’t speak, but you can feel him nodding, his bony jaw bumping against the top of your head. “That didn’t take very long. Were you playing without me earlier?”

· Of course, you know the answer is ‘yes.’ He’d likely been kneeling right there, bucking into his fist while you were locking still the doors. But you wanted to hear him admit it. “Answer me, Harry.”

· His voice is trembling when he replies, speech lust-slurred and sluggish “Yesss, Ssweetheart”

· Tsk, tsk. Maybe I shouldn’t let you cum after all.” You place a hand on his hip, stalling his movement. He’s strong enough he could just shake you off, keep going until he finds his release, but he doesn’t. That’s not the game you play. Instead, he shudders under you hand, trembling as his release slips away from him, the pleasure fading to a dull throb between his legs.

· “No!” His cock pulses, the precum shiny and wet against the tip. “Please, I-I’m sorry. I jus’ wanted to be ready for ya’, I didn’t mean to break the rules.”

· “I know.” You pat his cheek affectionately. “I understand. It’s hard to be a good boy when it’s in your nature to be a filthy little whore.”

· Harry’s chest heaves as he comes back down from the edge. His ego chafes under your degradation, but his body shudders with the thrill of it. He rolls his head back, shooting you a sideways glance, “You’re so mean, you know that?” Though his words are anything but, both his expression and his tone are utterly adoring.

· You peck his cheek, “You love it.”

· “I do.”

· You stroke his cheek gently with the back of your hand “Can you start again?”

· Harry rolls his hips forward, experimentally. His teeth fix into his lower lip almost instantly, but he nods. You can tell the break wasn’t quite long enough, but that’s okay. You’ll just need to keep a closer eye on him to make sure he doesn’t slip over the edge before you’re ready to let him.

· Your hand finds his hip again, slowing him to a stop. “I think we’ll play a different game this time. Wouldn’t want you getting bored.” You glance down at the rough denim, “Or chaffed up.”

· Your hand slips into his jeans and grips his cock firmly around the base. He cants up into your hand almost reflexively, heating flesh sliding against your palm. You smile, “Oh no. None of that. You’ve gotta stay still this time, baby. In fact,” You give his cock a gentle pump, causing him to buck into your hand despite your instructions. You pull you hand away. “If you move, I’ll stop. Understand?”

· Harry’s knuckles go white in the carpet as he struggles to keep himself under control, but he nods. “Good. Now,” You wrap your hand around him once again. “I won’t make this easy on you.”

· He grins, “Wouldn’t be any fun if ya’ did.”

· You can’t help but grin back, an expression of your adoration for the man before you as you begin to move your hand. As promised, you set a brutal pace, your grip tight around his feverish flesh.

· His head falls back, eyes going wide, “Ohh, fuuck!” His hands are shaking where they’re dug into the carpet and his thighs tremble with the tremendous effort of keeping still. And though he takes a near herculean stab at following your instructions, when your thumb swipes gently over the tip of his cock at the end of a stroke, he falls apart. His hips jerking forward into you hand

· “Ah, ah,” You say, pulling your hand away despite the high whine at the back of Harry’s throat. “I said don’t move.”

· His breath is coming in ragged gasps, “Let…Let me try again. I’ll be good!”

· You purse your lips, as though to say, ‘I’m not sure you will be.” But he leans in, nuzzling into the crook of your neck and whimpering, “Please,’ against your skin, and you’re almost convinced.

· Your pulse jumps as his lips press against your skin. The need to put hands on him again bubbles up within your chest until you cannot fight it a second longer. You hand finds his cock again, sliding against his skin which is now positively radiating heat and slick with precum. He’s really enjoying this. You squeeze your fingers around him a little tighter as he twitches in your hand, “Look at you! Taking it so well for me.” He whimpers in repose, the sound vibrating against your throat as his mouth works against your skin.

· Swiping your thumb over the head of his cock again, his voice breaks, climbing higher into the back of his throat. Yet his hips remain still. So, you do it again, thumb spreading the slick precum gathering at the tip of his cock across the head. He shudders against you, sinking his teeth deep into your neck. He’s putting up a good fight, but you can tell he isn’t far from breaking. You begin to move you hand more quickly, squeezing your fist tightly around his shaft.

· “You’re doing so well, baby. But I wonder…” Your other hand hovers just above the tip of his cock. “What would happen if I…” You touch his tip gently, ghosting your fingers over. The combined sensation of the rough pace of your hand and the gentle touch of your fingers makes his thighs tremble. He’s cursing now, a steady stream of ‘fucks’ and half-coherent pleas tumble forth into the hollow spaces between your collarbones.

· You press a little harder, rubbing a gentle circle around the head of his cock, and he bucks into your hand, pressing the tip hard against your fingers, desperate for more. Through clenched teeth you can hear him chanting, “No, no, no” over and over, clearly frustrated by the betrayal of his own body.

· You smirk down at him, “Looks like you’re really sensitive here huh, baby?”

· Harry doesn’t respond, merely shuddering against you, his head still buried in the crook of your neck. “It’s not your fault though.” You release his cock, stroking you hands soothingly against his trembling thighs. “You know, I think it’s partially my own fault for not touching you enough. But I can fix that.” You can feel the confused frown pulling against his handsome features, one that begins to melt into a look of shocked horror as he realizes what you’re about to do.

· He pulls away from your neck just a moment before you set upon the tip of his cock. Your fingers making a tight little ring, you squeeze around him. His head jerks back, eyes rolling toward the ceiling. You stroke your thumb against the tip, rubbing tight quick circles against his weeping slit. He finds his voice, broken and wavering and cries out your name, begging you for more and to stop in the same breath.

· His hips buck into your hand wildly, but this time you don’t stop, squeezing tighter, as your fingers slip beneath the head, rubbing relentless circles against his frenulum. His body seizes up, his voice momentarily dying in this throat. When it returns, he’s babbling, nearly sobbing with the pleasure, “Need t’stop…” He whines, “Neet’sssstop or I’ll cum,” His speech is slurred, punctuated with sharp moans and deep gasps for breath.

· “But I thought you wanted to cum, Harry.”

· His chest is heaving now, sweat slicking his sandy hair to his temples, “I do, fuuuck, IdoIdoIdo, pleassse, but…” He swallows hard, struggling to grind out the words around the white-hot pressure building in his stomach, “Wanna...wanna be good for ya’, don’t wanna…c-c-cum until you let me.” Despite his words, he grinds down against your fingers, unable to stop himself. “Please lemme be good, FUCK! Please, babyssstop! I’m gonna cum,”

· For just a moment, you consider letting him. But the beseeching look in his eyes tells you even if you did, though the release would be satisfying, it wouldn’t be good enough. Harry wanted, no, needed to be good for you. Taking pity on him now wouldn’t help.

· You pull your hands back, and despite himself, Harry sobs, a fat droplet of precum spilling down his pulsing length. Harry shudders as it rolls down his flesh, over-sensitive as though he’d just cum. You realize then, just how close he’d actually been.

· You take him into your arms, pulling him close and petting his hair gently as he struggles to get his breathing under control. He jitters against you, a low whimper in his throat as your repositioning causes his cock to rub against you.

· “Christ, I’m sorry,” He says, voice a cracked whisper, “It’s been so long since we’ve…”

· You shush him, “I know baby, take your time.” His head falls against your shoulder, the weight of his shuddering body a welcome pleasure. He presses soft kisses into your neck, trailing up to your jaw, your cheek, your lips.

· He kisses you softly, his lips sluggish against your own, but still no less adoring. He pulls back enough to whisper, “I’m yours.” And you smile.

· “I know.” You run your fingers down his back, ghosting over exposed skin and he shudders.

· “No one else will ever belong to you like I do.” Despite Harry’s fragile state, it isn’t a question, rather a statement that isn’t to be questioned.

· “No one else.”

· He melts against you, “Then touch me. I can take it.”

· You push him back, searching his dark eyes. What you find there is the same lust that’s driven you since the beginning of the night. You tug him to his feet, gripping his arms tightly as he wobbles on stiff and tired legs.

· “Get yourself out of those jeans, and get on the bed. We aren’t finished.”

#harry warden x reader #harry warden imagines #slasher x reader #my bloody valentine #OKAY SO #this wasnt supposed to be 13719 words but here we are #also i really fudged the map at the start but who cares about geographical consistancies in slasher smut #i mean me but whatever #the bar they filmed in really was on atlantic street though #ripper fics

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eveningstar1516 · 3 years

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Rise of the Demon King ~ Epilogue

Rise of the Demon King

Fic: Multi Chapter Paring: MC x Everyone (Mostly Lucifer) Type: Angst with a Happy Ending Total Word Count: 26,758 TW: Major Character Death, Reader gets stabbed with a sword through their chest so..., Abusive Parents, Past Child Abuse, Demon Hunters, Loss of Control Summary: You’ve done it. You’ve finally done it. You’ve managed to anger the demon king. Now you hold your head high as he hands down your sentence. AO3 Portal: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27065362 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~A/N: I gotta Discord server guys! It's primarily Obey Me but other fandoms are welcome as well. It's kinda baby and dead so me and the other members are looking to revive it and we'd love for you to come join us. A roleplay area is included :) https://discord.gg/F3YEmDZCPS Please remember to read and accept the rules once you join for access to all the channels. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Previously:

I spent that night cuddled close to Lucifer. After I bathed, he tended to my injuries and wrapped my upper back where my top set of wings once were. We layed in bed together, Lucifer holding me protectively against him as we fell asleep to the sound of our heartbeats, beating in sync. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ CHAPTER 13 - Epilogue (3514 words)

“Mmm, Lu?” Gingerly, I opened my eyes. I had woken up to the feeling of someone nuzzling the side of my neck. Opening my eyes, I found that we had shifted into a spooning position in our sleep. His arms were wrapped around my waist and my hands were clasped over his. Lucifer was still asleep, holding on to me tightly. Carefully, I turned over to face him. His expression was relaxed. Sleep melted away any forehead creases making him look infinitely younger. His lips parted ever so slightly as his hair fell over his face, framing it just right. Carefully, as not to wake him, I lifted my hand to tuck some loose strands behind his ear and pecked him on the cheek. Being the notoriously light sleeper he is, Lu stirred at the movement. “Good morning Lu” “Mmm, good morning love” “Did you sleep well?” “Mhm.” Lucifer opened his eyes. The soft morning glow of the Devildom moon cast a soft light over him masking the demonic entity next to me in a celestial glow. His eyes were soft and docile, sleep still apparent. Not wanting to ruin the moment, but also not wanting to miss breakfast and see the rest of the brothers again, I started to shift away.

