#niche fanfiction | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

gutsby · 2 months

Text

Cabin Fever

Pairing: Dark!Joel x Dark!Reader

Summary: Joel saves your life, but help comes at a price.

Warnings: 18+. DEAD DOVE: DNE. NONCONSENSUAL. I’m never ever beating the insane bitch allegations, I fear. Protector-turned-pervert-turned-unwilling-captor-kinda. Corruption kink. Daddy kink. Somnophilia. Misogyny. “It’s too big; it won’t fit” + Joel “I’ll make it fit” Miller. Captivity on both ends. Oral (f!receiving). Gunplay. Oversimplified first-time anal. Uno Reverse Drugging. Evil, inexperienced reader meets evil, feral, slutty Joel. Attempted murder x3. Russian Roulette…as foreplay?

Notes: Both characters SUCK. I condone nothing they do. Please do not take any of their behavior or language to reflect my own moral predilections. That is all 🚬😵‍💫

You were hardly shaking at all when he’d found you chained, maimed, and frozen half to death on the plains.

He didn’t see that every day, that was for-fucking-sure.

Joel Miller barely got to see his share of happy, grinning girls on the cold and bitter frontier he inhabited. Ones that were tied to posts and clinging to life were even less common, so the sight of you there had almost frightened him at first. He’d approached you like one might advance upon a sleeping bear: with the utmost caution and a Winchester Model 70 levelled directly at your head.

He’d learned you were unarmed and defenseless in less than a second. He’d come to realize you were largely unconscious—and unclothed—even sooner than that.

He had been industrious in freeing your hands and feet from their restraints but never uttered a word as he did.

Even on the two-and-a-half mile trek back home, he hadn’t spoken once. You’d hung off his left shoulder like a pretty, frosted slab of meat, covered only with the sherpa blanket he’d secured around your neck, and dangled precariously down his back for the entire fifty minutes.

Your toes were two shades shy of onyx with frostbite.

Your limbs were hanging like lead over his chest.

A whisper of, ‘You’ll be fine, darlin’, I promise’ had just seemed ill-suited for the circumstances and his nature. In truth, Joel didn’t know if you’d be fine. You might die. The blood wouldn’t be on his hands one way or the other, but he never had liked burying bodies this time of year. He’d have to wait until April to break ground, at least.

Presently, he dropped your limp form to the floor of his cabin and hoped he wouldn’t be needing to bury anyone.

You sort of looked charming in the firelight.

He stomped off to the kitchen and began rifling for pans, preparing to defrost the icy stranger as best he could.

You didn’t die.

You didn’t wake for forty full hours, but you didn’t die.

When you stirred on the floor with warm sherpa around your shoulders and a rough calfskin rug under your ass, you thought you had died—maybe taken a pit stop in cowpoke purgatory while you were at it—but then you blinked. Breathed. Realized you were still very much inside your body and most likely still in Wyoming.

You sat up where you were and looked around.

“Da-a-d?”

You knew it was useless, calling for your father.

He had been dead almost eight months; you just wanted to double-check to make sure you were still on earth.

When dead dad didn’t answer, you tried someone else.

“Momma?”

Still no answer.

Figured, since she was among the ones that had left you chained outside in the first place. It’d been worth a shot.

You started to rise from your place, when a sharp pain in your side made you plop back down on the rug. You winced and lifted the blanket, then your old nightie.

A neat little taped-down bandage had your ribs encased in antiseptics and gauze. You frowned down at a stain in the centre, which looked to you an awful lot like blood. That circle of old fluids must’ve been twice the size of your fist and currently oozing tiny, fresh beads of blood from the strain you’d just exerted. You pursed your lips.

Least they could’ve done is kill me, not leave me here.

You’d take it up with your old would-be assassins another day, you were sure. Right now, you were parched, starving, in dire need of a piss, and reeling on the floor to grab hold of something sturdy to lift yourself. But you were as much a child then as you had ever been, swaying in place and clawing at air like someone who’d never kept their balance before. Or might’ve been drunk.

You rolled onto your good side and cast a sweeping look around the cabin. You smelled slow-cooked barbecue.

Thank fuck, you thought.

Now, if I were a juicy rack of ribs, where would I be?

The kitchen was dark and empty; the smell was coming from elsewhere. You craned your neck, tilted your chin, spotted a loft overhead but figured it wasn’t too likely to find someone grilling up there, so where the hell was it?

And who the hell was it, smoking meats and mending up strangers in the cold and lonely dead of winter like this?

You put a pin in that thought as you searched for a place to pee.

By the time you’d hobbled out of the bathroom, the smoky smell had grown even stronger. It was so pungent it bordered on vertiginous, invading every inch of the cabin with a force. Then it was leading you, teasing you by turns to venture outside. All you had on your feet were some oversized socks and two strips of medical tape.

Against your better judgment, you continued to hobble.

Out the door, down the steps, slowly, then following your nose and the first whiff of smoke you smelled to make it to the place you were almost certain you needed to be.

You trudged around a corner of the cabin’s exterior and stopped. Turned around. Cursed your own senses for being so stupid to miss the huge fucking shed spewing smoke out front—or was it the back?—and plodded on.

Your feet might have carried you a third of the way there before your powers of sight and sound eventually failed you again, and you missed another big something.

Big and beige and coated in snow—baring its teeth and snarling at the unfamiliar presence as soon as it saw you.

The next thing you knew, sixty-two pounds of Belgian Malinois had had you knocked to the ground in less than a second. You hardly understood what had hit you until it was barking and chomping away an inch from your face.

You fought hard and frantic to shove the ugly fucker off, but your bandaged hands were no match for its paws. The dog continued to tear at your blanket, nip at your ears, claw at your neck, and all around snuff out any sense of peace you might have acquired in the dozen-odd minutes since you’d first woken up. You screamed.

You yelled as loud as you could and felt yourself cower and sink lower into the snow as you fought.

Just when you tried to raise a knee—to kick the animal in the ribs or else protect your own—a sound broke out above the buzz.

A voice, clear as day:

“CUJO!”

The dog stalled on top of you a moment, just to be yanked off the next, and the closest thing afterward was a face—kinder than Cujo’s but not by very much.

It was a broad, bearded, pock-marked head with more soot to recommend itself than skin. Lips smeared with ash and grime and curved down in the single most decisive frown you’d seen in your life, the man looked to be beside himself seeing you tits up in the snow.

He gripped one arm of yours, then dropped it.

Picked a leg up, paused, then hauled you into a cradle carry as graceless as you’d ever felt it done before.

“Come!” he snapped, and it took you too long to realize that he was talking to the dog. You’d already wrapped your arms around his neck in abrupt complaisance.

He carried you back into the cabin and kicked the door open in front of you. He held you firm for a second, then, just as he had outside, changed course before you knew what to do and was shortly depositing you on the sofa.

You winced when your ass hit the cushion.

You started to sit, grab a pillow for your back or just bring your knees to your chest, when suddenly a palm was pressing flat on your front. Forcing you to lie down.

“Hey, hey!” you cried when the man started lifting the hem of your nightgown.

If he’d heard you at all, he didn’t show it. He just worked his thick, dirty fingers under the fabric and raised the white satin like he might the hood of a car. He frowned.

It was then that you noticed a blooming red splotch on your side, slowly overtaking the terra-cotta color of dried blood on the bandage and spreading out. Then a pain.

Instead of pushing the man’s hands away, you were holding them tight, wrestling that same touch which was trying to keep you from poking around the area now.

“Quit,” the man said, sedate as could be.

“Hurts,” was all you could think to tell him—and you guessed he’d already had that part down by the outpouring of blood. He shoved your hands off.

The brand new crimson hue had already soaked through the bandage. He pulled it off. You caught a glimpse of a wound that seemed to be weeping through its stitches—oozing pus and blood and a gore you could’ve gone your whole life without seeing. You would’ve liked to run a couple gentle, awed fingers over it, but as it was, your coarse and tight-lipped medic wouldn’t let you.

“Hold still,” he commanded.

“Heystopstopstop!” you implored him, feeling a streak of pain up your side as his calloused hands delved deeper.

At your latest flinch and plea, the man seemed to have had enough. Or just needed to angle your body in a different direction for easier access to the site. He gathered you back up in his arms and walked over to the kitchen, where he set you down again on the counter. Hands moved to your hips, briefly, to push you back on the surface and allow him to stand between your legs. Again, the man frowned as he peeled off your pyjamas.

Two warring fears of pain and overexposure fought like wild beasts in your brain for a second—you yelping and trying to cover your breasts in a hurry, then realizing how much it hurt to lift your arms that way when your ribs were dripping blood, then the man making the decision for you both as he pushed your hands behind your back and said a simple ‘Fuck’s sake’ to keep you pinned.

You didn’t like it.

You didn’t like it, and you let him continue, because you knew that you didn’t know shit about doing this yourself.

Joel must’ve fixed your dressings fourteen times before turning you loose. He’d had you perched atop his counter like goddamned Prisoner-of-War Barbie, all riddled with bumps, bruises, and lesions galore, looked your body up and down just once, and nearly grew sick at the sight.

He’d disgusted himself by feeling as aroused as he was.

Shortly thereafter, he’d toted you off—before the blood could rush down to his dick and start to swell—shrugged your gown over your torso, and stepped away. Simple.

Then you’d had to go and throw a wrench in his plans.

“What if I need to pee?” you’d said as soon as Joel started up the stairs with you in his arms again.

