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leftoverenvy · 3 months

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Tastes Like Sugar (ch. 30)

Summary: India Mae, or Indi, is a music major, struggling to pay bills, tuition, work, and make good grades. Emily Prentiss is a BAU profiler, as well as a DC socialite thanks to her huge family fortune. The two enter into a mutually beneficial arrangement: Emily will pay for Indi's school if Indi accompanies Emily to her social functions for a few months, posing as her girlfriend. As weeks go by, the lines between their arrangement and their true feelings start to blur. But money can't buy love, right?

Pairing: India Mae Banks x Emily Prentiss; OC x Emily Prentiss

Warnings: smut; sugar baby relationships; age gap (16 years - but all over 18)

Word Count: 3.7k

Read on Wattpad | Ao3 | Previous Chapters

Taglist: @ssa-sapphic 🧸; @5raysofsunshine 🌮; @reidselle 🦭; @swiftfiles 🐝💚; @gaelic-symphony 🎻 ; @sadgirlml 🌻💌; @hotchs-bitch 🦆 ; @multiverse-mxdness ; @madelineleong ; @scorpsik 🎨 ; @heidss

A/n: Watch out for POV shifting in this chapter!

Chapter 30 - Reconciliation

Indi's POV: I stared at the ceiling, my eyes uncomfortable from the ceiling fan drying them out. It was an insignificant ache compared to the one in my heart. Alone I laid. Aching for Emily's arms. With each whirl of the fan I was reminded of each minute passing without fixing what I had messed up.

My night in the city was horrible. It was unbearable to go to bed knowing I had ruined everything with Emily. And as I laid in my tiny bed in my tiny DC apartment, I couldn't help but be annoyed by the sound. Cars were constantly honking, people shouting at all hours of the night. How had I ever preferred this cacophony of meaningless noise? I missed the peaceful babble of the creek and Emily's soft breathing next to me.

As I continued to watch the fan swirl dust particles above my head, I couldn't help the tears that leaked from the corners of my eyes. How could I have left all of that behind? What did I stand to gain by running back to my old life in DC? But Emily was gone. She didn't stop me; she wanted me gone. I had overstayed my welcome in her life.

This was only supposed to be temporary I reminded myself.

Penelope let me be for the night, asking minimal questions about why I had returned home in shambles and tucking me into bed. The only measure of time was the rotations of the ceiling fan and, hours later, the sun peaking over the horizon. Still, I could not sleep. Penelope snuck around the apartment as she got ready for work, trying not to disturb me. Still, I remained tucked away in my bed staring at nothing.

When Penelope returned home from work, she burst through my door without knocking. "What's wrong?" she demanded. I didn't bother to look away from the ceiling, the evening light catching the crystal on the end of the fan pull, refracting the light. "Seriously. Talk to me. Derek said Emily called in today. Spill it."

A breath caught in the back of my throat. Why should Emily take off work? I didn't dare let myself believe it was because she was just as upset as me. But it hurt to think that she was hurting.

Penelope moved into the room and sat at the edge of my bed. "Indi you cannot stay holed up in your room sulking forever. What happened?"

I sat up, tucking my legs up to my chest and curling my arms around them. I opened my mouth to respond but I had no idea how to explain what happened. I laid my head on my knees and sighed.

"Did she touch you without permission?"

I whipped my head up in horror. "Of course not!"

"Then what? Take your money away?"

I shook my head. "It's nothing like that, Pen."

"Talk to me, Indi. I hate seeing you like this."

"She told me she loved me," I started.

"And that's bad because…?"

I sighed. "It isn't like how the tabloids have been showing it. This was all just supposed to be a way to get through school. I wasn't supposed to…" I trailed off unsure how much to share.

"You fell for her."

"Bad. I just don't belong in her world," I lamented. "I'm not good for her. And now she's never going to know how I feel because I left all because of a stupid car."

Penelope crinkled her eyebrows in confusion. "You lost me…"

"My car died. And Emily took care of everything. Like, she had it towed and had a mechanic look at it. And it was so so sweet of her. I was just so stressed about paying that bill so I was already on edge," I said without taking a breath. "And then when I got home from school yesterday, Emily had already bought me a brand new fucking Audi. Can you believe that? She's just throwing tens of thousands of dollars away, spending that kind of money on me without a second thought."

I paused, trying to figure out why this had been such an issue for me at all. "I just got overwhelmed. I'm not worth it, ya know? And I just got trapped in my head. Because how could Emily, perfect Emily, want anything to do with me? I'm-"

"But that isn't for you to decide, is it?" Penelope interrupted. "Shouldn't Emily get to decide what's worth it? To have in her life? To spend money on?"

"Yes," I whispered. "Yes, she should. I just can't fathom why she'd choose me. And I flipped out yesterday."

"Nothing's unfixable, Indi."

Tears leaked out of my eyes, overwhelmed with sadness again. "She didn't come after me, Pen." I pawed angrily at my tears, angry that they revealed how vulnerable I was truly feeling. "She just let me leave because she doesn't want this anymore." It all felt hopeless. Even though Penelope had said anything could be fixed, I just couldn't believe that this could. I'd messed up too badly.

"Did she tell you that?" she asked knowingly.

"She didn't have to." Penelope raised one eyebrow at me.

Before I could respond, Penelope exclaimed, "Wait! If your car died, how did you get here?"

I turned my head to stare at the car key sitting on my bedside table. I laughed dryly at the irony. Four, silver rings of the Audi logo shined back at me mockingly. I reached over and flashed the new key to Penelope.

"You owe Emily one hell of an apology," Penelope joked.

______________________________

Emily's POV: When the garage door closed after Indi, I flopped on the couch in defeat. She wouldn't even look at me as she scurried out of the house, bag in tow. And why should she? I had overstepped. I had scared her by telling her how I felt. We never agreed this was for love. How stupid I was to let my guard down and fall for her. After all, we had agreed what this was from the start. How could I expect her to feel the same for someone sixteen years older than her?

But how could I expect to be the same without her?

I looked around my empty house. She was everywhere; there wasn't a single inch of this place that wasn't marked by her. I thought about how on this very couch, we shared our first kiss, her thighs straddling mine. I let my eyes wander over to the kitchen island where countless times I had picked her up and sat her on the counter because I just couldn't stand to go a second longer without her lips on mine. I stared at the piano imagining all the times she sat there and how beautiful she was when she immersed herself in the music. Now, the only sound was the deafening tick of the clock passing each second she spent speeding away from me back towards her real home.

I couldn't stand to stare at the piano any longer. Just days ago she had sat on that very bench and played a song written for me. I shook my head at how foolish I had been to read more into it than was there. I remembered how mesmerized I had been by her fingers trailing over the keys, and how it led me to trail my own down her body as a thank you.

I stormed out of the room, sick at the memory. Sick at the realization she'd never be mine to touch like that again.

But she followed me like a ghost in my own home. When I laid down to sleep later that evening, I could still smell her on my sheets. I inhaled deeply, trying to absorb as much as I could. I wasn't one to cry, but Indi's absence left me desolate. Tears stained her pillow as I buried my face in it to be as close to her as possible. This was the closest I'd ever get to her again.

I barely slept that night, tossing and turning, mad at everything. Mad at the cold, empty sheets next to me. Mad at the universe for introducing such an angel into my life and then cruelly ripping her away. Mad at the crickets chirping away outside preventing me from falling asleep. Above all else, mad at myself for letting her walk out the door without protest.

All night, I wrestled with what it meant that she left. But she had left in the Audi. Was that her silent message that she'd be back? That she didn't hate me? I didn't dare let myself think it might mean she loved me too. But she left. Of course she wasn't coming back. She got what she wanted; she didn't need me anymore.

My phone ringing startled me awake around 6:15. Groggily, I rolled over to grab it, wondering how I had fallen asleep with such a heavy heart. "Hello?" I mumbled.

"Em!" JJ greeted. It sounded so wrong out of her mouth. She didn't say it right. It wasn't sweet like when Indi said it. It almost sounded condescending, even as a greeting at six in the morning. "We have a case."

I groaned, flopped on my back and put my hand over my eyes. No no no. I couldn't leave the state now. I had to make sure India was sure in her decision. Not to mention, I'd be absolutely useless right now. "No," I whispered. "I can't make this one. I'll call Hotch to tell him."

"What's wrong?" she asked. My skin crawled at the entitlement in her voice – like she deserved to know anything about my personal life.

"Nothing, JJ," I sighed. "Just leave it alone."

"I know something's wrong." Her voice softened, "You can talk to me; I'm still always here for you."

To shuffle her off the phone, I placated her, "Thanks, JJ. I'll keep that in mind."

"Is it her?" she asked with distaste. I refused to answer. "Look, we all went along with this for a while because you seemed happy. But what are you doing? You should be with someone a little more appropriate…you know, for your age."

A tear leaked from the corner of my eye. I know, I thought. Because India deserved someone who wasn't always jet setting across the country, someone who wasn't near two decades older than her. But there wasn't anyone better suited for me.

Changing the subject to avoid any further conversation with JJ, I reminded her, "I'll tell Hotch I'm calling out for this case," and hung up before she had a chance to say anything else.

I quickly sent a text to Hotch: Need time off. Calling out for this case.

It wouldn't have been unfair for him to question why, but I was thankful when he sent a simple: OK. I'm here for anything you may need.

I exhaled a sigh of relief. I tried to fall back asleep, but was incapable of shutting my mind off. Was it a mistake to call out? What if India didn't come back? Was I just supposed to call out the rest of my life waiting for her to love me back?

I laid in bed another forty-five minutes waiting for sleep to claim me again. I squeezed my eyes closed tightly, begging my mind to shut down long enough to get some sleep. But the harder I tried to quiet my thoughts, the more insistent they became.

I had to do something – anything – to distract my mind. I rolled out of bed and wandered into my office to draw. I grabbed my favorite sketchbook and pencil set. Immediately, my hand started flying over the page. Quick, dark, angry lines. I filled page after page of a dark horizon, storm clouds looming large over a tree line. I flipped to a clean page, begging myself to draw something less dramatic.

I considered drawing Indi, but I thought seeing her face looking back at mine, even if just a sketch, would hurt too badly. I sighed and set the pencil down. Sketching wasn't going to cut it today. I needed an outlet for this boiling anger inside me. I quickly tied my hair back, grabbed my gun and left for Quantico. I needed to hit the range.

Once I got there, I tried to sneak in the side door, curious if the team had left or if I'd run into them in the building. That would be horribly awkward to explain.

Once I made it to the shooting range safely, I clipped a paper target up and slid it back into place. The lingering smell of gunpowder was calming, familiar. I widened my stance, and lifted my gun, rapidly firing several rounds in a row. Before I knew it, I had emptied my clip into the chest of the target.

I fired bullet after bullet and loaded clip after clip, tearing the paper target to shreds. But none of my anger faded.

Who was I really angry with? When I tried to parse it out, I realized I wasn't angry at all. I was devastatingly, crushingly hurt. Was my love so repugnant that India would rather leave than be loved by me? Is that why everyone in my life always ended up leaving?

Of all the heartbreak I had had, none hurt like this. It was as if when she packed up her belongings, she reached in my chest and took my heart with her. It didn't matter though, because everything I had – everything I was – was India. Whether she returned my affection or not didn't matter. I would never love anyone like I did India Mae Banks.

I felt my phone vibrate in my pocket. Hopeful it was Indi, I nearly dropped my gun to empty my hands as quickly as possible. Disappointment crashed over me when I saw it wasn't Indi calling, but my mother. I considered sending it to voicemail. After all, how could I possibly endure a conversation with JJ and my mother in the same day? Ultimately, I thought a small part of me wanted to talk to my mother. I longed to have that close relationship where we could talk about things like this.

"Hi, mom," I answered softly.

"Emily! It's wonderful to hear from you. How have you been?"

"I'm well," I lied. "And you?"

"All good, not much is new, I'm afraid. How are things with India?"

My breath caught in the back of my throat, tears welling in my eyes at just thinking about talking about her. "Uh, well." I bit at my nail, residue of gun powder bitter on my tongue. "She's…"

"What's wrong?" she asked gently.

"I guess we've just run our course," I lamented. I couldn't get into it all because I refused to tell my mother India had just been a ruse to prevent her from nagging me about being single.

"Oh I doubt that very much. You two looked so in love the last time I saw you." My eyebrows raised in surprise. She had been incredibly unpleasant the entire evening of the gallery opening. I had thought she hated Indi based on the age gap alone. "Emily, I know you probably won't really tell me what's going on – you've always been so closed off. But if she's important, don't let your walls and pride become a barrier to you patching things up.

"You have a hard job," she continued. "You always have. You deserve whoever makes you happy."

Tears streamed down my face. "I don't deserve her," I whispered.

"Do you wonder if she feels the same? Emily, we come from money, status. You're a beautiful and intelligent woman." My thoughts reeled. My mother had never had a kind word to say, preferring to highlight all my shortcomings as a daughter, instead. "Isn't it possible she thinks she isn't good for you?"

"I'll think about it, okay?"

"Don't think about it too long, or you'll lose the one you love."

When she disconnected the call, my heart was pounding in my chest. Could Indi be feeling as insecure as me? As much as I hated to admit it, my mother was right: I needed to put my pride aside. I couldn't give up so easily, sulking alone and feeling sorry for myself. I had to give it one more shot; I had pouted long enough. I wouldn't let her leave us behind like this. This wouldn't be the end of us – we were too special to end like this. I wouldn't let us fizzle out all because I was too proud to ask how she felt about us. I quickly cleaned my gun and re-holstered it, eager to get into the city.

I scrolled through India and I's first messages to confirm her old address, silently praying she did actually go back to her old apartment. Once I punched it into the GPS, I peeled out of the parking lot. Please be home. When I parked, I practically ran up to her door, cursing myself for not rehearsing the best way to apologize to her. Before I could talk myself out of it, I knocked three times.

______________________________

Indi's POV: "Just go back, Indi," Penelope encouraged.

"I can't!" I whined. "She probably hates me now. I left after she told me she loved me."

"I guarantee you she doesn't hate you."

Petulantly, I asked, "How would you know?"

"Because!" she huffed. "Derek talks about what a change he's seen in Emily. You don't know how she was at work and how she is now. He said she just lights up when she's texting now. No doubt that's because of you."

Butterflies fluttered lightly in my abdomen. Could it be true? I snapped back to reality. "But that was before!" More softly, "I've ruined that now."

"At least call her," Penelope tried again. She had been trying for an hour to get me to reach out to Emily, gently reminding me how stupid I had been.

"What would I even say? I messed up so bad."

"Tell her how you feel. Tell her-" Three quick knocks interrupted Penelope.

I quirked an eyebrow at her. "Who's that?"

Excitement lit Penelope's eyes. "I have a hunch," she said knowingly. A confusing melange of emotions welled up inside me. Excitement that it could be Emily coming to fix things. Dread that it could be Emily returning my belongings. Anticipated disappointment that it wasn't Emily at all. I smoothed my frizzy curls down and tucked stray hairs behind my ears, certain my hair looked wretched after laying in bed all day. "Get it," she hissed, gesturing to the door.

Before my nerves could talk myself out of it, I pulled the door open, gasping at seeing Emily. For a moment, we just stared at each other, drinking the other in. My heart clenched at seeing her; she was so beautiful. I wouldn't survive hearing her tell me this was over. I looked down, begging my eyes to stay dry.

"I'm sorry!" we blurted at the same time. I wrinkled my brows in confusion.

"What do you have to be sorry for?" I asked.

"It was too much. I didn't mean to overwhelm you. And I didn't think about how a big purchase would make you feel." I couldn't say anything, overwhelmed by her extending a peace offering, by giving me a second chance. "I'm also sorry for telling you I loved you. We haven't talked enough about our relationship for that to have been fair to just spring on you."

I chuckled ruefully. Emily Prentiss was truly the perfect woman and there wasn't even a small part of me that deserved her. Before I dove in head first, I needed to try one more time to get her to see that she deserved so much more than me. I couldn't help it. I knew that I wouldn't be able to give her up a second time. "You're too good for me, Emily. I don't belong with you. You're so perfect, and I'm just…not," I finished lamely. "I'm so flawed. What could you possibly want with me?"

She cupped my face, a gentle smiling playing at her lips. "Baby, I know you're not perfect. But you're perfect for me. And I want it all with you. I need you." She looked deeply in my eyes, begging me to understand. "Please come home."

The way she said 'come home' broke my heart. So achingly sweet and desolate. A tear escaped, and she swiped it gently with her thumb. Maybe it was possible she needed me as much as I needed her.

All I had ever wanted was home, and Emily had become home for me. I fled Washington trying to escape memories of home and family so brutally taken from me, but I'd been so unhappy in DC without home or family. Then I had found both in Emily, and by some miracle, I hadn't ruined it. She still wanted it too. "Yes," I agreed.

An enormous smile slowly spread across her face, showing her perfect teeth. It made my heart skip a beat, how astonishingly beautiful she was. "Yeah?" she asked incredulously.

I pulled her face down to mine for a kiss, silently promising my future to her. She tried to deepen it, her smile preventing her from succeeding. I pulled back, breaking our kiss. "No," she whined, pressing her lips back to mine, her hand wrapping around my waist to pull me closer.

"Wait," I said arching my back slightly over her arm so I could look deeply in her eyes. "I love you, too." If it were possible, her smile grew even wider. "I love you so much, Emily Prentiss." She pressed her forehead against mine and sighed deeply. I wrapped my arms around her neck. "And I'm so sorry. I won't run again. I'm so sorry I left. I love you, Em."

She started kissing me in earnest, pushing me back against the door jamb. Her hands kneaded at my hips, pulling me tightly against her as her tongue laved at mine. "I'm so sorry, angel," she whispered between kisses. "Please don't leave again."

My heart broke at her request. "I swear, babe. Never again," I whispered against her lips.

Continue to next chapter

#🌬 fics #tastes like sugar #emily prentiss #emily prentiss x oc #emily prentiss fanfiction #emily prentiss smut #criminal minds #criminal minds fanfiction #criminal minds au #wlw writing

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manorpunk · 9 months

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(part three)

Tucked away in a sleepy corner of central Michigan, an abandoned mall had been transformed into the town of Webersberg. The crumbling ceiling above the concourses had been stripped, making a cluster of closely-packed buildings, and the expansive walkways exposed to the elements were now lined with trees and raised gardens. The empty boutiques had been repurposed into dormitories, offices, a clinic, a school, and a few simple stores. There was something humbling about it, like a medieval village sheltered beneath the ruins of a Roman basilica. One might wonder if the mall was happier now in its new incarnation, if it preferred to be filled with life rather than than gold.

Liam did not wonder. He lived there, and he found it stultifying. He hated living in a fishbowl, always going to the same places with the same people, few of whom cared to give him the time of day. He hated knowing that there was a whole world out there and he was stuck out in the manors[1]. He hated the maudlin isolation of being the only queer kid who hadn’t gotten the hell out of Webersberg, and most of all he hated knowing that he could get out too if he wasn’t a coward.

He had this conversation with himself every morning, and he knew that if he stayed in bed he’d just keep moping. He got up from his creaky mattress and turned toward the plywood dresser next to his bed. He took the small mirror that was sitting on top and looked at himself. He was on the pale side of white, with thin shoulders and scruffy black hair.[2] After a failed attempt to smooth down his bed-head, he set the mirror down and pulled out the top drawer of the dresser.

Tucked in the corner of the drawer behind neatly-folded socks and underwear, there was a small bottle of black nail polish that he had picked up from a GLN dole[3] a few months ago. Women usually snatched up all the cosmetics, so he was excited to get something for himself. He had daydreamed about putting it on, but there it sat, unopened and gathering dust.

There was a knock at the door. It was his father, Roy. “Liam! You decent?”

“Gimme a minute,” Liam called back. He grabbed some clothes - jeans and a plain t-shirt, clothing as neutral as water - and threw them on.

“Alright, what’s up?”

His father opened the door, grinning wide. “You good to work at the diner today?”

“It’s Thursday, isn’t it?”

“It sure is, and there’s gonna be a road-and-rail crew[4] stopping by for the day. You know what that means.”

To his dad, it meant money. His dad managed the local Denny’s, which meant that he had tricked himself into believing he was a pillar of the community, and not just another petty grinder.

“It means I’ll get harassed by drunk shitheads all day. Great. Fun,” Liam groaned. He looked at his dad, hoping for something, something like ‘I understand you don’t like it but I need the extra help,’ or ‘sorry to impose on you.’ Liam was only twenty years old and still naive like that.

“So you good to go?” his dad said.

Liam rubbed his forehead. In truth, he really didn’t have much else to do, and didn’t have any friends to hang out with. At least he wouldn’t be alone all day if he was at work. Plus, he kind of liked wearing the apron.

“Fine, whatever,” he said, feeling like he had lost a battle against himself.

The place wasn’t exactly bustling when he got there. It was still morning, and the only people there were a few old couples having breakfast, along with Kieth, the already-high line cook, nursing a cup of coffee.

“Hey dude. You alright?” Kieth asked, following Liam as he went into the kitchen.

“What gave it away?” Liam sighed.

Kieth shook his head. “I just felt your vibes. You’ve got the sads all around you. Anyway, I got some news I think’ll cheer you up. Guess who’s coming to town?”

Liam tried, but couldn’t even think of a good guess. “Who?”

“Fuckin JMR, dude.”

Liam’s sleepy eyes snapped wide open. He was suddenly breathless with excitement, so excited that his voice got higher and thinner. “Seriously?”

Keith nodded. Liam let out an excited squeak, then heard his father clear his throat behind him. He whirled around, already guessing what was coming, and his beaming smile twisted down into a rebellious frown.

“Now, son. You know how your mom feels about that man.”

“My mom thinks I’ll stop being a fag if I don’t meet other fags,” Liam spat. The words seem to burst out of him, he didn’t say them so much as he failed to keep them bottled up.

“Whoa, that’s heavy,” Kieth said.

“Kieth, shut up. Liam, listen. It’s not like that. It’s for your own protection. That man is a creep and a pervert, he-“

“God, spare me,” Liam huffed. He had finally run out of patience. His body trembled with adrenaline and pent-up anger, and it felt intoxicatingly good. “It’s all about ‘toughening me up’ and ‘making me a man’ until there’s another gay person around and then suddenly I need to be ‘protected.’ Just be honest and say you wish I wasn’t a queer.”

Kieth discreetly sipped his coffee. Roy pursed his lips and took deep, silent breaths. As far as Liam was concerned, it was an admission of guilt.

“Well? Anything to say for yourself?” Liam said.

“Hark!” A voice suddenly boomed from the dining area. It was a deep, smooth, commanding voice, the type of voice fit for a starship captain.

A man had just entered the Denny’s, a man with tan skin and dirty blond hair dressed in deliriously fancy clothing. He wore an aristocratic embroidered blue jacket with epaulets, tall black boots with stiletto heels, and form-fitting white riding pants of the style sometimes known as jodhpurs. His hair, soft and well-cared for even from a distance, was pulled back in a simple ponytail, and a short and neatly trimmed beard lined his face. Hitched to his belt, an ornate saber rested in its scabbard. He looked like an old cavalry officer or Prussian aristocrat who had somehow stumbled into the year 206X, and his name was Jacob Martin Rider - JMR for short.

○○○○○

[1] ‘The manors’ is a slang term for rural areas which are generally too distant and sparsely-populated to be under the full purview of the central state authority; places where heaven is high and the emperor is far away, cf. The sticks, the boonies, the peasants, etc.

[2] You didn’t hear it from us but he looks a little like the doomer boy wojak.

[3] The ‘GLN dole’ refers to the Global Logistics Network’s practice of buying up unwanted consumer goods from distributors and distributing it amongst the manors. This effectively acts as a subsidy for (GLN-owned) distributors and lets them pretend that they’re still serious about wealth redistribution. Everyone involved wins and the GLN is duly thanked for its beneficence.

[4] Road-and-rail crews are itinerant laborers sent off to the middle of nowhere to dig up disused highways and lay down new railroad lines, hence the name. The work is physically demanding and socially isolating, but well-compensated. They have the typical reputation one would expect of itinerant laborers, i.e. drunken trouble-making shitkickers.

#manorpunk #jacob martin rider #narrative post

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whispering-about-the-tmnt · 6 days

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Well, I have just been smacked in the face by the reality of time marching on...

I mentioned that I originally wrote my Donatello road trip story, Displaced close to thirty years ago, and only just recently re-edited it for AO3, right? Well, I got curious about my dad's old workplace, which was mentioned and shown in the story...

I could just make out a building nearby, and my eyes followed the brick structure's lines upward to where it gave way to a smokestack so tall that it vanished into the night sky. I got dizzy looking up, so I lowered my eyes back to the building itself, and it slowly registered in my mind that I was probably at an industrial park, and that what I was looking at was most likely the power house.

I went on to describe the inside of the place, as well as the character of Jim, who was based on my dad.

But anyway, I just found out that they have turned the old industrial park into luxury apartments.

Seriously...