“Come on Lu, it’s time to get up.” “No. Just a little longer.” Lucifer immediately tightened his hold on me and buried his face into my chest. Letting out a small laugh, I brought my hand to his head and started stroking his hair. He sighed and leaned into my touch. “I’d love to stay in bed longer, but if we do that, Beel would eat everything.” Lucifer muttered something into my chest before pulling away and placing a kiss on my forehead. “We wouldn’t want that now would we? Come, let me change your dressings, then we’ll go.” It was then I remembered that I didn’t exactly have anything to wear. “Um, Lu? What am I supposed to wear?” Lucifer was already across the room getting the first aid supplies and a change of clothes out of the closet. He laid them out in front of me as I sat up. Spying the outfit, I realized it was my own, the one I would always wear when Lucifer and I spent our limited alone time. “Lu? Why do you have my clothes in your closet?” I asked with a raised eyebrow as he started removing my dressings and cleaning the wounds. A small blush appeared at my question. “It’ll be about 2 weeks before these fully heal.” “Lucifer, you’re avoiding my question.” “It will take you a little longer to learn how to fly with 2 pairs of wings instead of your usual 3.” I caught Lucifer’s hand in my own. He averted his gaze away from mine, his blush intensifying. “Lucifer.” “I-I couldn’t let you go. These reminded me of you, so I kept them. We still have most of your stuff in the catacombs. I just wanted these for myself.” When he finished, he was looking anywhere but my face. I held his hand and cupped a cheek with my other hand, gently turning him to face me. I leaned up and placed a kiss on the corner of his mouth. “You missed.” Lucifer looked at me with his signature smirk on his face. I put a finger on my cheek and tilted my head. “I did? Huh, that’s strange I never miss.” Leaning up, I placed a kiss on the opposite corner. “Now you’re just teasing me.” I giggled. “Yup. Now come on, we better get down there before Beel eats everything.” ~Dining Room~ Lucifer entered the room first, announcing that they had a visitor that would be staying with them. “Ooh, really? Yay! Another Spa mate!” Asmo clapped his hands excitedly. “Great, I don’t have time for another normie.” Levi went back to his switch not caring. Belphie was half awake and not really caring, giving the barest hint of acknowledgement. “Who are they?” Satan asked, putting his book down. “Well, we have met before. It would be quite awkward to have to introduce myself a second time.” I stepped around from behind Lucifer and looked to the brothers sitting at the dining table. Pin. Drop. Silence. A full second went by before I found myself under a pile of demons. “Y/N! You’re back!” “Y/N, I can’t believe this!” Asmo clung tightly to me, practically bawling his eyes out. Belphie was clinging to my other side with Beel wrapping his arms around both of us. Levi was hugging me from behind, pressing his cheek into my back. Satan waited by Lucifer for his turn while Mammon was still standing there in shock.

“G-guys! I missed you too but I still need to breathe!” “Alright everyone, Y/N is still sore from their fall. I know you’re all excited to have them back, but give them some room.” After Lucifer got his brothers off me, I went and gave Satan a tight hug. “Welcome home kitten.” “It’s good to be home.” After letting go of Satan, I made my way to Mammon. “It’s really you, ain’t it treasure?” “Come on Mammoney, who else would I be?” Mammon lowered himself to my level and tucked his head into the crook of my neck, holding on to me. “Ya dumb human.” “Not human anymore I’m afraid.” “That’s right! Darling, can we see your demon form please? I’m sure you look absolutely stunning!” “Not really much of a demonic form Asmo, but, well, you’ll see.” I stepped away from Mammon as the rest of the brothers backed up to give me some room. I rolled my shoulders feeling a swirl of magic surround me as I unfurled my wings and let my Nephalem form (A/N: That’s what I’m calling it. Don’t like it, too bad 🙃). I looked up at the shocked look on the brother's face. “You look stunning kitten.” “Your halo. It’s beautiful darling!” “You look just like him.” “I know Beel. I don’t know why my halo stayed. You guys can touch it, but Satan, I don’t know if you can yet.” “Y/N’s halo repels demons but doesn’t have an effect on beings that once held, or have traces of grace within them. Since you are born from me, you might have some trace, but we shouldn’t risk it. For now, just avoid touching it Satan.” “Will do, although I am curious. When the rest of you fell, your halo’s broke off and your uniforms changed completely, so why is it that Y/N’s outfit stayed Celestial, albeit with their colours, and they kept their halo, even if it is now a ring of black fire?” “I wish I knew Satan, although it might have something to do with my decision to willingly fall instead of being cast out by force.” Satan opened his mouth to say something but before he could, Beel’s stomach decided to make a guest appearance. “What, we stopped breakfast for this?” “Alright big boy, let’s eat, we can invite Dia and Barb and talk about this afterwards.” “Dad. What’s going on, and who's this?” I turned to the doorway where the voice came from. I looked as a young demon woman walked into the room. Her long black hair was braided down her shoulder. Serene coloured eyes looked me up and down. She wore a simple outfit consisting of dark blue denim tights with a white v-neck shirt, a black cropped jean jacket, and a pair of knee-high combat boots. “Who are you?” She asked again with her hands on her hip, eyes pinned on me.” I turned around to face the brothers. “Alright spill. Who’s the father?” I looked at the brothers with an equally pinning gaze as all eyes looked to Satan. “That would be me. Mezu, this is Y/N. Y/N, this is my daughter Mezu.” “You had a kid and didn’t tell me?!” “When could I have done that? We literally found out you were alive not 3 minutes ago. Mezu, Y/N here is an old friend of ours. They were the one that brought our family together and sacrificed themselves for us.” “Nice to meet you Mezu.” I stuck my hand out for her to take. She didn’t. “Why do you don and angels garb and halo with demonic features?” Mezu looked at me with her arms crossed, distrust evident across her features. “Mezu, you can trust them.” Lucifer came and put a hand on my shoulder. Mezu looked unconvinced and took one more look at me before reluctantly letting the subject drop. “If you say so. Although I still want to know why.” “I’ll explain that all after breakfast when Diavolo and Barbatos get here. I look forward to learning more about you too Mezu.”

~After Breakfast in the Common Area~

“So, I guess I should start.” “What happened after the execution?” Mezu asked. “Mezu!” “It’s fine Satan. I figured that’s where I should start anyway. After the execution, I woke up in some sort of pocket dimension. Lilith was there, she says hi by the way. She explained this dimension that she called the “Void”. It’s a place where souls that have no destination but don’t return to oblivion go to. She presented me with two options. She didn’t have enough power to resurrect me the way she did before, so she told me that she could either make me into a demon and return to the Devildom, or make me a Seraph and take me to the Celestial realm. I wanted to return badly, and I almost did but I didn’t want to return as a demon serving under Abandon. I chose to go to the Celestial realm. I woke up in the House of Honors wearing, according to Michael, Lucifer’s old uniform. Needless to say, he was not happy about that. After he gave me something to eat, we headed to the palace to see your father. It was there where we struck a deal. Neither of us wanted me to be there, but I also didn’t want to return and serve under Abandon. No offence” “None taken.” “He took an interest toward my knowledge of Lucifer's old habits and position. He struck a deal with me, one I would have also struck if he had not suggested it. I was to serve as Lucifer’s replacement, as head of the council of 7, until such a time that King Abandon steps down and Diavolo rises to the throne. During my time as the Council leader, I was to fulfill my duties as Lucifer would have, not abuse my power, and make decisions based on the best interest of the realm. The period of the agreement ended yesterday when Diavolo was crowned. I-” “Y/N?” I turned to look at Lucifer. “Diavolo wasn’t crowned yesterday. He’s been king for almost half a century now.” My eyes widened. “You mean to tell me. That I could have returned HALF A CENTURY AGO?! I should have done more than sock that bastard while I had the chance.” At the last part, half the room doubled over laughing. “You-you actually punched him, in the face?!” Satan asked, clutching his stomach. “Yup. In Front of the entire council, right before I jumped. You should have seen their faces but I could only do so much within the element of surprise before I made my dramatic exit. I would have done it sooner if I knew Dia had been crowned. I just didn’t want to risk falling while his dad was still in reign.” “Darling, have I ever mentioned how much I love you?” “Only every day since we met Azzy. Anyway, back to the story.” ~A Few Hours Later~ “And that’s when I woke up in Diavolo’s garden yesterday.” “It seems like the past millennia had been eventful for everyone.” Mezu commented once I had finished. “How was everyone's time here? I really want to know the story behind Satan’s love life and what the rest of you were up too.” “Well, the first few decades or so were quite difficult. It was hard to forget that you weren’t with us. Eventually though, we all grew closer through grieving you. Your death opened a familial bond between us. Something we had a hard time admitting existed while you were here.” Lucifer explained. “Don’t worry, we still haven’t changed. Mammon still ends up hanging from the ceiling, Satan spends all day reading and coming up with ways to prank Lucifer with Belphie, Asmo is still as narcissistic as ever, Beel keeps cleaning out the fridge, and I still spend my days in my room.” “Although, I noticed you have been starting to come out of it more often Leviathan.” Diavolo stated “Well, yes. I’ve been visiting the catacombs whenever I get the chance to add something to Y/N’s collection by their casket.” “Uhh, if my dead body is still down there, could we, like, get rid of it? It’s a little creepy to live in a house knowing your dead body is in the basement.” “We’ll clean that out and bring your stuff to your old room.” Satan said. “Alright. Ok then. Your turn.” “Me?” “Yes you. Come on Satan, spill. What is this love story of yours? I want to know more about Mezu and her mother.” Satan scratched the back of