He had meant to drop you off on the bed in the loft, out of sight, but it seemed you were more concerned about the prospect of traversing the steps up and down for potty breaks. Joel had audibly huffed above you.

“I can leave a bucket.”

“Yu-uck.” The latter word had been given two syllables to show the full extent of your disgust, like a child might do.

And that was how you’d ended up here: snug in his bed on the ground floor, curled up in more layers of flannel and wool than you could count and staring blankly up at the man who was standing cold and aloof off to the side.

Your eyelids were growing heavy with sleep.

He figured they would be.

Joel picked up the glass that sat beside your empty one on the nightstand and drank, watching you all the while.

“D’you know my momma?” you asked, voice sounding extra small coming from the depths of your cocoon.

Joel finished his drink in four big gulps.

“Sure hope not,” he said once he’d set it back down.

By the sight of the scars he’d found littering your hands and back alone, Joel was able to surmise you’d come from a pretty rough, ragtag group. Maybe even Raiders. Knowing folks like that simply never struck one’s fancy, so he’d been honest. You might’ve argued, or laughed, if you hadn’t been nabbed so tightly in the grips of those first stages preceding sleep, so instead, you nodded.

“Figured,” you mumbled.

7:11, Joel read on the clock. You’d finished your drink at seven, or somewhere thereabouts. Judging by your size, it wouldn’t take long at all for the medicine to take effect.

‘Medicine,’ Joel thought, sounded a whole hell of a lot better than ‘drugs.’ One was meant to rehabilitate, rejuvenate, bring new life to your worn and weary bones. The other would just knock you cold and keep you there.

On second thought, those were definitely drugs Joel had just slipped in your water before giving it to you to drink.

As your eyes blinked from closed, to open, to closed, then open but slightly less open than the time before, and closed again, he felt a sick sense of accomplishment twist in his gut. If only his former-nurse friend could have seen what he was doing with those morphine sulfate tablets he’d traded for—he likely would’ve slapped Joel across the face. And Joel would’ve smiled all the same.

Yeah, okay, drugging the unsuspecting and defenseless female he’d just saved from death’s doorstep two days ago didn’t look great on paper, he would fully concede.

But this was all in good fun.

Great fun, even.

For him.

“Sick fuck,” Joel muttered as he started to undo his belt. The button and zip were taken apart just as fast, and with two steps, he was standing at your bedside—his bedside—and tugging his trousers down his legs. He took his cock in his hand and glanced over at the clock.

7:15.

He nudged your shoulder.

7:16.

Peeling layers of blanket away from your body.

7:17.

“Hey…honey?”

A lot more nothing from the girl sleeping in front of him. He shrugged his jeans to the floor, kicked them off at his feet, and moved onto the bed. You just looked so sweet.

Joel tried working around the fabric of his boxers but got impatient pretty quick. He hauled those off, too.

Soon, his beefy, bare, and surprisingly tan legs were bracketing your hips as he stroked himself above you. His eyes roamed the lax and tranquil features undeniably characteristic of sleep, and he pumped himself faster. Really, there was no need for theatrics or enhancements now—he was already hard as three tonnes of steel—but Joel would be lying if he said he didn’t like the build-up.

You were no longer in danger of dying, thanks to him. You were slowly but surely on the mend, no thanks to Cujo at all, but many thanks to him, Joel Miller, the man who had pried you off of that post, pulled you out of your chains, ushered warmth back into your limbs, and stitched up your side out of the goodness of his heart.

Any objective onlooker could see that you’d availed yourself of his medical attention and aid without ever asking, so why should he request access to you now? This was the way of the world these days, anyway. Sex was no longer so much a question as it was an answer in most scenarios—a mere transaction, wherein the physically weaker of two parties was forced to capitulate. Not within the four unsullied walls of Jackson and a few other pockets of homestead communities here and there, but on the whole, absolutely. Jackson was down the road a ways away and sufficiently far enough from Joel’s cabin for him to be disentangled from their rules. What mattered now was obtaining what he was owed.

Still, the man hesitated a half-second longer above you. He jerked his cock even faster and felt his stomach start to clench. Was that? No—nerves were fucking juvenile. Getting close to cumming from just the sight of you alone was for chumps. Joel Miller was no chump.

He lifted your nightie and lowered the head of his cock to rest between your folds. Then he shifted his knees so that he could rub himself gently against your warmth.

Joel Miller was a monster, but he was no brute. He also understood female anatomy well enough to know that, well…wetter was better. He started moving his hips.

You exhaled through your nose. Nothing major; you probably hadn’t even felt him long enough to whine.

Joel planted a hand beside your head—a preemptive warning.

“There…” He liked to talk as though you could hear him. Like you might be semi-conscious and dimly aware of what he was doing to you then, “Right there…ah, baby.”

He never did catch your name.

That was no matter. So long as you stayed put and made a nice, wet, pretty little hole for him to fuck, you would be fine. By the feel of your folds alone, he could tell you’d be a fun thing to use. Soft and snug and plied with drugs, you could do, and be, anything he damn well needed.

Or maybe nothing at all, he thought without humor.

Joel brushed your cheek with the knuckles of his free hand and watched you turn away, making a face. He snagged your chin and tilted it back to him, sharply, before gliding those fingers down your chest, then your tummy, then your hips, then dipping between your legs. He found your clit and pressed it with a deliberate touch.

“Hey,” Joel whispered, again, as though you might hear, “You’re gonna stay still and let me do this.”

Your nose scrunched in response, thighs clamping together. Joel pried them apart with one push and continued sliding his cock back and forth. He grunted.

“Gonna let me take what’s mine, hear?”

You didn’t hear much of anything, he suspected, but he asked the question all the same. At least now your legs were staying open and he could rut himself gently into that space without having to keep them spread. A first, gentle ‘mmph’ sounded from your lips, and he was glad. He kept thumbing that spot he knew you would like and rubbing along the seam of your cunt with his erection.

Then Joel felt a weight on his shoulders. Remorse? No. Anxiety? Perhaps. This felt more like a fog, though, seizing his muscles and seeping gently between the grooves of his brain. He gave his head a fierce shake.

“Hold still,” he said, more to himself; you hadn’t moved.

Joel fisted the base of his cock and angled the tip toward your entrance, caring much less whether you were ready or not now that his desires had grown stronger.

He was met with resistance on trying to push in. He dug his fingers in the pillow beneath your head and scowled.

“Quit…clenchin’…like that. Ain’t…fair to me,” he huffed.

He was one to talk.

Now, he’d been with a staggering number of women, experiences ranging all across the spectrum, but even the tightest, most untouched pieces of ass he’d ever tapped had given way more than this. Your walls were unyielding, refusing to give him entry. Joel cursed and rutted his hips in a rough, entirely unsuccessful, thrust.

You hummed in response, eyes still closed, one hand fumbling mindlessly for something to hold. Joel seized it.

“Not lettin’ you off that easy, darlin’, I—”

“Fuck,” you breathed, followed by a low whimper.

Joel froze. Had you heard him? Felt him just now?

Something about the uncertainty laden in those questions sent his mind into overdrive, heart beating a wild cadence in his chest. He realized then that his mouth had gone dry, his vision was skewed just slightly on the outskirts. And his cock was throbbing.

“Ya like that?” Joel seethed, not thinking, still rubbing, “Like givin’ daddy a hard time before lettin’ him in?”

“Uh-huh.” Softly.

You little slut. He knew it all along.

Whatever it was that kept your body from being coupled with his was almost immaterial to him now. Joel’s mind was swimming with desire, cock dragging in desperate, fitful bursts between your legs, never penetrating but still wringing massive jolts of pleasure from that place.

With the way he was feeling now, Joel could cum from just fucking your thighs. And that was alright.

You were moaning underneath him. Even…smiling?

“Fuck, baby, you look so pretty.”

Joel had never called a girl pretty before and meant it. But he hardly knew how else to describe you now with how good and sweet and fine you were making him feel. A strange warmth sank into his chest, making it harder to breathe, and then he was panting above you, as if he were really inside that dripping wet spot. He was close.

“Such a pretty…sweet…fuckin’ thing for me.”

That red, raging, leaky cock of his was almost a blur between your legs, he was thrusting against you so fast. Joel thought for one frightening second that it might be his skull that would explode instead, so high was that pressure between his ears, but his fears were promptly put to rest as the first rope of cum came stuttering out. Then another. Then another. Then another.

By the time he finished, he could’ve sworn he’d left a hundred spurts on your tummy. When Joel glanced down and saw a sea of opaque, sticky white, he groaned.

Then he fell. Fully collapsed at your side with his brain in a tizzy of wild, heady feelings and sank into himself.

He hadn’t even fucked you, and he felt like he had.

He lifted a hand to wipe away his spend, but he couldn’t.

He would get to it in the morning, before you stirred, he thought. He thought. He didn’t have the chance to think much longer at all, as darkness started hedging him in.

He slept.

It was 7:57 when he woke.

The man had no real way of knowing that, though, seeing as he was greeted with a nickel-plated revolver between his teeth the second he opened his eyes.

You were straddling his torso, gun pinched between two calm, bandaged hands. You frowned when he jumped.

“WH—” he started.

“Shut up.”

“ST—”

“I said shut,” you cocked the gun, holding it tighter, then shoving it even further inside his mouth, “the fuck. up.”

The man obeyed.

‘Joel M.’—you’d read the name etched on the butt of his pistol before picking it up some twenty minutes ago.