Nestled between the Chicopee River and Dwight Canal, the Apartments at Ames Privilege combine the historic charm of a mill building with modern convenience for your contemporary lifestyle. Built in 1847 and listed on the National Register of Historic Places, the Ames Manufacturing Company building once produced Civil War swords and cannons. Today, after undergoing restorations and renovations, the building has been transformed into a city-center living community of 149 apartment homes that feature oversized windows, vaulted ceilings, exposed brick walls and massive wood beams. This vibrant community is centrally located just steps from Downtown Chicopee shopping & restaurants, and is minutes from Route 391, conveniently connecting you to surrounding towns and interstate highways. Experience contemporary mill living at the Apartments at Ames Privilege.

The smokestack has been repaired as a "feature", but the powerhouse is gone...

I mean, here it is back in the day...

And here it is now...

And I understand the need to update things and keep old buildings from crumbling to dust or causing harm to people if they go into a damaged structure, but seeing a part of my childhood changed in such a way just makes me sad.

This is worse than when they turned the old Rivoli Theater into a bar and my favorite (and first) comic book store into a smoke shop...

#tmnt #teenage mutant ninja turtles #ninja turtles #tmnt fanfic #fanfic #writing #massachusetts

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birdnamedenza · 2 years

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Noodles and Nausea

@sicktember

Prompt: Nausea/Upset Stomach

The six friends are back from vacation! It's so much fun to write about them and for some reason, Ezra is my favorite victim. This story is inspired by a tumblr post from @sick-queen about how horrible it must be to feel sick in a restaurant. I just couldn't resist. Since technically all of my stories fit the nausea/upset stomach trope, I tried to put some extra love into this one.

TW: Nausea, vomiting

When Ketan enthused about career advancement opportunities, it was usually a lot of hot air and very little substance. So none of his friends had believed him when he had claimed that this very evening would change their lives. Huge plot twist – the full-time dreamer wasn’t exaggerating this time. Somehow (by selling his unborn first son to the devil, probably) he had managed to arrange a fancy dinner with TikTok sensation Stella Stellini. In one of the finest Italian restaurants of the city. It was the ultimate win-win situation.

The boys had dusted off their suits while the girls had chosen a theme of precious metals for their cocktail dresses – gold for Zena, silver for Cassandra and rose gold for Natalia. Everyone was looking and probably feeling their best; only for Ezra, the latter wasn’t quite true. Something was off ever since he had been putting on his dark blue suit and a matching tie. The tight sensation around his neck, the belt pushing against his stomach, the warmth of his jacket over the light blue button-up shirt… it was overall uncomfortable. Several workmates from his part-time job at a gym had called in sick, so it was very well possible Ezra had caught something from them. However, his unease was not on a stay-at-home illness level yet. Definitely not a reason to miss out on the most important night of their social media careers.

The restaurant alone was a feast for the eyes. The walls and chairs were made from dark mahogany, contrasted by light beige tablecloths. Wooden panels with intricate gold ornaments adorned the ceiling. A myriad of ethereal noveau art lamps dimly lit the room.

„Seriously, guys – it needs an invite from Stella to take us here and you wonder why none of us wants to date you?“ Natalia strut into the place like she owned it. Her sparkly long dress had a slit that revealed one of her endless legs.

„It’s more like none of us is enough of a masochist to date you.“ Ezra hadn’t forgiven Natalia that she was holding the record for their most clicked vacation video with a shot of him watering their patio flowers with his stomach contents during the crustacean calamity.

„Pro tip, Ez: Keep that mouth shut. You’re pretty until you speak.“

„Hey – no bickering today“, Ketan admonished. „We have to make a good impression if we want this collaboration.“

„Darling, I have more market partners than all of you beta males combined.“ Natalia elegantly placed herself at the reserved table. „I know how to sell.“

„That’s because your true personality doesn’t show on camera“, Calvin snarled. „Seriously, you can learn a lot from Stella. She’s smokin‘, she’s classy and she has sick moves.“

„Hello, have you seen her make up tutorials?“, Cassandra chimed in.

„Uhm, yeah, that’s not my specialty.“ Calvin shrugged his shoulders, then seated himself. A waiter in formal uniform brought the menus.

The room was air-conditioned, but Ezra seemed to be surrounded by his own aura of humid heat. He shifted on his chair, trying to find a position where his stomach wouldn’t feel as tight. A nagging queasiness sat in the back of his throat like a foreign matter. To distract himself from his body’s inconveniences, Ezra flipped through the menu.

Fluke crudo with sturgeon caviar, crème fraiche and meyer lemon… no way. Anything from the ocean was off-limits for an indefinite amount of time. Rabbit ravioli with ragusano pesto and lavender… sounded like a combination of stinky feet and old lady soap to him. Pan-seared duck breast with chicken liver mousse and potato terrine… pictures of thick, fatty duck skin came to mind and the thought of liver’s grainy texture and iron-like taste were enough to make Ezra gag discretely into his hand.

It was a relieve when Stella finally arrived, ten minutes late. She wore one of her signature red dresses that perfectly showed off her hourglass figure with its tight fit and an asymmetrical cutout strap. With her impossibly long raven black hair and her sultry cat eyes, she caught everyone’s attention within seconds. She effortlessly floated in on her six inch heels, her face lighting up as she arrived at the table. For a moment, it wasn’t the nausea that made Ezra’s cheeks flush with heat.

„It is so nice to meet you guys“, Stella greeted and sat down on her chair like a queen on the throne. „I’ve been following you for a while and your whole group dynamic thing is incredible. It’s like Jersey Shore, but unedited.“

„I hope that’s a compliment“, Ketan laughed and gave her a welcoming hug. „No, honestly, I appreciate it so much. It’s an honor for us to spend time with you.“

„Stop it, I’m not a celebrity. My videos have only taken off in the last three months and it’s still kind of unreal.“

„You have any right to be proud.“ Ezra decided to take his chance while he was still somewhat able to follow the conversation. The constant chatter from the other tables and the diffuse lighting messed with his brain. „We all thought our boy Ketan was joking when he told us about being able to actually meet you.“

„No, really, I want to work on my YouTube numbers and y‘all have been pretty consistent there.“ All of a sudden, Stella’s smile changed from professionally enticing to genuinely excited. „Wait, you’re ‚Shirtless Hunk Puking On Orchids‘!“

„Uhm… yeah… I guess that’s me.“ Ezra forced a crooked smile and brushed back his shoulder-length hair. „Not necessarily what I wanted to be most famous for, but here we are.“

„Are you serious? That video was hot as hell!“

„It was? Well… if so, I only regret not having it on my own channel.“ Ezra ignored the death glare Natalia shot at him.

„I must admit, I did a great job with the angle“, she said with an innocent smile and an icy voice. „Now let’s take a look at the menu, shall we? I haven’t eaten all day and I’m starving.“

„You chose not to eat because you were paranoid about looking bloated in your dress“, Calvin grinned, then flinched as Natalia kicked him under the table.

„I already love you guys“, Stella Stellini chuckled.

Even though the menu was rather small, everyone took forever to study it like a scientific paper. For Ezra, looking at the meal descriptions steadily became a challenge, especially while the others discussed the options in lyrical detail.

„Home-made fettuccine with a rich gorgonzola walnut sauce sounds divine“, Keton sighed.

„Absolutely, but I like my cheese stinky.“ Stella licked her deep red lips. „Right now I got my eyes on the fig salad with taleggio. Brind-washed rind means great aroma.“

„I’m so gonna order the sepia pasta with crustacean ragout and white wine“, Natalia declared with a sadistic smirk.

„I hate you.“ Cassandra pouted her lips.

Ezra pretended to wipe his mouth to muffle a burp. His swirling stomach produced a bubbling growl. Zena gave him a dig with her elbow.

„You’re always the hungriest one. Hang in there, we’ll make up our minds soon.“

„Can’t wait“, he smiled back as casually as possible while rubbing his bloated belly. Trying to block out the cacophony of talk and laughter that filled the restaurant, he focused on finding the meal that triggered his nausea the least. He reluctlantly settled on tagliatelle with porcini mushrooms.

The waiter took their orders, then recommended wine according to their choices. Alcohol was the least thing Ezra wanted to put into his system right now, but refusing it would have drawn unwanted attention to his predicament. The others were chatting and joking to pass the time until their food arrived. Ezra did his best to smile or frown at appropriate moments. It became harder and harder to focus on anything else but his stirred up insides. And while he mostly stayed silent, his stomach certainly didn’t. It was embarrassing and he hoped the babble of voices would drown out the angry gargling.

„You okay?“, Zena whispered after a while. She had probably noticed he barely took part in the conversation, which definitely wasn’t normal for him. „Feeling dizzy or something? I get it, I could barely eat anything all day because I was so hyped up.“

„Wait, you can get nervous?“ Talking was decidedly more difficult since Ezra‘s production of saliva had increased significantly. His throat was bobbing with a constant effort to swallow it.

„You’re such a dumbass.“ Zena picked up her wine glass in a way that gave him the middle finger. „Here’s to us!“

The glasses produced a shrill ring as they met, piercing his ears. Even though every fiber of his body resisted, Ezra took a small sip from his Pinot Noir. It was dry and acidic and confused his tastebuds with a variety of berry notes. Something he would have enjoyed under different circumstances, but right now it was repulsive enough to immediately return with a hiccup, bringing some bile as company. Ezra gulped down the sour liquid and camouflaged it as an approving nod.

Finally, two waiters brought the first plates. Every meal was beautifully arranged and the portions were rather small. Ezra regained hope that he would be able to force everything down and survive the night without accidents. If his dinner refused to stay inside, he could still get rid of it secretly in the restroom later. No one had to notice.

If only there hadn’t been such a variety of intense smells transpiring from every single plate. There was the pungent odor of cheese, different spices with a hint of booze and, oh God, there was the fishy and briny aroma of the seafood ragout. Ezra’s stomach churned like a washing machine. He felt sweat forming on his back, causing his shirt to unpleasently cling to his skin.

Everyone raised their glasses and toasted, their words distorted by a buzzing in Ezra’s ears. While his friends reveled in their first bites, he reluctantly twisted some noodles with his fork. It caused a disgustingly wet slurp. With a slightly trembling hand, Ezra brought up the miniscule amount of food to his lips, gathered his courage and shoved it in. The creamy sauce coated his tongue, filling his mouth with an earthy and nutty flavor, intensified by a hint of garlic. Ezra chewed and chewed until the saliva threatened to overflow, then forced himself to swallow down the mash. He needed a few moments to catch his breath before he repeated the unpleasant procedure.

Ezra could feel every single bite sloshing around in his boiling stomach. The mushrooms had a weird slippery texture and released an explosion of taste and moisture when he bit into them. Ezra muted another wet belch with his napkin and stiffened his body to prevent it from hitching. His plate wasn’t even half finished and he already felt like he was about to puke up everything he had just eaten. Which was definitely not an option. He was sitting in a crowded noble restaurant, surrounded by his friends and one of the hottest women he had ever seen. The only way to salvage the situation was to wait for his stomach to settle enough for an emergency trip to the restroom.

With his lips shut tight, Ezra focused on breathing through his nose. It only enhanced the scents he was surrounded with. At this point, the worst offender wasn’t even Natalia’s spiteful shellfish, but Stella’s cheese. It exuded a powerful odor of sweaty socks and three days old vomit. She seemed to thoroughly enjoy it. Ezra saw her impale a fig with slightly melted taleggio on top. The yellowy white lump was squished as the fork pushed into it, looking like a large piece of congealed pus.

It was the straw that broke the camel’s back. Ezra’s stomach convulsed and forcefully ejected hot liquid. It rushed up his throat so fast that he knew there was no way he could hold it in. For lack of a better plan, he formed a makeshift bowl with both hands and filled it with a surge of dirty brown soup spilling out of his mouth.

All of a sudden, there was complete silence. Everyone at his table (and quite a few people on the neighboring ones) stared at him, wide-eyed, completely flabbergasted. Slimy strings of vomit began to seep through Ezra’s shaking fingers, dripping onto his plate.

„Oh. My. God.“ Ketan was the first one to talk, but still seemed unable to move. The eye-witnesses were paralyzed by the horrifying scene that played out right in front of them. It was the most humiliating thing Ezra had ever gone through in his entire life. Completely at a loss at what to do, he felt panic rising inside of his chest. Only that it wasn’t just panic, but also more of his stomach contents that were determined to evacuate as quickly as possible. Ezra lurched forward and expelled a fountain of puke all over the table. Muddy fluid and the undigested remains of his unfortunate meal splattered on the tablecloth, the more or less emptied plates, the wineglasses and candles.

His friends frantically pushed back their seats. Natalia, Ketan and Zena also used the momentum to jump up. Zena began to pat Ezra’s back while he choked up strands of noodles that were still pretty much intact.

„Kill me“, Natalia said with a deadpan expression.

„We should… probably get him over a toilet?“, Calvin suggested without moving an inch. He was clearly in over his head. At this point, a very pale waitress arrived at the place of crime, offering her help.

„It’s okay. I’ll handle it“, Zena declared and put an arm around Ezra’s waist. She picked up a napkin and held it over his mouth, even though it was obvious that the small rectangle of cloth wouldn’t be able to prevent the dam from breaking. Somehow, she managed to support his shaking body and steer him in the direction of the restrooms.

Walking was an arduous task. It only increased the nausea and stirred up Ezra‘s twisting guts even more. He knew perfectly well that there wasn’t much time until the next wave, but moving too fast could have easily triggered it in the first place. Disgusted and indignant stares were shot at him from all corners of the room. Ezra moaned as his stomach muscles contracted again. He tried to hold back a retch, but couldn’t.

„Breathe through your nose, Ez“, Zena coached him and moved on. „I know you can do this.“

Ezra wasn’t so sure himself. He felt thick fluid pushing up his esophagus, causing him to gag into the fabric. His cheeks bulged, but Zena kept pressing against his lips. Just a small trickle arched over the napkin and fell on the burgundy carpet that led to the restrooms.

This was probably the moment when Zena gave up hope they could make it to the toilets. She switched to the next best thing and dragged Ezra to one of the sinks where he desperately held on to the smooth surface. As soon as Zena removed the napkin, Ezra released a flood of light brown mush into the basin. It splashed against the expensive marble, clogging the drain with bits of undigested pasta and porcini. Zena held back his blond hair while he forcefully emptied himself.

Being face to face with his own puke, watching chunks slide down the sides of the sink, was enough to make Ezra heave again.

„Easy, easy there“, Zena soothed. „Just let it happen, you’re gonna be okay.“

She rubbed his back to help him burp up another stream of porridge-like gruel that heavily plopped into the puddle of sick. Ezra coughed and panted, spitting out lumps and strings until the bout was finally over.

„Fuck, I’m so sorry“, he muttered while catching his breath.

„No, babe, it’s alright.“ Zena wet a paper towel to wipe the vomit stains from his 3-day stubble. Then she lead him to the neighboring sink to wash his sticky hands and do some cleaning on his suit. „Why didn’t you tell us you felt sick?“

„I thought I could do this“, Ezra replied, unable to look her in the eye. „I didn’t want to mess things up for us. Now I did.“

„Who cares? You’re more important than this collab.“

„Pretty much anyone but you would disagree, but thanks.“ Ezra gave his friend a faint smile.

„Nah, they love you, they just sometimes can’t show so well.“ She used the towel to get rid of the tacky fluid that had been caught in his front hair. „Think you got it all up?“

„I guess I’m done for now. Can we escape through the back door?“ Ezra didn’t want to set foot in the dining room ever again. He was mortified and thoroughly ashamed.

„Hey, I’m right by your side. Anyone who gives you a dirty look has to deal with me.“ She grabbed his hand and dragged him back to the main hall. Ezra’s cheeks flushed as he saw two waiters with masks and gloves cleaning up the mess he had spewed all over their table. The surrounding area had been evacuated as well.

„Are you okay, mister?“, a young waitress asked. „Shall we call an ambulance?“

„No, I’m better. I… I am so very sorry, I don’t even know how to apologize.“ Ezra wanted to vanish into the ground.

„It’s fine, I hope it wasn’t the food. Just take good care of yourself.“

„Thank you so much“, Zena smiled, then cleared her throat. „By the way, you… might want to check the restrooms, I’m afraid we caused an issue with one of the sinks.“

„Oh, oh no, I mean, thanks“, the waitress stuttered, then rushed away to inspect the new disaster site. Ezra and Zena used the opportunity to flee the scene. Their friends were waiting outside, apparently in the middle of a heated debate. Stella Stellini was nowhere to be seen. Ezra squeezed his eyes shut, hesitating to approach them, but Zena left him no choice.

„Well, look who’s back.“ Of course, it had to be Natalia who noticed them first. „Thank you for the most embarrassing moment of my life. It was just the nicest place ever, I’m glad I won‘t be able to eat here again.“

„Give him a break!“, Zena immediately stepped in. „How do you think Ezra feels? He didn’t do it on purpose, you know.“

„Yeah, but he should have told us that he was feeling pukey.“ Cassandra put her hands on her hips. „Barfing all over our food was not a cool move.“

„I know“, Ezra mumbled. „I was a jerk and I’m sorry I’ve ruined this opportunity for us.“

„What do you mean?“ Ketan got right in front of him, placing both hands on his shoulders. He broke into a very big grin. „You didn’t ruin anything. Stella absolutely loved it! She can’t wait to collab with us.“

„Wait… what?“ Ezra was thoroughly confused. Maybe his foggy brain caused him to hallucinate.

„Yeah. She told me I should have filmed it.“ Natalia shook her head. „Don’t get me wrong, she’s gorg, but the girl got issues.“

„Who cares, your weak stomach got us the deal“, Calvin smiled and clapped Ezra on the back. „By the way, how’re you holding up, mate?“

„I think I can make it home.“ Ezra still felt nauseous and his stomach kept on rumbling, but he wasn’t on the verge of throwing up anymore.

„I’m tagging along“, Zena announced. „There’s no way I’m gonna leave you alone like this.“

„We’re looking for another place to celebrate“, Natalia declared without any sign of compassion. „One that’s not a norovirus quarantine zone.“

„Are you sure it’s okay to leave you two guys behind?“, Calvin asked. He did have a bad conscience, it was written all over his face.

„Yeah, don’t worry“, Zena nodded. „I’m getting the hang of this. No assistance needed.“

And while their friends headed towards hours of fun and drinks and dancing, Zena guided Ezra home safely. She helped him out of his suit into a tank top and boxers because he was covered in sweat at this point. When Ezra decided to spend the rest of the night hanging over the toilet, Zena got him a pillow to kneel on and rubbed his back through countless rounds of vomiting and dry heaving. She spoke to him. She sang to him. She gave him small sips of water and held his head when he couldn’t keep them down.

Morning dawned when Ezra finally fell asleep, his head resting on the arm he had placed on the toilet seat. Zena covered his hunched body with a light blanket, then curled up into a ball on the carpet. Still looking like a golden goddess from head to toe, she dozed off within seconds.

#sicktember 2022 #sicktember #sickfic #whump #vomiting #emeto #vomit tw #emeto tw #emetophilia #caretaking #public puke

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with-love-from-hell · 1 year

Text

5 Sides of Human

{Part seven}

Genre: Mixed

Character profiles for the Mc’s featured in this series

WC: ~4k

CW: swearing, anxiety, depictions of anger and verbal aggression, sarcasm, joking about poop, SUGGESTIVE, some hurt, self-deprecation, Storm has a stutter but I am not depicting it with written word consistently, pining, spoilers for season 1&2!

Part six <<<<<<<<<>>>>>>>>> Part eight

©️ artwork commissioned by @vivi8bit ©️

“W-wait a second! Satan, I-” Mammon yelped, being pulled down aggressively from the crater he had created in the ceiling. As he collapsed onto the floor, covered head-to-toe in blaze-orange dust, the classroom erupted into a fit of laughter.

“Mammon, what the hell is wrong with you?” Satan hissed. “You could have killed Storm!”

“Eh?!” Mammon whipped around with worry enveloping his entire expression, nearly falling over himself in the process. “Where is she!? Is she okay??”

“Lucifer’s taking her to the infirmary.” Satan sighed, crossing his arms in frustration. “I mean seriously though, are you that much of an idiot? Storm never mixed a potion in her life and yet she knew better than you.”

“She hasn’t even been back for a full 48 hours and Mammon already injured her.” Belphie sighed. “You’re really gonna be in for it when Lucifer comes back.”

“I didn’t do it on purpose!”

“Of course you didn’t.” Belphie rolled his eyes. “You were just trying to impress Storm by acting like a genius, which we all know you’re not.”

Mammon’s face burned behind the orange hue painting his cheeks. He turned his head away, mumbling under his breath. “I ain’t tryn’a impress nobody...’specially not S-Storm...”

Satan shook his head. “No, you totally were. What did you think would happen? She would fall head over heals for you just because you could grind some ingredients into paste better than anyone else?”

“Wait a minute,” Sarah grinned evilly, “you really do have a crush on Storm, don’t you, Mammon!?”

Mammon scowled, crossing his arms over his chest. “No I don’t! S-she’s just some lousy human, just like the rest of ya!”

Sarah leaned forward, now much more interested in the developments of today’s class. “Ooh, you gotta spill. Have you asked her out yet? Or dropped some hints that you want to...you know...” Sarah raised her eyebrows suggestively.

“Oh please.” Vivi rolled her eyes, scribbling on the corner of her lab report. “We have all already seen him following her around like a duckling and staring at her when you think no one is looking. Plus, you wouldn’t shut the hell up about her before she even got here.”

“Ha, yeah. You think she hasn’t noticed by now, Mammon?” Belphie snickered before nuzzling his head back into his folded arms.

Mammon’s blush darkened as he tried to mumble out an excuse. “W-well! She’s at least nicer to me than you guys! So yeah! It makes sense that I get along better with her...at least a little bit- I mean, uh- no, that’s not what I meant. I meant to say-”

“I’d hate to intrude on your riveting conversation,” the professor remarked coldly, standing behind Mammon with an angry aura wafting off of him. “But I’d like my class to get back to order. Since all of you are so keen on making small talk, I assume that means your project is complete and you can help Mammon clean up this room.”

Before any of them could protest, the professor dropped two arm-fulls of cleaning supplies around the group. After sparing annoyed glances at the 2nd oldest, they all cleaned the room under the watchful eye of the professor.

“Why does Diavolo want Storm here?” Beel pondered aloud after seeing Storm enter the Student Council Chambers, tailing closely behind Lucifer.

“You’ll find out in time. Take your seats.” Lucifer snarled, clearly still annoyed from the chaos that took place earlier today.

“I suppose with all of the brothers and Storm here now its time to get started!” Diavolo grinned. “I call this officer’s meeting to order.”

“We will be discussing plans for the school festival today.” Lucifer noted, scribbling words quickly onto the parchment in front of him. “First though, we must select a leader for the committee.”

Mammon groaned. “Hard pass.”

“Don’t worry Mammon.” Levi snickered. “There’s no way you’ll end up getting chosen.”

“Especially not after today.” Satan chuckled, eyeing the remnants of orange dust still visible under Mammon’s collar.

“Hey! What’s that supposed to-”

“Maybe we should just draw straws like last year. That’s the most reasonable way, right?” Now fully ignoring Mammon, Satan sat up in his chair, looking poised.

“But Beel got it last year, remember? And we all know how horrible that turned out...” Asmo sighed, remembering how Beel had managed to consume all of his stage make-up for his singing performance.

“Don’t remind me...” Beel sheepishly sank in his seat, fiddling with his large fingers.

“Agreed. We cannot have a repeat of last year’s festival- especially with such important guests in attendance.” Diavolo glanced toward Storm, giving her a warm smile. “We’ll do something different this year. Instead, I am going to be appointing the head of the committee myself.”

The brothers all collectively groaned, each not wanting the task pushed onto them.

“With that said...Storm, I assume I can count on you to fill that role?”

“Me?” Storm blinked back her surprise, darting her eyes across the brothers to try to convince herself she had misheard. “Why me?”

“Because I want it to be you.” Diavolo beamed at her as she nervously avoided his gaze.

“B-but...I’m not sure I’m cut out for something like that...”

“Surly you are joking.” Lucifer stated pointedly. He shook his head after being met with her confused, unblinking stare. “Your entire job in the human world was event planning, was it not? In addition, you are innately well organized, and have an incredible ability juggle multiple tasks- so much better than anyone in this room,” Lucifer paused, clearing his throat nervously, “...myself included.”

Storm was surprised at the sudden praise, almost wondering if she had heard him correctly.

“Well, it’s decided.” Diavolo folded his hands in front of him, his smile growing larger as he met Storm’s eyes. “I look forward to seeing what you can do.”

“Ya hear that? That’s the spoiled royal in Diavolo speakin’.” Mammon murmured quietly under his breath.

“Maammonnnn...” Lucifer growled, eyes shining a dangerous red as he glared across the table at his younger brother.

Mammon cleared his throat, averting his eyes from the eldest. As if to look at something passing overhead, he began staring at the ceiling, whistling to himself.

“Storm...” Diavolo lowered his voice, attempting to comfort her anxiousness. “There’s no need to overthink it. Just do your best.”

Storm nodded, still uncertain in Diavolo’s confidence in choosing her. She looked among the brothers, many of whom looked simultaneously relieved that they didn’t get the task assigned to them, and excited to work under Storm’s command for the festival preparations.