his neck, looking lost in thought, a longing look in his eyes. I looked around the room and noticed that the occupants avoided my eyes, some looking towards Satan with a pitying look. Only Mezu looked at me. “My mother died 50 years ago.” “Oh, I’m so sorry. I didn’t know.” “Of course you didn’t. You angels don’t care for any demon or their relations. You all think your so high and mighty yet-” “Mezu, that’s enough! Y/N is not an angel, not anymore. I assure you, they care more than you think.” Lucifer starred his granddaughter niece down as she sat back down. A scowl still present on her face. “I’m sorry Mezu, I truly am. I didn’t mean to make you feel like that. Please forgive me.” I smiled at her. She looked away, almost guiltily before Satan broke the silence. “Mezu was named after her mother. She was killed by an angel when Mezu was 25. She was beautiful and the only one who could cool my wrath after you passed.” “Were you happy with her? Like truly happy?” “Truly.” “That’s all I need to know.” I stood and hugged Satan. He returned it, resting his head above my heart.

~2 Years Later. At RAD~

It’s been 2 years since I returned. My wounds have healed and I found my place among the demons once again. Diavolo appointed me as an official member of the student council. I served as a secretary of sorts to Lucifer to allow for fewer sleepless nights and to make sure he didn’t bury himself in his work. Because of my status as a fallen, I was considered a noble and given the title “Avatar of Loyalty. The 8th of the 8” by Diavolo himself. I returned to RAD as a teacher on angel studies and a student in demonic politics. Lucifer and I became an official couple. During long night grading, I found myself chuckling at my students' interpretations of the Celestial Realm. I reminisced about my time with the council. Michael was probably glad to have finally gotten rid of me. Luke was promoted as Michael’s personal protegé. The rest of the angels were probably too busy to think about me though. Having finished marking, I went to go get Lucifer to turn in for the night.

~The next day~

“Dia, not to sound rude or anything, but why did you want us all to meet so early? RAD isn’t starting for another hour.” Diavolo sat in his head seat at the table as the rest of us sat in our usual spots. All of us displaying varying levels of consciousness. Belphegor having fallen back asleep as soon as he sat down. Diavolo had a beaming smile on his face as he spoke. Never a good sign... “We have some new exchange students joining us today. I want you to meet them all and show them around RAD. This is an opportunity for the rest of you to mend some old ties” “My Lord, what exactly are you getting at?” Lucifer asked tentatively. Diavolo’s smile only grew brighter, but before he could say anything, the doors to the council room burst open. “Y/N!” Looking up, I managed to catch a mop of reddish-orange hair before I was buried under a pile of bodies. After I finally wiggled my way out, I backed up towards Lucifer; his arm finding its way around my waist. Standing in the council room were the 7 Archangels, all donning RAD uniforms, all smiling sheepishly save for Michael who was standing off to the side with his arms crossed. Looking at the rest of the brothers, I found that Bell was now wide awake as the rest of them looked a tad bit uncomfortable. Lucifer had a displeased frown. “What are you guys doing here?” “It was Father's idea to have us participate in this program. He thought it best to-” “Don’t kid yourself Michael. We volunteered to come. We missed you Y/N. Especially Michael. He wouldn’t stop talking about you after you left. Things weren’t the same after you fell. He also really wanted to see Lucifer again.” Raphael cut Michael off mid-sentence. Looking around, the brothers each had a murderous look in their eyes. “Ok, first off, you volunteered, I got dragged into this. Second, I did not miss Y/N and I did not talk about them after they left. If anything, I was glad that they were gone, especially after that little stunt they pulled before they jumped. You didn’t think I’d forget that Y/N, did you?” I loosened myself from Lucifer's grip and made my way over to the angels, giving them each a hug in turn. “Aww, I missed you guys too. Mike. What did I say about your pride? Honestly, for someone who used to adore the Virtue of Humility and claims to hate the Avatar of Pride, you really seem to take after his sin. Besides, you didn’t deny wanting to see Lu again.” The occupants in the room started snickering as Michael’s face started turning a lovely shade of beet red. Lucifer looked taken aback at the revelation but lightly chuckled into his fist as well. “I’d be careful Mike. You wouldn’t want to lose that angelic status of yours for something as childish as misplaced pride.” Lucifer said with a smirk on his face. Michael started stuttering, trying to defend himself. “I-I didn’t! I-I don’t have any Pride I swear! Besides-” “Alright, alright. That’s enough.” Gabriel stepped in to save Michael from any more embarrassment. “It’s true, we did miss you and saw the exchange program as an opportunity to see you again. That’s why we volunteered to come.” Gabriel stopped in front of me and hugged me, much gentler than before. “We really did miss you Y/N. Things up there were too quiet without you.” “Oi! Hands off Y/N!” Mammon jumped up from his chair and pushed Gabriel away from me. Levi had shifted into his demonic form and wrapped his tail around my waist. “Y/N Belongs to us, not you normies.” “NORMIES?! I’m hurt that you think of us like that Leviachan. It is nice to know that you still kept your love for the Japanese animation even after you left.” Azrael said as he turned to look at Levi. A hand on his chest and a look of faux hurt in his eyes. This time, it was Levi’s turn to turn beet red. His self conscious not being able to take the attention. I was pulled away from Levi by Lucifer who placed a quick kiss on the top of my head. A prideful smirk on his face as he addressed the angels.

“Now then, there is no need to fight over this. Y/N belongs to me. Isn’t that right my love?” One cannot describe the look of utter hurt, shock, betrayal, and jealousy that overtook the features of everyone present in the room at Lucifer’s bold statement. My own expression being that of shock before all bloody hell broke loose. Everyone started arguing over who I belonged to and who I loved the most. I stood there trying to calm everyone down but alas, my voice was never heard over the shouting. “It seems the exchange program is becoming quite the success, isn’t it Barbatos?” “Indeed My Lord, although perhaps we should put a stop to this before someone loses control?” “No need Barb. Let them talk among themselves. I know, how about some tea while we wait?” “Of course My Lord.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ And there we go. It's done! Thank you to everyone who stuck through reading this until the end. Thank you to everyone who left comments and Likes.

For those who are wondering about the candle and magical energy that surrounded Y/N, the energy is the magic used to take away their angelic status and made them into a Nephalem (Demon, Angel Hybrid). Their candle kept changing itself because it needed to form a new substance to match Y/N's new physiology.

#obey me: one master to rule them all #obey me #obey me x reader #lucifer x reader #obey me lucifer #mammon x reader #obey me mammon #leviathan x reader #obey me leviathan #satan x reader #obey me satan #asmodeus x reader #obey me asmodeus #beelzebub x reader #obey me beelzebub #belphegor x reader #obey me belphegor #obey me micheal #OMFIC

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drunkdyslexic · 3 years

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Risky

Karl Urban x Reader Summarry - The reader wakes up at his and gets ready for work. Teasing him a little too much she makes it up to him in a bit riskier place.