“Pretty fuckin’ thing,” you mocked the man’s Texan drawl as you wiggled the barrel even deeper along his tongue, “Like givin’ daddy a hard time before lettin’ him in?”

The man’s eyes widened.

How dumb did he think you were?

Offering a semi-clear liquid that should’ve been water; he hadn’t even waited for the morphine tablet to fully dissolve before handing it over to you. Fucking idiot.

You were more disturbed by the fact he’d thought you stupid enough not to notice than him actually trying to drug you. The latter was almost to be expected from predatory, execrable men like him, but the insult to your intelligence? Unacceptable. You’d remedied that affront fairly quickly, though, swapping his glass with yours the second he hadn’t been looking, then nestling into his bed and playing pretend for what had felt like an eternity.

You’d been awake the whole time the man touched you, not knowing what the hell was going on but feeling like you had to stay still. Let him finish. Out of fear, at first, then curiosity, then some strange and unfamiliar sensation that you couldn’t quite describe as anything but a pleasurable itch between your legs. You let the man continue, hearing him grunt and groan and swear up a storm before he shot something hot all over your tummy. By the end of it all, you knew it was wrong, and you knew it was dirty—though you weren’t sure exactly what it was that he had done—but you wanted to learn more.

Which was probably why you hadn’t just shot the old pervert right between his eyes the second he’d stirred.

You shifted atop this ‘Joel M.’ and frowned once more.

“Why’d you stop?”

Gun still wedged in his mouth, Joel’s voice sounded garbled as he spoke, “Wha-agh-at?”

You retracted the metal just long enough to pose the question again. When you had, he still looked stunned.

“Answer me,” you barked, and feeling your patience lapse, got straight to pistol-whipping the motherfucker upside his half-grey head, “You DUMB, or somethin’?”

The man sputtered again.

“No, no— I don’t— dunno what you mean.”

He sounded dumb. You would need to spell this out.

“Why did you stop rubbing me like that?”

If anything, the clarification only seemed to baffle him further. He opened his taut, bearded mouth, then closed it, then eyed you up and down with a look that said he was considering something. Then he stared at one spot.

You glanced down at it too.

“And what is this, anyway?” you asked, swiping one finger at the mostly dried moisture on your stomach, “Why’d you spit this stuff up all over me, huh?!”

“I ain’t—”

You raised the gun as if to hit him again. He jolted back.

“I didn’t mean— shit. Shit, I just…came on you, ‘s’all.”

“Came?”

The word hung in the air like a grenade, waiting. Mr. M was already bracing himself for the impact, it seemed.

“Came?!”

That bracing served him well, because in the next second you were lifting the weapon even higher and eyeing him with the most pointed, putrid look of disdain. You’d never been one for letting grenades go untouched.

“Ejaculated!” Joel hissed, lifting a hand to shield himself, “Felt— felt so good I just couldn’t stop and I-I-I came.”

You paused.

Came. Felt good. Couldn’t stop.

You had felt good when he’d rubbed you. You had not wanted him to stop. But then he had. And you were mad. You’d never been touched that way in your life, and now you were feeling fifteen hundred emotions at once.

Were you supposed to ‘come,’ too? Why did he stop?

“Why didn’t you let me…ejaculate, too?” The words felt foreign and strange on your tongue.

For the first time, you saw one side of Joel’s lips twitch. Evidently fighting the urge to turn them into a smile.

“Girls don’t really…do that,” he said. Then, after a beat, “Why? Ain’t ever had your pussy rubbed on by a man?”

You shortly landed the blow you’d been holding over his head, splitting the skin along his brow with one hit from the butt of his gun. Joel jumped again, then moaned.

“Crazy bitch!”

“Creepy fuck.”

Your eyes narrowed with loathing, unable to comprehend how a man so vile had just made you feel so good. Your stomach was twisting in knots while Joel rubbed his forehead, pawing helplessly at the gash you’d just left.

“I saved your life,” he grumbled, low, “You owed me.”

“Did I?”

Abruptly, and without really thinking, you were sinking the muzzle of the gun into the spot you’d just cut, mouth kicking up in a smile at the sounds of pain it elicited.

“Did I, Joel?” you cooed.

“How the— the fuck do you know my name?”

Momentarily, you yanked the revolver from his face and tilted it to show him his name carved into the bottom.

“What’s the ‘M’ stand for? ‘Molester’?”

“Means ‘mind’ your fucking business,” he spat.

You probably would’ve hit him again had it not seemed as though he were trying to sit up just then. You slid swiftly from his frame—just to take a step off the bed, gun still pointed at his head. Then you backed away.

One by one, rapidly, you unloaded the bullets from the cylinder, maintaining a safe distance from the man all the while. You watched him blink and try to get some thing from his eyes, but he didn’t seem keen to move.

You left just one live round inside. You made a point to spin the cylinder and, again, aim it straight at his head.

The man was blinking even harder. Rubbing now, too.

“I feel…” Joel murmured.

“Drugged?” you returned, “Yeah, that must suck.”

A set of wide, irate, and horrified eyes met yours. His mouth hung open in a stupid look of shock. Trying to piece the last bits of this fucked up jigsaw puzzle together and growing angrier by the second.

“You fuckin’—”

Joel’s words were cut short by the weight of your body barreling back over his. Graceless, you imagined, but still nothing close to something you cared about now. You planted your knees on either side of his ribs and grazed the tip of the six-shooter down the length of his nose.

“Tell me,” you said, “How’d you make it feel so good?”

Your hips twisted for effect, jostling the man’s own parts beneath yours and clearly causing some effect in him. The muscles in his jaw jumped up as he gritted his teeth.

“You know damn well, slut,” Joel griped.

Without another thought, you squeezed the trigger.

Click.

The man’s whole body lurched underneath you. Trembling with the realization that you’d left just one lone bullet for him—and he didn’t know which chamber.

As far as foreplay went, Russian Roulette was probably a first, even for a man as wanton and depraved as Joel. You smiled sweetly and made another gyration with your lower half, which prompted him to grip you. Tight.

“What? Ya want me to fuck you, is that it?” he growled.

“I thought it wouldn’t fit.”

“I’ll make it fit.”

“How?”

Try as you might to conceal it, your gaze likely betrayed a hint of sincerity as you made that last inquiry. Joel’s eyes flickered between yours, searching for something there, and just when those glossy brown irises had found it, they stopped. Blinked. He shook his head, incredulous.

“My mind ain’t…right,” he said, slowly, “But I— I know you know what I mean by that, sweet pea.”

Something in your tummy fluttered at the sound. You gripped the pistol tighter to get rid of the feeling.

“I don’t,” you answered.

Again, Joel was stumped. For the first time, though, there appeared to be some sympathy behind his eyes. Or stupidity. Or just a shit ton of morphine coursing through his veins as he tried to make sense of this situation.

As if to confirm an idea in his drug-addled brain, he lowered a hand between your legs and hovered there a second. He watched you; you watched back but didn’t move.

Then slowly, almost clinically, Joel slipped two fingers underneath you and found a soft, pulsing warmth—far wetter than the last time he’d touched down there. When he pulled his hand away, both fingers and half of his palm were glistening with a fluid. You let out a startled cry at the sight of it and nearly dropped your gun.

“What is that?!”

Joel looked to you, equally awed—for different reasons.

“What do you mean?”

“Why’s it all…sticky?”

You couldn’t even try to hide your horror at the thought of that weird, syrupy stuff leaking out of you. It was strange enough feeling it come out of a freak like Joel, but from your own body? He had to be fucking joking.

“It’s normal.”

“Like hell it is— you— STOP!” The last fragment of your sentence was swallowed by a scream, leaping back when Joel moved his fingers toward your face.

“What? You’ve never seen this?” He sounded like he was teasing. You could shoot him for how smug he sounded.

In very small amounts, you’d seen stuff. Blood every month. Bits and pieces of bodily secretions that, to you, had always seemed gross. But never this. Never big, sticky globs of…whatever the fuck this was. You continued to back away on the bed, gun still tipped toward Joel but now trying to put some distance between your bodies. You didn’t know how else to act.

You did know you wanted to scream when Joel stuck his fingers in his mouth. Bile might’ve jumped in your throat.

He sucked the dew clean off the digits, then wriggled them to show what he’d done. You felt the urge to vomit.

“That came from— from— why are you eating it?!”

Joel grinned. Big.

You weren’t sure why, but he looked psyched to be alive in that moment, and not just because of the narcotics.

Before you knew what was happening, he’d pushed you flat on your back, hips pinned underneath his hands as he moved over your body. He didn’t even try for the gun.

“And here I was thinkin’ you were just fuckin’ with me,” he chuckled, palms sliding under your nightdress. When you felt the residuum of wetness from his spit and your slick stuck together on his fingers, you wanted to squeal.

But you didn’t. You tried propping yourself up on elbows until Joel was sliding your one and only article of clothing over your head, then beckoning you down on the bed in front of him. You watched his gaze flit down to your side.

“Still hurt?” he murmured, tracing over the bandage.

You shook your head no, though it did, a little. At the moment, it seemed the pain was the furthest thing from your mind as you saw Joel slide down your body and try to take up residence between your thighs—with his face planted right there. You kicked his shoulder in protest.

“Quit!” you cried, pulling your legs up to your chest.

“You quit,” Joel returned, yanking them back.

Then you felt you had no choice but to brandish the gun, taking the thing between two palms while you pointed it again—as if he needed the reminder.