“Now then, your first task will be to prepare something for the student council to do in the festival. Just like any other student organization or club, we participate in our own event at the festival. Last year, we hosted a talent show. But the question for this year is what exactly we are going to do.” Diavolo tapped his pen on his planner, tilting his head to rest on his fist. His eyes shimmered as he watched Storm’s eyes shift to him, seemingly taking his words in carefully. “I’d like to hear the best ideas at our next meeting, Storm. Naturally, you are welcome to bring in ideas from the human world. The rest of you are welcome to discuss your thoughts with Storm, but she will be presenting what she deems the best of what you all come up with.”

The brothers began excitedly chattering amongst each other, already debating their ideas credibility. Diavolo dismissed the meeting, noting that the festival leadership was all that was needed to be discussed at the meeting. The brothers began packing up their belongings, trying to already bombard Storm with their ideas for the festival. Before Lucifer could qualm their erratic behavior, Diavolo stopped him, placing a firm hand on his shoulder.

“By the way, Lucifer.” Diavolo leaned down, murmuring the words in a volume only he could hear. “It seems we are one officer short today, aren’t we?”

Lucifer’s face drained in color and he immediately glanced around the room, taking stock of who had showed up. Diavolo was right- Belphie was nowhere to be seen.

Diavolo chuckled. “Perhaps Belphegor had more pressing business to attend to? He has been getting closer Fern- maybe their forgetfulness has rubbed off on him...”

Lucifer swallowed hard, feeling a mixture of shame and frustration bubble in his chest. How could he not have noticed that Belphie had not shown up? Maybe if he’d been less focused on his excitement of Storm being there...

“Well then, I’ll be off.” Diavolo patted Lucifer’s shoulder. “Take care, everyone.”

Lucifer gritted his teeth as Diavolo strolled out the door. The room was tensely quiet; the increasing feeling of impending doom for the youngest brother rising steadily.

“So...Belphie missed the meeting without giving any notice...” Lucifer growled, slamming his portfolio closed without care. “I cannot believe he would embarrass me in front of Diavolo like that. Does he have a death wish?”

Storm approached, picking up some loose parchment that had fallen on the floor. She handed the papers to him hesitantly, flinching when he snatched them from her hands and shoved them into the portfolio. “Do you really think he’d just decide to skip? Even if Belphie didn’t want to come, he would have at least known it would piss you off, right?”

Lucifer sighed angrily. “Even if so, I wont let it go unpunished.”

Storm gave him a sympathetic look as he collected his belongings. “I’ll go find him.”

“No,” Lucifer shook his head. “I want my brothers to go find Belphie. He isn’t your responsibility, Storm. Who I want you to find is Fern. They definitely have something to do with this.”

“What?!” Mammon’s jaw dropped. “Ya can’t be serious?”

Satan scowled. “Why us?”

Lucifer clenched his fists, fighting the urge to yell with Storm standing right in front of him. “Either you find him and send him to my office, or you’re all skipping dinner tonight. Do I make myself clear?”

The group groaned, sulking out of the council chambers. Storm followed behind at Lucifer’s side, trying to think of a way to calm him down. She thought for a moment about holding his hand, but suppressed the idea after seeing how tightly wound his fists were. She figured he would have to sort this out on his own, rather than try to convince him to go easy on his brothers.

Lucifer parted ways after crossing the threshold to the chambers, storming off to his office further down the hall and slamming the door behind him. As the search for Belphie and Fern began, each brother peeled off from the group, insisting they had better things to do than worry about the whereabouts of the youngest brother. All that remained was Beel and Storm, left to find the pair on their own.

“Storm, I can’t miss dinner tonight. I’ll die.” Beel whined, holding her hand in his. “Can we search for them together? If we find Belphie first, I’ll help you find Fern! Please, Storm!!”

Storm chuckled, patting his hand reassuringly. “Relax, Beel. I was going to help look for him anyway.”

Beelzebub gripped Storm into a tight embrace. “Thank you! Thank you so much!”

She smiled, hugging him back. “Of course, Beel. Let’s get searching.”

“Hey, Belphie.” Fern yawned, rubbing their eyes sleepily. “What time is it?”

“Dont know. Dont care.” Belphie rolled over, nuzzling his head into their shoulder. “Gonna go back to sleep now. Night.”

Fern felt around for their DDD. “Didn’t you have a council meeting though? Lucifer’s gonna be pissed if you’re late again.”

Belphie scoffed. “Since when do you give a shit about that?”

Fern finally found their phone, shooting Belphie a pointed glare. “Since you blamed me for you being late the last time and pissy older brother hung me upside down from the ceiling with you for 3 hours.”

Belphie snickered, remembering how Fern had screeched at the top of their lungs about needing to be let down use the restroom. It wasn’t until threatening to shit on Lucifer’s desk that he finally allowed them down.

Fern looked at their DDD, seeing it was well past the end of the class period they shared together. “Looks like we slept through class.”

Belphie grunted in response, turning over again to cling to a large pillow. Fern shook their head snuggling back into place next to him. They wouldn’t have imagined becoming so close to the youngest given his calloused demeanor upon their first meeting, but after learning his thirst for chaos was just as strong as theirs, the two became nearly inseparable. They rested their head on his back, basking in the moment until a loud buzzing from underneath the mountain of pillows caught their attention.

“Belphie, that’s your phone.”

The sleepy demon merely groaned in annoyance, pulling another pillow over his head.

“Hey! You Punk! What if it’s important!” Fern poked Belphie’s sides, causing him to squirm.

“Don’t care.”

“Belphie, come on.” Fern scowled, getting a middle finger in response. “Fine, I’m gonna answer it and pretend to be you.” Fern lowered their voice into a mocking tone to how Belphie usually talked. “Look at me, I’m Belphegor. I like to fart in my sleep so much that one time I trusted one that I shouldn’t have and got caught by Lucifer when I tried to wash the evidence away in the kitchen sink.”

Belphie’s eyes snapped open and whipped the pillow off of his head, glaring angrily at Fern. “Hey! I told you that in confidence!”

Fern stuck out their tongue, accompanying the action with a loud fart noise. Quickly, the once peaceful nap escalated into a wrestling match, with insults thrown back and forth at the other, including Fern calling Belphie a “Little poopy diaper boy” and Belphie calling Fern a “Snot-haired freak.” The wrestling match ended with Belphie staring down at Fern, both breathing intensely and the tension growing thick between them.

Ultimately, the phone was left unanswered.

“It’s no use.” Beelzebub whined as he and fern crossed the threshold to the House of Lamentation. “I’ve tried texting him and calling him and he wont answer me.”

Storm rubbed Beel’s back in an attempt to sooth his anxiety. “Don’t worry, Beelie. We’ll find him.”

Beel whined once more, uncertain of if they would actually be able to find Belphegor. Missing dinner would not be good, and would ultimately land him in more trouble after destroying the kitchen on a hunger rampage. What’s more, it put his favorite human in harms way; the fear of losing control over his gluttony ringing like an alarm bell in the back of his mind.

“He wasn’t anywhere at RAD in his usual sleeping areas, nor in the unusual ones. He wasn’t in the park...so he has to be here, right?” Storm tapped her chin thoughtfully as Malice ran into the corridor to greet them. “So...if I were Belphie...Where would I go to nap if I wanted to ditch school early?”

Beel paused for a moment, ruffling the fur on Malice’s head. “Well, the two places he would usually be napping would be in our room, or in the attic.”

Storm nodded. “I’ll check the attic, you check your bedroom.”

Beel fumbled with his hands, nodding slowly in response. As Storm turned to leave with Malice in tow, Beel grabbed her by the wrist. “Storm...What if something bad happened to him?”

Storm’s eyes softened, taking his large hand in hers. “I’m sure he’s fine, Beel. Don’t worry.”

Beel gave her a weary smile, still unconvinced, but accepting of her optimism. The two parted ways, going to search the areas where they hoped the youngest brother would be.

It took some time for Storm to finally reach the attic, having to pause and stretch out her back a couple times due to the lingering pain from having fallen on her back one too many times over the past few days. After stopping to catch her breath at the top of the spiral stairs, she quietly peered into the attic. For a moment, a flashing memory of releasing Belphegor from his confines played in her brain, the consequences of which lead to her demise. She shook the memory away as she moved forward, trying to forget the incident that she still had lingering nightmares about from time to time.

Storm breathed a sigh of relief when she saw Belphegor curled up in the mess of pillows and blankets. Clutching him for dear life was Fern, who’s hair looked like it had been whipped through a tornado. Their shirt was missing, as was Belphie’s, causing Storm to raise an eyebrow.

“Hey, Lovebirds.” Storm called, teasingly. She prodded Fern with her foot, earning a groan in response.

“5 more minutes...” Fern murmured, nuzzling their face into Belphie’s hair.

Storm smirked. “Fine, but you guys are only gonna prolong your suffering. You’ve really pissed Lucifer off, ya know?”

Belphie’s eyes snapped open, and he shifted his awareness to Storm. “What do you mean?”

Storm sighed, shaking her head. “You missed the council meeting.”

“Oh...Shit...” Belphie groaned, sitting up and stretching. Fern reluctantly got up as well, grumbling about how Lucifer was a “wack ass.”

“Seriously, guys. He’s pissed.” Storm noted, her tone more serious. “Were you both literally just up here screwing around?”

The two furrowed their brows, before sharing a confused glance. Upon seeing their disheveled state of dress, their faces fell, becoming embarrassed after having been caught after their recent activities.

“W-we weren’t doing anything...” Fern tried to defend themselves, throwing on their shirt. “We were just trying to nap...comfortably.”

“Right...” Storm nodded, rolling her eyes. “Well...napping then? You really think that’s a good excuse to skip out on class and student council meetings?”

“Duh.” Belphie scoffed, rising to his feet. “My last class was advanced Seductive Spellcraft. Do you know how much energy that takes out of me?”

Storm shook her head. “Well, have fun with the consequences then.”

“C’mon, Stormy.” Fern pleaded. “Don’t be a narc.”

Storm ignored Fern’s begging, pulling out her phone to text Beelzebub that she had found the pair. Immediately after, she texted Lucifer, informing him she had found Belphie in the attic. Having just gotten home, he requested she bring him down to the common room to face punishment.

“Come on you two, let’s go.” Storm motioned for them to follow, being met with groans. Storm crossed her arms, the pair clearly having no intention on moving. Putting her foot down, Storm decided to assert herself for the benefit of the rest of the family. She invoked the power of the pact, the purple mark on the back of her neck. “Belphie, grab Fern and follow me to the common room. Now.”

“Wait, Storm!” Belphie tried to stop himself, but the pact was too strong. He tossed Fern over his shoulder, following Storm down the stairs to the common room. The entire way down, the two shouted their protests, trying to get Storm to relinquish her pact power. Fortunately, the two were still too groggy to know that Fern could have used their own pact to over-ride her invocation.

“Thank you for the work you continue to do with my brothers, Storm.” Lucifer handed her a demonus glass, finally able to rest after the hellish day he had. The bottle rested on the table, as if to signal an empty glass could be refilled if she would only stay with him.

Storm smiled, taking a sip from the glass. “It’s no problem. I’m glad you agreed that extra chores was a better fit for the both of them rather than hanging them from the ceiling again. ”

Lucifer returned her smile, settling in next to her. “I suppose I can’t have Fern threatening to defecate on my belongings again. They’re so unpredictable that I believe they may attempt it.”

Storm laughed heartily, causing Lucifer’s heart to flutter in his chest. They continued to talk about her time away and the behavior of his brothers since her absence, how they’ve each been doing in the time spent apart, ideas for the student council’s activity in the festival, and things that had been planned out thus far for the festival. After a few drinks, the conversation moved into a comfortable silence, the noises of the others moving about the house- filling the space between them. He slyly shifted his arm behind her on the sofa, questioning whether to drape it over her shoulders to see how she would respond.

“It’s nice being back here.” Storm sighed, tracing figures on the seat of the couch. “I missed you guys a lot.”

“Despite the problems they seem to always be involved in?” Lucifer smirked.

Storm giggled. “Yes, despite all of the chaos. I love being around you all. It makes me feel like I have a normal family.”

Now it was Lucifer’s turn to laugh. “Oh, my dear Storm. We are far from a normal family.”

“Yeah I suppose so. But it’s not like my other family was normal either. This is definitely preferable, even if I keep getting thrown into walls.” She smirked back to him, finding joy in her ability to relax and be playful after the past few days.

“While that may be true, I feel as though your willingness to get involved in my family drama results in more pain than it’s worth sometimes.” He chuckles, “I’d be damned if I didn’t have you around, though.”

“Well, I try my best to be useful. I don’t have much else to offer other than that.” Storm gave a small laugh. When Lucifer didn’t give any response, she turned to him. His face was now twisted into a concerned frown- drastically different from the playful smirk he dawned before.

“Storm...” He sighed, shaking his head. He almost didn’t want to entertain such a ludicrous thought. “You don’t actually believe such a thing, do you?”

She was taken aback by the question, used to using the deprecating humor against herself, or having it used against her, and laughing along with it. She chewed her lip. “Uhh...I mean...I guess? I’ve never really found anything else about myself worth praising.”

Lucifer furrowed his brow, finding himself feeling angry at who in their right mind would convince her of such a thing.

Storm shifted in her seat uncomfortably. “Uh- well...It’s not like, that huge of a deal. I’ve made my peace with it, and I like doing things for others, so-”

“Storm.” Lucifer stated sternly, placing his hand delicately on her knee. “You have worth beyond what people can use you for.”

Storm blinked, her eyes widening in surprise. “I-”

“I’m not finished.” Lucifer noted, squeezing her leg delicately. “I could go on for hours about the things that I admire about you. While your willingness to help in stressful situations is one of those things, I assure you that it is definitely not the only thing worth feeling fondness over.”

Storm looked away, only for her cheek to be captured by his palm. He turned her face back toward him, inching his face closer to hers. She felt her heart rate increase, as he stared into her eyes, seemingly trying to find something to say. Lucifer ran his thumb across her cheek slowly, narrowing the gap even further.

As their lips met, Storm felt her heart skip a beat in her chest. For someone who was standoffish about his feelings earlier in the day, he seemed to be laying his heart on his sleeve now. Perhaps it was the alcohol, or the building tension between the two, but the stress of the world seemed to fade away into the ether- leaving only their hearts behind, beating in-sync.

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stagefullofentertainment · 1 year

Text

Christmas Time pt. 6

Seven days! Whether you love a well girl from a cassette tape or your usual 7 deadly sins, I have good news! People, we only have one week left till Christmas! Isn't this exciting? In that case, here is something to continue yesterday's food theme.

Remember how I wrote about Charlie loving traditional Christmas sweets, dishes and drinks? Well, she is head over heals for gingerbread house decorating! She would definitely make this fun activity into a bit of a competition for everyone.

Charlie: C'mon, Alastor! At least give it a shot!

Alastor: No, I'm afraid I can't, dear! You know that I don't like sweets. So, what's the point in decorating one?

Charlie: Pretty please!

Alastor: *Snickers* Charlie, that's not going to work on me.

Charlie completely changes her facade into a sly grin.

Charlie: I bet you couldn't make a decent looking one.

Alastor: Seriously? You think I'm that stupid to fall for that?

Few seconds of silence pass.

Alastor: Fine! Though, you own me.

Charlie: Only if others decide that it's more than decent.

Alastor: Deal. *His eyes light green for a moment, ardour surrounding him*

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

Charlie: Hey, Husk!

Husk: Yeah? What do you want?

Charlie: Oh, just we're doing this little gingerbread decorating and I thought that you would like to join!

Husk: *Chuckles* Me? Listen, princess, that is not my *does air quotes* specialty, so why don't you find yourself another sinner for that?

Charlie: Well, it will be sort off a friendly competition and the winner gets one of the oldest rum bottles I have stored in the basement. But if you're not interested...

Husk: Hold on, how old are we talking?

Charlie: *Shrugs* Like 200?

Husk: Well, maybe it won't end that bad. *Sighs* Okay, count me in.

Charlie: *Smiles gleefully* That's wonderful!

Charlie comes closer to Husk and whispers to him.

Charlie: Alastor will be there too. We made sort of a deal that he has to make a decent decor. It's worth coming for this only.

Husk: *Whispers back* Why didn't you start with this? I'm more than in. It will be fun to watch that douchebag try.

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

Charlie: Niffty! There you are!

Niffty: *Stops dusting a chandelier* Hello! Give me a second!

Niffty quickly walks down from the ceiling and stands near Charlie.

Niffty: What can I help you with?

Charlie: Would you like to decorated gingerbread houses with us later today?

Niffty: Yeah, that would be so nice!

Charlie: That's great! Now, you don't worry I have everything prepared and waiting for us when the time comes.

Niffty: Alright! Anything else I can help you with?

Charlie: No,no! That's all!

Niffty nods and goes back to ceiling.

Charlie: That went better than expected.

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

Charlie: Here is my favourite hotel resident!

Angel: *Does not look up from his phone* Usually when people say that they want something.

Charlie: I would say that I have a suggestion.

Angel: Okay? Talk, girl.

Charlie: Would you like to participate in a gingerbread house decoration? I have everything we need!

Angel: Hmm... Can I make it as enticing as I want?

Charlie: Do you have too?

Angel: I don't see other way I'm doing this.

Charlie: *Sighs* Fine...

Angel: Good. *Looks up to Charlie* Don't worry, Charl, I won't make it that bad. *Winks*

Charlie: Sure...

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

Charlie: Hey, Vaggie!

Vaggie: What?

Charlie: Do you want to-

Vaggie: Decorate gingerbread houses? Yeah, sure.

Charlie: How did you...

Vaggie: Word goes around quickly here.

Charlie: Oh... So, you're really in?

Vaggie: Yeah, but only because of you. *Hugs Charlie*

Vaggie: *Whispers to Charlie* Let's take Alastor down.

Charlie: *Giggles* Let's!

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

So, here they were decorating their individual gingerbread houses that evening. Nobody, except Charlie, will admit it but it was quite a fun night. She decorated her house like Hazbin hotel!

Then there were a "jury" about every house. Vaggie got most points in preciseness, Niffty for the most "candy ingredients" used, Angel for creativity (it wasn't that dirty) and Husk for simplicity.

Then came the time to judge Alastor's work. He actually decorated his house really intricately and beautifully. All agreed that it was more than decent, meaning that Charlie was in some sort of dept for him. Alastor decided to think about this later, because now was Charlie's time to shine since she was announced winner of this friendly competition.

After the evening was over and everyone went their separate ways to different hotel rooms, Charlie noticed a note on her house. It was on a small black paper with blood-like red ink. The note read:

Tomorrow I'll be taking my obligation. Look on the side of your house for now.

As soon as she read it, the note evaporated into black smoke. Charlie intriguingly looked where the note said. On the side was another note, but this time written on her house.

Guess who I got for Secret Santa?

Charlie almost finished the sentence and the letters melted into a red goo which made a small vortex and disappeared. She swore that she could hear a faint radio-like laughter but Charlie did not spot anyone else. She left the room and walked to her and Vaggie's shared room feeling a bit worried about the next day.

When Charlie left, a shadow casted by the cupboard opened it's eyes. It gave a small mocking laugh and walked from it's place through other shadows to radio demon's room.

#headcanon #hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel charlie #hazbin hotel alastor #hazbin hotel husk #hazbin hotel vaggie #hazbin hotel niffty #hazbin hotel angel dust #charlie morningstar #alastor #husk #vaggie #niffty #angel dust

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wolken-himmel · 2 years

Text

In which Malleus takes (Y/n) to the Valley of Thorns during school break and introduces her to his grandmother.

(Y/n) and the queen seem to get along well, maybe too well for Malleus' taste...

Request by anon.

"My treasure, I fear I cannot join you for lunch today... there are some important matters I need to attend to. I hope you're not sad."

Malleus had a sheepish smile on his lips as he gazed down at you with soft eyes. His gaze remained on your face, waiting for your lips to tug down in dismay and for your eyes to sink in sadness.

Yet, what he received instead was a large smile and a dismissive wave of your hand. "No, don't worry about it!" you replied, causing him to snap back to reality in surprise. His green eyes widened in disappointment when the smile on your face only grew. "Your grandmother invited me for tea today. That's so nice of her, isn't it?"

Still, he tried to put on a smile that seemed more forced than genuine. It caused the servants scurrying along the corridor to gasp out in horror and walk past you even faster, afraid of the prince's wrath. His fists shook in what seemed like frustration when he seethed out, "Well, I'm glad you're not saddened..." The smile on his lips completely slipped off his face when you turned around without another word and skipped away.

"I'll see you later, then!" you threw over your shoulder upon realising that you had left him standing there all alone without a goodbye.

Malleus watched you leave, his eyes filled with sadness, until you rounded a corner and completely disappeared from his sight. It was only then that he dared to let out a low growl that shook the floor in form of a small earthquake. The servants dove under tables, afraid of the cracking ceiling and the small particles of dust descending down upon them. When the fae noticed what he had done, he quickly unclenched his hands again, causing the earthquake to vanish. Sadly, his flurry of emotions didn't disappear as easily.

The prince didn't know how long he stood there until one of his retainers approached him — Lilia. The bat fae had a little frown on his face as he waved his hands in front of Malleus' face in an attempt to catch his attention. Once green eyes bore into his own, Lilia quickly asked, "Malleus, are you ready to leave—" The words seemed stuck in his throat when he noticed how sad the prince looked, and he couldn't help but float up to ruffle his hair. "Oh, what's with that pout on your face? Did someone steal your candy again?"

Malleus tried to push Lilia away, but the latter dodged his swipes with unmatched grace. Eventually, the dragon fae gave up and let out a sigh of defeat. "No, Lilia... it's just that my Child of Man seems unaffected by the fact that I can't spend time with her," he grumbled under his breath, an unintentional childishness ringing in his voice.

Lilia had to hold back his laughter at that. "Did you expect her to start crying and begging for you to not leave her alone?" he asked the younger fae in amusement, his hand covering his mouth in an attempt to hide the chortles that escaped his throat.

"Yes," Malleus replied seriously, "I did, as a matter of fact."

Lilia could only shake his head in delight. "Malleus, Malleus..." the ancient fae cooed under his breath and gently took the other's hand into his. Yet, before he could start a heartfelt talk — from father to son — the sound of vases crashing to the floor and two young men arguing came from a nearby room. Lilia faltered and let out a little sigh before dragging Malleus along with him. "Come on, we need to go before Sebek starts complaining again—"

°°°

Time had passed by agonisingly slow for Malleus as his retainers dragged him around to fulfill his royal duties as the future king of the Valley of Thorns. His thoughts during the whole process had tortured him of pictures of you smiling and having fun without him while he was stuck attending boring events. So, when he was finally done for the day and allowed to leave, he immediately vanished and marched towards the room you stayed in, eager to finally spend time with you.

Some part of him filled his mind of thoughts about how you must have changed your mind and started to miss him dearly after his departure. He imagined the smile on your lips when he would fling the doors open and whisk you away to show you the castle grounds and take a walk in the castle's garden.

His hands resting on the doorknob, he exclaimed, "(Y/n), my treasure, I have returned—" Yet, he faltered in his movement when he pushed the doors open to find the room empty of any life. Dreadful silence filled the air around him, especially when your familiar laughter rang out from a nearby room — his grandmother's study room. Immediately, his eyes darkened in bitterness. "Oh, I see how it is..." Without wasting any time, he marched towards the door in question and pressed his ear against the surface, gloomily listening in.

The queen had a small smile on her face, the faintest of laughter still evident in her voice as she asked, "Actually, Beastie, I have been meaning to ask how the two of you met." Then, she fell into a small moment of silence, genuine curiosity decorating her youthful face. "You two seem very different from each other..."

A little chortle escaped your lips at the memory of your first meeting rushing back to your mind. The smile on your lips grew as you began, "Oh, Malleus just appeared in my garden one day! He said he liked the gargoyles of the building I'm staying in, and he just kept on visiting night after night." Your eyes glowed up in fondness. "I found him rather strange at first... He didn't tell me his name, maybe to appear mysterious and such—"

The queen quirked an eyebrow. "So you didn't know his name until later?"

"Correct, I didn't." Your smile turned into a sly grin. "A friend of mine came up with a nickname for him. It's very funny..."

The queen's lips tugged up into a curious smile. "Tell me, Beastie," she urged in excitement.

You couldn't help but giggle before you leant forward and cupped your hands around your mouth to whisper something into her pointed ear. Malleus furrowed his eyebrows, but no matter how much he focused, his ears couldn't pick up what you were saying, infuriating him even more.

His anger only got worse when his grandmother began laughing like she never had before. "That truly is a funny nickname," she mused between soft chuckles. You nodded along, soon prompting her eyes to soften as she gazed at you with fond eyes. "You know, I am glad that the two of you met each other. I rarely have ever seen such a bright spirit such as yours. You remind me of another human child I once met and grew fond of long ago."

The smile on your lips wavered for a moment, and doubt flashed across your face. Your gaze downcast and voice shaky, you murmured, "I like Malleus, I really do..." Behind the door, the fae tensed in fear at what you were about to say, frightened that it may be something that he shouldn't hear. His eyes forced shut, he bit his lips. "But sometimes I just feel like a speck of dirt when standing next to him. He's... the future king of the fae, and who am I? Just some magicless human."