18 +

It has been weeks since you and Karl's agreement. Every other night you wake up in each other's bed. Leaving the secret of your relationship with in the walls of your apartments. You are wearing one of Karl’s shirts as you make your way into his kitchen. You pick up the kettle filling it jut enough for two cup worth. You place it back on the heating plate and switch it on. As it hearts up you look around the kitchen for your herbal teas. Reopening up the cupboard where you got the cup from, you check the box you are looking for. You reach, go on your tip toes trying to reach the box, the tips of your fingers managing to barely touch the side. Your stretching causes the bottom of your shirt to show your bum cheeks and one of your favorite pair if pants. “Now there's a sight I don’t get every morning.” He smiles to himself, butting up the last button of his shirt. You bow your head in defeat. Karl lightly jogs to you grabbing the box you were reaching for giving it to you. “Thank you.” You huff you grab a tea bag from the box showing it in the cup. Before you chuck the box filled with the other to the side. Scooping coffee granolas into the other cup. “Oi!” Karl says jokingly. He leans back on the worktop you were at. You ignore him pouring the boiled water into both cups. You can feel him looking at you. “You look good in my shirt.” He smirks. You glance at him before going back to finish creating your drinks. As much as you love him flirting with it. You also don’t as it’s exactly another factor that will cause you fall for him and you don’t want that. You hand him his cup striding into his room to get changed. “Is that all I get.” He shouts at you. You slap your behind before disappearing into his room to get ready. You turn the shower on brushing your teeth as the water heats up. You spit then rinse smiling at the steaming mirror. Pulling the shower curtain you hold your hand out to gas the water temperature you step into it the falling water eyes closed, rubbing your face. You hear hooks on the curtains create a noise as you hold your hand rest on your hip. You jump back falling into Karl's chest. “Who else is it going to be.” He whispers in your ear sniggering. “I just wasn’t expecting you.” You inhale. “With you��re flirting out there. It was hard not to.” He says kissing at your neck. Your turn to face him resting your hands on his chest. He looks at you a devious look in his eyes, you can’t help but smile. “I thought you were ready?” You ask. “Change of plan.” He smiles. “Flirt.” You say pushing at his chest. His hands grab your arms, pulling you closer to him, so he can kiss you. His lips meet your and you can’t help but kiss back. Your hand travels from his chest to his face. You push his face away from you. “I can’t. I don’t have enough time.” You state. Turning to face the water again. He steps closer you can feel him getting hard. You smile to your self before you bend down in front of him, picking up the shampoo bottle from the shower floor. “And I’m the tease.” He groans. “Yep.” You say, squeezing a blob of shampoo on your hand before you turn to face him, giving him a flirtatious smile as you rub shampoo in your hair. He smiles at you. You tilt your head back, letting the water rinse out the soap from your hair. After a few seconds you look down clocking Karl’s cock harder than before. Throbbing for you. You bite your lip staring at him, you eyes meet. You can see he’s trying so hard to restrain himself to shove you against the shower wall and fuck you. You kneel down to grab the conditioner, bottle you're facing close to his cock. You grab the bottle sticking out you're young, you lick up his penis up to his chest. He throws his head in pleasure. He brings his head backdown and you wink at him. “It's not fair.” He growls. You laugh massaging the conditioner into your hair. You see his chest raised and fall admiring how tanned he is. “Oh I forgot.’ You say bending down putting his cock in your mouth. You suck on it a few times. Sucking on its full length. Before dropping it from your mouth, grabbing the shower sponge that put has fallen on the floor after your last time in the shower. You rub it on your arms as you stand up gradually. He looks agitated at this point. You can’t help but relish this power you have over him at the moment. You finish washing your bod with the shower gel hanging the sponge on its hook. “That's me done.” You smile at him. Tapping his bum as you step out the shower closing the curtain behind you. “Oh! I will meet you in work.” You say peeping around the curtain. He snarls at you. As you stroll through to his room. You are dried of and have a blue bra with matching pants on when Karl joins you in the bedroom. He’s drying the last of his body with his towel just staring at you. You loo down at his placid penis “Everything okay?” You ask. He huffs. You wriggle into a black denim skirt and throw on a random band tee. You sit down on the bed putting on socks and black converse. You jump up grabbing your zipper that rests on a chair. See you in work you wave to him grabbing your phone and keys. You felt guilt what you did to him in the shower, but you also owned it. You decided to stroll to work, the sun was out. It wasn’t humid but was warm enough. The next time you meet Karl he’s in his Billy Butcher costume. You smile at him when he looks at you. Filming stops for lunch, Karl is waiting in the queue to get food. You go up beside him. “Can I borrow you for a minute or two.” You ask him unsure he agrees with you following you. You take him to an insignificant use part of the set. “Where are you taking me?” He asks, worried. You turn around grabbing his neck, you pull him into a kiss. His hands immediately hold your hips. You pull him to a more shadowed part of the room. “I felt guilty for teasing you earlier, so I am going to make it up you.” You whisper in between kisses. He hums at you. Before lifting you up resting you against the wall. Pushing your skirt up. He moves your pants to the side. He stares at you like an animal. You wrap your legs around his waist as he flicks his jacket off. “Fuck me” you whisper in his ear. He unbuckles his trousers, slipping out his already stiff dick. All you could think of when you left him that morning with how you would make it up to him. Merely sneaking him away to fuck him in work got you wet. You lift you up slightly, sliding you onto his hard dick. He looks into your eyes like he’s about to say something, but he stops himself. He grabs your hands pinning them up above your head. You bleat out his name. He smiles. As your hips roll in sync. His thrust is deep. His head in your chest as your gazing up resting against the wall for support. You hear voices in the distance. You both snap out the trance you in gazing at each other. As the voices get closer. An infectious smirk comes across his face. He pulls your hips into him. “Karl?” You say shocked. “This is payback.” He states “And if we get caught?” You ask. He doesn’t answer. Picking up speed. You bounce on his dick. Pulling arms down, you hold his biceps, the voices get closer. You try to keep your moans quiet. Karl breathing gets deeper. You look to the side as the voices sound there are on the other side of where you both were hiding. “Karl.” You whisper. He grunts deep. Let out a moan. He loses his grip of you as he comes. His body tensed up more by the mounter. His head rests on your shoulder. You both listen to the voices they don’t seem to notice as they go through a door. His breath on your shoulder comes back to normal. “Your coming later.” He whispers in your ear. You push his chest back to look at him. He shakes his head, not wanting an excuse. He puts you back on your feet. You sort yourself out, Making each other look more presentable. You stroll back to the tent where all the cast and crew eat. Karl grabs a sandwich and a bottle of water. You grab some fruit. Biting your apple you turn on the ball of your foot. Walling back to set. Karl watches you from whee he’s sitting smirking to himself as he bites his sandwich.

Initiate, Aftermath, Awkward Are my stories before this one. It’s almost like a series I am making.

Let me know what you think.?.?. It would be good to hear your opinion. IF you leave any comments I don't like. I will ignore.

#karl urban #karl urban x reader #karl urban imagine #karl urban fanfiction #karl urban one shot #billy butcher #the boys #the boys amazon #dyslexic writer #smut #Shower

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gaemkyuu · 3 years

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Mommy will you marry Charlie? (Charlie Gillespie x Fictional Character)

Warnings: mention of teenage pregnancy A/N: I was pleasantly surprised at the amount of love “Mommy can we keep him” received. I was originally going to upload the proposal AND the wedding, but I’ve been struggling a bit with the wedding portion. I hope you enjoy the proposal! Disclaimer: This is a FICITONAL writing piece! In no way do I claim characters in this piece act this way in real life.

Masterlist *now taking requests ;)

Mommy will you marry Charlie?

“Hey! Are you ready to go?” Charlie knocked and popped his head into Riley’s ensuite, pausing to take in her beauty. She was dressed in a pretty summer dress and placed a few more bobby pins into her hair, smiling at him in the mirror.

“Just about. Are Owen and Savannah here?” Riley’s answer came at that moment when the doorbell rang. Charlie left the ensuite and headed for the door just as Emerson got to it.

“Emmy, what did we say about answering the door?” Charlie chastised, moving quicker to the door. Emerson slightly pouted knowing he was right and sat on the entryway bench, waiting for Charlie to open the door. “You guys are just in time!” “No thanks to Owen” Savannah scoffed, motioning to the giant behind her.

“I hadn’t eaten yet, I needed My Chick-fil-A, but then I forgot to order some for Emmy, so we had to go back through the drive through” he sighed, showing him the two bags of take out in his hands. “Where is the little stinker?”

“I’m not stinky! I took a bath!” she hopped on the entryway bench and into Savannah’s arms first, Owen dramatically displayed his offense to the toddler.

“How come she gets a hug first?! I brought you Chicken Strips!” Savannah picked her up and balanced her on her hip. “I even convinced the lady to give you two books!”

“Aunty Savannah didn’t call me stinky and knows that I ate supper before you came.” she giggled and shook her head. “Plus, I like the chicken nuggets and not the strips” Owen rolled his eyes and muttered a ‘oh come on’ under his breath, but as soon as Savannah put her down, Emerson gave Owen’s leg a hug.

Riley came to the front door and greeted her friends, thanking them again for being so willing to babysit while they went out for the evening. After Charlie and Emerson’s date, the couple decided that they would go on more family dates as a request from the little girl and Charlie. Riley didn’t think anything of it, but she certainly didn’t want to come between the relationship they were both developing. This was the first time Emerson ever really accepted another man into their lives.

At the young age of 18 and saving enough money, Riley moved out of her mother’s home in Chino Hills to a one bedroom, one bath in downtown LA that was closer to her office. Riley was grateful that her mom agreed to come over to their apartment to babysit Emerson while she was at work as it helped her to save up more money to eventually move into a chic modern home on the outskirts of downtown. She was always so focused on providing for Emerson that she rarely let anyone into her life and when she did, she always had to make sure that they got the seal of approval from Emerson.

There was Nick from the marketing department at Netflix who she thought was cute, but he wasn’t very open to the idea of potentially becoming a dad so early on. Emerson really didn’t like him as she would cry every time he looked at her or moved towards her. That didn’t last more than three weeks.

Then there was Jaime from the grocery store who loved children and really liked Riley, but Emerson didn’t like the fact that Riley made more money than Jaime and warned her mom several times about him, despite her young age. Riley learned her lesson that sometimes four year olds are very perceptive because Jaime asked to borrow money for his rent a month later.

Lastly, there was Greg, a single dad who had twins the same age as Emerson. That didn’t last because the kids would often fight. Emerson thought the children were dumb and immature, while the twins thought Emerson was acting like a weird grown up.

Riley always prioritized Emerson in any decision making process she had, but at her core she felt lonely. She couldn’t tell her daughter this despite her intelligence. She was still a child. What kind of a mother would she be if she vented to her child? But Emerson knew her mom was lonely. She often heard her crying in the pantry and quietly talking on the phone late at night. That’s why when Charlie walked in their lives, she knew she had to play nice for a little while for the sake of her mother. Neither girls expected that Charlie would become such an important piece of their lives.

“Emerson we will be back past your bedtime, so give me kisses now” Riley requested as she hugged her little girl and peppered her with kisses. She giggled and kissed her mother back until she let go. Instinctively, Charlie knelt down too and opened his arms, giving her a quick peck on the head. Emerson gave him a hug back and kissed him on the cheek, the gesture garnering a loud “aw” from Owen, as the girls silently admired the interaction. Charlie rolled his eyes and whispered to Emerson quickly, making her giggle as his breath tickled her ear and neck.