“Fine. Why don’t you keep that thing aimed at my head while I give you some?” he muttered. The subsequent ‘See if I give a shit’ was silent.

“Give me some what?”

“Head.”

Head. You’d never heard something phrased that way. Joel’s head was down there, sure, practically grinning from ear to ear as he hooked your legs over his shoulders, but certainly he didn’t mean to do a thing as drastic and dirty as—

“JOEL!”

“Hm?” His voice was muffled by your thighs.

You tried to shy away, but he held you down.

“Joel, I— I pee out of there,” you hissed, “Why the fuck would you wanna put your mouth on that?”

As if your groans of disgust and vehement attempts to get away weren’t enough to deter him, you watched Joel’s tongue dart between his lips and down to yours. The sick fuck was actually licking your folds, tracing the tip across that warm, sticky place and moaning into your skin. Holding you tighter when you pleaded for him to stop. Then, with the hand that wasn’t prying your legs apart, he reached down and started stroking his cock.

Again, it felt dirty and wrong. Beyond the fact that this man was a perfect stranger and easily decades your senior, you were repulsed by the sight of his lips and his tongue and his spit mixing up in that messy, wet place you still didn’t quite understand yourself. You didn’t know much about your body, but it had never once occurred to you to be kissed down there. Joel was roaming every contour and crevice with his tongue like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like he liked it.

“I hate it,” you whined, feebly.

You knew you could’ve easily blown the man’s brains out, but some small part of you was still plagued by curiosity. ‘Hate’ was just the first word that came to mind when you were faced with something that made you scared.

“It’s weird,” you tried again. This time pressing the gun to the top of his bobbing head while you grit your teeth, “And wrong.”

At that, Joel stopped.

His eyes flickered to yours, all glass-like and hooded.

“Why? Practically lickin’ ya clean here,” he said, starting to grin to himself as his words came slightly slurred, “There’s nothin’ wrong about this, sweet pea.”

You felt something flutter between you. He felt it, too.

“Like when I call ya that? ‘Sweet pea’?” he said, pausing to flick his tongue over the spot that had just stirred at his words. He watched you fight back a whimper.

“No,” you choked. You pinched your eyes shut, unsure whether it was pleasure or pure revulsion overtaking you—or both.

Suddenly, you felt Joel’s hand smooth over your thigh, still warm from when he’d been stroking himself below. He placed an affectionate kiss to your belly and grinned.

“Is that what this is? Feel guilty about feelin’ this good?” he murmured, “Think it’s…dirty, what we’re doin’?”

At length, and just barely visible to him, you nodded.

“It is dirty,” you corrected him quietly.

Then you saw that stupid pseudo-sympathetic smirk tug at the corners of his lips, and just when you thought he might nudge his way back up your body—to do what, you weren’t sure—he sank between your legs. This time, he made sure to hold your gaze as he re-assumed the position. His palm continued to rub at your thigh, as if to distract you from the rough brush of his stubble or the fact that his mouth was hovering so dangerously close.

“Sweet pea,” he rasped, “Ain’t nothin’ dirty about this.”

As if to punctuate his words, Joel dragged his lips down your slit to press a kiss to your centre, eyes never leaving yours.

“Not here…”

He pointed with his tongue, moving it deftly between your folds. You gripped the sheets, trying to ignore the pleasure that the simple act wrought through your body.

“Not here.”

He kissed your clit. You squeezed even tighter.

“Not on my tongue, on my fingers, anywhere, y’hear?”

You were about to answer—maybe tell him he was supremely full of shit, then flash the gun in his face—when Joel shifted onto his knees on the bed. He moved slowly and as calm as he ever had, motions languid while his mind was likely steeped in the morphine by now. He snagged one of your ankles. He slid his hand up the back of your calf and tugged you down to the edge of the bed. Then he stood up, right between your legs. The warmth radiating from his bare lower half was immediate, almost suffocating from where you lay. You didn’t like it at all.

You refused to meet his gaze, grip tightening on the gun.

“Joel…”

When that warmth at your front shifted inward, though, you hardly had a say in what your reflexes did or didn’t do. You jumped when you felt the head of his dick slip past your pulsing core, closer to the other hole below it.

“Not here, either,” Joel continued, grin still evident from his tone.

Before you could even think to ask what he meant to do ‘here,’ Joel moved one of your legs up, tilting your hips, and pushed ahead with just the tip of his cock. Not breaching it fully, but nudging—prodding at that hole.

For the first time, you let out a moan.

You hastily clamped a hand over your mouth to stifle it.

“Aw, honey,” Joel murmured, “Did that feel good?”

His words reeked of condescension. You scowled at the ceiling.

“No.”

You felt him push a little further—this time making the head of his dick notch into that tight ring of muscles.

No, the word rang through your skull once more. Your curiosity was shortly supplanted by disgust—how the fuck could you let this creepy old man, this stranger, press into you like that? Talk to you like you were dumb? You seized hold of Joel’s pistol with both hands and aimed directly for his chest.

“Stop doing that,” you growled. When the man’s grip on your leg only tightened and you couldn’t writhe away, you lifted the other and tried kicking him in the gut. Of course, Joel caught your foot midair, and it never landed.

“Just givin’ ya options, darlin’,” he said, easy-going. Not seeming to care about the firearm pointed his way.

Fuck it.

You squeezed the trigger again.

Empty chamber.

If Joel flinched, you didn’t see it. He did, however, knock the gun right out of your hand the next second, sending it tumbling with an unceremonious thump on the bed behind you. You tried to leap back for it, but your arm was quickly pinned. Joel cocked one silver-flecked brow.

“You done?” he asked, almost bored.

Your last—and only—leverage taken away from you, you couldn’t help but feel a pang of anger. And desperation.

“I don’t wanna do this,” you cried, trying to squirm away.

Joel didn’t move his cock, but he did hold you still. Blinking with indifference and a fair bit of drug-induced dissociation, it seemed, from the far-away look in his eyes. He pushed both of your legs so they were folded up to your chest, and ignored your whimpers when he did. At length, he pulled out just enough to smear some of your wetness down to the hole he was trying to fuck.

“You want this,” he countered gently.

“I DON’T!”

Joel continued as though he hadn’t heard you, and moments later, you sensed another slick something pooling against you. From your position beneath him, you could see a bead of spit slip from Joel’s mouth and stretch into a thin, glistening string all the way down to the space between your thighs. You watched him rub the saliva in with his fingers, almost meticulous as he did it.

Then he eased his hips forward an inch, wedging himself back in your ass. He groaned when he felt resistance—and a sharp clench of your muscles.

“I can teach ya…show ya everything…there is to know.”

His words somehow made it out through ragged breaths. That broad, tan chest was heaving with every labored pull of his lungs, and you could tell he was feeling good.

You might’ve been able to say the same for yourself, were your mind not singly occupied by the desire to escape. Still at war with yourself, wondering how it would feel or what you might see that first time, all the while despising the man who seemed hell-bent on forcing it.

He might’ve saved your life, but there was no fucking way he’d get to use you like that and stay breathing.

You were raised better than that.

You could do better than anything this man had to offer.

You resolved to kill him as soon as the drugs knocked him out—just like you’d had planned from the second you woke up on the floor of his cabin that afternoon.

Of course being chained, maimed, and frozen half to death on the plains for some well-meaning stranger to find you had always been part of your mother’s—and the rest of the Raiders’—grand plan. Having this stupid, horny sap take you into his home with the hope of claiming you as his own was just the icing on top.

Now you had a reason to kill Joel and steal all his shit.

At present, he fed another inch of himself inside you and grinned when you let out a startled cry.

“Atta girl,” he said, smirking, “Feelin’ okay?”

“Fuck you.”

“Will do.”

Then, as if to prove a point, he bottomed out, sheathing his cock to the hilt in spite of your cries. Your hands fisted the sheets, and you tried to pull off. It didn’t work.

In fact, all it accomplished was giving Joel more room to thrust back into you. And pull out. And shove back in. The snap of his hips was like cruel and excruciating clockwork, completely unhindered by your words or your gestures or your pleas to stop fucking doing that Joel, it fucking hurts! If anything, the sounds of your censure only got him harder, and with it, made it that much easier to fuck you rougher. His eyes shone with pride.

“What’s’at, sweet pea?” he hummed, strokes coming into a steady pace.

“It’s too…big…doesn’t fit,” you whimpered.

In response, Joel glanced down to see the spot where your bodies were joined. He pushed even deeper.

“Yeah?” he said when you yelped, “I think it fits just fine.”

Motherfucker, you wanted to wail, but then your neck craned sideways—your mouth trying to find purchase in anything you might grit between your teeth—and the only thing that escaped your throat was a sob. You tried burying your face in the comforter, only for Joel to yank it back.

Cupping your chin and pinching both your cheeks in a single, punishing squeeze as he continued to fuck you, “What’s the matter, darlin’? Too much?”

You groaned and clenched your jaw, head jerking away.

Per usual, Joel was undeterred. Even smiled.

“My pretty girl need somethin’a bite, huh?” he hummed.

He probably knew you wouldn’t nod, so he went ahead and decided to oblige that one need he saw anyway. Snagging your nightie, Joel raised a hand to your face and proceeded to push the fabric inside your mouth.

Just as he started to lift his hips to deliver another thrust, he had to stop. A sudden, sharp ‘FUCK!’ left his mouth, then a groan, and his hand retreated fast.

You’d bitten him.

You were grinning just a little, and you’d bitten him.