His eyes shot open in surprise. There was nothing he wanted to do more than barge in and take you into his arms to convince you that you were utterly wrong, but surely you wouldn't like the idea that he had listened in on such a private conversation. So, no matter how much it pained him, he stayed outside and gritted his teeth.

After a while of awkward silence, the queen let out a little sigh and took your hand into hers. Her skin was cold yet smooth, causing a shudder to run down your spine. "While magic is something that makes people strong, I do think that you have your own strengths, Beastie," she explained as her glowing green eyes bore into yours. "Such as bringing a smile to other's people faces — a skill one of its kind."

#twisted wonderland #twst x reader #disney twisted wonderland #twisted wonderland x reader #twst #reader insert #y/n #disney twst #twst x you #malleus draconia #malleus draconia x reader #twst malleus #twisted wonderland malleus #twst malleus draconia #twst malleus x reader #female reader

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daydreamtofiction · 2 years

Text

The Feature II // Benedict Cumberbatch x Reader

Series Overview | Previous Part | Next Part

Chapter Summary: It’s time to interview the man himself. Though it doesn’t go exactly how you imagined.

Chapter Word Count: 4K

Chapter Warnings: Morally-grey reader, strong language, sexually charged discussions, tension, readers must be 18+

Reader Tag List: @blondekel77 @evelynrosestuff

If you’d like to be tagged in the next part, feel free to leave me a comment or send me a message!

Surely it wasn't as easy as this, you thought. It couldn't be.

You were standing, eyes narrowed, looking up at the house that your Maps app had brought you to, the address you'd taken straight from your emails. The street was dark and quiet; soft, warm lights glowing through the windows of the house, a car parked on the driveway, porch light on. No, this couldn't be the right place. He was a celebrity, a huge, filthy rich, world-famous celebrity. There was no way he wouldn't at least have a gate, a guard of some kind, cctv- oh.

You looked up to see a small camera blinking above the door. Great. By now there was probably a security team somewhere debating whether to call the police on the strange woman loitering around Benedict Cumberbatch's house. God, you were going to end up in the papers.

The front door opened, interrupting your internal fretting. You glanced up to see a head peering around at you, a set of pale blue eyes staring at you in confusion.

"Can I help you?" he called out.

Shit.

"H-hi, Benedict?" you shouted back, making your way up the path. "I'm Quinn Armitage with Draft Magazine, I've come to interview you."

He regarded you for a moment, his gaze trailing up and down the length of you a few times. "Right, okay. Do you have any credentials?"

"Er, yeah, sure." You dug around in your bag and pulled out your work pass, along with a business card. You dusted them off and handed them both to him. "Do you want to see my driving license too?"

Oh god. Why did you say that? You hadn't even made it through the door and you were already terrified you'd offended him.

"I'd prefer a passport," he replied, his mouth twitching with a smile.

You laughed; half with relief, half because it was actually quite funny.

He stepped aside and invited you in. "I apologise for the interrogation, I just had to be sure you were... well, you. I usually get to speak with the person beforehand and I wasn't expecting you to be so..."

"Unbelievably beautiful and gorgeous?" you joked, walking past him into the hallway.

He chuckled and closed the door.

"Yeah," you continued more seriously. "Sorry about not getting in touch beforehand. It's all just been very last minute. I assure you I'm not a crazed fan posing as a journalist."

"Somewhat of a fan at least, I hope?" he laughed, reaching out his hand. "Can I take your..."

"Oh, sure, thanks." You slipped off your coat and handed it to him. "And of course I am. A fan, I mean. Is there a person out there who isn't?"

"Actually there's many." He laughed again.

"Ah, well I know the feeling. I got a death threat once over an article I wrote."

"What was it about?"

"Aromatherapy."

He scoffed. "People get pissed off about the weirdest things."

You nodded absentmindedly, too busy gazing around the beautifully decorated hallway, the tall ceilings and glossy wooden staircase.

"This is a nice house," you said.

"Thank you," he replied, ushering you down the hall.

"I was honestly quite surprised when you opened the door," you said as you walked with him. "I was half-expecting some kind of airport-level security procedure before I actually got to you."

"What, like bodyguards on the doorstep? A metal detector in the hall?"

"Something like that."

He laughed. "Don't worry, it's just me here. And I'm certainly not going to be patting you down."

"Aw what a shame." You paused. "That was a joke."

He allowed a slight smile as he tucked your coat away in a cupboard under the stairs. "My publicist did look you up earlier today though. She likes to vet the journalists before the interviews."

"You researched me?" your face fell.

"My publicist did."

"What did she find?"

"You seem concerned." He raised an eyebrow. "Got things you don't want people to find out?"

"Haven't we all?"

He breathed out a laugh before looking down at you. "She just noticed you've never done a feature of this... magnitude before."

"What are you talking about? I think my piece on the country's favourite Christmas dinner was quite groundbreaking," you said sarcastically.

He laughed again. You liked his laugh. It was rich and throaty, made his face warmer, his eyes crease at the corners.

"Would you like a drink before we start?" he asked.

"Sure."

You followed him into the kitchen, blowing out a puff of air as you looked around the large, clean space.

"This is... wow."

"Thank you. Though I can't take all the credit. I literally just pointed at the kitchen I wanted in a catalogue." He turned to you. "Alcohol drinker?"

"Yep," you replied.

"Any preferences?"

"Whatever you want me to have."

He nodded at you with a smile. "So, it's Quinn, right?"

"It is."

You stood watching him make your drinks, and couldn't help but begin putting pen to paper in your mind for the feature:

He offers me a drink. I accept, expecting him to pull a few bottles from the cupboard, offer me a glass of something-or-other with soda. But when he takes a fresh orange from the fruit bowl and slices it - carefully saving the peel - muddles sugar and bitters together in the bottom of a whiskey glass, I realise he's making me an Old Fashioned. It's rather fitting, I think, that the man the world has dubbed the 'classic English gentleman', the 'internet's boyfriend', would take the time to perfectly prepare a cocktail for a woman who had come to pry into his personal life.

He stands at the counter in a plain white sweatshirt, a pair of pinstripe trousers cuffed at the ankle. His hair is short, brunette, his face sun kissed and adorned with a smattering of dark facial hair, reminiscent of his latest blockbuster. He smiles at me as he hands me my drink, sucks fresh orange juice off his thumb as he watches me take my first sip. And in that moment I realise, without a shadow of a doubt, that I would fuck this man senseless if he let me.

Oh no.

Take it back, you thought, scratch it, scribble it away.

"Is it okay?" he asked, noticing the look on your face.

"Oh." You shook your head. "Yes, yes it's great, thank you. Sorry, I'm just a bit nervous. It's weird, I feel more nervous for this than I do on first dates."

"It does feel sort of like a blind date, doesn't it," he chuckled before raising his own drink. "Here, liquid courage."

You clinked your glass against his with a smile.

"I thought we could chat in the study," he said. "Would that be okay?"

"Absolutely."

You followed him back into the hall and through a door nearby, once again blown away as you laid eyes on the tall ceiling and large window looking out over the private back garden. There were bookshelves, a desk piled high with scripts and notebooks, a button back couch and matching armchair in the centre of the room.

You sat down on the couch, placing your drink on the table beside it. "This is a really nice house."

"You already said that," he replied with a smirk, taking a seat opposite you in the armchair.

"Yeah sorry, I have this thing where I tend to say every thought that comes into my head out loud."

He laughed. "We have that in common."

"Really?"

"Absolutely. I had to promise my publicist I'd be on my best behaviour tonight, otherwise she would've insisted on being here with us."

"To make sure you don't say something you shouldn't?"

"Exactly."

You laughed. "Can I ask then... What made you decide to do this at all?"

"Off the record?"

You held up your hands. "Haven't even started the interview yet."

He nodded. "Well, I owed Ellen Ford a favour."

"Our Editor?"

"Mhm."

You paused, waiting for him to continue, and began to laugh when you realise he wasn't going to elaborate. "Why did you owe her one?"

"Now, Quinn, we just met." He said with a smile; joking of course, but firm. The most charming 'I'm not telling you anything' you'd ever heard.

"Fair enough." You began rummaging through your bag for your notebook and pen, stopping when he continued to speak.

"And honestly..." He sucked the air in through his teeth. "The statement Faye and I put out maybe isn't going down as well as we hoped. The rumours have started, gossip, you know. So I think I just need to lay it all out. Once. Set the record straight and be done with it."

"And I'm sure the pay helps."

He didn't respond.

"I'm sorry. I-"

"I'm not being paid for this," he said bluntly.

"It's none of my business either way."

Great, you thought. Foot in mouth already.

"Really, I'm so sorry," you persisted. "It's that saying my thoughts aloud thing again. Gets me in a lot of trouble."

He cleared his throat and took a sip of his drink. "What did you think of the statement? Y'know, since you clearly don't hold back."

You pondered for a moment, chewing the inside of your cheek. "I thought it was very... idealistic."

He raised an eyebrow. "Idealistic..."

"Well, yeah. I mean, we all like to make people think our breakups are amicable and mature and 'nothing but best wishes'," you airquoted sarcastically. "But if it was all so perfect, we wouldn't be breaking up in the first place, would we?"

He stared at you for a moment before the corner of his mouth began to lift in amusement. "Can people not simply realise they work better apart?"

"'Work better apart' is just a polite way of saying 'my life would be better if you weren't in it.'"

He threw his head back and let out a laugh.

"Sorry," you muttered.

"No, no..." He leaned back casually, crossing one leg over the other and rubbing his lips with his fingers. "This is going to be fun."

You took out your notebook and pen, a copy of the emails from his PR team and set your phone on the table to voice record. The entire time, you felt his eyes on you, observing your behaviour, no doubt comparing it to the thousands of other interviewers he'd sat with.

There was a slight smile on his face; an almost-smirk, like he sensed your inexperience, or perhaps he could tell there was a side to you that wasn't going to pander to him; wasn't going to stroke his ego or accept his bullshit answers. Either way, the sight of him watching you was enough to make the pen shake in your hand as you quickly scribed on the blank page.

Benedict Cumberbatch interview notes.

• nice house

• good cocktail

• smells good

• voice. Jesus Christ. His voice.

• would let him absolutely destroy me-

No, Quinn, unprofessional. You crossed a line through the last point, before looking at the whole list and scribbling through them all.

"What are you writing?" he asked.

"Hm?" your eyes shot up to meet his. "Oh, just... getting myself in order."

He nodded and took another sip of his drink.

"So..." you crossed one leg over the other, mirroring him. "What's your on the record answer to my earlier question?"

"About why I wanted to do this?"

"Mhm."

He thought for a moment. "I think the memory of Faye and I's relationship deserves it. We shared two years of our lives together and we loved each other very much - still do, just not in the way we once did. And if any 'details' about why we chose to get divorced are going to be out there, I think it's only fair they come from my mouth, no one else's."

"What about her mouth?"

"She's aware I'm talking to the magazine," he replied simply.

You nodded. "I suppose the big question, then, is why. Why did you choose to split?"

He breathed out a laugh. "What happened to easing in to the big questions?"

"I'm not the type to ease in to things. I prefer to go straight for the throat."

"I'll bear that in mind."

You dropped your head, almost blushing.

"It was coming for a while,” he said. “We grew apart, and in the end we couldn't avoid it anymore."

You didn't realise you'd made a face until you saw his brow furrow.

"What?" he asked.

"Sorry it's just... I was doing some research and... as recently as a couple of weeks ago you were gushing about how perfect your relationship was."

He took a long, significant pause as he looked at you. "Being in the public eye sometimes requires you to bend the truth to save face."

"What about the paparazzi shots of you together in LA just last week? Looked like you didn't even know you were being photographed..."

He paused again, shifting in his seat. "I thought this was an interview, not an interrogation."

You laughed awkwardly. "Sorry. Well-"

"Let me ask you a question," he interrupted, cocking his head, the foot of his crossed leg bouncing slowly.

Your back straightened.

"Have you ever been married?" he asked.

"No."

"Ever been close?"

"No."

"Why?"

"I get bored easily."

He dropped his gaze, suppressing a smirk. “Clearly you haven’t met the right person yet.”

You steadied your breath. “Speaking of getting bored easily… Do you have anything you'd like to say in regards to the rumours of infidelity in your marriage?”

“Only that there wasn't. I had no reason to cheat.”

“Did she?”

He glared at you, lowering his voice. “She was perfectly satisfied.”

You felt a shiver ripple down your back, a flutter in your stomach.

“But back to you...” he continued. “Why do you think you get bored easily?”

“Do you always turn your interviews around on the journalist?”

“Not really. I’m just curious.”

You took a deep inhale, pressing your lips together as you tried to form a response. “There’s a PG answer… or the truth.”

“I’ll take the truth.”

“Now, Benedict, we just met.” You gave him a sarcastic smile as you repeated his own quip back to him. “So, an Old Fashioned. Would you say that’s your favourite cocktail?”

He almost snorted out a laugh. “You’re asking me about cocktails? After what you just said?”

“I need something I can actually publish.”

“Alright,” he said, running his fingers over his jaw, nails scratching against his beard. “Tell me your answer - the truthful one - and I’ll humour your god awful cocktail question.”

You laughed. “That’s not how interviews work.”

“This isn’t really shaping up to be a regular interview, is it.”

It wasn’t? Oh god, what did he mean by that? Were you really that terrible that you’d already blown this?

You cleared your throat. “Okay… I’m well aware that I can be abrasive, selfish, disinterested. And because of that, men tend to assume I’m hard to please, they get whiny, needy, agreeable.” You sighed, tilting your head as you looked over at him. “I find that boring. I don’t want someone agreeable. I want someone who isn’t scared to tell me to stop being a fucking bitch and put me in my place.”

He regarded you quietly for a moment, your words hanging in the air between you. “Sounds like you should be careful what you wish for…”

“Oh no, don’t get me wrong, I don’t want someone who’s going to treat me bad-”

“No. You just want someone who knows when to treat you bad.”

Your breath hitched, but you tried to hide it, returning to your notebook and picking up your pen again.

Flirting with me?

“It’s very satisfying,” he said.

You choked slightly, staring up at him with wide eyes. “I-it… is?”

“The drink,” he said, holding up his almost-empty glass. “That’s why it’s one of my favourites. A lot of effort goes into making it right, but when you do, the reward is…” he pressed his finger and thumb together.

“You seem like you take that approach to many things; drinks, press statements, acting…”

“Relationships?” he finished with a laugh.

You giggled awkwardly. “I realised after I started saying it that it probably wasn’t the most appropriate analogy, considering your current situation.”

“It’s actually the perfect analogy,” he replied. “Faye and I, we… had all the right ingredients, put lots of time into making it, but in the end, it just didn’t taste right.”

You paused. “That’s going to sound so fucking good in my article.”

He let out a hearty laugh, covering his mouth with his hand.

You cocked your head, taking a moment to look at him. Even his hands were exquisite; large yet delicate, long fingers and perfectly groomed nails.

“Can I ask…” you began. “Why are you still wearing your wedding ring?”

He held his hand out in front of him, looking down at it for a moment. “Don’t really know,” he said, sliding the gold band off his finger and placing it on the table beside him.

There was no emotion in his action; no sadness or remorse, no bemoaning the woman he’d promised to love forever when she placed it on his finger two years ago. Watching him remove it was like watching a prisoner free themselves of their shackles; like he was relieved to take it off, like his hand weighed less in its absence.

Split wasn’t as amicable as he says it was. You wrote in your notebook.

“Benedict…” you began cautiously.

“Quinn?” he replied, mocking the seriousness of your tone.

“Have you started seeing someone else since your separation?”

His posture shifted, hands moving to the arms of his chair. “That was on my 'don't ask' list…”

“Oops...” you said bluntly, fully aware you’d been told sternly by his publicist not to go there.

He sat forward, taking a deep breath, his eyes burning through you. “Why do I feel like that question wasn't for your article?”

“What else would it be for?”

“You.”

“Well, I do have a vested interest, since I’m the one bringing this to the public…”

He leaned back, shaking his head with a breathy laugh. “In the whole time we’ve been talking, you’ve only gained about three minutes of useable recording,” he said. “Don’t act like this conversation’s been purely for the magazine.”

“Wait, I’m sorry, so you really think me, Quinn Armitage, journalist from Draft who met you two seconds ago, was asking you, the great almighty Benedict Cumberbatch if he’s available? Like I think I’d even have a chance?” you scoffed. “I’m doing my job, sir, asking the questions everyone else is too scared to.”

His face changed the moment you called him ‘sir’. You couldn’t tell if it was the word itself, or the sarcastic tone with which you said it. Either way, you began to regret it when he sat forward in his chair, reaching over and pausing the recording.

“So,” he said, his voice dark and gravelly. “If I asked you to come over here right now, told you to ‘stop being a fucking bitch’ and ‘put you in your place’, you’re saying you wouldn’t want that?”

You felt a rush of warmth to your core, a deep, heavy throbbing that made you want to squirm in your seat.

“I don’t think I’m being a bitch,” you replied in a stern whisper, purposely missing his point. “And I deeply apologise if my question offended you.”

He glared at you for a moment before opening his mouth to speak. But before he could utter a word, his phone began to ring. You watched as he pulled it from his pocket, looked at the screen and sighed.

“I have to take this,” he said, standing up and walking towards the door. “I’ll be one moment.”

He grabbed a grey, woollen coat from the desk on his way out, shrugging it on as he answered the phone.

You sat perfectly still as you listened to his voice fade down the hall, the sound of a door opening and closing, his silhouette appearing in the back garden through the window as he paced back and forth.

You covered your mouth and gasped, like you’d been drowning and finally came up for air. How had you managed to get here? It was like you couldn’t help yourself; the questions you knew you shouldn’t have asked, the glances and the flirting you knew you should have held back.

You slumped against the back of the couch, scrawling in your notebook as Benedict’s muffled voice sounded through the window.

• You slept with your uni lecturer for a grade

• You offered to sleep with Dan for a job

• Now you want to sleep with Benedict when you’re supposed to be interviewing him. And he knows it!

• What the fuck is wrong with you?

You slammed the notebook closed and shut your eyes, pinching the bridge of your nose as you took long, deep breaths, trying to calm yourself, to ignore the ache still lingering between your thighs.

He was still talking on the phone. You leaned forward, glancing at him through the window and moving back before he saw you. Then you stood up, grabbing your phone off the table, your legs moving independently from your brain as they carried you out of the room and back into the hallway.

You wandered around the house, stopping to look at pictures on the walls, awards on shelves you didn’t dare touch. No pictures of his ex-wife, you thought, strange. You made your way upstairs, walking aimlessly along the landing and peering into rooms, knowing you shouldn’t, but too curious to stop.

You reached his bedroom, able to tell it was his from the slept-in sheets and yesterdays clothes draped over a chair. On the bed was a laptop; lid up, screen dark.

“Don’t, Quinn,” you whispered to yourself. “Walk away.”

But of course, you didn’t listen. Instead you stepped into the room and hurried over to the bed, sitting on the edge and pulling the laptop towards you. You tapped a key and watched as it came to life, a string of emails between Benedict’s publicist and his ex wife’s sitting open on the screen.

“Oh, fuck me,” you said as your eyes trailed over it.

Mr Cumberbatch will be giving one interview to Draft Magazine regarding the divorce. As per the agreement, he will not disclose the nature of his marriage to Ms Dennehy nor any details of the contract or subsequent termination of said contract. He will remain in full support of the previously released statement and will not falsify any wrongdoing by either party.

We hope Ms Dennehy can support this decision, as both Mr Cumberbatch and I feel it is necessary to the authenticity of the story.

“Contract?” you muttered, clicking on another email from Faye herself dated a month earlier.

Hi Ben,

Hope you’re well. I’m just getting in touch to see if you’ve thought more about the story you want to use for our ‘divorce’? I’m happy to just go with the whole ‘we grew apart’ thing, but want to hear from you first. In the meantime, my publicist said it would be good for us to meet up when you’re in LA next month - walk around, let ourselves be spotted together. She thinks it’ll buy us some time while the lawyers write up a termination of the contract. Let me know!

Best wishes,

Faye.

“It was a fucking showmance?”

You pulled your phone out and opened the camera with shaking hands, unsure why exactly you were doing it, and hating yourself more and more with every photo you took of the screen.

“What are you doing?” his voice startled you.

You snapped your head around quickly to see him standing in the doorway, eyes narrowed in a blend of anger and fear.

“I…”

#benedict cumberbatch #fanfic #fanfiction #smut writing #fanfic writing #smut #benedict cumberbatch x you #benedict cumberbatch x reader #benedict cumberbatch imagine #benedict cumberbatch smut #benedict cumberbatch fanfic #miniseries #eventual smut #lemon

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jangofctts · 3 years

Text

Thing for Trouble (boba fett x fem!reader x din djarin) (part one) (part two) (part three) (part four)

Rated: explicit 18+

word count: 7.6k

warnings: threesome, smut, thigh riding, oral female receiving, handjobs, unprotected sex (dont be a deadbeat, wrap that shCMEAT), light choking, throne fucking, vaginal fingering, overstimulation, multiple orgasms, creampies, pet names, sub? din? more likely than you think (also lmk if I missed any tags!)

a/n: yall im sorry this is such garbage but kjkwejh here we be. I hOPE YOU ENJOY THE CIRCUS. thank you to everyone who’s encouraged this so COME GET YALLS MANDO MEAT

There isn’t much when he it comes to Tatooine and fun things to do. There’s pod acing, drinking, Sabaac tourneys, more podracing, gambling and scavenging. Unless there’s a festival or some wild event, you’re stuck with boredom and whatever you can scrounge up for fun in the palace.

Now, don’t get it wrong—if you had it your way, you’d spend every waking hour trialing behind Boba, but you don’t want to smother. Fennec too—while you enjoy her company, you know that half of the reason she sticks around is Boba’s order for your protection. Kinda ruins the fun when you know she probably only tolerates you because she’s being paid to. Eh whatever—doesn’t stop you from tagging along on as she runs errands in town—besides, today you actually have a reason to be here instead of loitering like a lost puppy.

Fennec tells you to be safe and com her the second trouble rears its ugly head and disappears into the weapons shop—muttering about her prized rifle being jammed or something. You don’t know, all you hear is that you have the entire afternoon to yourself to hunt down your oh so elusive prize. Star cherries.

The markets are always vibrant. Jam packed with people from each and every corner of the galaxy, hundreds of booths and stalls selling their wares that varies from foods to jewelry to even bounty services. Tempting as is it is to peruse the sparkly rows of dainty necklaces and rings or inspect the vast array of beige ponchos and manilla undershirts—you have a purpose. A once a year chance you refuse to let go to waste.

The shabby booth is tucked near the end of the street, the mountain of the little red fruits looking comical compared to the withered old lady who sits beside them. She flashes you a gap-toothed smile, the crowfeet wrinkles surrounding her eyes scrunch with the movement. “Ah! I was wondering when you’d show, dear.”

“Hello, Mrs. Feraan,” you greet, bending at the was it to kiss her wrinkly cheek. The old vender was one of the first kind souls you met here when you arrived on Tatooine. In return for a couple compliments or an offer to be the lab rat to test her new recipes for pie or tarts, she hooks you up with the best of the cherries—handpicked with love. “How’s business today?”

She waves her hand in dismissal, her silver rings glinting in the sun. “Same as always, child.”

Eventually you work your way through the pleasantries and a couple, long winded tangents. The sort that only old people can flawlessly spin and keep you engaged. Trials and tribulations to earn your prize—you don’t mind sacrificing a couple hours.

Finally you’re allowed to walk away—cherries in hand and exceedingly eager for your sweet snack. Unfortunately, suffering through Mrs. Feraan’s old childhood laments is not the only bump in the road you have to face.

Granted, it is your fault—not looking where your feet are taking you—

Your temple crashes into something agonizingly hard. You swear you hear a quiet bonk when your skull collides with the mystery material and fucking hell—you probably have a concussion from the force of it.

Unbothered by your probable brain injury, you’re far more concerned with the cherries spilling onto the ground and so, as you flail and dramatically topple over—the brunt of your fall is cushioned by your shoulder. Something pops and yeah, ok, maybe you just tore a ligament but—kriffing worth it for the cherries you miraculously saved from their dusty graves.

Your temper flares as you spot the dirty brown boots pointed in your direction. Maneuvering yourself up so you don’t also get trampled by the crowd, you bare your teeth and put on your best impression of a terrifying force of nature despite the fact you’ve been knocked flat on your ass. “What the fuck—“

The words shrivel up and die upon your tongue as your eyes slide up the stranger’s legs, broad shoulders sporting the shiny armor that twinkles in the midday suns. They then settle on an all too familiar helmet. Well, sorta—you’re familiar with a certain red and green one, not the equivalent of a wearable disco ball.

You squint as the stranger’s head dips to look at you crumpled at his feet. You dust yourself off and point an accusing finger. “Fuck is your problem standing in the middle of the road?”

The stranger quirks their head. “You ran into me—maybe you should watch where you’re stepping.”

The raspy voice is a striking sound. Mellow and silky even as it passes through the vocoder and dresses it in static charm. Some of your anger melts away—maybe this is the friend Boba was talking about—it’d make sense. They’re wearing the same type of armor…

You shake your head and shove down your pride. You don’t think Boba would appreciate you chewing his ear off. “Sorry—you’re right.”