“You guys should get going so we can start painting Uncle Owen’s nails!” Savannah interrupted, glancing at the time on her phone. “We also get to facetime Uncle Jeremy, Aunty Carolyn and Aunty Madison too!” Emerson got super excited and skipped to her bedroom to grab her “nail kit”, a toy Savannah had bought her last Christmas. With a laugh, the couple headed out the door and off to supper.

As soon as the door closed, the two friends and Emerson got to work. They were in on the plan and set about decorating their house. Emerson and Charlie had gone to PartyCity a few days ago while Riley was at an executive meeting and picked out a bunch of decorations for his proposal. At first, Charlie was hesitant, but Emerson was absolutely sure her mother said yes. Knowing his past of always being proven wrong by Emerson, he decided to listen to the little girl and follow her lead.

“Remember, mommy had me when she was a kid so she missed out on kid things. Do a bunch of kid things with mommy!”

That’s what prompted Charlie to take her to Santa Monica. Charlie had made a reservation at a restaurant on the Santa Monica beachfront and the two enjoyed a lovely casual dinner. They talked about projects they were excited about and started ‘people watching’ from their seats, laughing and making silly jokes about the people who passed them by. After dinner, they set out to do “Kid Things” and played games on the pier, settling for mini donuts as dessert and eventually watching the sunset. Charlie tensed for a moment, but quickly relaxed as he felt the small box in his pocket.

“Mommy won’t say yes unless I’m there. She would be too busy thinking about me before she says yes, so ask her at home”

“But what about bedtime?”

“I mean if you say I can stay up, then that should be okay right?”

“You okay? You looked tense for a second” Riley snapped him out of his thoughts, but he was grateful that she shivered because it gave him a chance to change the topic.

“Yeah, I was just thinking about the sunset in Dieppe. Can’t wait to take you one day. Cold?” he draped his denim jacket over her shoulders, and hugged her from behind. As soon as the glow from the sunset disappeared and the glow of the carnival lights replaced them, Charlie decided that instead of walking on the beach, they would go home and watch a movie on the couch. They spent the drive back to Riley’s place in a comfortable silence with the radio gently playing music. Charlie started to feel more excited and antsy the closer they got to her place. Before exiting the car, he held her hand in his and kissed the back of it. “I love you, you know that?” Riley smiled, nodded and kissed him on the lips. Charlie raced her to the door, knowing full well that he would beat her to it, but that didn’t stop Riley from trying. They stumbled through the entry a fit of giggles and laughter, but Riley stumbled on a pair of shoes.

“Charlie! I told you to... put your shoes...away?” she became more confused as she stared at the pair. They weren’t Owen’s, Charlie’s, Savannah’s or Emmerson’s. Who could be in their house? She looked up to see Charlie nowhere in sight and began to worry. “Char, this isn’t funny. This is like the scene from a horror movie” she quickly shed her shoes and walked down the corridor to the living room. She didn’t expect to see her mother, Charlie’s mom and their closest friends standing behind Charlie and Emerson with excited looks on their faces. To add to her confusion, they held party poppers and noise makers, while a giant Congratulations banner decorated her living room. She heard Emerson clear her throat and Charlie stood proudly beside her.

“Dear mommy, I stayed up past my bedtime because Charlie said I had to” everyone in the room laughed at this, as Emerson continued to read from the piece of paper in her hands.

“Mommy, you work so hard to give me the best life and the best toys. Sometimes I wonder how I can give you the best life and the best toys, but adults don’t play with toys. I asked aunty Carolyn why she was so happy with uncle Jeremy, and she said it was because she gets to be with uncle Jeremy forever” Carolyn wiped the tear that had formed in her eyes.

“I asked uncle Owen why aunty Carolyn and uncle Jeremy got to be together forever, and that’s when uncle Owen said it was because they were married.” She took a deep breath and lost her place on her paper. Charlie peaked over and pointed to where she needed to keep reading from.

“Oh, right. When I asked you were getting married, you told me never and that it was a rude question, but I think that was because you had a bad day at work” despite the teary eyes, her comment made everyone laugh.

“So I asked Charlie to go on a date with me and ask him when he would marry you” Riley gasped as Charlie pulled out the box with the ring, getting down on one knee. “I know Charlie makes you happy and I think you should be together forever. Charlie has a question for you and the answer is yes.”

“Riley King, I love you and I love Emerson. I can’t think of anyone I want to spend the rest of my life with. You and Emerson are my family now, so let’s make it official” Charlie winked at Emerson who put her paper down and also got onto one knee beside Charlie.

“Mommy, will you marry Charlie?” Riley was crying full tears at this point listening to her daughter’s words, but she nodded and whispered a yes. Everyone erupted in a cheer and the party poppers went off as he put the ring on her finger, kissing her and picking up Emerson. “You did so good, Emmy!”

“You’re gonna be my daddy!!!” Emerson exclaimed, full of excitement and squeezing Charlie.

Riley wiped her tears and kissed her daughter on the cheek, truly speechless. Everyone came around to congratulate them, Savannah, Madison, and Carolyn all wanting to see the ring first and then hugs. She was on cloud nine, still not able to understand how this was all being planned behind her back. “Is that why you volunteered to babysit?” Savannah nodded her head sheepishly and hugged her friend. Charlie’s mother gave her a big hug congratulating her on their engagement expressing her excitement to have another daughter in law, while Riley’s mother hugged Charlie, crying happy tears. The rest of the evening was spent enjoying everyone’s company that the couple lost track of time. By the time they said goodbye to Owen, the last to leave, Emerson had fallen asleep on the couch.

“You mean to tell me, you planned this entire thing with my daughter behind my back?” Charlie smiled and nodded, picking the little girl up from the couch, careful not to wake her up. “I mean, I am touched, but I’m also afraid of what else you two are capable of doing”

“Just wait til you hear her ideas for the wedding.” Charlie chuckled as they headed to her room to tuck her in for the night. He put the little girl into bed and Riley watched the whole scene from the doorway, tears coming to her eyes as it finally sank in that this was her family. Emerson stirred and shifted around, uncomfortable all of a sudden. Charlie cooed at her and assured that she was fine, humming softly to her, something that he often used since the first night he helped her through a nightmare.

“G’night daddy” she mumbled in her sleepy daze, settling back to sleep. Charlie was taken off guard as the new title fell from her mouth. He felt his heart explode and wiped a tear that fell from his eyes.

“Sleep tight Princess” he sniffled, clearing his throat and kissing the top of her head. He pulled another blanket over her frame as she often got cold in the middle of the night. It amazed Riley how much Charlie knew of her daughter despite the amount of time he had been present in their lives. They softly shut the door behind them and walked hand in hand to their room. “Planning the wedding is going to be fun”

“I was thinking we do it in Dieppe or Moncton” Riley suggested, something to which Charlie lit up at. He looked at her with wide eyes in disbelief.

“If you’re pulling an Emerson on me right now, I’m going to be so mad” they had come up with the term ‘pulling an Emerson’ to describe the sarcasm they often received from the little girl. But Charlie became overjoyed as Riley bit her lip and shook her head, confirming that she did in fact want to get married in his hometown.

“We start planning tomorrow”

A/N: if you really want a wedding scene or a glimpse of life after the wedding let me know!

#charlie gillespie #charlie gillespie x reader #charlie gillespie fanfiction #charlie gillespie imagines #fanfiction #imagine #owen joyner

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hockeywhy · 3 years

Text

rock on; t. jost

WARNINGS: none WORD COUNT: 2.2k A/N: I wrote this back when Josty blessed all the goths with his black lipstick and choker and space buns last Halloween, so I thought well, why not re-post it and here it is.

“Babe?”

“Mhm…”

You watch in amusement as Tyson hovers around your makeup table, occasionally picking at an item now and then to inspect it before setting it back in its place. Although he tries to make himself appear as nonchalant as he can, you know there is something on his mind that made him circle around the area for the past half hour or so. You didn’t think much of it initially until he started uncapping some lipsticks, twirling them up for inspection, eyebrows furrowing in concentration before setting them down again. If you didn’t know him for as long as you did, you’d pass off his behaviour as an act of boredom, but you can swear you know him even better than you know yourself at times. There is purpose to his movement, and you’re set on finding out what’s been nagging at him.

“See anything you like?” you ask cautiously, though there’s a hint of amusement in your voice.

“What? No, I was just…” He lifts his shoulders in a shrug, placing a pencil back in its place and for a brief moment, he catches your eyes in the mirror. It isn’t until you arch a brow in silent question that Tyson turns to face you properly. “So, you know how we have that little get together for Halloween tonight?” he questions, and you prompt him to carry on with a quick nod of your head. “Well, since you and Olivia are going to wear matching costumes, Dante and I thought of doing the same thing.”

“Let me guess. You two are finally agreeing with our Flintstones costumes, and will dress as Fred and Barney?”

Tyson chuckles and he shakes his head, almost regretfully. “Not quite. But, uh, do you happen to have a really dark shade of lipstick? Like a dark purple or…black, even?”

You sit up slowly then crawl over to sit closer to the foot of the bed. “I think I do. I’m pretty sure I do. Why do you ask?”

“Well, remember when we watched that Scooby Doo movie and you said you really liked those Hex Girls?”