Joel promptly slapped you across the face. If you weren’t so fucking amused by the sight of his bright red fingers, you just might’ve winced. Instead, the smile stayed on your lips, the slap barely registered, and, to your utmost disbelief, something else had just then started to form.

Pleasure, in the pit of your stomach.

“Fuckin’—” Joel snarled.

“Shit,” you finished, eyes rolling back.

You couldn’t help it. Joel was rutting into you relentlessly. That brief hand bite detour had only stoked the flames of his hatred—and arousal—and now he was practically splitting you in half with the force of his thrusts. He slapped you once more for good measure.

“Oh, that you fuckin’ like?” he seethed, cheeks flushed, “Can’t get off with my…tongue on your cunt, but a slap— and my cock buried deep in your ass gets the job done?”

“Uh-huh,” you answered softly. Mindlessly.

Really, there were no two people more fucked up than you in this moment, you thought. Joel growing harder with each desperate objection of yours, you going all soft and hot and bothered the second he slapped your face and fucked you rougher, and together, the two of you letting out grunts and moans of pleasure while the bed shook like an earthquake just shy of a 9.5 on the Richter scale. Were you not already planning to slit the man’s throat after all of this was over, you just might’ve wanted to marry this Joel M for how wonderfully he fucked you.

You let him know as much when you seized his forearms.

Bouncing into his thrusts, you bit your lip and finally met his gaze. Joel’s eyes were trained in somewhat of a daze, pupils all but swallowing his irises as he fucked you.

“Like being daddy’s little cocksleeve, huh?”

Only the sentence was slurred so bad you could scarcely make out half the words. You nodded just the same.

“Like it when he fucks you in the ass?” Joel panted.

You nodded again.

That pleasure in your belly had worked its way up to a full swell—and whatever it was, you couldn’t bear the thought of losing it now. You gripped Joel’s arms even harder as his chest swayed into you, then sank further and further until your fronts were pressed flush to each other and your ankles were hooked tight around his back.

It almost felt intimate. That coarse, weathered, sweat-coated face spattered with patches of grey seemed to you nearly handsome as his lips hung limply in an ‘o.’

Joel’s cock dragged back and forth between your walls at this new, snug angle, and moans fell out of you both.

“Baby.” His voice was hoarse. Strained.

You couldn’t quite make sense of the expression above you, but there was an unmistakable, muted desperation lurking somewhere beneath it. Joel rutted into you quicker, balls leaving rapid smacks against your ass with every thrust. His hair was disheveled, and his hands were making fists in the sheets on either side of your head.

“Joel—”

“Jus’ lemme use you.”

Words so low they were barely audible as he panted.

“But—”

“Daddy’s…almost done, sweet pea. Just take it.”

You were surprised he’d had it within himself to be so soft. A peculiar sort of haze hung over his face, the pace of his hips picked up even more, and suddenly those plush pink lips were hovering a mere hair’s breadth away from yours. Mumbling. Rambling on and on about how wet you were, how perfect you fit him, how nice and sweet and tight your body felt as he fucked you stupid.

That sensation in your own stomach grew even stronger.

Unsure of what to do, you pressed a palm to his chest.

“Joel, I…I feel funny,” you whispered.

Joel hummed. Didn’t slow.

“I know.”

He knew?

“What’s it—ah, fuck.” Your words broke off in a whimper.

Instead of proffering a verbal response, Joel just slipped a touch between your bodies—thumbing sloppily between your folds to earn a couple more high-pitched moans. Your legs tightened around his middle.

“Joel, s-stop!”

It felt so good it almost hurt. He didn’t stop.

“S’just an orgasm, baby,” Joel panted, “You’re okay.”

And, in spite of his own impending climax and the effect of the drugs likely reaching a fever pitch inside him, Joel managed to slide his other hand beneath the back of your head. Cradled you to him while he fucked you into the bed and made you come unraveled with his touch. You tried to writhe away, but he was used to the drill by now—he just fucked you harder and rubbed you faster.

Whatever he wanted would come soon. You doubted there was anything you could do to stop it, but you tried.

Without thinking, you grabbed hold of the damp locks of hair at the nape of his neck and yanked on them hard.

“Joel, I can’t— I can’t,” you keened.

The hand at the back of your head held you firm.

“You can,” Joel returned, tough but surprisingly calm, “Give it to daddy, ‘s’all ya gotta do.”

What exactly ‘it’ was was still unclear. You just knew you felt good and warm and full—about ready to burst. When you felt tempted to give his hair another tug, Joel’s eyes met yours, and they were soft. Insistent, still, but soft.

Dilated as all hell and probably swimming in clouds of a delirious, bleary haze, but always soft. Almost tender.

“Be a good girl and give it to daddy,” Joel slurred, slow, “C’mon, sweet pea…cum for daddy, please.”

For the first time in that short, rough, utterly deranged time you had known this man, he was begging you. Pleading with you, now, as his body grew overwrought with pleasure and just needed release. You needed it, too, not even knowing how you would get it, but the force of his thrusts, the warmth of his body, the look in those warm, bare, powerless eyes—you fucking loved whatever it was that could make a man like that so weak.

You had to strike while the iron was hot. You slid back.

Joel didn’t notice, too focused on your face and the feel of your body to see when you’d reached for the gun.

Just as you took hold of it, a jolt of pleasure tore through you. Your heels dug into his back, and you nearly lost control of the pistol. Joel groaned in your mouth, begged you once again to cum all over this cock, make a fuckin’ mess of it, baby, please, and you could only whine, grip the metal tighter, and raise it slowly to the side of his head while he buried his face in the crook of your neck.

The peak of your pleasure had come into view. You felt it.

You nudged the muzzle through those soft, slick, salt-and-pepper shaded tufts of hair near the edge of his temple right when the first throes of euphoria seized you.

“FUCK!”

You squeezed the trigger.

#NEED DARK!JOEL TO TAKE ME TO HIS PENTHOUSE AND FREAK ME IN WAYS UNIVERSALLY CONDEMNED BY POSTMODERN FEMINISM #IT'S SOOOOO BAD Y'ALL #this might be too niche but i hope at least one person enjoys LOL #joel miller #joel miller tlou #joel miller smut #joel miller imagine #joel miller one shot #joel miller x reader #joel miller fanfiction #the last of us #tlou #the last of us fic #joel miller x you #dark!joel

1K notes · View notes

teaspoon-full-of-sugar · 10 months

Text

tangointhenight

pairing: harry styles x reader (au)

warnings: idiots in love trope, long-distance fwb (sounds weird but it makes sense just give her a read luv), switch!harry and switch!reader, detailed descriptions of female and male masterbation, maladaptive daydreaming during a fanfic, mentions of exhibitionism, edging, one singular ‘daddy’, cum swapping, breeding kink, praise kink and degradation, rope play, spitting, choking, mutual masterbation, overstimulation, use of toys (vibrator mostly), crying after sex (iconic)

word count: 13.3k

synopsis: harry records erotic audios, and y/n is an avid listener

author’s note: hello nasties, here’s another filth fic for ya! this has been a long time in the making, and i am so sorry i have been mia for so long, but i am back for the time being to give you this fic. i have wanted to do something like this for a while now, but it’s been a struggle (lots of blood, sweat, and tears put into this). i’m kinda proud of her to be honest, and i hope you enjoy :)

tags: @victoria-styles

masterlist

—

Y/N finally sinks into her mattress after yet another tiring day. She can hear her roommate on the other side of the wall, chatting with her girlfriend over the phone, blissfully ignorant to the fact that she currently has a hand teasing the band of her sweatpants while the other scrolls aimlessly through her phone.

Exhaustion burns behind her eyes, but there’s a desperate ache in her belly, one that demands satiety. She opens the internet app to find it unchanged from the night before, still lighting up in the profile named tangointhenight. His profile picture is a tantalizing photo of his hand, splayed across his thigh, which are clad in tight, floral printed pants, doing wonders for the very prominent bulge. Pieces of paint linger on his thumbnail, a pretty pale mint color, and his skin, tanned with faint freckles and etches of dark ink, looks tempting in the golden light. At his wrist is a braided twine bracelet with cheap beads that have letters that she can’t make out, which looks old and wilted.

She scrolls down, only lingering for a moment to appreciate the photo one final time.

There are some cute little posts and polls in addition to his erotic audios. The newest one, posted just that afternoon, warns not to listen to this in public with a series of cute little emoticons following. If there’s one thing she’s learned about Tango, that’s what she and other listeners call him, is that he’s a bit of an exhibitionist; his audios tend to lean toward nearly getting caught or even being caught (oftentimes leading to a “helping out” situation). She honestly wasn’t into that sort of thing until he started talking about it, and now, she finds it incredibly sexy, the thrill of the quick high and the fear of being caught in such a vulnerable moment.

She’ll definitely have to give the new audio a listen on one of her morning commute trips to the university; perhaps, she could give it a listen while she waits for her class to start, his deep voice teasing and coaxing her into an aching mess. She hopes that it’ll leave her trembling and throbbing for the rest of the day. She wonders if she’ll be able to make it until night before she has to finish herself off or if she’ll have to sneak off to the restrooms during one of her seven minute breaks, foot propped up on the toilet paper dispenser while she rubs herself to her bitter end.

She scrolls down a bit, passing over audios that vary from pillow talk to a dirty fuck in back alleys, before tapping on the familiar link, purple from use, the description teasingly saying: we’ve been visiting my mum for a week, and I haven’t been able to taste you... I guess we’ll just have to be quiet.