As you readjust your clothes and precious cherries you introduce yourself with a tiny smile. Yet just as you're about to ask him his name he interjects with a step forward. You flinch away but all he does is sweep back a strand of hair from your forehead, revealing a little nick in the skin. You hiss as his fingertips scrape against it--great, an actual head wound. “Are you alright?”

Maker—here you are, after yelling at him and he finds it in him to be compassionate. You wave away his concerns. “Y-yeah--peachy.”

He apologizes with a dip of his head and words soaked in regret and fuck--now you feel bad. You wrack through your brain and search for last ditch attempts to fix this little mishap and settle with a half baked idea. It’s dumb--but hey, if it works, it works.

“Seriously, it’s fine. But I mean, if you’re so worried, how about you walk me home and we call it even?” You propose, sticking out your hand to seal the deal. If your assumptions are right, he’d just be tailing you the whole way home anyway. “I’m headed towards the palace, so if it’s not too much out of your way then—“

He hesitates and interrupts by taking your hand. “Alright. Deal.”

You smile. “Lovely.”

On the return trip, Din is quiet—tells you his name and responds to your conversation fillers with interested hums—but other than that he remains on the silent end. Intriguing with a rounded softness unlike the armor he wears--a man of mystery much like a certain someone who awaits you back home. Well--Din is less grumpy--by a long shot...but still. It’s easy to spot some of their shared similarities.

-=-=-=-

Upon arriving at the castle you part ways with Din before he reaches the throne room--you’re not too excited about showing off your new battle scar yet and while it was an accident, making an entrance with Din will make it far too easy to link the injury with him. Besides, you don’t wanna risk scaring off your new friend if Boba decides to showcase that tightly sealed lid of anger and brutality.

Instead you take the long way around the palace. Soon, muffled voices carry through the long corridors, growing louder as you work your way back from the kitchens. You round the corner, catching glimpses of Boba and your new friend through the pillars that prop up the low ceiling. You don’t meant to spy, but you do so anyway, hesitant on interrupting.

That is...until Boba cocks his head to the side and settles his eyes onto the pillar you hide behind. “It seems we have a little shadow with us today.”

You suck in a breath as your heart skips in a thrumming pace. Boba addresses you by name and crooks his fingers in a lazy motion for you to step out into the light—revealing yourself to the small party of two. “Come here, little one.”

The low light catches off of Din’s helmet with a glittering sparkle when he swivels his head. The tiny, warped figure of yourself reflects in mirror-like pieces of smelted beskar as his shoulders pull tight with recognition. You bite the inside of your cheek to keep the smile that threatens to crack across your face at bay. Boba is no fool—he excels in the subtleties of shifting eyes and clenched fists to hide anxiety or closely guarded information—sickeningly familiar with your own quirks and tells, but—

There’s no reason to reveal Din’s little secret—not yet. Boba called him a friend but you truly have no clue what the depths of that word entailed. Friend could mean anything from a casual acquaintance, to an old childhood bond, and or anything in between. You sigh and brush past him, mentally congratulating yourself for keeping a cool mask of indifference etched into your features. If Din wants to open that can of worms then so be it—you weren’t the one offering to walk random people home.

You step onto the dais and slide your free hand into Boba’s outstretched palm. The worn leather tickles up your forearm and locks over your elbow, silently demanding you to sit on his lap. There’s plenty of room to both sit on the throne but no—Boba prefers you tucked against the cool metal of his cuirass. You grunt as the bowl of star cherries you cradle dangerously dips when Boba adjusts your weight over his thighs.

His fingers pull back a strand of your hair, tucking it behind your ear and then spider along your jawline. The ends of his mouth quirk as Boba pinches your chin between his forefinger and thumb, capturing your undivided attention. “I don’t like it when you lurk in the shadows, little one. You’re allowed to listen.

You huff. “I know—but lurking is fun.”

Boba releases your chin with a scoff. “Foolish, girl.” You dip your chin with a sheepish grin as heat rushes to your cheeks. You briefly forget about the tiny nick adorning your right temple, the only thing you were trying to keep hidden—but Boba is all too quick to notice. “What is this?”

He pushes your hair out of the way of the cut, inspects it, then curls his fingers around your jaw to demand an answer. You refuse to let your eyes wander over to Din—what a dead giveaway that would be—and instead muster up enough courage to hold the weight of his stare.

“I tripped at the markets,” you say—not a complete lie. “It’s just a little scratch—no biggie.”

Boba squints in suspicion and grumbles a soft hm. You feel his chest rise and fall with a deep sigh—he won’t argue about it right now. Not a battle worth his while when you’re keen on keeping the full truth behind a wall of teeth and anxieties. Boba’s hand falls away, gestures to Din who still stands stiffer than a stature, then lays it over the golden armrest. “I’m sure you’ve noticed our guest—“

Din tips his head in acknowledgement.

“The rightful ruler of Mandalore,” Boba continues. “Din Djarin.”

Din Djarin…despite already knowing his name (or half of it, at least) you like the way it rolls off the tongue—like how it’s seemingly made to be repeated and carved into the walls of some ancient script. Your knowledge on all things Mandalorian is…limited to say the least but you know enough about the rumors.

“Isn’t Mandalore supposed to be haunted?” You don’t mean for your words to be a pointy jab to the ribs but regardless, it strikes a tender chord within the Mandalorian. You wince as Din shifts his weight and clenches his palm—a long story. “Sorry—I—I’m sure your home is lovely, all I know about it are dumb ghost stories about evil wizards and laser swords.”

The blood under your cheeks burn red hot. Great. Not only are you a complete bantha brain, you’ve also managed to sound like an impudent child. Boba soothes a thumb over your thigh as you curl into yourself—bastard. He thinks this is funny.

“It’s not my home,” Din responds, albeit tentatively. “Never been.”

Your brows furrow. Alrighty then.

Boba snorts and shakes his head. He mutters something in Mando’a and lazily waves his hand, dismissing the line of conversation entirely. It was turning into a dumpster fire anyway—

With a slow exhale, you remove yourself from the discussion and instead tuck your head under Boba’s chin. The beskar is cold against your cheek but it feels nice against the sweltering midday heat.

Their conversation fades in and out as you rest your head over Boba’s cuirass, listlessly picking through the bowl of fruit for the ripest ones. You sigh—the next cherry you bring up to your lips is intercepted as Boba’s hand clamps around your wrist and redirects it into his own mouth. You don’t find it in you to be grumpy about the stolen treat when Boba’s tongue slides over your sticky fingers. Still holding your wrist captive, he sucks the tip of your thumb into the warm heat of his mouth and curls his tongue around the digit. Your index finger is given the same treatment before your hand is returned. The beginnings of arousal spark to life below your belly, and fuck—that shouldn’t have been so…so…hot.

Din’s smoky baritone fades into background noise as the entirety of your attention zero’s in on Boba’s mouth. You purse your lips and suck in a shaky breath, then return your hand to the bowl to fish out another fruit. You don’t need any guidance this time around as you bring the cherry to his mouth—the crimson juice spilling down your palm and part of your arm as his teeth pierce the fragile skin. You breath hitches as Boba dips his head, catching the bead of liquid running down your arm with the tip of his tongue, then swiping s a slow trail up, and over the lines of your palm. He plants a careful kiss there, then breaks away.

Before you have the chance to reach for another one, Boba plucks a cherry from the bowl and rests it against the seam of your lisp, inviting you to partake in this little game he’s created. A wicked smirk curls over his mouth as you accept—the tart flavor of the fruit spilling over your tastebuds as you chew and swallow. A little wine escapes you as his leather-clad thumb rolls over your bottom lip, bushes past the barrier of your teeth and seats the digit into your mouth—all the way down to the third knuckle.

You hardly notice the moment Din’s voice tapers off into silence—much too enraptured with the taste of leather and the smooth feel of it over your tongue. You gag slightly when Boba’s thumb reaches the back of your throat, then retreats just as slow. The string of saliva that still connects the digit to your wet mouth, drips over your chin and part of your lip, eliciting a jagged, echoey breath that crackles through Din’s vocoder.

Boba grins—something that better belongs on a sneering jackal just about to pounce on unsuspecting prey with needle sharp talons, rather than his face. His eyes drift up to address his guest. “Do you see something you like, Mand’alor?”

Din’s head jerks, averting his gaze to anywhere but the throne. He murmurs a weak apology and shifts his weight to his other leg—acting as if he were to look at you a second time, it’d burn him to a crisp or force him to confront Boba Fett’s wrath. Obviously, neither thing would happen, but Din still remains unsure with his foothold in this situation.

“I see how you look at her,” Boba drawls—not an accusation, just a statement brought to light. Boba’s hand drops to your thigh, the warm weight of it resting just past your knee as Din swallows his nerves and returns his gaze. “It’s alright—a pretty little thing like her is bound to turn heads.”

A blush hotter than wildfire licks up your cheeks as Din nods in agreement. “She’s beautiful…you’re a lucky man.”

Boba’s grip on your thigh hoards you closer to his chest. He is and he’s fully aware of that fact, but there’s no need to admit such a thing when it’s so blatantly obvious. A lull in the conversation creates a palpable tension—nervous energy and a choice to let this is fade into nonexistence or…or breathe life into that flickering ember of unsaid desires.

Your heart leaps into your throat when Boba shatters the silence and addresses you. “You’re awfully quiet, princess…what do you think?”

He’s placing whatever this is into your hand and leaving you to call the shots. You’ve always been a troublemaker and there’s no will or way as to why you’d stop now. You look between your lover and Din as a smile curls over your face. “I think…if he’s so interested—why not give him a show? After all, he did bring me home—he deserves some reimbursement for the trouble.”

Boba’s shoulders jolt with a chuckle. “How chivalrous.” You shiver as he strokes the back of his finger down your cheek. “Fine, as you wish, little one—go play.”

Giddy excitement bubbles through your chest as Boba offers Din to take a seat on the edge of the dais. Din still has an option to escape, to slip through the cracks and pretend this never happened—but stars, you hope he stays. Din takes a step forward, then another—and another until he’s standing before the throne. He studies the raised edge and gingerly takes a seat.

You abandon your bowl of cherries onto the forearm of the throne and slip off Boba’s lap. You drift over to Din, his gloved fingers clenching and unclenching as they rest over his thigh plating. He’s purposefully avoiding your eye as you kneel beside him—still locked onto that niggling fear that this could be some sort of trick or test in resolve.

Smiling sweetly, you skate your hand over his knuckles—guiding his large palm to your waist and then under and up your loose shirt and bra. Din mutters a curse as you place his palm over your breast. “I’m glad you stayed.”

Pleased with his reaction, you peel off your shirt and bra, breath hitching as Din pinches your nipple between his forefinger and thumb. “Same—I think…”

With a bit more bravery backing his movements, Din pulls away briefly, shucks off his gloves and encompasses both your breasts. They’re warm and calloused, riddled with silvery scars that stand out against his brown skin, a storybook of past battles—won and lost—all equally important to the fibers of his being that stitch him together into a whole. His hand whispers down the length of your ribcage, no doubt feeling the thrum of your heart beating wildly against the cartilage and bone. It tickles over the swell of your hips then—

“You said you wanted to give him a show,” Boba drawls behind you, a sharp twinge of hostility lacing his words. “So enjoy the show, Mand’alor, ’nd keep your hands to yourself."

Din recoils at the verbal reprimand and drops his hands speedier than a flash of lightning. You frown and throw a glare over your shoulder. Bastard. Boba quirks a brow and runs his thumb over his lip, the edged sparkle in his dark eyes taunting you into challenging him. You huff and turn a cold shoulder.

“Sorry, Din,” you purr, scrounging up any and all back up plans to keep you both entertained. “Seems my king isn’t as generous I thought.”

Din withers a bit at the catty remark, keeping his lips sealed tight as Boba growls your name in warning. You don’t pay him any mind.

You puff up your cheeks and release the air in a steady stream, as your eyes scrape over Din’s armored thigh. Ok—you can work with that. It wouldn’t be breaking any rules…not technically. You step away, paw at your waistband and let the breezy fabric pool over around your ankles, your underwear quickly joining the pile.

Now bare, you return to Din’s side, his careful inhale distorted into choppy static as you straddle his thigh. He lifts both hands, intending to grab at your waist, but pauses midair. No touching. You lips tilt with a smirk as he clenches his fists and pins his hands to the cool stone instead, an attempt to curb that urge to reach for you. His shoulders knit together when you mold your hand in the gap between his shoulder pauldron and cuirass to give yourself some sort of balance—obviously not used to a soft touch.

You lower yourself and hiss through clenched teeth. It’s fucking freezing. Goosebumps rush up each limb as the wet warmth of your cunt meets the frigid beskar—the chill much colder than you initially expected. It’s one thing to touch the beskar with an open palm and another thing entirely to feel against such an intimate part of yourself. Din’s visor drops to look between your legs as you give your hips an experimental roll.

It’s different. You’re used to hardened muscle and fabric, or your own fingers while pleasuring yourself. Your breath hitches as Din’s thigh twitches, the smelted seam of the cuisse bumping against your throbbing clit.

“Sorry,” Din mumbles, “Didn’t mean—“

“It’s ok,” you smile, rocking your hips to ease into the sensation. “Just surprised me.”

The pace you set is slow, careful not to overwork your nerves as your arousal blooms and metastasizes like simmering coals low in your groin. With each lecherous pull of your cunt against his thigh, the beskar begins to warm to the temperature of your skin—the wetness between your thighs abating the friction and making the surface slippery. A low gasp escapes you once you find the right ridge and angle that just grinds perfectly against your aching clit. Your fingers dig into the cowl of Din’s cloak.

“Shit—feels good.” Like your voice and little moans jumpstart Din’s ability to move, his large hand drifts to the front of his trousers—an already sizable bulge tenting the dark brown fabric. You squeak as Din's leg jolts for a second time, a burst of dizzying ecstasy wracking up your spine with the choppy movement.

You suck in another raspy breath as your attention drops to his hand that cups his cock and palms himself through his trousers. You chew your bottom lip and clench your fist gripping his cowl, still gyrating your hips over the beska as Din hooks his thumb into his waistband and pulls them down, slow as molasses.

Fucking hell—he’s bigger than you initially imagined. Flushed a rosy brown, and half hard already, twitching as Din wraps his fingers around the thick length. Din lifts his head, gauging your interest or disapproval—but kriff—who the fuck would ever be unhappy with that sorta heat he’s packing? You bite your bottom lip, scouring your brain for ideas to convince Boba into letting you taste Din—but your plotting is abruptly cut short.

Boba sits up and off the throne, his presence looming over your shoulder as he lowers to one knee. You shiver and arch your neck, exposing more of your vulnerable throat as Boba runs the fingertip of his pointer finger down the side of your cheek. “Are you enjoying yourself, princess?”

You nod, eyes fluttering shut as Boba opens his palm and cradles your jaw. You groan and roll your head back onto your shoulders as Boba snakes one hand around your hip and jolts you forward and down—disrupting the slow rock with a catastrophic interference. Unrefined bolts of plasma shoot up your spine as desire licks up thighs—you need more.

Boba dips his head and nuzzles into the crook of your neck. You grunt when his teeth sink into your flesh, worrying a bruise into your skin. Boba laves his tongue over the throbbing area, then licks a wet trail up to the shell of your ear, all the while you continue to grind on Din’s thigh. Boba nibbles your earlobe and whispers your name—the sound sweeter than any symphony could ever hope to make. Like smoke over deep water or the surging crackle of energy just before a thunderstorm high up in the mountains.

“You’re allowed to touch…” he says with a rough chuckle. “Go on.”

Your noise of agreement is quickly muffled as Boba interrupts you with a feverish kiss—all open mouthed and breathless as his tongue curls around yours. Your chest heaves for precious air as Boba retreats just as abruptly as it began. With a satisfied smirk ghosting over his lips, he taps you below the chin and returns to his throne to continue observing.

Dropping your eyes between Din’s legs, his cock, hardened to its full glory and held casually in his calloused hand, is truly a sight. Your pulse thrums in your ears as Din rolls his wrist and pumps his length, the velvety skin shifting over what looks like fucking beskar underneath. It strains towards his navel as you watch with wide eyes, mesmerized with the way he touches himself.

Rolling your bottom lip between your teeth, you touch your hand to his wrist. Din shudders like your skin is made of sizzling embers that’s broken off the tail end of shooting star—like you’re something too luminous and dangerous to be handled by someone like him. You lift your gaze, smiling into that darkened void of the visor and gracing him with a toothy smile. “Will you let me touch you, Din?”

He nods and utters a breathy yes.

Fuck yeah.

Din sucks in a stuttered breath when your hand circles around his thick length. His hips jolt into your palm as you slide your fist to the base then all the way back up. Precum beads over the tip, dribbling down and coating your knuckles with sticky wetness. It eases some of that friction as you fall into an easy rhythm, matching your rocking hips with each pump of his cock.

Din’s stuttered moans fill the small space between you, dragging you closer to your release that’s suddenly so close. He whines as you abandon his length to chase after your high, your arousal leaking from your center and dripping down the sides of the beskar. Din takes his cock into his hands, fisting himself to your little show of breathy wines and rough jerking of your hips over his thigh.

Din says your name attached with a broken moan and it’s over—

Everything seizes up tighter than a jaw clamp as your tumble off that jagged peak of searing, white hot pleasure. It’s raw, sparking off like a blade to metal, burning you from the inside out as you cum. Your cunt clenches around nothing, your thighs shaking as you curl inward as if he punched you in the fucking gut. It feels like he did. Maker—the cool beskar against your throbbing clit is like you’ve been thrown to the mercies of an electrical surge.

It doesn’t help either that Din is still pumping his length, hips stuttering as he brings himself to his own euphoric high. The air in your lungs seizes when a fragile groan, light and airy passes through the vocoder. Din rocks his hips into his fist, once—twice and then he’s throbbing and cumming into his hand. Hot ropes of his release splatter up his chest plate and parts of your thighs, his helmet nearly knocking into you as he hunches foreword from the intensity of it.

Too exhausted to keep yourself upright, you smash your cheek against his cuirass, involuntarily twitching as the last little waves of pleasure prickle through the rest of your nerves. You whine as you watch Din move his hand to collect some of your wetness coating his thigh. He brings two fingers stained with your slick to the lip of his helmet, pushes it up with his thumb just far enough to sink the two digits into his mouth. He groans out a quiet fuck, and repeats the action, swiping his fingers through the mess you’ve made and feeding it to himself. Your cunt clenches as you catch a sliver of his pink tongue that twists between his thick fingers.

He groans and rolls his head back onto his shoulders. “Please—can I taste you? Fuck—I-I need my mouth on you.”

Stars—the mere idea of it stokes the dwindling flames into a blaze of want. You look up at Boba and puff out your bottom lip. Pouting and begging hardly ever gets you what you want under normal circumstances—Boba Fett is more stubborn than a rancor—but you hope just this once he’ll be lenient.

Boba holds out his gloved hand—summoning you to his lap without a lick of protest on your end. Din however makes a sound akin to a whimper when you leave him. Boba gathers you in his arms for the second time, the leather a strange sensation as it spiders down your ribcage and around your hips. You can feel his hardness poking into your backside once you settle against him—his chest plate a cold shock to your naked flesh. You shiver and bury your nose into the crook of his neck, poking your tongue out to taste him. Boba’s cock twitches under you as your teeth sink into him with a cheeky nip.

“Is that what you want, little one?” Boba rumbles in question. His right hand glides lower, grabbing a handful of your thigh and squeezing. You groan and keen out a whine of affirmation.

Boba cocks his head towards Din. “Well? You’ve got your wish—don’t keep her waiting.”

Din shakily stands—hesitating with removing his helmet for enough time that you notice the silence that follows. The vocoder crackles as Din sighs. “Do you trust her?”

“With my life.” Boba states it without a second thought. Your heart twists, golden light spilling from your lungs and staining your insides with devotion and fuzzy affection. You press a soft kiss over Boba’s jaw.

“Is she…” Din speaks a word in Mando’a you have no hope to decipher—either no direct translation or he’s purposefully left you in the dark.

Based on the way Boba almost imperceptibly tenses, you guess the latter. Boba responds with a grunt and an unsure dip of the chin. The answer is complicated—that much you can gather…you push it to the back of you brain for now.

Din nods, inhales, and steels his nerves. Plastering his hands around the shiny helmet, he tugs it off with a slow reveal of dark, patchy facial, plush lips and wavy brown hair that falls around his olive skin. And oh, his eyes—soft chestnut brown eyes that hold such ache within them—lost things, broken bones, wearing his wounds like decoration upon his chest. Forged in the flames of war, risen from the ashes with murder and mercy rolled into one.

You wish him a kinder future. One that doesn’t end with pain and a blaze of an unchecked wildfire—the same way how all heroes end up as martyrs.

Though—right now—you can be the beginning of softer things for Din. You smile and invite him closer, a vortex of anxiety peppered with arousal as his eyes flit over your naked body. He sets his helmet to the side with care and drifts to the foot of the throne—fuck, he’s broad. Why hadn’t you noticed that before?

Your mental berating is severed when cool air meets the wet heat of your cunt as Boba hooks your thighs over his knees, spreading you wide as far as your hips allow. Din’s unfiltered moan at the sigh of you, sends a volt of electricity through every vein. Din lowers himself to one knee, and then the other, shuffling between yours and Boba’s legs.

“Can I touch?” He asks, soft brows raising in question.

Boba lazily raises two fingers in a motion of permission. Your chest tightens at the sight of Din’s boyish grin—warm palms settling over the sharp bend of your knees. His thumbs trace soothing circles over the skin and right as Din decides to swoop down, Boba catches him by the hair atop his head and yanks. Din grunts—the long, arched line of his neck a tempting sight as he swallows. “No marks.” Din’s jaw clenches, but nonetheless, he agrees to Boba’s command.

Boba hums in satisfaction and untangles his fingers from the mess of Din’s soft curls. Din’s brows pinch together for half a tick but smooth out in the next breath. No use being irritated—especially right now.

As directed, Din leaves not a scratch. Instead he scrapes the blunt edges of his teeth along the insides of your thighs, threatening to catch soft flesh between them—but he knows better than to act on the urge. He laves his warm tongue over each freckle or blemish he finds, leaving no patch of skin undiscovered as licks a steady trail to his prize. Din mouths a warm kiss over the crease of your thigh, and smooths his calloused hands over your hips, settling for a moment to trace little circles with his thumbs onto the soft protrusion of bone there. Seemingly satisfied, he then shifts them closer to your aching cunt. His hot breath fans over your cunt as he uses his thumbs to glide through your folds, almost curious with his exploration. He makes a little hum of appreciation low in his throat when the pads of his thumbs part your soaking folds.

You whimper and bury your face into the crook of Boba’s neck, his warm palms a much needed comfort as they tickle down your ribcage, then sweep back up to cup your tits. You cry and arch— Din’s tongue is scalding—like liquid velvet as he dips the tip of his tongue from the base of your cunt all the way up to your clit. Din sucks on the little bundle of nerves, rolling his tongue until you’re crying out, molten pleasure zipping through your abdomen. He grunts as your fingers tangle into his hair—kriff.

Fuck, you need more.

Arching into his mouth, all thoughts are transfigured and molded into a vicious loop—beginning with those adoring brown eyes, the color of freshly tilled earth and the warmth of sunlight over dappled aspen leaves in the balmy summer afternoons. It ends with soft lips—rose petal pink with devotion crystallizing in his mouth like sugar—madness and uncertainty and lovesick desire is all that he is and you’re not sure if you’ll come out of this unscathed.

He sinks two deliciously thick fingers into your clenching hole and curls them, only to retract them a moment later to shovel more of your wetness onto his tongue—as if simply using his mouth wasn’t enough for him. Like he needs to savor every drop of your arousal like the golden ambrosia the gods feast upon in their palaces of cloud and endless twilight.

That frenzied desperation lingers on the edges of his movements like he’s afraid you’ll fade away like a hand through fog—but you’re going nowhere. You’d stay here, suspended in time forever if the choice were up to you.

You whine and arch off Boba’s chest plate as Din strokes and curls his fingertips, plucking little gasps and moans from you easier than breathing. He zeros in on that little spot that makes your leg go all jittery and forces out high pitched mewls that echo through the throne room. You’re careening towards another high, the sensitivity of your last orgasm amping up the influx of pleasure.

“Stars—Din. Close—I’m so close,” you gasp, pulling his hair tight enough that you know it must sting—at least a little bit. He makes no sign that it does, just groans and buries his tongue into your dripping hole, licking alongside his fingers that shovel more of your wetness into his mouth.

Your release zips through your body like a flash flood—quick and fatal that leaves you gasping for air and struggling not to let your head dip below the waves. Your high seeps into each limb until they feel heavier than lead. Fuck—it’s so hard to work through the muddled thought and remember where exactly you are. You groan and toss your head back as Din keeps going.

“Another one—let me—“ He moans, opening his mouth as wide as it’ll go so he can devour more of you. You can feel the mixture of saliva and your own arousal dripping down your cunt and over your thighs, some of it pooling on the throne or onto the floor. Your thighs shake as Din pushes you towards another high.