You’re just a split second away from confirming you remember that because it only happened the previous night. You and Tyson knew you’d be hanging out with a few friends on Halloween night, so you booked off the Eve of it solely for yourselves. The movies were rolling one after the other throughout most of the day and the two of you went from watching genuinely scary films to children’s stuff like Hocus Pocus or Paranorman, though you found that both of you were especially keen on Scooby Doo and the Witch’s Ghost. Whether it had to do with it being such a childhood classic or the familiarity of the characters, you and Tyson made sure you had enough snacks to last you the full run of the movie without either of you having to get up for refills. By the end of it, you were both trying to one-up each other for the best impersonation of the Hex Girls though you barely managed to make it halfway through before giving in to fits of laughter.

The coin dropped then.

“No way…” you exclaimed quietly while Tyson confirmed your guess with a quick nod and a big grin, clearly proud of the decision he and Dante came to at some point and could now finally put it to practice.

“Uh-huh. Well, we’re not dressing up as the Hex Girls but they’re definitely the inspiration, so… Think you can help?”

The sheer excitement of the thought made you squeal and jump up off the bed properly, clapping your hands together, mind already racing through the endless possibilities. Sure, you should probably make a start on putting together your own look for the approaching evening, but this was so much more exciting. Betty Rubble could wait. Tyson in a goth-rock look, however? You had to help him make a start on it – right now.

“I can’t believe you didn’t tell me about this sooner! I could’ve—oh gosh, we could’ve put together so many things!” you exclaimed while circling around him to browse quickly through a few items across the vanity, setting aside some tools in a pile you mentally labelled as the for-consideration pile.

“I trust you with this,” he assured, turning to sit properly in the seat while watching you go through what to him, seemed like endless options. “So, we’re thinking the full works, you know? All black outfits, maybe even makeup to go with it… What do you think?”

“I think this will be the best Halloween,” you confirm to him and press a quick kiss to his mouth for extra measure. Once you straighten up though, something keeps you hovering just behind Tyson to consider him with a slight tilt of your head and a narrowing of your eyes. Almost subconsciously, you bring a hand up to his hair, running your fingers through the curls and the gesture makes him tilt his head back in silent encouragement to keep doing that. “How about space buns?” you ask quietly, almost to yourself and briefly test out the idea by gathering some of his hair to part it. It’s long enough now, and so easy to work with that it’d be too much of a shame to pass on the opportunity. “Please say yes.”

Tyson laughs quietly, reaching back for one of your hands and giving it a light tug so that you can let him guide it to his mouth. He presses a kiss to the heel of your palm and then the inside of your wrist.

“Go for it.”

The fun begins then and though the idea is very much Tyson and Dante’s, the entire process becomes your own.

You dig out an old black denim jacket you almost forgot about and when you both come to the conclusion that it’s probably a little too tight for Tyson around the arms and therefore not quite as rock-and-roll, you take a pair of scissors to it despite his endless string of assurance that surely there’s something else he could use.

“Babe, it has little gems around it. You can’t say no to the early 2000s type gems on clothing,” you tell him in a deadpan voice and that seems to do it just right.

The dressing up part is the easiest and perhaps the most straightforward, but when you finally sit him down at the vanity again so that you can make a start, Tyson makes you line up everything you’ll use so he can take a picture and send it to Dante. Just to make sure that they’ll be as closely matched as possible.

Tyson follows your guidance to a T: he looks up when you line his bottom lash line and looks down when you make a start on his eyelids; he parts his lips a little just before you make a start on lining them (not before exclaiming how good this entire look is coming along and pressing another kiss on his mouth which he returns just before you take a pencil to it) and bites down on a small folded tissue when you tell him.

All the while, you prevent him from trying to glimpse himself in the mirror but after he gets past the first two complaints (“babe, come on I just want to look really quick” and “is it because I don’t fit this at all and you’re trying to soften the blow?”), Tyson simply settles quietly, legs spread just enough to let you stand closer while parting his hair. Occasionally, he’d loosely wrap his arms around your waist or casually caress your sides with his palms but other than that, the entire situation is reminiscent of days from childhood when you and your girlfriends would take turns helping each other with dress-up and sitting as still as possible out of sheer fear the slightest inclination of your body would ruin everything.

It isn’t until you finish doing one of the space buns that you lean back a little to look at him properly, and you can’t help the small giggle that escapes your mouth.

“I think this is it, baby,” you tell him. “This is the costume for you.”

A slight furrow forms on his face and his smile is almost cautious. “I can’t tell if you mean it’s horrifically good or horrifically horrific. Not that I don’t trust your skills!” he corrects quickly, before you even have the chance to consider that in the first place. “I don’t think I’d trust anyone with a pencil anywhere near my eye except you, but I’m pretty sure between the two of us, you’d rock the eyeliner, dark lipstick and space buns better than anyone can.”

You arch an eyebrow but waste no more time getting started on the second bun. “What, you’re telling me you never let Kacey lure you into playing dress up as kids?” There’s a moment of hesitation, so you know you got him. Besides, you’ve seen the photos. Those were some of the first Kacey showed you as soon as Tyson introduced you to his family. “Thought so. Now let me just get this one done and you’ll see you might just give Dusk a run for her money.”

Try as you might though, and you couldn’t tame one of his curls from falling over his forehead and though you had an apparent endless supply of pins, you decided to give them a pass. There is something so incredibly endearing about that one loose strand that refused to be tamed and besides, you figured Instagram would thank you for it if any photos were to go up on the internet. For extra safety, you twirl it around your finger then set it loose before bringing your palms up to hover in front of his eyes.

“Alright, now turn around slowly and I dare you to tell me this isn’t an entire look.”

He does as told and once he’s facing the mirror, you make an entire show out of removing your hands, complete with a ta-dah!

At once, his mouth falls open and slowly, he turns his head one way then the other before tilting it down just enough to catch a full glimpse of the buns sitting atop his head.

“Oh my god…” he mutters, and you can tell his voice is caught somewhere between regret and amusement, so you wrap your arms around his shoulders, bringing your head down to rest on his shoulder after pecking his cheek quickly.

“If Dante came up with this idea, I’m buying him the most lavish box of chocolates. If you came up with this idea, it’ll take a lot to beat it, I promise that,” you assure him and Tyson bursts into embarrassed laughter.

“I look like I’m about to record the remix to an Alice Cooper song.”

“I wanna kiss you but I want it too much. I wanna taste you but your lips are venomous poison,” you quote in a soft sing-song voice and just as you’re about to pull away from him just to add that extra dramatic flair, Tyson catches your wrist and reels you back in towards him gently, meeting you halfway as he stands up.

“Keep going,” he murmurs against your mouth.

You chuckle softly, kissing the corner of his mouth. “Don’t spoil your lipstick so soon, baby. You didn’t even get to show it off to everyone else, so let’s save it for later, okay?”

It isn’t until you emerge from your bedroom almost an hour later after completing your own dress up that you notice Tyson had one extra surprise up his sleeve. He turns towards the sound of your footsteps and gleaming around his neck is a spiked leather choker that makes your jaw fall open. He stretches his arms out and does a slow spin, and when he faces you again, he tips his head back just a little as if to give you a better view.

“Yes? No?” he questions, and you detect a trace of hesitance in his voice.

“Yes,” you confirm, almost breathlessly as you close the gap between the two of you and despite your earlier warning, kiss him even if some of the black lipstick might transfer onto your own hot pink one. It’s no bother, anyway. You have your tube and Tyson’s packed in your clutch.

Just as you’re about to make a move towards the door, however, Tyson stops you and encourages you to do a full spin.

“Wow,” he exclaims, following that up with a low whistle. “It’s really not too late at all for me to get into that Barney costume.”

“Absolutely not,” you state firmly and to make your point even clearer, you quickly push him out of the door. “Betty Rubble and Wilma Flintstone are going to just have a girls’ Halloween get-together and we’ll see our husbands when we get back home. Meanwhile, you and Dante can put on a show worthy of a 2000s middle school goth-rock party. Hey, do you know the lyrics to My Chemical Romance’s I’m Not Okay?”

“I’m not singing My Chemical Romance,” Tyson says quickly, almost stumbling his words in doing so as if saying it any slower would mean he’d have to do it right there and then.

“Oh, you are so singing My Chemical Romance,” you say softly, voice taking on that sing-song tone again and burst into laughter as Tyson groans, gently bumping his head against the steering wheel.

#tyson jost #tyson jost imagine #tyson jost fic #nhl imagine #nhl fanfic #nhl fic #*#remember when tyson just decided to win halloween????? remember that????#i just thought of it randomly today and i was like holy shit #he makes me miss doing my own hair up in space buns so i think i will tomorrow lol

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feelyourhearttakingroot · 3 years

Text

The Reader's Guide to Avoiding Redfly (and how to have a good time doing it)

“How’re you doing, kid?” Tom murmured in your ear. Your skin hadn’t started crawling yet, but it definitely would soon.

“Redfly, leave the girl alone.”

A third voice - the voice of God himself, if it meant that Tom would let you go.

Summary: Your friend Dina is dating Benny Miller, and drags you along to one of his fights before a night at a bar. His friends meet you there - Tom ‘Redfly’ Davis, who is too busy trying it on with you to think about his wife; Santiago ‘Pope’ Garcia, who is a god made flesh; and Frankie ‘Catfish’ Morales, who agrees to help keep you out of Redfly’s clutches. But Frankie is not without his own charm...

Relationships: Frankie Morales x reader, side Santiago Garcia x Original Female Character, side Benny Miller x Original Female Character

Rating: First chapter is Mature, but it will be getting Explicit after that...

Author’s note: I saw Triple Frontier last week for the first time and it has occupied my every waking thought since then. This is my first ‘x reader’ fic, so feedback is appreciated. Benny is my darling boy and I want to write him a loving af relationship even if it’s in the bg of this fic. I also don’t mean to step on toes but Redfly is the worst man and deserved to die a lot earlier than he did in the film. I am also obviously obsessed with Frankie Morales. Sorry if the formatting is fucked, this is the first fic I’ve posted directly to Tumblr in many’a.