It’s one of the first audios she listened to when she was just discovering this new world of pleasure, so it has a special place in her heart. It’s one of his firsts from nearly a year ago, of fuzzy listening quality and nervous voice, but she finds his ramblings endearing; although, admittedly, she thinks anything he does is cute.

She tucks in her earbuds and presses the play button. Tossing the phone to the side, her eyes flutter closed, visions of white dotting through the darkness as they adjust. There’s a subtle cracking sound that indicates that it has finally loaded, and a fuzzy droning sound filters through the headphones. There’s a fan going in the background; it squeaks and grumbles nearby. A door creaks open, one of those fake sound effects that you can buy, but she appreciates the effort.

“Hey, lovie, feelin’ better?”

His familiar voice floats through her ears. She settles even more into her sheets. His voice is a nice, hot cup of tea at the end of a hard day, a drug that leaves her head foggy and senses dulled. His voice reminds her of sleep: deep, soothing, persistent, yet ever fleeting. She yearns for it, like being able to listen to that one mazing song for the first time again or the feeling of sunshine after the long winter months. His voice is intoxicating, reaching a baritone timbre that she can’t quite put to words.

At first, she wanted to put a face to the man who hummed sweet nothings in her ears, who coaxed her to oblivion for nights on end. Now, she’s at ease with never knowing. It keeps things interesting, and she doesn’t think about it as much anymore.

“If only mum wasn’t home, maybe we could’ve snuck a quick one in the shower,” he says. She smirks, picturing him tucked into his childhood bed, a cozy twin that would be a struggle for the both of them to fit in, and he has his old quilt tucked up to his neck, leaving his bare feet exposed because of how little it is.

There’s a moment of silence, then a cute little laugh.

“I know. You wouldn’t want to sin in her godly home, but she loves you, probably more than me. I don't think she would think any differently of you.”

Another beat of silence, then his voice catches in his throat. Y/N smiles softly as he stutters pitifully, slowly, struggling to find his words.

“N-no, y’know tha's not how I meant it,” he says. “Like, she loves you more than she loves me. Not that I don’t love you as much as she does.” He moves, the rustling of his sheets crackling in her ears. She can hear his hand run over his stubble, nails scratching over short little hairs. She wonders if he usually grows out his facial hair or if he’s the type to keep clean shaven.

“She couldn’t possibly love you more than I do.” The bed creaks as he shifts again. “C’mon, babe, join me. ‘S all nice and warm.”

She herself burrows further into her blankets, knowing full well that she’s probably going to be kicking them off in a few minutes. She turns to her side, blinking her eyes open, trying to immerse herself into the fantasy.

“‘M glad you got time off of work to come here with me. I know you could've been spending time back home, but you came here with me instead.” His voice is closer than before, however whispered. Every accentuated vowel that passes through his lips is like a breath of fresh air, and she hums quietly at the sound.

“I really appreciate it. ‘M glad we got to spend this time together.”

She imagines that he tucks her into his neck, coddling her while his fingers trace over the curves of her face, from the furrow of her brow, down to the apple of her cheeks, before stopping at her lips, lingering only momentarily before his thumb would push just past them.

He chuckles suddenly.

“What does it look like I’m doing? Jus’ lovin’ on my girl.”

His short pecks turn into slow, passionate kisses, deep sighs of relief falling from his lips, and she swears she can almost feel his breath on her skin, nose pressed tight to the pulsepoint in her neck as he sponges his lips over her collarbone, teeth nibbling lightly. She tugs the tee up from where it’s settled at her hips to where the curves of her breasts begin, the material squeezing them tightly to her chest. The sensitive skin aches under the tight pressure. She teases her nipples through her thin bra, feeling the tenderness coax chills down her spine.

“Please,” he whines. “Wanna taste you. You can be quiet. I believe in you, love.”

She could picture him now, chin resting on her stomach, eyes pleading with her. She would flick his head at the patronizing tone before brushing her fingers through his hair. Would he have short tuffs or long tresses that she could run her fingers through after a long day, breaking apart the knots that accumulate throughout the day? Does he have pin straight, dark locks that are cut close to his scalp or sand coloured curls that fall gracefully on his forehead? Perhaps, he has a bit of gray peaking through his hairline to match his wise and weathered voice. She could almost moan at the thought. She has always had a thing for older men.

Tango says something, but she can’t really hear it, his words muffled by her racing heart. She pries her pants down shaky legs, leaving them dangling around her ankle, and her fingers work quickly in massaging her puffy clit, arousal wetting the tender skin. Not one for having much patience, she doesn’t wait for him to finish worshiping her body with his mouth before she is rubbing herself through her panties, feeling the cold wetness on her fingertips. Eyes closed, her head falls back on her pillows, legs tensing when she stops suddenly.

“Pretty thighs,” he mumbles to himself between kisses, and she could almost feel his tender touches on the backs of her thighs, which tremble with anticipation. A wetly placed kiss followed by an appreciative hum signals his final descent to her cunt. The sound of languid licks are nearly enough to make her finish, walls clenching miserably around nothing. Fingers slowing close to a dead stop, barely more than a faint fluttering on her sensitive skin, she attempts to collect herself, but it’s difficult when he moans once again, muffled by his furiously working lips.

“Love your pussy, baby.” She melts at his words, eyes rolling back as waves of pleasure rack through her body, hips stuttering in time with each flick of her wrist. “So warm and wet and jus’ perfect for me.” His voice, low with need, makes her throb, arousal slipping into her panties.

She’s close already, an unfortunate effect he has on her. Barely five minutes into her alone time, and she can feel the orgasm begin to build, like an unyielding inferno spreading through every nerve. The stress from her day, the exhaustion with the world, everything melts into just one prominent feeling threatening to burst from her pores. She has to force herself to stop before she falls over the edge in order to draw out this experience as much as possible. She nearly cries out when she pulls her hand away altogether, her poor, puffy clit throbbing painfully.

This continues for a while, the undulating waves of a blistering release and the torture of a cut off orgasm, until the air becomes thick, her heaving breaths heating her empty room.

“There’s my good girl,” he says. “Use me, lovie. Want you to choke me with your pretty thighs.”

His voice is more firm this time, and she could only picture his baleful eyes staring up at her, eager to please her and guide her over the edge. It makes her wonder what they look like; she wonders if they’re a soulful, deep chocolate that darken with lust, a pale blue that reminds her of warm afternoons, or a striking hazel that flickers with green hues in the light.

No matter the color, she is sure that they’re undoubtedly pretty.

“Please,” she whispers faintly.

“More? You want more, my greedy girl?” She nods pitifully, feeling the orgasm build quickly in her belly before she stops once again, fingers pressing into her throbbing clit. “You want my fingers?”

Her walls flutter fruitlessly for some sort of release, for some sort of stimulation. He moans out sharply.

“Feel so good, babylove,” he coos. “So warm and wet f’me.”

She wants to slip her fingers inside, to tease and massage that tender spot that she can barely reach until she struggles to breathe. She wants to feel full, but she doesn’t want to take care of the mess, and it surely won’t be comfortable sleeping in wet sheets. The wipes hidden alongside her other secret toys, beneath mounds of socks and crumpled underwear, do little to take care of the arousal that has pooled between her legs.

She fishes around her bedside table, fingers raking through bundles of panties to find her vibrator, a cheap little thing she got in a set when she first moved into her apartment. Unfortunately, she ran through the other ones that were in the set, and this is the only one left.

She nestles the vibrator on her swollen clit and ticks it on to the lowest setting. This stimulation is different than before; a vague rumbling rattles her bones, making her lips tremble, with choked cries teetering on her tongue. Obscene wet sounds fill her ears, and for a moment, she wonders whether they are coming from the audio or from her dripping pussy, and her thighs tighten around her wrist. She could only imagine the sight of his hands splayed over her hips and on her belly, perfectly pastel painted nails pressing into her wet skin. The shifting of her mattress worries her for only a moment, but her shame melts away, and she loses herself in the sound of his heavy, stifled groans, as if he is truly choking on her. The addition of the vibrator only serves to tease her more as she inches toward the end, brutally building in slow, abrupt waves. She struggles to swallow her whimpers.

He spits suddenly, and her hips jut forward at the sound, an erotic display of dominance, but he makes it seem like such a tender act; she could just melt.

“Can you take another?”

A beat of silence and a sharp intake of breath, squelching sounds growing louder.

“No? That’s alright, lovie, just two, then,” he coos. Her toes curl up a little at his words, hips rising from the mattress. On any other night, she would have craved more; she would have wanted him to coax her open with him telling her that she can take just one more and that she’s his good girl. It’s sad to be turned on by a man simply respecting her limits, but her clit throbs pitifully and some arousal slips out into her underwear.

“Gonna come for me, babe?” His words are slurred and wet. “Make me proud.”

Chills rushing down her spine, her body curls into itself, eager for her release. She wants to come so badly; she wants to feel the pleasure for days afterward, to tremble around her hand until she can’t take it anymore, to come until she’s seeing stars. She wants to make him proud, but she knows that she can’t come yet, or else she won’t be able to hear him finish. She doesn’t have another orgasm in her tonight, and she wants to prolong this experience as much as possible, even if that means holding out on her orgasm. The world spins behind her tightly screwed eyes as she slows her ministrations, the vibrator ticking back down to nothing. Her body reacts before she can even consider the loss, her hips bucking against the toy, attempting desperately to find that little bit of stimulation she needs to finally reach euphoria.