You squeak as Boba’s palm sweeps up your sternum, locking his fingers around your throat in a loose hold. The tip of his nose nuzzles into your cheek—silently demanding a well earned kiss as his hips rock into your ass, grinding his cock for the barest scrap of friction. You moan into his mouth as Din doubles his efforts, raw and bordering that serrated edge of overstimulation and ecstasy.

Goosebumps rush over your arm as Boba places his lips right beside the shell of your ear. You feel the sticky heat of his breath fan over your throat and shoulder, and the way his lips skim your ear when they move to form the syllables of his words. “Such a filthy princess…”

You clench around Din’s fingers and moan a half garbled, “Boba—“

His weathered palm encompasses the entirety of your breast, rolling your pebbled nipple between his forefinger and thumb. “If only you could see yourself…dripping all over my throne and another man’s tongue.” Boba clicks his tongue and shakes his head. “Depraved creature—cum for your rightful king.”

Wildfire chars your insides as it begins in your core and sweeps through your body. Tears prick the corner of your eyes as you buck and squirm in their arms—no mercy as the prickly waves of your orgasm make you hypersensitive to each touch. Even the hold on your hip, while innocent in nature, is blistering as if you suffered from a fever. You shudder as a salty tear rolls down your cheek. Boba catches it with his tongue as your ears pick up Din’s raspy praise—thanking you while spattering reverent kisses up your thighs.

Struggling to keep your eyes open, you do spot the apparent wetness soaking through the front of Din’s trousers. Fuck—he—he came again while eating you out. You whimper and rest the back of your head over Boba’s shoulder.

Your belly flinches under his scratchy facial hair as Din travels up, seizing and worshiping every inch he’s freely given before intercepted. He catches your nipple between your teeth, tugs a bit then moves to the other, lavishing equal attention with adoring lips and sweet whispers. When he reaches your collarbone, you’re boxed in against his chest plate and Boba’s. A blush blooms under your cheeks hotter than stare fire as Din gingerly sucks your earlobe into his mouth and breathes out a muted moan of your name—committing the very essence of you to his memory for the rest of his days.

Your heart squeezes tight like a clenched fist when he mumbles another thank you. Plucking up a smidge of courage, he risks planting a kiss right on the corner of your mouth. You blink—despite the sweetness of the gesture you wince as Boba snarls a curt phrase in Mando’a. Din peels himself away with a minuscule frown and slinks away.

Yet before you have the chance to remedy the situation of wounded pride and territorial jealousy—Boba tightens his hold on your hips and flips you both, so that now your back is smashed against the seat of the throne, a bit crumpled and sorta folded in half. Your hips hang off the edge as Boba holds the majority of your weight, grinding his clothed cock between the apex of your thighs.

“Don’t forget, princess—” Boba barks, slithering a hand up the column of your throat. You breath hitches as he lightly presses his palm down. “—what belongs to me.”

Reaching between you, he slides his gloved fingers through your slick folds and sinks two of them inside of your clenching center. You jolt as his thumb scrubs over your clit, still sensitive and edging towards too much.

“You want me to fuck you here?” He asks, shifting his hold to grip your jaw instead—the rounds of his fingertips digging firmly into the flesh and bone. “Say it.”

You gasp and scrabble weakly at Boba’s shoulders as he grinds the heel of his palm into your clit. “Please, Boba! Please fuck me—I need it.”

Boba folds over you, his breath fanning hot and hungry against your cheek. He devours your mouth with a discordant edge, like he’s trying to prove to the entire galaxy you are unmistakably his despite the fact you’re already wound so tightly around his fingers. Boba wrenches himself free and tears at his robe and trousers to free his thick length, leaking and flushed a rosy brown at the tip. He doesn’t keep either of you waiting as he removes his fingers and replaces them with something bigger.

You both groan as he lines himself up with your entrance and sinks into you, a delicious stretch that leaves you shivering beneath him. “Fuck—so wet for me.”

The first roll of his hips makes an obscene noise that showers shame down your throat, but it’s quickly kicked to the back of your brain as he slams back into your cunt—obliterating all thoughts save for him. Boba’s lip curls over his teeth as he claws at your thighs and yanks them over his shoulder, crushing you even further between the throne and the weight of his body. Each stroke is a liquid fire, tearing you apart at the seems while at the same time stitching you back together and leaving your body begging for more. Like this, it’s as if he’s reaching the deepest part of you, pounding into your cunt and hitting every nerve with deadly precision. Your legs prickle with the stretch as you squirm beneath him, stuck with the brunt of rough thrusts and violent stamina with nowhere to go.

“Bein’ such a good girl for me." He hums into the juncture of where your neck meets your shoulders. He sucks a mark there and tangles a hand in the hair at the nape of you neck, forcing you into a steeper arch. “Maker, you look so fuckin’ pretty stretched around my cock.”

Your walls clench tight around him as you dig your nails into the fabric of his cowl. You voice cracks with airy moans—attempting to work through the haze of lust and respond. All that tumbles from your lips is a pathetic whine of his name—so close to that precipice again.

The friction of each thrust scraping against your clit, the way he fills you and the possessive hand curled over your throat. You wiggle an arm between your bodies and rub the little bundle of nerves in a frenzied half-circle. You wheeze as Boba increases the pressure over your throat.

“Tell me who you belong to,” he demands as devastating ripples begin to spark through your core, a live wire an inch away from a puddle of water. “Tell me—“

“You! It’s you—“ You sob, desperate for another release only he can give. “I’m yours—“

Boba snickers and gives your throat another squeeze. “Cum on my cock.”

There we go.

You seize and cry out, violent shivers forcing your back to arch high off the throne and into his chest plate. It tears through your being, quick and deadly through your core, spreading to every nerve and shredding through it with molten pleasure. Boba’s voice is a gravelly scrape that vibrates next to your ear, sprinting towards his own deserved euphoria. Your climax still boiling through your blood, is dragged out as Boba continues thrusting—an endless echo that leaves you incredibly oversensitive sore. For the next few moments, his thrusts are too sharp, the grip he has on you too abrasive—but then he’s cumming too. A couple more rough jabs and then he’s seating himself deep inside your cunt, his warm release coating your insides with thick ropes.

You’re panting breaths fill the air between you, settling like fresh snow over a silent wood. By the time Boba pulls out, leaving behind a sticky trail of his cum and your arousal over the throne, you’re toeing the line of hazy unconsciousness.

“Such a good girl,” Boba praises, threading fingers through hair and tracing the lines of your face. The the soft drone of his voice mixed with Din’s gentle baritone, murmuring something you don’t catch, casts a dreamy haze over your reality. You’re not afraid that this could back fire and blow up in your face—to move inches from two serrated blades, each seeking for a taste of blood and flesh, is always a risk. But yet, the calloused hands and the sweetness of brown eyes reach through chaos and silence to offer you salvation. You take it with a smile.

You should invite Din over more often…you think, as you slip into content sleep.

taglist: @goldafterglow @djxrxn @velvetmel0n @steeeeeeeviebb @stargazingcarol @ohiobluetip @anxiety-riddled-mando @absurdthirst @thesoftdumbass @huliabitch @max--phillips @silverfish-kingdom @krissology @teaofpeaches @pettyprocrastination @nelba @beskars @jango-fettish @corrupt-fvcker @maybege @auty-ren @legally-a-bastard @bigdickdindjarin @thesparkleslugs @cryptid-candy @mandowhorian @pascaliprincess @mitchi-c @vesperstalksclones @cmakars @cptnbvcks @whewchiles @leias-left-hair-bun @astrochellie @angryares @rise-my-angel @stardust-galaxies @phoenixhalliwell @samhollandssweaters @blue-writes-a03 @hdlynnslibrary @darthadeline @calamity-queen @luxurybeskar @justanotherblonde23 @book-hoardingdragon @fahrenheit-not @princessxkenobi @skdubbs @ben-is-a-hoe @3strogen @chasingdreamer @weebblossom @bobaandthefetts

sorry if I missed you AH!!!!

#well yall im #bucket fucker supreme right here I guess #enJOY #boba fett x reader #boba fett x you #boba fett #din djarin #din djarin x reader #din djarin x you #the mandalorian x you #the mandalorian x reader #the mandalorian #boba fett x reader x din djarin #din djarin x reader x boba fett #star wars fanfiction #my writing

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badassbuchanan · 3 years

Text

Call for Assistance

Request: Hi hi! Idk if you write for Seb or not but if you do, maybe could you do a fic where reader is his assistant and sometimes that means assisting him with ~those~ needs 👉👈🥺

Warnings: smut; oral (male receiving), dirty talk, semi-public.

Word Count: 2246

a/n: I’m sorry the ending is so cheesy lmao - requests and taglist are open!

“There you are.” I smiled brightly as I walked into Sebastian’s private dressing room, throwing my Gucci purse on to the velvet armchair in the corner of the room.

Tonight he was a special guest on The Tonight Show starring Jimmy Fallon, it was one of the only talk shows he didn’t mind doing. Tonight’s appearance was part of the publicity schedule for new The Falcon and The Winter Soldier series, but unfortunately, Mackie wasn’t able to attend.

I knew how nervous Seb got doing these interviews without his colleague beside him, which is why I wasn’t surprised when I was beckoned to his dressing room before he was set to go on.

Seb turned from where he was preping himself in the reflection of the mirror, a smile of relief appearing on his face when he saw me.

He was sporting a simple crisp white shirt, buttoned up with a navy tie around his neck. A black, open suit jacket and matching pants hugged his body nicely, complimenting his skin tone. His hair was slicked back and I could tell he hadn’t shaved today just by the slightest bit of stubble growing through his face.

“You feeling okay?” I asked innocently, walking over to stand in front of him as I patted down his chest to get rid of any dust which may have settled there.

His whole week was a full of press interviews and I knew exactly how much he’d be dreading it. He worked himself up and overthought everything, and he got real touchy when he was nervous.

Sebastian wrapped his arms around my waist softly, head dropping as he whined into my neck. I chuckled lightly, unable to hide the smile which covered my face as I ran a hand through his hair lightly. “It’s just part of the job, you know that. and you love your job.”

“Why do you have to be right all the time?” He mumbled against my skin, a smile curling on his lips in amusement. Seb leaned his head back against the wall behind him, peering down at me with a cheeky smile.

He looked fucking hot. Too hot.

“Because one of us has to be.” I raised an eyebrow and smiled up at him in admiration, my chest pressed against his as I played with the back of his hair, careful not to mess it up.

I could smell his aftershave and it was intoxicating. “C’mere.” He gestured me closer with his head, causing me to move my face closer to his. “Help me relax.”

Seb took my lips with his, kissing me softly as he pulled my hips forward to rub against him.

I nodded as I kissed him back softly, tilting my head to give him more access. I part my lips slightly, letting my tongue gently run over his bottom lip.

Seb let out a grunt that vibrated from his throat, taking the lead as he glides his tongue teasingly into my mouth.

I let my other hand glide up touch his chest over the steamed shirt, feeling the definition of body. I sighed in satisfaction, deliberately palming over his nipples as my hand moved across the material of the shirt.

Sebastian moaned into my mouth, his kisses passionate and needy. It soon became too much, my clit twitching when I felt his hard cock pressing against my body.

I leaned my head back, my eyes dropping to the space where our crotches are rubbing together. I noticed his big cock straining against the material of his pants, desperate for attention.

“You like it when I touch your nipples, hm?” I asked sweetly, my hand roaming further down his chest to his toned stomach.

“Yeah.” Seb let out in a desperate grunt, his hips bucking to mine as I leaned in again, this time leaving gentle kisses down his neck.

I let out a little whine, causing vibrations to erupt against the skin of his neck. “Seb.” I nipped at his sensitive skin, feeling him buck his hips again as I moved my hand to the waistband of his pants.

Seb’s hands moved up to my waist, over my back and around to my tummy, just under my boobs as he gripped on the black lacy material of my top. “Off.” He whined with a pout.

“I can’t, bub.” I sighed sadly, pouting back as I used the pet name to soften him up. I skilfully unbuttoned his pants before lowering my hand inside, feeling my way into his underwear as I looked up into his gorgeous eyes. “It’s a bodysuit.”

Sebastian whined again out of frustration, unable to get what he wanted before he came up with the perfect solution. He tugged on the material each side of the low cut ‘v’ shape between my cleavage, adjusting it so that it rest under either side of my boobs, my tits now on full display for him.

“That’s better.” Seb smiled proudly, satisfied with himself as he cupped my tits in his hands, massaging them as my nipples harden under his touch.

My fingers wrapped around his cock as I kissed the base of his neck, pumping him slowly whilst collecting precum from his tip. Seb was big, but he looked even bigger with my tiny hand wrapped around him.

I leaned back with a smile, watching him play with my chest as his eyes focused on my tits. He tugged harshly on my pebbled nipples with his rough fingers. I bit my lip, fucking his cock with my hand as I felt myself getting wet.

I moved my lips millimeters away from his, our breaths meeting as we pant against each other. “M‘not gunna last, darling.” Seb whimpered out, his eyes looked up to gaze into mine.

“S’okay,” I squeak out reassuringly, lust taking over as my palm feels every vein on his cock. “You feel so good in my hand.”

“I wanna cum in your mouth.” Seb admitted in a mumble, his hands tugging on my sides to pull me down. I knew he was getting desperate from the way he was starting to talk dirty.

I kept my hand wrapped around him inside his pants as I got down on my knees in front of him. I shuffled close to him, Seb helped push his trousers down, out of the way, so that his cock could spring up freely.

I licked my lips, wasting no time guiding his tip towards my mouth with my hand. I kissed his leaking tip, swirling my tongue around it as Seb gasped loudly at the feeling of my hot mouth on him.

I hummed around his tip, still pumping his shaft with my hand as his hands moved to the back of my hair, guiding me further down on him.

Seb’s eyes closed tightly, a hiss escaping his clenched jaw as I replaced my hand with my mouth, taking him all in.

I moaned around his length, trying not to choke as I breath shallowly. My hands rested on his thick thighs, saliva escaping the corner of my mouth as I wait for him to take control.

But he doesn’t, he’s too fucked out, too close to even move. I could tell by the way his chest was rising and falling so uneven, trying his best to keep it together. Sweat was building on his forehead and above his parted lips, his eyes only opening when I started to bob my head up and down his length.

I flattened my tongue, relaxing my throat so I could fuck his cock with my mouth. I looked up at Seb, eyes so hooded he almost looked drunk, his hands dropping from my head weakly as his head dropped back against the wall behind him.

His eyes were fixed on the ceiling, he didn’t want to cum. It felt too good. He loved the way my lips felt so soft moving up and down his length. My mouth so warm and welcoming for him.

It sent me crazy seeing him like this, desperate to make him cum, to please him. I swallowed around his length, keeping him deep inside as my tongue flicked rapidly against the underside of his shaft.

My fingers traced ever so slightly over his balls, immediately causing him to cum with one final moan, spilling his load into my mouth. I pulled my head back, opening my mouth wide as he shot every single drop of his cum inside.

I watched his cock twitch, his eyes now glued on my mouth as I swallowed all of him.

Seb tried to calm himself down as I stood back up, tucking my boobs back into my top before helping him re-do his pants back up, his cock safely inside.

“You relaxed now?” I asked softly, looking up into his blown out eyes as he admired me with a nod.

“So relaxed.” Seb leaned in to mumble against my lips, making me smile against him as my arms wrapped around his neck.

“I’m glad to hear it, mister.” I replied sweetly, pecking his lips over and over.

“Mr Stan.” A voice called from beyond the door, startling us both with how loud they knocked.

“Mmh, maybe I’m still a little stressed.” Seb mumbled between kisses, making me giggle at the audacity he had to ignore whoever was knocking.

“Sebastian!” I used his full name to notify him of the seriousness of the situation, leaning my head back as I smile up at him in adoration.

“You’re on, Mr Stan.” The person decided to call out again anyway, hoping that someone inside would be paying attention.

“Guess it’s showtime.” He pouted slightly, stealing another kiss before he let go of me. “Thanks for coming to see me.”

“Thanks for coming.” I respond with an innocent smile, my cheeky comment catching Seb’s attention as his head swings around with a smirk.

“Just you wait till I’m done with this interview.” He shook his head, chuckling in amusement at my remark as he opens the door, taking one last glance back at me, which was when I noticed it. My heart sunk.

“Oh wait, Seb-“ I called out but it was too late. He’d gone. I didn’t get to tell him. Oh well. No one would notice right? Not a single one of the national viewers would notice the lipstick on his lips and neck, right?

———————- LIVE ON THE AIR ————————

“So Sebastian, we’ve talked about the new show, the friendships and behind the scenes mayhem, the travelling, even the amount of lube needed to get into your costume.” Jimmy cracked the joke as he started speaking, crossing his arms as he lent back in his chair.

“That’s right.” Seb nodded shyly, speaking unnecessarily to amuse himself with a little smirk as he became more comfortable in the interview.

“But one thing I think everyone is dying to know,” Jimmy continued, building suspense as he swivelled in his chair towards the audience, gesturing for them to nod in encouragement.

“Okay.” Seb dragged the word out slowly, anticipating what it could be as he sat up a little straighter in the armchair. He chuckled nervously, tugging on his jacket to straighten it.

“Is how exactly those lipstick marks on your neck got to be there.” Jimmy said in a wonderfully sarcastic tone, eyebrows raised as the audience cheered loudly.

Seb suddenly stopped all of his movements, trying to keep a straight face as the crowd kept on cheering. He stared at Jimmy, who was now giggling like a little school girl.

Seb caved after a couple of seconds, laughing loudly as he leaned forward to cover his face with embarrassment of being called out.

“And Sebastian,” Jimmy continued as Seb regained his posture, sucking in his cheeks and sitting up straight as he tried to get rid of his guilty smile, faking a frown of concentration.

“Yeah?” Seb answered shyly, letting out a nervous cough as his face twitched back into a smile momentarily.

“I couldn’t help but notice that Y/N is here with you tonight.” Jimmy’s words make my heart drop as a spotlight points me out in the audience.

My eyes go wide, but I can’t help but laugh as everyone cheers loudly. I cover my mouth, watching Seb able to do nothing but clap for me from the stage.

“So.” Jimmy dragged out the word in a high pitched voice. “am I right in suggesting that Y/N might’ve visited your dressing room before the show?”

Seb smirked, rubbing his hand over his mouth, his silence hid nothing considering the fact that his face completely gave it away. There was no point in him denying it.

I covered my face with my hands, utterly shocked that we had been called out on national television.

“Yeah.” Seb let out in a shaky breath, a beaming smile on his face as he chuckled from embarrassment too, his tongue running over his bottom lip.

The audience clapped, screeched and cheered at his answer, making me want to disappear in my chair.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Jimmy called out as the audience continued cheering us on. “Mr Sebastian Stan and Miss Y/N Y/L/N.”

And just like that, the cat was out of the bag. The many rumours confirmed. The many fans who shipped us would be tweeting, we’d probably be trending in an hour. I guess I’d just have to convince his publicist that we did it as a stunt.

I promised myself that after that, I was never going to attempt any kind of sexual activity in a public place again. But I knew that was a lie.

taglist:

@harrysthiccthighss

@annestine

@bestofbucky

@be-patient-be-good

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rinnepegger · 2 years

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whfjsjfkg your christmas event is so cute!! may i rq either a fic or headcanons of jun with a pumpkin spice latte and a fancy spoon?

AYEEE glad you think the event is cute hehe (人 •͈ᴗ•͈) thank you for requesting as well! Hope u enjoy this one :D hope u didn't mind that I made this one a fic ♪┌|∵|┘♪ ♪┌|∵|┘♪

Word count: 588 words

TW/CW: fluff, GN!Reader

Check out my Christmas Event here!

Jun Sazanami with a GN!Reader

Prompt: "get your lap back over here"

The day was passing by unbelievably slow, anyone else in the office would agree with you. Two group practices, one corporate meeting and nearly three folders worth of paperwork done, yet it was somehow still only 3p.m.

You decided to take a seat, doing your aching legs a long-awaited favour, on the plush cushion in the quiet practice room where peace was present and no one would bother you. Unbeknownst to you, a familiar someone had similar plans as well.

You sat down and threw your head back, relaxing your body entirely as you heaved a sigh of relief. No disturbances, just peace and quiet. Closing your eyes, you controlled your breathing and soaked in the calming atmosphere.

That was until you felt a dip in the cushion next to you and before you knew it, a head of blue hair was laying on your thighs. So deep in your meditation, you hadn't even noticed that the door had slammed open rather noisily, irritation evident through their actions.

Your perked up as your brain had started to finally function once again, trying to register who had so rudely claimed your lap as their pillow.

"Jun..?"

"Yeah?"

He turned his body so that he was looking straight up at you.

His eyes were half lidded, lips parted and hair ruffled. You could tell that today hadn't been treating him well, and you could say the same for anyone else. Thus you decided to not rob him of his long awaited nap.

"Oh, it's nothing."

He flipped back around, the rustling of his clothes ringing deafeningly throughout the tranquil room.

You tried to pace the painfully throbbing heartbeat pounding in your chest. A light pink which dusted your cheeks was soon overtaken by a deep shade of red. Caught in a dilemma between choosing whether or not to get caught in such an embarrassing state, of course you would choose the latter. However, that would result in you breathing a bit too loud as you try to calm your heartbeat, so you instead choose to sit there in embarrassment, lest you wake up the exhausted boy.

You tilted your head back, face looking up toward the ceiling. Your eyelids fluttered shut as you let yourself drift off to sleep, accompanying Jun in his dreams.

Merely minutes later and your slumber had already been disturbed by the slight buzzing of your handphone which you had left resting in the palm of your left hand. You forced your eyes open and brought your phone up to your eye-level to read the notification which had hindered your nap.

"Ibara: meeting in room 2 , 5 mins."

Were you seriously going to let a minor inconvenience take away the rare opportunity of spending alone-time with Jun?

Unless you felt like losing your job, then you would have to comply with Ibara's instructions.

You straightened your back and shifted Jun's head lightly, careful enough as to not wake him up. Just as you pushed your weight up and off the couch, you felt a warm, firm grip around your thigh.

"Get your lap back here. My nap with you isn't over until I say it is."

"But Saegu-"

"I'll talk to him later. You, sit back down here now."

He pulled you back and you landed with a slight bounce on the couch, yet you weren't one to disoblige. After all, what sort of heartless monster would leave their crush in such a desperate state? Definitely not you.

All you could do now was relax, and pray to the high heavens that today wouldn't be your last in this office.

God, you are so in love.

#enstars headcanons #ensemble stars #enstars #jun sazanami #enstars jun sazanami #jun sazanami x reader #enstars fluff #enstars fanfiction #writing #enstars eden #ensemble stars x reader #this was fun to write uwu #hopw u enjoy this one hehe #xmas event: enstars

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jackrrabbit · 4 years

Text

Short Leash /// Lev x f!Reader x Alisa (18+)

Summary: [Post-timeskip] The Haiba siblings get up to no good with their favorite pet.

A/N: Lev really went from skinny goblin to sugar папочка, and don’t even get me started on Alisa 😭 Also, imma lay heavy on those Russian terms of endearment 🇷🇺 I know Lev doesn’t speak Russian but I feel like post-timeskip he might, and it makes me horny so…

Dedicated to my eternal muse @koiibito for thirsting with me and stoking my lust for this duo and to @thisisthehardestthing for providing the fashion references that brought this fic to life for me (although I still can’t describe clothing for shit). Thank you!!!

Tags/warnings: (slight) pet play, threesome, alcohol/drug use mentions, size kink (yk Lev is 6’5 and Alisa is 5’10), dom/sub, orgasm control, rough sex, filming, breath play, crying, reader is a sugar baby in denial, no incest but the siblings fuck you together, yandere-ish, established BDSM relationship, all characters are adults

They like playing dress-up.

With you, if that wasn’t obvious. They’re models, so you could say that playing dress-up is a career for them, a method of putting food on the table…and Balenciaga in the closet…and every luxury pharmaceutical known to man in the medicine cabinet. And they’re so beautiful, both of them. They look good in anything. But when it comes to you, playing dress-up is a labor of love.

Today was Alisa’s turn, which means today was red: crimson lingerie in a box she had delivered to you before the party tonight. The box…it looked so out of place propped up against the bottom of your shabby apartment door that it’s a miracle no one stole it. Black packaging, lettering in gold, and the label printed on the box was French, you think? The two years of language class you took in high school didn’t help you read it, but you had no trouble understanding the number at the bottom of the receipt Alisa included with the set.

She left it on purpose, you know that. She wants you to know that the money she dropped on these flimsy little undergarments could have paid your rent for two months. But you can’t tell her that, or she’ll just insist again that your apartment is so small and ugly, it’s not worth it, it’s high time you moved in with her and Lev already, they would love to have you, and you’d never have to worry about rent again.

Spoiling you. That’s what they call it. Sometimes you think the Haiba siblings spoil you because they know it makes you uncomfortable.

Either way, you can’t say no. You’ve tried, over and over, told them they need to stop buying you clothes and shoes and diamonds but they just laugh you off. Lev, especially—he’s got this way of tipping his head to the side and blinking down at you while you try to explain how nervous it makes you to be dripping in excess, smiling lightly like he’s watching a child throw a tantrum. They just don’t get it. Or they do, and they think it’s funny.