Warnings: 18+ for frequent language, she/her pronouns, future smut but this chapter is just teasing.

Read on AO3.

Chapter One

The Fight

“The fight ends at 9pm, so we’ll be good to get to the bar by 9.30,” Dina said, leaning to within a hair's breadth of the bathroom mirror. Your arms twitched, hands opening and closing as you watched the safety pin come even closer to her eyeball.

“Dina, do you have to- the fight?”

“Yes, I need to separate my eyelashes, and yes, the fight.” She said, tongue peeping out between her lips. “Benny is fighting and he’s going to come with us to the bar afterwards.”

Your heart sank, just a little. Benny was a great guy, and you were happy for Dina, but it was always harder to get into bars when Benny ‘Brick Shithouse’ Miller rocked up with facial wounds and an ego after inevitably winning the fight.

Apparently their post-fight sex was insane.

“So it’s you, me, and Benny?” you asked flatly, and she rolled her eyes in a way that made your hands clench into fists, with a vivid mental image of the pin sinking into her eyeball. She ignored you, of course, and started on the bottom lid.

“No, you prick,” she said, teasing each lash apart. She paused, and winked at you through the mirror “Ha. Prick! Get it? Sandy, Amy and Kelly are joining us - and Benny is bringing his friends.”

“William and Tom?” You were trying so hard not to be a downer, you really were, but you’d met William and Tom before and it was not a great experience. William - Benny’s brother - was aesthetically pleasing, and a lovely guy, but way too earnest about the purity of combat, while Tom was… a douche. A douche who clearly enjoyed his nights away from the wife a little too much. “Great.”

“Not just Will and Tom,” she chided, finally putting down the pin and fluttering her eyelashes at her reflection. “A few of his old squad guys are coming too.”

“OK then,” you said, and turned to leave.

“Where are you going?” Dina called.

“To get another drink.”

Based on the MMA prelude, you decided to rethink your outfit to something a bit less… showy, and had poured yourself into a skintight skirt with a shirt that helped accentuate your decolletage just right. So right, in fact, that you’d forgone a sensible coat in favour of a leather jacket that didn’t even close properly. The clothes did little to shield you from the cold, which explained why you had chugged nearly half a bottle of Smirnoff in the cab over.

-----------------

Dina looked every inch the fighter’s girlfriend, she really did. You didn’t even know she owned a faux-fur coat. Her meticulously-separated eyelashes were currently fluttered together, shielding her eyes from her cigarette smoke.

Not that it helped. Your buzz was fading fast with every second you stood out in the freezing cold parking lot.

Sandy hadn’t bothered to change her outfit - “Fuck it, it can’t be any dirtier than the bar.” - and was leaning against the arena wall wearing a mini dress that practically showed what she had eaten for breakfast. The woman had legs up to her neck, and more than one man had slowed his passage into the arena to get a good look. Sandy, with legs that long since she was fifteen, and a face that had been beautiful her whole life, flipped each one off with a casual laziness you could never hope to emulate.

The three of you were standing outside the arena waiting for Tom and the others to arrive. The crowd was known to get rowdy, and Benny had been very firm with Dina about going in with his friends. William was already inside with Benny, prepping him for the fight.

It was so cold you were nearly tempted to ask Dina for a pull of her cigarette, just to feel some warm air, when -

“Dee!”

Your face locked into a grimace, and you looked down to kick a loose pebble from under your shoe, trying to regain control of your facial muscles by the time Tom got close.

“Tommy!” Dina yelled. “You’re late, what the hell?”

“Don’t blame me,” Tom said, “Blame these assholes.”

Two sets of denim-wrapped legs stepped into your view, and you huffed out a little sigh before looking up. Tom was standing in front of you, with his friend on his right.

His friend. Who was the most gorgeous man you’d ever seen. He smiled at you, and you felt a small laugh escape you.

What was that face? He looked like a Latino George Clooney. How did he get taken seriously in life?

“Hey, tiger,” Tom said to you, his lopsided smile showing a little too much teeth on one side.

“Hey… Tom.” you replied, raising a hand in greeting. He made a little ‘pfft’ sound and pulled you in for a hug, enveloping you in the smell of… dear god, was that Axe?

You heard the crunch of gravel, and a movement out of the corner of your eye told you that the devilishly handsome man was currently introducing himself to Sandy.

Probably wouldn’t have worked out with us anyway.

“How’re you doing, kid?” Tom murmured in your ear. Your skin hadn’t started crawling yet, but it definitely would soon.

“Redfly, leave the girl alone.”

A third voice - the voice of God himself, if it meant that Tom would let you go.

“This is my girl right here, Frankie.” Tom said, and the proprietary tone in his voice made your stomach turn. You should have just met them at the bar.

“Crazy, I thought your girl was sitting at home looking after your daughter and -” the second half of the sentence was in mumbled Spanish, and you heard a bark of laughter from the handsome man. A quick, rough pat on the back and Tom released you, already walking into the building as if nothing had happened.

The speaker was standing in front of you; a tall-ish man wearing a blue plaid shirt over a grey tank top, with a beat-up baseball cap on his head. Just as the phrase ‘hillbilly trucker’ crossed your mind, every thought in your head promptly vanished on looking up into his face. A pair of warm brown eyes were gazing down at you, creasing gently at the corners. He wasn’t built like Tom or William; they slanted more towards beefcake, where this guy was toned and slim. He was older than you - not a surprise, William and Tom were in at least their mid-40s - but it was a very manageable older. Unruly, curling brown hair peeked out from under his cap, and the man smiled, a shadow of a dimple appearing on his cheek.

The other guy was crazy good-looking in a movie-star way, the sort of hot that had made you laugh because it was almost unreal. This guy was the perfect side of handsome, mortal enough to take your breath away just a little and not make you feel stupid about it.

“Hey,” he said. “I’m Frankie.”

Maybe it was the dimples, maybe it was the fact that he had just saved you from a fate worse than death, or maybe the cold had finally gotten to your brain. Whatever it was, you barely knew what you were saying until you’d said it:

“And I am so fucking yours.”

So much for not feeling stupid. His smile widened, and your heartbeat quickened just a bit.

“Ignore Redfly,” he said. “He just doesn’t have good manners.”

Another burst of Spanish from behind you, from the dark-eyed Adonis near the door, and Frankie replied in kind, with an evocative hand gesture that you were pretty sure meant ‘fuck off’.

You finally turned to get a good look at the other man. He was standing in front of your friends, angled towards Sandy in a way that boded well for her. He was terribly good-looking.

“Hey, how’re you doing?” he leaned toward you, and took your hand in his. “Santiago Garcia.”

The man was on another level. You felt like you were meeting a politician. You told him your name as if in a dream.

“That’s a beautiful name,” he said, looking into your soul, and you felt that laugh bubble up again. This was too much all at once.

Dina blew out one last plume of smoke, and threw her cigarette butt on the ground.

“Come on guys, it’s fucking freezing out here.”

----------------------------------------

The arena was chaos. Tom was nowhere to be seen, but he could have been standing two feet from you and you wouldn’t have seen him. He could have been behind you.

As the thought crossed your mind, a hand came to rest on your hip and you jumped sideways, ready to kick Tom in the fucki-

It was Frankie, hands suddenly up and visible, mouth framing a ‘whoa’ that you could never hear over the din of the crowd. You grimaced, mouthing sorry.

He gave you a tight-lipped smile, uncomfortable, and stuffed his hands in his pockets. He craned his neck to look over the crowd, toward the ring, and you stepped quickly toward him. Your hand raised, like you had the right answer in a classroom, and you tilted your mouth up towards Frankie’s ear. He scrunched his face and bent his head towards yours.

“Sorry,” you said into his ear, trying not to deafen him at this range. He smelled warm, and clean, a welcome respite from the arena’s smell of old beer and sweat. “I thought it might be…” one of your best friends, whom I loathe. “... a creep.” you finished lamely.

When you pulled away, he was looking at you so intently that a blush started to creep up your neck. Hands still in his pockets, he rocked back and forth on his heels as he processed what you said. His tongue worked in his mouth, pushing out his cheek, before he winked ever so slightly, and nodded.

He knew. He damn well knew.

Frankie grinned and pointed towards the ring, to where your friends had disappeared, before nudging you forward.

------------------------------------

Dina and the others were sitting ringside, by Benny’s corner. Dina had shrugged her coat in the sticky closeness of the arena, and was adjusting her top for maximum cleavage. Beside her was Sandy, deep in conversation with Santiago, and Tom sat beside Santiago next to an empty chair.

The single empty chair.

Fucks sake.

Tom saw you both coming, and had a look of fake disappointment on his face that your hands twitched to slap off. He held his hands up in defeat, before patting his thigh. A quick scan showed that this wasn’t an uncommon occurrence in the arena; the place was jammed so tightly that you counted at least seven people on laps in this section alone. A fire hazard, and a pain in the ass.

You’re fucking kidding me.

You went to take a step, and felt a hand grip your arm. Frankie was sliding past you on your right, pivoting to sit in the empty chair. A shit-eating grin slid onto Tom’s face, and he patted his thigh again.

You’re fucking kidding me.

Frankie still held your arm loosely in his left hand. Reaching over Tom, he nudged Santiago, who broke off from his conversation long enough to pass him a beer. Settling back into his seat, Frankie spread his legs a little too wide and steered you into the space between them.

He looked up at you under the brim of his cap, his face out of Tom’s eyeline. The corners of his mouth curved downward and one shoulder shrugged, as if to say ‘Why not?’.