His lips smack loudly as he presses simulated kisses to skin, pulling her back from her foggy mind.

“So good f’me, pretty,” he says, words muted by skin. “So good. Hmm, I knew you could be quiet.” His kisses are slow and tired, unlike before when they were rushed and eager. His mattress grumbles as he moves once again, taking his time to, presumably, trail up the length of her trembling body until they’re suffocating in each other's embrace.

He sighs behind closed lips, heavy and wanton, and she can picture him working his hips into the mattress to find some sort of release. She would pull him up until he was right between her aching legs and press her lips to his neck, feeling his pulse jump at the contact. She would cup his cock through his thin pair of pajamas, teasingly massaging him until he just couldn't take it anymore, caution flying out of his mind as he is overcome by thoughts of her name, her skin, simply her. Trying to form a coherent thought, he would barely be able to hold himself up. She moans quietly at the thought.

“Babylove, we can’t—” He moans, his deep voice splintering. “I don’ know if I’ll be able to control myself.”

She has listened to this audio enough to know what to say to fill the silent gaps to fulfill the ultimate fantasy.

“Please,” she whispers into the dead air, barely audible over her roommate's voice in the next room. “Wanna feel you.” She wishes he was there for her to whisper in his ear, her fingers running up the plain of his back, feeling the heated skin tense at her words. He would quirk an eyebrow.

“Yeah? Y’wanna feel my big cock in y’tummy, pretty baby?”

“Yes,” she whimpers quietly, suddenly very aware of how much she truly wanted to be filled, to have him so impossibly close to her.

“Y’know I can’t say no to you.” She can hear the smile in his voice. She wonders what it looks like, if he beams with an eye-searing grin, his face splitting with happiness, or if he has a shy little smirk, just barely toying on his lips. She likes to think that he has a beautiful smile, filled with warmth and love. She melts a little, a rush of adrenaline coursing through her limbs to the tips of her fingers.

“Get on top.”

She does, eyes still closed as she sits and kneels on her mattress, one hand still between her legs, trying desperately to catch her poor, swollen clit at just the right angle that will leave her thighs quaking, her stomach clenching. Her underwear, which are still stuck around her knees, stretch and snap as her thighs slip and spread further on the sheets.

He moans sharply, and she can feel her hips unconsciously move, as if to pull that sound from him once again. The low vibrations from her little handheld leave her aching for more, nothing more than a faint rumble, but if she flicked it up to the next highest setting, it would surely be heard through the thin walls. Besides, she loves the teasing nearly as much as she hates it, just pushing to the brink before the rush subsides and settles into a quiet lull. Speechless, she gasps for air as yet another jilted orgasm subsides.

She works her hips slowly, careful of the squeaking of her mattress; there are only so many noises that can be passed off as her simply shifting around in her sleep. Her wrist aches at such an awkward angle, but she continues, the burning euphoria just beyond the horizon. He moans, and she nearly follows him, a crest of a cry nearly bursting from her chest but it comes out as a small whimper. She pushes her earbud deeper into her ear, as if to pull him closer.

“Sorry, jus’ feel so good,” he says sheepishly, and she can tell that he’s biting his lip by the faint lisp in his words. It would be torture for the both of them, to be so close but unable to move any faster or harder to finally reach the deepest, most pleasurable part, just barely scratching the itch for intimacy. He whimpers pitifully, and she thinks she might fall apart at the sound, but her stupid vibrator leaves her teetering back and forth between over the edge. She wiggles her hips to try to get a better angle, but with just a hint of stimulation, it’s a torturously slow build up.

“There it is, pretty,” he says, breaths faltering. “That’s the spot. Make yourself feel good, lovie. Use me.” Her legs ache at the awkward angle, trembling with overexertion. She wishes that she could let go of it, leaving it on the mattress with her pussy and thighs holding it in place, so she can grind on it, unhindered by her own body’s exhaustion, eagerly chasing her high. It would also free her hands to tease her breasts again, pulling and pinching at her hardened nipples.

“Love the way you feel, babylove,” he whispers. “Fuck, so wet f’me.” He curses again and again, as if no other words can properly describe the feeling of her, so soft, so warm, so fucking good. She could only picture him in abridged visions, his undoubtedly pretty lips parted with his pretty whimpers sneaking through, his features pinched in pleasure. Her eyes roll back as her orgasm quickly approaches.

“‘M gonna come,” he says suddenly. “Are you close, too?” She whimpers, arousal slips down her swollen lips and into her furiously working fingers, eager to finish alongside him. “Yeah? Y’gonna come with me? Y’gonna come on my cock, pretty?”

She is so close, so unbelievably close, and she struggles to relax her muscles to hold off for just a little longer.

“So fuckin’ good, such a good fuckin’ girl,” he says sharply. His mattress squeaks now, unable to hold back the sharp jolts of his hips, and he lets go of all inhibitions, moaning freely. She could imagine his hand tracing up her belly, cupping her swinging breasts, and he would suckle on her nipples until her fervent hips faltered. He would brush his hands up the curve of her back, digging into the muscles of her shoulders until she fell forward. Faces nestled together, interlocking like pieces of a puzzle, they would breathe each other in, savoring such a close moment of intimacy. It would feel like a lifetime as they waited with bated breath, using each other to get the most pleasure possible.

She comes when he does, holding her breath to keep the moans from slipping, which makes it all the more euphoric, the chance of nearly getting caught at her most vulnerable and the faint lightheadedness making her vision foggy. Her orgasm leaves her legs trembling, slipping away from her still buzzing toy, falling forward into her sheets. She breathes in sharply, barely holding back a pained cry; fat tears of pleasure soak into her blanket as euphoria crashes and beats into her muscles. The heart-racing, earth-shattering, limb-thrashing orgasm makes her chest heave. Just like she wanted, she is left spent on her mattress, the powerful rush still lingering in her trembling body.

She flips onto her back, quickly pulling her bottoms back up onto her hips. In her drunken stupor, her earbuds fell out, and she can vaguely hear Tango’s praises. She picks her phone back up, eyes straining under the bright light, and closes out of the audio.

Her head is light, foggy with the residual high. A dazed smile flickers over her lips, exhaustion settling deep in her bones, finally satiated by her orgasm.

She scrolls through his account once again, this time reading through some of his other posts, like links to playlists and cute stories. Suddenly, the little message icon in the corner looks so appealing, teasing and taunting. Perhaps, she’s feeling a little giddy from her high or maybe it’s from the exhaustion, but she can’t seem to find a reason to not do it.

She sends him a message.

Meanwhile, Harry stares at the blinking cursor petulantly. It taunts him amidst a sea of white, a blank canvas in what should have been a completed midterm paper that’s due in a couple of days. His eyes sink closed, and he starts to drift off, only waking when his hand slips from his cheek, knocking his glasses askew. An old sitcom plays in the background, the canned laughter providing a break in the silence every five seconds. He sighs for the billionth time that evening, struggling to find motivation to even think at this point.

His phone dings, and he happily divulges the distraction, his brows furrowing as he reads a direct message from a user called honeyhi. He’s used to getting comments on his post, with the occasional direct message (which he usually deletes instantly because of poor past experiences), and now, he usually doesn’t think much of them. He isn’t doing it to gain anything from anyone. He just wants to put his thoughts out there, and it’s just an added bonus to get validation from beautiful people.

She doesn’t have a profile picture, not uncommon on that corner of the web, especially since his posts aren’t a lot of people’s taste. He wouldn’t usually indulge in them, deleting them usually instantly, but something compels him to open her message.

Not to be too forward, but I had the best orgasm of my life, listening to your audios. I’ve listened to your audios for a long time, and honestly, listening to you has become the highlight of my evenings ;)

Honey, you have no idea what that means to me.

Truly, his heart swells at her sweet words. It’s nice to get complimented on something you put so much effort into. He bares himself for strangers, expressing such an intimate part of himself for their shared pleasure, and it feels reassuring to get compliments.

I mean it. Also, Tango in the Night is arguably one of Fleetwood Mac’s best albums. Definitely top three.

Most people assume it’s a sex thing.

I wonder why.

He laughs a little at the dry comment.

So, what are the other two in your top three albums?

Pre or post Stevie Nicks?

Post, of course. What kind of question is that?

That was a test. You passed. I think we’ll get along just fine, Tango.

I think so, too, Honey.

—

Y/N rushes past the postman, nearly toppling over when her bag shifts slightly on her arm, her thick binders peek out of the top and dig into her arm. Her hand furiously slaps the elevator button, and she stands impatiently, her dangling keys shaking at her hip. The doors tremble as the weight teeters down to the main floor, far too slowly in her opinion. For a moment, she considers just running up the three flights of stairs to her floor, but that feels a little too eager.

She and Tango have their weekly phone call tonight, and her classes ran long today; that coupled with the stand-still traffic made her more anxious than usual to get home. She always calls first, since her schedule is the most complicated, and she’ll feel absolutely awful if she was late for their call. She feels silly getting worked up over such a small thing, but their friendship progressed beyond the occasional messages in the past month, and she honestly looks forward to their weekly talks. Tango is such a beautiful and humble person, and he is such a stable place of comfort. She knows that he will be understanding and have an independent, secondary perspective on any situation.

He is someone she can rely on for just about anything.

The bell dings above her, and the elevator doors finally part. After barreling inside, she sinks against the railing, glancing at the time, which is still just before her usual calling time. She sighs sharply when the doors begin to close, relief tugging on her shoulders.