Yeah, it’s probably the latter. You were raised right, raised not to accept gifts like this when you have nothing to give in return—but you were also raised to be gracious to the kindness of strangers, and while they aren’t exactly strangers, it’s just too exhausting to try to deny their generosity. Over time, little by little, you’ve given inches and the Haiba siblings have taken miles.

The Haiba siblings. That’s who they are, constantly presented in juxtaposition since Lev made his debut. They were born for this, and not because of their height. It’s the eyes—something savagely beautiful about that shade of green, those pale eyelashes, the slitted pupils like a cat’s.

The lingerie was Alisa’s choice, but the dress was Lev’s which is probably why he can’t keep his hands off you at the party, grip gliding down the low back and breath ghosting over your neck every time you try to put some distance between you. He’s usually more careful than this—Alisa can get away with the playful touching (groping?) because the cameras will just play it off as friendly skinship, but if someone catches Lev stroking across your thighs or tracing those long fingers over your spine while you move together on the dance floor, there’s going to be trouble. Not that it’s your problem, but one of you has to be responsible tonight, and judging by the number of times Lev’s excused himself to go to the bathroom and come back blinking and grinning and rubbing his nose, the responsible one is going to have to be you.

This time when he returns his gelled-back hair is mussed and—Jesus, how careless can he get?—there’s a little dusting of coke spilled over the collar of his black shirt. You roll your eyes and reach up to brush it off for him but he catches your hand and lifts it to his mouth. A kiss on your inner wrist first, and then his teeth are grazing over that tender skin, blunt edges digging in and drawing dents. A bite.

It’s just on the edge of painful when you belatedly yank your hand away. “Lev—you got it on your shirt, seriously—“ You try to make your voice sound scolding, but it comes out too high.

Lev’s eyes are dark, dilated; he laughs breathlessly and nudges closer to you, trapping you between his long arms and the bar. “You want some? Kotyonok, little kitten wants a treat?”

“No…I’m just drinking tonight. I don’t want to be out too late.” The vodka soda in your hand isn’t nearly strong enough, but if you have any more you’re going to be too drunk to keep your act together and deal with their antics. You don’t have the tolerance they do, and just because they can get away with all the coke and the alcohol and whatever else they’ve been playing with tonight doesn’t mean you can.

…Not that your relative sobriety stops Lev from dragging your face up to meet his, lifting your chin with both hands wrapped around the back of your head and bending down only enough that you still have to rise up on your tiptoes to kiss him. You only catch a hint of the smell of honey before the sour-sweet taste of Lev’s favorite drink (that medovukha mead stuff, it’s Russian, you think) is filling your mouth and his long tongue is sliding over yours. “Mmph—“

“Kitten, always so good,” he sighs, pressing closer so your face has to arch up to the ceiling to meet his. In your limited view you can see the muscles in his jaw flexing as he kisses you, sweeping over your tongue, biting your lip and laughing into your mouth. “So sweet…and impatient, yeah? Want to go home with us already?”

His hand on the small of your back is bunching your dress up, giving him the space to push his knee between your legs. You gasp sharply but it just eggs him on and his mouth dips down under your jawline, his body covering yours, so sudden and so public that your eyes flash around the room, wondering who might witness Lev—the international model Lev Haiba—sucking on your throat. “L-Lev, wait, someone—someone will see—“

“You’re asking to go somewhere private? Greedy girl…Alisa’s still having fun.”

You try to come up with a response, but it’s not easy to think straight when he’s holding your waist, circling it with those big hands and petting up to your ribs, cupping your tits while his thigh rubs between your legs. You can smell his cologne, bergamot and amber, and—and—you can smell his cologne—

“Lyovochka~” Alisa’s voice rings out and you know just by hearing it that she’s had as much as Lev. Her hand fists in her brother’s hair and pulls him off your neck none too gently, ignoring his curse and complaints. “Naughty, naughty. Playing without me, were you?”

“Alisa, you’re fucking up my hair,” Lev whines, but he straightens off you, pulling Alisa into your tight little trio at the bar. “Kitty says she wants us to take her home.”

You feel your cheeks heat up and wonder if they can see the blush under your foundation. “I didn’t— I can go home myself—“ Not that you have a chance in hell of leaving the party without them, but still. You can pretend to play coy.

“No.” Alisa places a finger on your mouth to shush you and then her eyes lower and her fingernail—painted silvery white, her signature color—pushes into your bottom lip. You stumble closer, hands meeting her shoulders through the thick white padding of the jacket she’s wearing, over the glittering crystals that look blindingly bright under the blacklights.

Silver and white. Always silver and white.

Her fingernail traces down your lip, drawing a fine line on your chin; on instinct, you tip your head back to give her access to pet down your throat until she comes to a rest on the neckpiece of the harness she included with the lingerie set. When her hand reaches the ring in the center of the choker she grips it, pulling your face away from Lev’s and toward hers. “Lyovochka, what do you think…? I saw it and thought of kotyonok. A collar for our little kitten.”

“Hm, I don’t know. I need to see more.” Lev’s hands are on you again now, splaying flat over your chest before his fingers curl, one by one, around the harness strap that leads from the ring at the choker down between your breasts until it disappears under the neckline of your dress. He’s tugging on it—lightly, but you can’t deny the feeling that it’s like a leash…or the feeling of heat gathering in your pussy at having the two of them all over you like this.

You shouldn’t be letting them touch you (and they are touching you, Alisa’s hand stroking your throat and Lev tugging your side into his chest). There’s always people watching at parties like this; you’ve attended these things on Lev’s arm or Alisa’s enough times to know better than to let them do as they please. You’re supposed to be the responsible one. Too bad your body is craving a lot more than the innocuous touches they can give you in public.

You swallow and Alisa grins, dark-painted lips stretching over those perfect white teeth. “So. Kitten, would you like us to take you home? Say please.”

You don’t have to say it. You could ask yourself why you let them get away with this, why you keep letting yourself fall to the mercy of these siblings, why they even want you in the first place, but those are questions for tomorrow morning—tonight, even though you should hate it, there’s a part of you that wants to purr every time they call you kitten.

“…Please,” you murmur, and as soon as the word is out Lev’s grip on the harness tightens, pulling the choker taut around your neck.

///

They end up ripping the dress.

You kind of hate them for it when you think about how many bills you could have paid with the money they spent dolling you up for tonight. But by the time they get around to it, you’re pretty much too horny to care.

They didn’t even wait til you got home (their home, you remind yourself, not yours), although that shouldn’t have surprised you. From Alisa tugging on your hair and Lev’s arm draped possessively around your shoulders, you should’ve seen it coming, but it still takes you by surprise that the three of you have barely piled in the back of the Uber when Alisa’s dragging you to sit on her thigh, unceremoniously pulling your dress over your hips and sliding her hand up the slit where the fabric falls open to rub your pussy.

You whine and squirm but can’t quite make yourself say the word “no”, instead squeezing your eyes shut and trying to focus on Alisa whispering in your ear that you’re a good girl, getting so wet for them. All three of you can hear the squishy damp noises your pussy is making sucking around her fingers, and dear god you hope the driver can’t hear it too—wait, is he looking? Your eyes peek open, traitorously seeking out the rearview to see if there’s a possibility he’s watching the show, but before you can work up the guts to tell them to quit it, Lev’s hand is folding around your jaw again and forcing two of his fingers past your lips for you to drool on. And—fuck—Alisa’s petting over your cunt, drawing slow lines up from the wetness gathered at your hole up to your clit.

By the time you’ve reached the building Lev and Alisa are staying at in Tokyo, you’re past the point of caring that other people are around. Lev has to pull you out of the car and off Alisa’s lap to get you to stop humping your ass into her lap and trying to push your mound into her fingers. Alisa winks at the driver—probably earning herself a 5-star rating despite all your bad behavior—and then the two of them are steering you past the doorman and into the elevator.

As soon as you’ve got the barest semblance of privacy, Lev pulls your back into his chest and grinds himself into you. You can feel how hard he is, the heat of his body leaching through the fabric of your clothing directly into your skin, hands around your waist forcing you to mold yourself into him while he layers kisses over the side of you neck. “L-Lev, ah— mm, someone’s gonna come in,” you whine as he pushes the bulge of his stiff cock against your lower back, but he just lets one of his hands drift up to scratch at the choker of the harness again.

Alisa’s hands meet your cheeks on either side, framing your face for a short moment so she can study your dazed expression, the flush on your cheeks, your sex-glazed eyes. You look like you want to get fucked, you know that? You look like you want them to push you down in the elevator and fuck you right there. “But kotyonok, you’re so darling. We should let other people get a chance to see, no?”

Lev’s hand spans the breadth of your throat, not quite pressing down (yet), so he must be able to feel the way your muscles contract and release when you swallow—not to mention the edge of tension that enters your body at the thought of someone seeing you in such a compromising position. “Ahh, kitty wants to be all ours, doesn’t she? She doesn’t want us to share.”

“Is that so?” Alisa doesn’t give you a chance to answer, just tipping your face up and letting her lips close over yours. She tastes more bitter than Lev did and for the brief moment you have between getting pressed between them and your brain short-circuiting, you wonder what she’s been drinking. “Are you being selfish?”

“Nnnh, I—“ you don’t have an answer for her, but it doesn’t really matter because the elevator is dinging at the penthouse and Alisa’s pulling you away from Lev into their apartment by the center strap of the harness. You’ve got no choice but to follow, and you consider telling her to quit dragging you around by your neck but there’s something about the pressure on your throat that isn’t…entirely unpleasant, so you hold your tongue.

Lev murmurs to Alisa in Russian—you hate when they do that, especially because you know they’re only doing it because they don’t want you to understand—and then you’re in the spare bedroom, the one that the siblings insist on referring to as your bedroom. Even though you don’t live here. Even though you do everything you can to avoid staying here. Even though the only times you ever spend the night are when you’re too fucked-out by the two of them to consider putting in the effort to get home.

Something tells you this is going to be one of those nights.

They work in sync, teasing down the straps of your dress and easing you out of it until Alisa snaps the harness between your tits and Lev gets impatient and someone pulls the back of the dress a little too hard and that’s when you feel tearing. “Shit,” you hear in Lev’s voice, a soft curse in Russian from Alisa, and then a reluctant peal of laughter as the dress flutters down to the ground.

“Did you—“ You’re about to curse them out for ruining something so fucking expensive, but Lev clucks his tongue and shakes his head and you fall silent. He’s pulling back from you—so is Alisa—and your heart jumps for a second wondering if you did something wrong until you realize they’re just looking at you, drinking in the image of you naked except for the lingerie Alisa picked out for you.

“Bordelle?” Lev murmurs, running fingers down the straps cinching around your waist, the belt holding up the garters—as usual, you don’t know whether to move away from his touch or melt into it.

Alisa smiles. “It was made for her, don’t you think? Our kitten looks good in red.”

Honestly, they call you kitten, but the way they look at you is less like the way owners look at a pet and more like wolves sizing up a little lamb they’ve cornered. Hungry. Starving. You’re not sure which you prefer, but it makes you self-conscious. You’d felt pretty confident about the way you looked when you examined yourself in the mirror before the party—Alisa has good taste, even if the lingerie is just this side of bondage gear and not something you would’ve bought for yourself in a million years—but now you have to fight the urge to cover yourself up with your hands…not that they’d let you.

True to your prediction, as soon as your hand twitches with the instinct to cross your arms over your bound-up tits Lev snaps down to catch it. “Let me see,” he instructs, and the authority in his voice is so definite that your arms fall back down to your sides automatically. “Good girl. Alisa, do you think we can keep it on while we fuck her?”

While we fuck her.

He says it so nonchalantly. And it’s not like you didn’t know that’s what you’re here for. You’re a grown-up, you’re sober (ish), and you’ve been in this room with the two of them enough times that you’re well aware there was only ever one way this night was going to end up. But the way he says it makes you shiver. They’re going to fuck you…like they own you. And it’s kind of terrifying how much you want to be owned.

“I think we can get the panties off without taking off the rest,” Alisa says to respond to Lev’s question, even as she brushes a stray lock of hair away from your eyes. “Besides, I have a surprise for her.”

A surprise? It wouldn’t be the first time one of them has pulled out something unexpected in bed—last time it was a ball gag and nipple clamps, and the time before that it was a magic wand vibrator (plated in literal gold, because the Haibas are nothing if not excessive) that had you begging and crying and creaming all over the sheets. You can’t help your anxiousness as Alisa pulls something out of the otherwise-empty dresser and sets it up to face the bed.

It’s…a camera. A camera? “You want to film it?” you blurt out, your voice sounding pitchy and nervous even to your own ears.

“Great idea,” Lev says, patting your head like that’s all it’ll take to make you feel better.

“Yes, kotyonok. I’m going to film you,” Alisa replies, fiddling with the settings and batting those long blonde eyelashes at the lens once she’s satisfied.

“Wait, I—I don’t know. I’m not like you, I can’t just—” you stammer. Sure, the twins will look perfect and irresistible and bewitching, but you? You’re not sure you want to have a video of yourself getting fucked stupid in their hands. “What if I don’t want to…?”

“But I want to.” Alisa’s gaze sweeps down over you and you lower your eyes so you don’t have to meet it, don’t have to feel the weight of it holding you down more securely than any leash. There’s a reason she’s a model—she could sell anything. Those eyes. How are you supposed to say no?

You want to step back away from her. You almost try, but Lev’s at your back already, long arms draped over your shoulders, a loose hold that nonetheless keeps you from moving. So instead of backing up, you just bite your lip.

Alisa’s face softens—she’s good at that, good at picking up the cues when she’s pushed a little too far for your comfort—and a second later you feel her hand wrapping around yours, holding it. “Safeword?”

Cherry. The safeword is cherry. It’s not that you’ve forgotten. It’s her way of reminding you that you have a safeword, and you can use it, and it’ll be okay. This isn’t even a full-on scene, but Alisa must be able to sense that the addition of the camera made you scared.

Picking up the change in mood a second later, Lev’s hand finds your other one and he strokes his thumb over your skin reassuringly. God, maybe it’s wrong that they can make you feel hunted one second and adored the next, but you let out a breath and relax, shaking your head to indicate that you’re not stopping.

She brings your hand up to her mouth and kisses it so lightly her lipstick barely leaves a mark—wait, oops. You’d forgotten she was wearing lipstick. You must have it all over you by now.

“Good girl. We take good care of you, don’t we?”

“…Yes.”

“We do.” Lev’s impatient, you can tell from the way he’s adjusting his grip to your waist and pushing you over to the bed. “We’re not going to share the video, if that’s what you’re worried about. Alisa likes to joke, but really…”

Your ass hits the mattress so you’re half-sitting, half-lying on the covers, propped up on your elbows, peeking through your eyelashes at the two of them looming over you—and, oh, there they are again.

The wolves.

“…we don’t want anyone else seeing you like this,” Alisa finishes, holding up the camera and flicking the little red light on to record.

///

Lev starts, like usual. You think maybe it’s a control thing, that Alisa doesn’t let you touch her until you’re already falling apart on Lev’s fingers, his tongue…his cock. As much as she likes it when you bite back, you’re cuter when you’re begging.

She’s holding your face off the bed by a hand under your chin, wrenching your neck back so your wrecked face is level with the camera. You’re on your hands and knees—or, more accurately, your hands and elbows, with your ass arched up and Lev’s face buried in your slit. “Nngh, nnnnn, fuck please please—“ Your whining is barely coherent, but Lev knows what you’re asking for and he digs his fingers into the meat of your ass to hold you still as he latches his mouth over your clit and sucks.

Fuck— you keen and try to drop your head down to the sheets to angle your dripping cunny closer to his mouth, but Alisa’s grip on your jaw prevents you from getting any further out of the camera frame. “Uh-uh, no. I want to see you.”

“Alisa…ahhh…” Your tongue is lolling out of your mouth and you know you must look like a mess, spit practically falling over your lips as you try to stop yourself from cumming right here. Fuck, it feels good, feels so hot and wet that your juices don’t even have time to cool on your thighs before more is dripping down.

“Tell the camera what’s happening, kotyonok,” Alisa purrs, wiping the saliva off your lip and then pushing her fingers over your tongue.

“…eating me out, he’s—uhhhn—licking my pussy…” you slur around her fingers. Your glassy eyes flit between her appraising expression and the lens of the camera—even though you trust that they won’t show the video to anyone outside this room, it’s making you shudder to think about what’s on the little screen you can’t see—Alisa’s pretty silver fingernails coated in your drool as she presses them deeper into your throat, your body all bound up in red straps and gold fastenings, and Lev behind you, hair falling out of its careful style as he shoves his face deeper between your legs.

The edge of Alisa’s finger bites into the plush of your lip as you moan and unsuccessfully attempt to wriggle your ass under Lev’s grip. “Who’s licking your pussy?” she asks calmly, like she’s asking what the weather is like today.

“Lev, it’s, it’s Lev—fuck ohh, oh,” you whine as Lev slides his tongue flat from your clit up to your hole and pushes the slimy wet muscle inside. It’s so long, you’re never going to get used to how stupid long his tongue is, licking out your walls and making slurping sounds that are downright fucking vile.

Heat is gathering quickly in your abdomen, and you can feel it—that plateau rising before you hit your peak, and the tension in your thighs making them twitch and quiver as your muscles contract in anticipation—and his tongue is so long and thick it’s almost reaching your g-spot, almostalmostalmost, god-fucking-damnit. Your spine curls even further, arching yourself into him, wordlessly begging for him to keep doing exactly what he’s doing. “Gonna cum, fuck Lev please make me, make me cum!”

“Oh? Did I say you were allowed to cum?” Alisa asks, cat-like eyes narrowing.

Shit, fuck, she didn’t, but you don’t know if you can help yourself. Your hand fists in the sheet, curling your fingernails around the fabric to try to ease up the heat where Lev’s mouth is latched to your cunt. “Please Alisa—I need to—“

Alisa shakes her head. “But you don’t get to decide what you need, kotyonok.”

She’s right, but—but, it’s not fair, Lev’s switching between dragging his tongue over your clit and fucking you with it—you try to pull your hips away from his mouth but he doesn’t let you, effortlessly holding you in place while he teases you even higher.

“Who decides?” she continues, petting your jawline and wiping away the first hint of a tear from your cheek as you try to hold it back—

but you can’t.

“You-you decide! You decide when I cum!” you gasp, but your body is already betraying your words, convulsing and contracting as your climax hits you like a truck. You try to hold yourself through it but it’s impossible—your eyes roll back and arms go slack, dropping flat on the bedspread with your ass still pushed up into the air as your pussy walls contract around Lev’s tongue.

He’s still licking you—slower now at least, but you’re shaking at the feeling of him stimulating that sensitive bud. “Stop…too much,” you whine weakly, but he just raises a hand off your ass cheek to give it a light smack.

“Bad kitty,” he murmurs with his mouth still pressed against your slit, and the contact makes you seize up and twitch.

“Yes. Very bad.” Alisa doesn’t look angry—she’s never angry with you, even when you’re…disobedient, you guess—but there’s a note of mischief in her eyes that sends a thrill of fear (and not just fear) down your spine.

“S-Sorry, I’m sorry,” you whimper, but Alisa’s already pulling you upright by the ring on your choker.

“Did you cum? Even though we didn’t give you permission?” she asks, even though all three of you know you did. You nod, avoiding looking at both her and the camera as if that’ll disguise the obvious flush painting your cheeks red. At your admission, she smiles indulgently and murmurs something in Russian that you don’t understand, but you get the gist.

You’ve been naughty. And you’re going to get punished.

You hear the bedsprings squeak and feel the dip of the mattress as Lev climbs up behind you, settling his body against yours so the bulge in his pants is pressed against your back again. He’s still wearing most of his outfit from the party—they both are, and you note (not for the first time) how ridiculous it is that the siblings are willing to fuck you together but being naked in front of one another is the one boundary they won’t cross—but you don’t have to wait long before you hear him undoing his pants and pulling his cock out to rut it lazily against your back.

Automatically you shift your legs apart and reach down to finger yourself like you usually do, stretch your cunt out so you’re ready to take him. But before you can reach your pussy, Lev’s hand is folding over yours and lacing his fingers over your hand to stop you. “L-Lev?”

“No, kitty,” he tells you firmly.

You shiver. Alisa pinches your cheek and rubs over your ear. “What…”

“You already came,” Lev continues, and then you feel his cock sliding between your thighs, between your soaking-wet lips, using your cum as lubrication. “You came, so you don’t need to get ready. You’re going to take all of me, okay?”

All of him. You swallow. The full length slowly rubbing between your legs is going to go inside of you, without any preparation beforehand. “But…if I don’t, it’ll—it’s gonna hurt…”

“Yes, it’s going to hurt.” He waits for a moment, giving you a chance to say the safeword, but you don’t. “It’s going to hurt, and then it’ll feel good, and then you’re going to cream yourself on my cock like always. Yes?”

“Uh—“ You blink rapidly, already feeling his cockhead pushing between your lips toward your hole. Alisa combs your hair out of your face and you turn toward her. “Alisa?”

“Don’t ask her. You need to learn that your owners will take care of you. You need to trust us.” Lev presses in, stretching your little cunt around the thick head, and you suck in a sharp inhale.

“A-Ah—it’s too big,” you whine, scrunching your eyes shut and biting your lip as he slides himself deeper into you. And yeah, it hurts…but with how riled up you are, it definitely doesn’t hurt enough for you to want it to stop. The burn from the stretch is just making you wetter, and the feeling of being filled up by him is unbelievable. This was supposed to be a punishment, right?

Alisa cups your face to kiss you gently, and then her hands drift lower to circle your neck. Lev’s still sliding his cock into your pussy, slowly, slowly, so you can feel everything, every inch of his skin and every vein dragging against your g-spot. The deeper he gets, the more it hurts and the more you want to stop him, to take the lead—but he doesn’t let you.

“Are you going to cry, kitten?” Alisa asks you, reaching down to take one of your hands and pull it over her shoulder so you’re holding her. You grit your teeth and shudder and shake your head, making her lips quirk into a smile. “It’s alright if you cry. You’re still cute when you’re crying.”

With another roll of his hips Lev’s pushing up against your cervix and you choke out a curse. “F-Fuck, I’m not—not gonna c-c-cry…”

“Shh…” Upright on his knees behind you, Lev’s body is so big curled over yours that you feel smothered between him and Alisa. You sneak a glance back and there’s a pale pink flush over his cheeks and shoulders. “You’re taking me so well…taking my cock like that, going to make me forget you were bad…”

You stay still because it hurts more when you try to move, and you need to get yourself adjusted. You have to relax, you have to, but he’s so big, heavy and thick between your aching legs. You still haven’t recovered from cumming earlier, and every time one of the aftershocks hits you and you clench around him, the mix of pleasure and pain is almost too much. Even as aroused as you are, your cunt sucking him in for all you’re worth, he’s pushing against your cervix…and his hips haven’t even hit yours yet. He hasn’t bottomed out.

You’re going to take all of me, he said. You’re not even sure you can. But no matter what, you’re not—you’re not—gonna cry.

Until Lev pulls his hips back, sliding his cock out of you so it’s only his head sheathed at the entrance to your cunt, and then snaps forward again, filling you back up in a single stroke. He knocks into you so forcefully that you jerk forward, your chest mashing into Alisa’s. The force and his weight pulls a squeak out of you and—fuck, fuck—you feel tears welling up in your eyes.

“—t-t-too fast,” you pant, squeezing your eyes shut as if that’ll prevent them from getting glossy. The pads of Alisa’s fingers are skimming over your cheeks, and her skin is so soft and silky that you want to nuzzle in for comfort.

“But Kotyonok likes it fast, doesn’t she?…you feel how wet you are on my—my cock?” Lev’s face nudges against your shoulder, and you can feel his hands curling around your upper arms, securing you underneath him, holding you in place as he pounds into you.

You like it…like it fast? Your head is spinning, you’re dizzy and hot and feverish, Lev’s cologne is mixing with Alisa’s perfume and you feel like you’re drinking it, ugh. Fuck. Feels like you’re getting bruised up inside and it feels good. Your legs are jerking, weakly trying to push yourself back on his cock to make him fill you up deeper than your pussy can take but you’re totally at their mercy.

“Let her down, Lyovochka. I want kitty to lick,” Alisa says, looking over your shoulder to make eye contact with her brother. She shifts back on the bedspread, easing herself into the pillows and pushing the skirt of her dress up over her waist to expose her panties: mesh, lace, powder-pink. They’re so pretty against her pale skin that you just stare down at her for a second, open-mouthed, before Lev’s releasing his grip on your arms and splaying his palm into your back, shoving your face down toward her lap.

You catch yourself on your elbows—barely—but you don’t have time to adjust to the new position and how stupid fucking goddamn deep Lev’s cock is hitting you before Alisa’s pulling your face up closer to her clothed pussy and adjusting her thighs to make room. Is she going to keep the panties on? Fuck—you almost ask her to take them off but you know you aren’t allowed so you just angle your face in and let drool coat your tongue so you can try to lap at her pussy through the fabric.

The awkward angle means you can barely taste her, but fuck, what you can taste is so good—they’ve conditioned you, the two of them, conditioned you like Pavlov’s dogs to crave what they’re doing to you so badly you can’t even think. The slightly-bitter taste of her cunt soaking through to your mouth has you intoxicated. She got like this from watching you, watching you cum all over the pretty lingerie she bought you, watching you get fucked so hard you’re crying. The thought of her getting off on watching you squirm makes your pussy clench around Lev’s cock.