Lightheaded, floating on a mental chant of fucking hell fucking hell fucking hell fucking hell, you perched on Frankie’s knee, your knees pressing against his other leg. A quick glance at Tom’s face nearly made you yelp. The ham-coloured man was staring sullenly out over the ring, lips pursed around his mouthful of beer. The smile was nowhere to be seen.

Frankie shifted slightly, and with one hand on your waist pulled you closer until you were sitting mid-thigh. When he was satisfied, his hand moved to settle against your lower back, keeping you upright. The shape of the seat had his body angled away from you, allowing you to sit upright without being nestled against him. He leaned towards Tom and said something in his ear, something you could barely hear over the din. It was as if he’d forgotten you were there.

But not quite. Slowly, as if you were a wild animal he was trying to tame, his hand started to move in gradual, broad strokes, forward and back, forward and back.

Your stomach muscles locking tight was your only visible reaction, and you thanked baby Jesus and all the angels in heaven that Frankie couldn’t feel the way your pulse had suddenly picked up. Though that might not be far off; there was a warm throbbing between your legs that definitely hadn’t been there two minutes ago.

Forward and back. Forward and back.

This was totally normal. This happened to you every day. Every day you met hot guys and sat on their laps. Every day you got mildly turned on by hot guys stroking your back.

Looking over at Dina, the two of you locked eyes. Her grin was positively wolfish.

Fuck off, you mouthed.

You looked around, hoping that the people-watching fodder available would help take your mind off the hot man you were sitting on and what his hand was -

As if Frankie could hear your thoughts, the rhythm of his strokes changed. Now, instead of moving forward and back, his palm started sliding up and down, with every pass downward bringing his hand closer and closer to the curve of your ass.

For a fraction of a second, your breath caught in your throat, and the pulse between your legs kicked up a notch. Trying to keep your cool, you casually - so casually! - looked over at Frankie.

Still absorbed in conversation with Tom. Fine. He clearly had no idea what he was doing, no idea of the effect he was having.

Your awareness was steadily narrowing down to where his hand touched you, to the vague sensation of warmth that each pass left on your skin. Reaching the hem of your jacket, he paused almost imperceptibly, before reaching under the leather to rest on the back of your shirt.

Dear god, were you disappointed he wasn’t touching your ass? Were you actually sad that this stranger wasn’t -

A radiating sensation on your back, so warm and firm, and suddenly you could feel every little movement his hand made, the way his fingers were flexing against your skin so gently -

Air you didn’t realise you had been holding escaped your lungs in a whoosh.

“Getting bored up there, tiger?” Tom’s expression wasn’t as friendly as it normally was, and you were reminded why all of this was happening. This was purely for Tom’s benefit.

“No, it’s fine. It’s…” you looked down at Frankie as he took a sip of his beer. His eyes met yours over the rim of his beer cup, and a smile crept across your face. When the cup left his lips, you took it deftly from his fingers and lifted it to your mouth. Your gaze didn’t leave his. Tom may as well have been part of the furniture.

The beer was not good, but you finished it, and ran your tongue over your lips. Frankie’s eyes tracked the movement, and you felt his hand pause, felt his fingers splay wide across the small of your back.

“It’s great,” you said, winking down at him. “But I think we need another drink.”

You placed a hand on his knee for leverage, and stood. Dina saluted you with her nearly-empty drink, and tapped at the low liquid level with one long fingernail. You nodded, and flashed the OK sign.

A broad chest blocked your view, and the smell of Axe surrounded you. You glanced up at Tom, who was shaking his own empty cup.

“I’ll come too,” he said. “I could do with another-”

“It’s cool, man,” Frankie stood, easily slotting himself between the two of you, and gently but firmly took hold of your shoulders as he turned to the exit. “I got it.”

Empty cups and debris were strewn across the aisle, and you were beginning to regret wearing your heels for what was shaping up to be a fucking obstacle course. But you felt Frankie’s presence behind you, and if you put a little more sway into your walk than normal, so what?

Between a few stragglers at the bar, there was a gap just wide enough for the two of you to lean against the counter. You rested on your forearms, and flagged down the bartender.

------------------------------------

“Two beers, and a whiskey and coke.”

“Make it four,” Frankie said. “I know it may not seem like it, but it is better to get Redfly liquored up. After about,” - his hand made a see-saw motion - “six drinks? He’s going to get real maudlin, start missing his wife, and go home.”

“Oh, yeah,” you replied, “He’s really missing his wife when he’s trying to put his hand up my skirt.”

His eyes flickered up and down your body, and he cleared his throat. One hand came up to scratch at his moustache, before smoothing it back down.

“You know, I don’t blame him,” he said. “That skirt looks great on you.”

A low warmth pooled in your stomach, and you smiled. He smiled back, those beautiful eyes twinkling as he turned around to face the arena, elbows back on the bar.

“If I… go too far, in there,” he said, face suddenly serious. “You can just punch me in the face. I don't want to make you feel uncomfortable.”

The bartender laid your whiskey and coke down in front of you, and pulled out two cups for the beer.

“Two more of those, please,” you told her, and took a sip of your drink. You knew you were a bit of a savage for drinking whiskey with coke, but your sweet tooth demanded nothing less. “Frankie, I’m not really OK with the idea of ‘being saved’.”

“That’s fair,” Frankie turned to the bar, and rapped a quick tattoo on the wood. “When we get back in there, you take the seat and I’ll -”

“But,” you raised a finger. “Your lap is pretty comfortable. And if you’re OK with having my ass on your knee all night, then I’m happy to stay there.”

A laugh escaped him, and you found yourself appreciating the way his moustache framed his lips so perfectly.

“I think you’d be hard pushed to find a man who wouldn’t be OK with that deal.”

The bartender laid down four cups of beer. “$25.60.”

Frankie laid out three $10 bills, and pulled the cups closer.

“Do you think you could make sure Tom doesn’t put his hand up my skirt?”

He was intent on arranging the cups in a way he could carry them, to the point that you thought he hadn’t heard you. Just as you were about to repeat yourself, he flashed you a wicked look.

“Well sweetheart,” he smiled, “I’ll just have to get my hand there first.”

------------------------------------

As soon as you sat back down, it was like a switch had flipped. Your conversation at the bar had been light, to the point where you’d nearly forgotten that you’d actually been turned on a little at sitting on Frankie’s lap.

When you got back to your seats, and Frankie had handed off the beers he was carrying, he sat and pulled you down onto his lap in one fluid movement. No more tentative movements; he held your waist firmly, and pulled you even closer than before. And now, not only was his hand stroking your back again - he had put it under your jacket straight away - but his other arm was now resting on your leg. His beer cup sat on your knee, below where the hem of your skirt rode up, and he rotated it gently on your bare skin, almost teasing you with the cool feeling of the condensation on the base.

It drove you just a little short of wild. Though part of you wanted to shift against his thigh, wanted to feel some pressure right where an ache was steadily building between your legs, you kept it together fairly admirably.

A wet patch on Frankies jeans probably wouldn't go down too well anyway.

A murmur from the crowd rolled towards the ring, and Pantera’s heavy guitar riff blasted through the speakers.

Benny was here.

------------------------------------

Ringside seats were… certainly something.

The smell of blood hummed in your nostrils, and you felt the impact of every punch.

Benny was a monster. He had swaggered into the arena, head and shoulders above everyone, and proceeded to hammer the shit out of his opponent once the bell rang. Watching the way Dina was looking at him, you were very, very glad they were going back to Benny’s place tonight.

The six of you were standing at the ring edge, screaming and roaring with the crowd. Your blood was singing. Sitting on Frankie’s lap, his hands leaving trails of fire wherever they touched you, had rattled you something fierce, and the adrenaline from the fight was getting to you too. You didn’t think your pulse had slowed for about ten minutes, and you were breathing like you were climbing a mountain.

It was the last minute of the last round, and Benny was flagging.

You guessed. You really had no idea who was doing better, both fighters were covered in blood and looked tired as fuck.

Santiago, Dina and Tom were rattling the cage, howling through the wire at Benny. The man was intent on his opponent, never taking his eyes off him.

As you watched, Benny did an odd movement, stepping back, rotating his shoulders and head as his feet danced. You heard roars come from your friends, but were completely lost.

“He’s about to kick the guy’s head off his fucking shoulders,” Frankie’s voice was low, and close. You felt his nose brush the outer shell of his ear, and you suppressed a shiver as his breath ghosted over you. He was standing behind you, so close that you felt his warmth up your body from ankle to neck. He reached over your shoulder, and pointed up at Benny’s right foot.

“You see that?”

Benny’s foot was moving in a fan shape on the floor of the ring. He dodged as much as he needed to to evade blows, but whenever he was still his foot moved in that fan shape.

“Why is he waiting?” Turning your head, your nose brushed against Frankie’s jawline. He smiled down at you.

“Not long now, sweetheart,” he said. “Watch.”

He stepped closer until he stood flush against your back, and crossed his arms over your chest to grip his own elbows. His beard brushed against your cheekbone, and you found yourself nestling further into his hold. He was just so warm and solid and -

Benny moved like lightning. His opponent came too close, ever so slightly unguarded, and Benny pivoted on his left foot and -

“Fuck!” you screamed. Benny’s opponent hit the floor, and the arena erupted.

===> Chapter Two

#triple frontier #frankie morales #francisco 'catfish' morales #santiago 'pope' garcia #william 'ironhead' miller #benny miller #tom 'redfly' davis #frankie morales x reader #frankie morales x you #fic #santiago garcia x ofc #benny miller x ofc #The Reader’s Guide to Avoiding Redfly #trgtar

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