“Gonna cum again?” Lev asks with laughter in his voice; his pace slows, dragging out the stimulation to your g-spot right as you feel him reach down to tease over your clit. You squeak out a denial but he doesn’t believe you—and why would he when he can literally hear the nasty wet noises from your pussy eating up his cock? “Yes…you are."

“I’m—n-no, I’m noooot…”

“Poor baby, can’t control herself.” Alisa’s pushing you back into her cunt, fingernails scraping over your scalp as you desperately try to lick her pussy. “Don’t be cruel, Lev.”

Another laugh, low and raspy and juddering from the pace of his cock stretching your walls and pushing against that sweet spot inside you. “I’m not the cruel one.”

They’re both cruel, you think, but that’s the only thing going through your mind because you’re pretty sure you’re going to go fucking crazy, your pussy is so hot you feel like you’re melting around him but you keep at Alisa’s cunt because you want to be good, want to be their good girl, want to be their good little kitty.

You want to be theirs.

“Please—please, can I, can I? Please let me, please I need you to let me…” you beg—somewhere in the back of your mind you know you’re going to hate yourself for giving in to them tomorrow but you want it so so so bad and you can’t cum without their permission, you can’t, you can’t be bad again.

“Well…what do you think, Alisa? Has she earned it?” There’s a growl in Lev’s voice—is he holding himself back? Yesss… He’s slowing down, fucking you up from the inside and the outside, pulling that heat out of you, making you squeal and whine and plead just like he said he would.

You want to, you need to, need to earn it, be good make Alisa feel good earn it—fuck, you have to try harder, and you flutter your tongue over her clit through her panties as well as you can, knowing you’re being sloppy but you don’t know how to help it. She waits a long moment and then sighs, pulling her fingers through your hair, pulling it away from your face so you can look up at her, those pretty pretty eyes looking down at yours so indulgently. Adoringly. Like you’re something to be cherished. “Mm…yes.”

And that’s all it takes.

Your mouth falls open and your pussy does something, convulsing—

“—cumming I’m cumming Lev, A-Alisa—“

fuck, can’t breathe why can’t you breathe? something digging into your throat—

Lev’s, Lev’s hand under the choker dragging you upright tightening cutting off the sounds coming out of your mouth, choking your scream into a pathetic little mewl so he can hold your body up next to him while he fucks you through your climax—you can feel your face turning pink, your cunny holding around him, squeezing him so tight he can barely move but he still does, hips thrusting against your ass, the pleasure so bright and heavy you’re seeing sparks, head rushing, or maybe that’s just the lack of oxygen,

too tight the choker’s too tight you bring your hand back and tap against Lev’s and he lets go immediately. “Shit—sorry, are you alright? Can you breathe?”

You can feel him pulling out, and just that movement is enough to set off another round of clenching in your pussy. You’re sputtering, throat contracting in time with your cunt, not too painful. Just raw.

“Try to breathe, (Y/N),” Lev repeats, stroking down your back to soothe you. He sounds worried, and…that’s your name, isn’t it? It’s been a while since you heard one of them actually say your name instead of just kitten or kitty or kotyonok. It’s not like you can really bother pretending you’re not at least a little bit into the nickname, but hearing your real name out of his mouth stokes some kind of soft, nervous pleasure in you. And goddamn, you do not have the brainpower to analyze why.

It takes a moment for you to catch your breath—the air tastes sweeter than it did a minute ago—and then you roll over. “Did...did you cum?”

Lev shakes his head. You turn toward Alisa, and she just pats your cheek—of course she didn’t cum. Which means you’ve gotten to cum twice, and you didn’t get either of them off.

You bite your lip, turn to the side, and try not to let your eyes water for the—third? fourth?—time tonight. “I’m sorry, I—I’ll do it again, I’ll be better—“

“No,” Alisa says gently, adjusting her position to sit next to you and kiss your forehead. “You were so good, (Y/N).”

Lev mirrors her actions on the other side so you’re bracketed by the two of them. After a second of stillness to gauge your comfort, he starts undoing the clasps at the back of the choker and massaging his fingers over the tender skin underneath. You sniffle and then feel him lay his chin on the top of your head, arrange his arm over your side. “It’s okay,” he murmurs. “You know we like you no matter what, right?”

Alisa nods in agreement, pupils coming to a rest on the skin of your throat as she helps Lev remove the tangle of red satin straps from your body. “Our perfect little kitten. Who’s a good girl?”

Kitten.

Your stomach drops. Not your name. Just kitten.

It must be the twentieth time she’s called you that tonight, but somehow this time it’s different. You cringe, feeling cold where she touches you, but that doesn’t stop her from wiping away the smeared mascara and tear tracks from your cheeks. When you try to flinch away from her, Lev huffs out an annoyed breath and pushes you back into place. “Myesto. Stay.”

It’s a command. Like you would give to an animal. When you freeze, Alisa smiles and then she’s tilting your chin up with her fingers and bringing the camera—the camera, you forgot about the camera—to your throat so she can capture the mess of pink lines and indentations from where the choker bit into your neck…

…and who are you kidding? It’s not a choker, it’s a fucking collar. And you’re not their lover, or their girlfriend, or even their fuckbuddy.

You’re their pet.

#haikyuu x reader #haikyuu imagines #lev haiba x reader #alisa haiba x reader #yandere haikyuu #haiba lev x reader #haiba alisa x reader #yandere haikyuu x reader #lev haiba #haiba lev #alisa haiba #haiba alisa #haikyuu #lev x reader #alisa x reader #haikyuu spoilers #hq x reader #hq imagines #yandere

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janekfan · 2 years

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My second fic for the @tmabigbang! I couldn't have done it without the support of my wonderful and SO talented artists @catfishofoldin99colours and @call-of-the-ocean! Seriously! The art for this is amazing <3

AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/35087080/chapters/87400843

There was a ghost in the archives.

In his aimless drifting he heard staff whispering about it and while spooky happenings were not uncommon, the upstairs staff rarely encountered more than second hand rumor.

Jon supposed this one couldn’t be blamed on rampant imagination as he was the one perpetuating it.

He didn’t have a flat to go home to. He wandered about the building at all hours dressed in old and oversized clothes Georgie let him borrow, trailing fingertips along volumes and boxes and shelves and painting trails in the dust. Mostly, he hid from people. Scurried away when he heard them. Slipped between hallways and through doors. Really, it was no wonder and maybe Jon allowed himself to get the slightest kick over it. He certainly wasn’t going to correct anyone.

Today though. Or tonight? He’d lost track at some point. Couldn’t even be certain about which day of the week it was. Owlishly, he blinked up at the ceiling, flat on his back on the tiny office couch Tim insisted so long ago he needed and was so grateful to have. If he thought hard enough, imagined strong enough, he could still detect faint whispers of the cologne his friend--coworker favored. Lord, he was lonely. Hungry. Possibly in equal measure. And cold.

The Eye, for its part, was funneling statistics into his head about isolation sickness and all the many negative effects it had on the human body. But he wasn’t human anymore. Surely it didn’t matter. It wasn't like he could do anything about it anyway.

Martin had turned him away again and while Jon was no stranger to being left behind, he'd never built up a tolerance for the pain of abandonment. And even though Martin had told him off in no uncertain terms and perhaps despite it, Jon wanted nothing more than to climb the stairs again just to hear his voice and let it soothe him because he didn’t feel well. Hadn’t in a long time. Worse now after the herculean effort of bringing Daisy back from the coffin and he wasn’t sure he’d make it back up all those flights. He was dizzy. Unsteady. Tried it anyway. The chance of even a modicum of comfort was too large a draw.

But he never expected a topple down a flight of stairs. Or that hitting one’s head could steal sight away as surely as night swallows up the day.

From his crumpled position on the floor, Jon struggled to remember what happened. How he’d missed when reaching out to steady himself with a quaking hand. How it sent him tumbling, arse over teakettle.

How everything went black and then stayed that way.

How blurry it all was when he forced heavy lashes apart, barely making out the shape of a person looming over him. Jon startled, limbs uncoordinated, thrashing and ineffectual against their strength as they held him down, made him be still.

“Alright, alright. You’re alright, Jon.” Panicking, fuzzy and disconnected and fighting against the splitting agony bouncing around his skull, the sound torn from his throat was more wail than word. “Cut it out.”

“B’zira…?” Roughly, her fingers probed the back of his head and she wouldn’t let him shift away until whatever examination she saw fit to conduct was complete.

“Already healed up.”

“Why’sit…?” She wasn’t listening. Not to him. Jon thought there might be others there but he couldn’t make them out through the inky dark threatening at the edges of his already dwindling vision.

“Help me get him up.” Hands on him. Firm and unyielding under his arms and when he swooned they held his weight still for a moment, let him steady. “Better not be sick on me, Jon. I promise, it won’t go well for you.”

Did anything?

The cot was rough below him, sheets scratchy above. Skin sensitive, crawling. What light remained burned his eyes and he welcomed the black when it came for him.

It was dark when Jon next opened his eyes and it didn’t occur to him why that was wrong until several disorientating moments had passed. There was always light here coming in from under the door from the emergency fluorescents. He should know because on his worst days even that small amount triggered his migraines. Power outage?

No, the Eye supplied, its faint amusement a slippery, oily sensation across his mind even as it sipped on his panic like a fine wine. Jon shook, rubbing his eyes with uncoordinated hands, blinking hard, shaking his head hard enough that he was nearly sick and only succeeding in clinging to the sheets for several minutes in complete stillness to settle his roiling stomach.

Calm. Calm. Be. Calm.

Tears slipped down his face and he scrubbed them away, angry and scared and hurting. This couldn’t be happening. What would he do? He needed help. He needed, he needed someone, anyone.

He wanted Martin. With his calm voice and gentle hands and-

No. He. The only thing he’d get from Martin was another telling off and he didn’t need to fall down the stairs a second time in as many days.

Bitter, Jon shoved himself to his unsteady feet. Martin wouldn’t care anyway. Too busy with whatever project Lukas had him wrapped up in. Jon didn’t need anyone anyway and there was no one in the room to call him out on the lie.

One step.

Two.

Two until he lost his balance and slammed into the filing cabinets. Pain sparked through his side like lightning, the blinding fulmination igniting every nerve like dry tinder and sending him to his knees. Dazed, Jon fumbled for support, a handhold, and found none, the crack of his jaw colliding with the floor resonating into his bones like a thunder clap. He wanted to call out, ask for help even knowing that there would be no answer.

“M-ah’Martin.” Choked and quiet, bitten in half by a sob borne of wanting. “T. Ti-h--mm.” Jon hadn’t allowed himself to cry this way in a long time; hard and desperate, enough that his head began to pound and his chest began to ache with each hard won, scalding breath. Exhaustion flooded through veins full to bursting and there was no room for anything; for air in his lungs, blood in his body, thoughts in his brain.

There was no change when he woke, the dark was still dark. The loneliness and fear a yawning, empty cavern where his heart should be.

Up. Get up. Get up. You worthless, good for nothing, for nobody--get up!

Jon struggled, smacking his hands on the sharp edges of cabinets, the cot, before finding a piece of furniture that would support even his slight weight when he hauled himself upright with a groan of nausea. When was the last time he'd been allowed a statement? Certainly not for a few days at least. He isn't even sure of how long he spent languishing in this room. Hours? Days?

Clutter tripped him up and he nearly lost his balance stepping on an empty water bottle, the crunch of plastic under his toes next to deafening in this sea of nothing. He knew the room's dimensions and yet it seemed like he was navigating the whole archives rather than one tiny hideaway. It was hard to find his way around and hot tears of frustration, of hunger, of helplessness slipped down his face. Jon was bruised all over, knees, hips, arms, and in this maze of his own making only managed to find the cot again. Whatever time he'd spend fumbling for the door, whatever strength, wasted. Laying in the darkness gave his mind time to spiral, conjuring sounds that transformed into monsters that dug into his soft parts with gnarled fingers and took, took, took.

The cycle continued. Rest. Hope. Disappointment. Until, blessedly, Jon found his hand upon the knob. With a wet bark of laughter he waited, shivering, and realized he didn't even know what it was he wanted. Simple freedom? Escape from his cage?

God, if the door was locked.

The screech of the hinges made him wince, the fear of being announced against his will, of being seen like this, a vice around his throat. Stock still, Jon stood, grip so tight his fingers spasmed and seized.

"He'hello?" He listened, head tilted like an investigating sparrow, face turned toward the feeling of space in front of him. There was no response, just a shivering up his spine and the sensation of being watched. Jon kept to the wall, picking his pitifully slow way along and knocking old papers and push-pins off the rough, dimpled surface. Thirst. That was the first problem to solve and the staff kitchen should be the first open space he'd come across, if his muddled memory would serve. Jon winced when the first glass crashed to pieces against the floor but couldn’t be bothered to do anything about it, too busy filling the cup he had managed to grab with stale lukewarm water and gulping it down so fast he was nearly ill. The second he took slower, sipping absentmindedly while he tried to listen. Nothing. Wherever the rest of them were hiding away, it wasn’t close enough to hear the racket he was making.

Lord, he was starving. The feverish heat of his supernatural hunger a sweltering prickle beneath his skin.

If he couldn’t read statements what would happen?

Carefully, Jon made his way to the archives, tumbling over file boxes, knees colliding painfully with the hard tile and taking more than one breathless break to rest. He was surrounded by possibilities, a veritable buffet, and he couldn’t see a single one. Despite it, Jon clawed his way into the nearest bin, scattering folders and envelopes and pages left and right until he found something real. He could feel it in its proximity and he willed his eyes to work to no avail, holding the fragile papers so hard they tore between his trembling fingers.

He cried.

Tucking his face into folded arms, Jon fought to control himself, curling up tighter and tighter and tighter, willing himself to disappear. He was so hungry. So, so hungry he ached with it.

Footsteps jerked him awake and when Jon sat up the paper crumpled up around him like a nest rustled.

“You’re a mess.” Derision clear, Basria said nothing more, just hauled him back to his feet by the scruff of his shirt.

“W’wait! I--!” She paused but kept her hands on him and he was grateful because if not for that he’d surely be back on the ground. “I.”

“What?”

“I can’t." He swallowed hard and wondered if admitting this weakness would help him or hurt before blurting out, "I can’t see.”

“What?” For a moment Jon thought she just hadn’t heard him since he was speaking barely above a whisper, but he felt the air move in front of his face and assumed it was Basira’s hand. “Blind? How long?”

“Since I, since.”

“The fall.” They were moving now, Basira dragging him along even when he lost his balance or stumbled over the unseen obstacles in his way. “Shit, you really can’t see.”

“Do you think I’d lie about this?!” Voice raised, Jon ended in an indignant squeak. There was a beat of silence. “If you’re shrugging I can’t see it.”

“Maybe so.”

“I’d like to, to sit down. I don’t. I don’t feel very well.” The anger at her disbelief was draining out of him, leaving shivery weakness behind. “Please.”

“Oh, uh.” The sound of a chair scraping against the floor declared her intent before Basira shoved him into the seat. “So?”

“So, what?” Jon cradled his throbbing head in his hands.

“So. Will you heal from this?”

“How am I supposed to know that?” He didn’t mean to bite, honestly. But he hadn’t so far if that wasn’t clear enough for his interrogator. Then again, the Eye didn’t seem overly concerned, keeping up its smartass commentary, its prodding reminders that he needed to ea-read a statement soon. Awkward, the silence grew thick. Suffocating. Now, Jon just wanted to lay back down. Defeated by his trek across the office.

“Don’t think a hospital can help with this.”

“No, I suppose not.”

“D’you…” The sound of cloth shifting, as though Basira was shifting from foot to foot. “Need anything?”

“A statement?”

“Thought you couldn’t see.”

“A bedtime story, then?”

“Jon.” A warning.

“Right. Uh. I’ll just. Try and sleep.”

“Better.” He must have taken too long thinking about how he was going to get from wherever he was now to document storage. He wasn’t able to keep track of where he’d been dragged. “Here, let me.” Hands again, a bit more gentle this time as Basira led him to the cot.

Whoever said time cures all ills was a liar because time only seemed to make everything worse. Jon could barely move; he ached so badly, down into the very center of his being where the hunger grew and the nausea threatened and the only thing he could do was endure. Weather this storm like he’d weathered all else.

Let it happen.

Like he’d let everything happen.

The lack of control over his own life was infuriating.

Trapped here by Elias. Terrorized by this place and the horrors locked within it. Losing people while still in arm’s reach and watching them suffer, unable to do a damn thing about any of it. Kidnapped and tortured and manipulated and burned and cut and watched, watched, watched by the myriad things that lurked in liminal spaces and fed on agony and hopelessness.

Jon contorted in the sheets, drenched with sweat and sickness, panting from pressure and panic, head throbbing in time with the traitorous beating of his heart. Chest tight and close and horrifying. Breathe. Somehow. But it’s quick and shallow, little more than harsh, desperate sips between his own nonsensical chattering. Nothing makes it past the churning melancholy that sits between his ears and he cries, oh, he cries, silent and terrible, painful in its desolation and loneliness until exhaustion drags him down with cruel fingers tipped with claws. Jon wrapped himself up, arms tightly wound in a grim parody of an embrace. He imagined for a moment that someone else is holding him, steadying him, it’s alright, it’s okay, I’m here and I have you and I will not leave you here alone.

Like always, it’s a lie. There is no one.

Shaking. Hollow and used up, Jon collapsed into the springs, rubbing a damp cheek against the scratchy fabric, grounding himself in the feel of it on his face and inhaling the memory of a scent that used to be there back when things were just beginning to fall apart around them.

This was too hard.

The devouring pit would only grow bigger. Deeper. Until it absorbed the pieces of him he’s held on to this long. It wanted them. It wanted him. In all his wholeness and wouldn’t be content until everything that made Jon human had been consumed and buried deep where the light no longer reached. A prisoner to its whims and desires. Even now, in this never ending dark, its urgings, its promises, wormed their way around into making a sick sort of sense and Jon had never been particularly strong or brave. Giving in to its incessant demands was only a matter of time.

He shouldn’t be here.

A little voice reminds him he doesn’t belong anywhere but he definitely shouldn’t be here and the thrill of sick excitement that trips down his spine isn’t his. And he stands still.

The very apparition of hunger at the door of the Institute choking on ravenous lullabies whispered insistently into his ears; the dull roar of an empty, aching sea.

Jon ran his fingers over the wood, nails, skin catching on imperfections in the grain, raw mistakes that feel amplified without eyes to see. He finds the cool brass of the door handle. Grips it.

Trembles.

He shouldn’t be here.

Where he can sense what his god craves just beyond what might as well have been the walls of a wet paper bag. Twist. A push.

A meal.

One he could eat and eat and eat until there was nothing left but to do but sharpen his teeth on their bones. Run his tongue over lips filmed in spilled and remnant fear, rich and indulgent.

Instead of this emptiness, these mouthfuls of stale grief heaved into his lungs by time and loneliness, he could be full. Sated.

Just one.

Just one. To stop the hurting, howling, hammering need.

“Please.” Hoarse and soft. Shuddering out of a throat tight with pain.

And he doesn’t know what he’s asking for. Absolution? Mercy? A thrice damned break from the agony, the punishment of being trapped in this damaged and dilapidated physical body.

“What are you doing?”

His heart was going to burst. Explode in his chest and shatter his ribs like desert-dry earth as he fought for the air to respond.

“Is this what you want?”

No. No. Of course not.

Yes.

More than anything.

“You want to hunt innocent people, Jon?”

No.

Just one.

“Step away from the door.”

He can imagine her expression. The derision. He deserved it. He craved it. Let him be less than. It would make the inhuman need easier to bear.

“I don’t want to hurt you.”

A lie. That’s all any of them wanted. Why else would they be so content to watch him suffer like this? Starve like this? Struggle like this?

“But I will, Jon. I will protect them if you make me.”

As though it was ever his choice. His hand forcing the inevitable forward.

“I need--” He whimpered. Desperate.

“You don’t.”

“Help.” Fabric shifts, he can hear it. The Eye informs him she’d been reaching for her pistol. A part of him yearns to stop existing and is drowned out by the roar of thoughts belonging to something else.

“Okay.”

Her hold on him is firm and the contact burns even through the sleeve of his shirt as she pulls him through what he assumes is the Archive. It smells like it. Moldering paper and decay. Leftover terrors abandoned to rot in the dark with no one to read them. He stumbles. She doesn’t seem to care, just yanks him forward, forward, forward. Unyielding and everything feels far too fast.

“The chair, just here.” Basira isn’t unkind. More clinical. Touch just enough. Just to assess. Just how much of a threat? “I’ve the key.” Jon groped for the set in his pocket, panic rising up when there was nothing there. Trapped. The Eye yowled. His head throbbed. “Hey. Hey, we’ll check up on you.” Wet dripped onto his skin. Cold against the heat of him. The fever building in his blood. When he touched his face his fingertips came away damp. “You did the right thing.”

Had he? It didn’t feel right.

“This is a chance to kick this habit.”

He didn’t feel right.

“I’ll be back with some water and tablets.”

The latch clicked loud as a gunshot.

The Eye clawed at its flesh and bone walls.

Jon drifted, awash in second hand sensation, diaphanous and tethered by a thin thread of unbreakable awareness that forced him to feel. Punishment for allowing himself to be caught, no doubt. No one was coming. There hadn’t been anyone in a long, long time and Jon couldn’t help the sounds escaping from behind teeth clenched so hard he heard them creak. He groaned, twisted up on the cot, tangled up in sweat-soaked sheets like clinging spider’s silk and buried his tear stained face in the pillow to stifle a sob.

Breathe.

There wasn’t enough room in his body; everything knotted in razor wire and drawn taut.

In. Out.

There was no escaping how he hurt.

In.

Hold.

Until it burst free, loud in his numb ears. A gasp like drowning. A plea only the Eye could hear. Laughter just for him.

I'm scared, He wanted to say. But no one would believe him. Not even Martin. Not now.

Jon gasped around a caustic pang in remembering.

It hadn’t been like falling over a cliff.

No, nothing as terrible as that, knowing eventually that swift impact would steal it all away.

No.

More like a prolonged sink into the sea that never, ever seemed to end. Warm. Soft. Slow. Drowning endlessly in that deep ocean. Giving him the gift of a world he’d never expected to know.

It was exhilarating.

It was terrifying.

It was wrong.

Jon remembers at first being enthralled by Martin’s kindness. How even when Jon was at his worst, Martin insisted he was worth it. Patient and kind, comforting and supportive, even when he rejected his overtures of friendship out of fear. Tea. Biscuits. Sometimes Jon would look up from his paperwork to find they’d appeared as if by magic. After Prentiss. After the Circus. After traveling all over god’s creation and finding nothing. Martin had offered him the quiet space to just be.

It got worse. Jon couldn’t stop thinking about him. How he moved. How he spoke. How he loved him despite the hurt. Jon was kept awake at night by memories of his careful touch, never too much, never enough, and he longed for more. Was breathless with want. To feel him, hold him. Press his lips to his.

So greedy he could almost feel it.

Jon would physically shake himself to dispel those treacherous thoughts.

He was a monster.

Martin was a kind man. That’s all. What he did for Jon, he’d do for anyone in a situation such as theirs. He’d caused him enough trouble. He didn’t deserve more.

Now, without his sight or the distraction of statements, and suffocating in endless hunger and agony, Martin became all Jon could think about. Day. Night. All the horrible, waking hours in between. His love for him bloomed out of control like a choking weed until he was consumed by it, not sure where the pain of it ended and the aching famine in his center began. When he clawed his way up and out of his nightmares the first thing he turned to was the memory of Martin’s reassurances, his hands cupping his shoulder, his cheek, his head, the back of his neck as he pressed him close in an embrace and it dispelled the bitter fear quicker than anything else but left him aching for him. It was the tiniest price to pay for the remembrance of his company.

It was enough.

It had to be.

Would Martin be angry if he knew that Jon had spent their time together selfishly gathering those small moments close to him? Hiding them away in the deepest parts of himself so he could take them away with him into the dark? Would he be disgusted? That he turned to the brush of a fingertip, a grin, a laugh, the way Martin’s eyes crinkled at the edges when Tim (god, Tim), made him laugh?

Or would he smile; cover his blushing face in his palms to hide that pretty pink, if ever Jon worked up the courage to tell him that he’d never seen anything more beautiful, more genuine, in his life? How tragic that Martin didn’t even know the power his voice contained; leaving Jon undone with even the shortest of phrases.

Alone as Jon was, the feeling grew. Bigger than he could contain, and at least no one could hear him when it escaped its sand and straw confines, heart hammering behind the shrinking clutch of his ribs. There wasn’t enough air. Never enough. He swallowed. Hard. Barely able to draw breath between his desperately hidden cries and the crushing fist of guilt clasped tight around both lungs. Please. Just. Let him linger a moment longer surrounded by the arms of his memory. Safe. Suspended weightless in the sweet spot between consciousness and the finespun illusion of death known colloquially as sleep. Let him have this one thing. This one bright thing untouched by ostensible fog before he foundered.

Please.

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