However, a hand pushes through the lift’s doors before they can shut, and she bites back an irritated groan; she probably could have made it to her apartment by now if she had ran up the stairs. The man slides in and gives her a grateful nod, accompanied by a small smile. Much to her delight, he presses the ‘close door’ button quickly, and they’re met with no interruptions this time. It’s a quiet ride, despite her nervous feet tapping, and he taps away on his phone,

She admires him out of the corner of her eye, forgetting momentarily about her anxiety. Half of his hair is pulled back in a small bun, exposing the darker locks underneath, and a bandana pushes back the frizzy flyaways that would normally frame his face. The thick strands curl slightly at the ends; there’s one tight coil that she wants to tug on. She could easily become enamored with him, with his pretty green eyes and day-old stubble. His bag has H.E.S embroidered on the bottom corner. A coral colored, gem necklace rests beautifully on his tanned chest, which is mostly covered by a near see-through white top, covered with a baggy, gingham jumper.

After living in the building for two years, they have run into one another on several occasions but have never really spoken. He lives on the second floor, and he goes to the university as well.

When he leaves, after offering another nod and quick smile, she calls Tango. He answers after the second ring.

“Hey, sweets,” he grumbles, not as chipper as his usual self. Her heart sinks a little. He had his midterms last week, and she can only assume that the results are not what he had hoped.

“Oh, no,” she says. “What happened?”

“‘S nothin’,” he insists, but she can hear the irritation in his voice. “‘M jus’ getting myself worked up over nothin’. How was your day?”

Clearly not wanting to talk, he changes the subject, which is something Y/N has grown used to over the past few months. He doesn’t like to vent when he’s too upset because he’s afraid of lashing out and taking his aggression out on her. Thankfully, she has also learned how to distract him. Usually, his annoyance melts away within minutes, and he is his usual, bubbly self again.

“Well, let me tell you, I nearly killed the postman today, and someone nearly hit my car today.”

“What?” He asks incredulously. “Please, elaborate.”

And so, she does.

A couple hours later, Y/N’s in her kitchen, making avocado and tomato toast for the fifth time this week. Her roommate is gone for the weekend, thankfully, which means she can get more stuff done without interruptions (and she can talk to Tango for as long as she wants without getting interrogated about it). His mood had improved significantly after she was able to make him laugh at her own expense (he especially liked the story about how she grabbed her iced coffee too quickly this morning and spilled it all over the barista’s hand).

“I have a question,” he says quickly, as if he wouldn’t have the courage to ask if he held onto it for a moment longer.

“Okay,” she says slowly, almost fearful at the sudden change of tone in his voice.

“Would you be able to listen to something I recorded the other day?” He giggles nervously. “I dunno. I just feel a little,” he makes a little noise, “off about it.”

Stunned, she stares at her phone, the seconds ticking by before her very eyes, and despite the fact that the only reason why they know each other is because she listened to his audios, she’s a little taken aback by the question. Before she knows it, too much time has passed for her to brush off as anything but bewilderment. She stutters.

“I—uh—sure?”

“You don’t sound too sure.”

“No, I am.” Stubborn and not willing to back down, she digs herself a deeper hole, despite the odd feeling growing in her stomach. “Yes, I will listen to it for you.”

“Okay, then,” he says breathlessly. “I’ll send it to you.”

Neither know what to say now. Conversation usually came easy to them, so it feels so strange to be stuck in such an uncomfortable silence. Now, she’s gone and ruined everything because of her hesitation. Why did she even hesitate? There’s no reason to be embarrassed. They’re both very open, sexual people, and it’s nothing to get so worked up over. Maybe, it’s the fact that it’s him, and she knows him so well now. Compared to before, when he was just some stranger on the internet, she knows his likes, dislikes; hell, she has even spoken to his cat, and it feels wrong because he is her friend, and that’s not what friends are supposed to do.

“It’s not weird. Is it?” He asks shyly.

“Of course not.” She says it a little too quickly. Admittedly, it feels a little weird, now that she thinks about it. It would be like walking in on your friend having sex. Then again, the only reason why they really know each other is because she listened to his audios (which is basically him jerking off to his dirty thoughts). However, it’s not an aspect they spoke about too often, usually after a couple of drinks. Their friendship, despite how it began, is purely innocent. They were each other’s comfort person; they were there to vent, laugh, and talk with. Neither ever hinted toward anything different, other than the occasional, playful flirting.

“No, I’ll listen to it for you. What are friends for?”

She doesn’t know why her heart is beating so fast.

“Thank you,” he says.

“So,” she says, “do you want me to listen to it now?”

“Eager, are we?” He hums teasingly.

“Shut up,” she scoffs.

“I mean, if you wanted to hear some dirty talk, all you had to do was ask.”

“Please, stop talking.”

“Y’know I’m always down to clown.”

“I’m hanging up now.”

True to her words, she doesn’t wait for him to answer before she ends the call.

Her phone dings a second later with the link along with another cheeky message. The link is to a private web upload platform, and she feels special for a moment. She wonders if she should just listen to it while eating her toast and go about her usual routine, or if she should do what she usually does when listening to his audios. Is that what he would want, though? Would it make him feel uncomfortable? Is it more weird to just listen to him moan in her ear while doing mundane tasks around the house?

Granted, they have had some conversations about sex and the like, but this feels so much more intimate, especially because he knows that she’s going to listen to him jerk off, not to even mention the obscene things that come from his mouth.

What does it mean for their friendship? Perhaps, it’s not even meant to mean anything, just a sincere favor asked between two friends. Maybe, it’s meant to be a step toward something more on his part. Is that even what she wants?

She brushes off that thought quickly, as she has for months, because deep down, she knows it would just end up in disappointment.

Oh, what a mess.

She’s headed on a downward spiral that has no chance of stopping unless it’s hit by a freight train to hell.

She opts to forgetting her toast and slips into her bedroom, falling onto her blankets giddily. She presses play on the audio, her heart racing as it loads, and leaves her phone face down next to her ear, eyes closing to fully immerse herself, trying to ignore her anxiety.

“Hello,” he says slowly, almost shyly, and it feels like one of their late nights again, with him talking through her phone and her cuddled in bed, listening eagerly. “I’ve just gotten home, but I’ve been thinkin’ about this all day. Couldn’t go to sleep before gettin’ it out there, y’know.” He giggles, a pretty little noise she’s heard many times now. He laughs a lot, sometimes at himself, but mostly in response to her. He even laughs at her corny, little puns, which she appreciated.

“And ‘m really hard right now, so that doesn’t help either. I haven’t really been able to come in the past two weeks. Been too busy with… life, I guess. But a friend of mine talked to me about the world of BDSM. She’s a kinky little shit.”

Y/N’s heart lurches, stomach twisting with an unrecognizable feeling, knowing that the certain friend he is talking about is her. She remembers the conversation well, even though she was a little tipsy and very high, mostly because it was also the first time they had actually spoken on the phone, and it began as it normally does, about mundane things that happened that week. Somehow, the conversation shifted to kinks, and she told him that she wouldn’t be opposed to more sinful acts in the bedroom, most of which her previous partners had not indulged.

“I’m pretty vanilla, I guess. I just love to love people. I don’t think there’s anything wrong with that. I’ve never really been into that sort of thing, but now, I can’t stop thinking about it, and I’ve been kinda into some dark, dom stuff lately,” he admits slowly. “Dark for me, at least, which, again, doesn’t say much.” There’s another laugh, radiant and delicate.

“I dunno why, but I’ve been fantasizing about taking you into our room. A little lackluster, I know, but I’m not into the dark, dingy places, like those sex dungeons they have in the movies, where there’s lots of leather, red lights, music, quite the ambience.” He stops suddenly, and she could imagine his lips pursing to cease his ramblings. She wishes he wouldn’t do that so much; she wishes that he wouldn’t doubt himself and his beautiful way with words. If only he could be as confident in himself as she is in him.

“I just want to lay you down on our bed with our fluffy blankets pushed off to the side. Then, if either of us need to take a moment or stop, we can.” Her heart swells a little at his words. Even though he’s trying to talk about, in his words, “dark, dom stuff”, he is still so sweet and considerate, and she can’t help but soften. He trails off.

Faintly, she can hear him yank his belt from the loops, and it’s, honestly, one of the hottest things she has ever heard; the teasing glimpse of what could come far more erotic than anything any of her other partners could do. She could only imagine what it would feel like to have him in front of her, shirtless with his pants low on his hips; maybe he would be wearing the same floral pants he is in his profile picture, the ones that are unbelievably tight. She would be splayed on the bed, just observing this beauty of a man, waiting patiently for him to come and ravish her.

She’s sure that his tattoos cover more than just his arms, but how many more is a question that haunts her. The thought of a big tattoo on his thigh that she can grind on while he moans about how much of a good girl she is has led to many obscene dreams. She imagines black images carved into his chest, perhaps a trail of floating rose petals from his collar bone to his peck or a hellish looking snake wrapped around his waist. More vividly, she envisions a bold tattoo just beneath his belly button, one that she would scratch at while he violently pounded into her, one that she would kiss and lick before she would take him in her mouth.

Oh, what she would do to be able to feel his skin on hers.

She dips her hand beneath the band of her shorts out of habit, toying with the silky material of her panties. She tries not to think too much about her feelings, fearing it would deepen the ache in her heart.

“Anyway, you’d be on the bed,” he says, his usual slow, stifling voice pulling her deeper into the fantasy, “naked, on your knees with your pretty pussy facing me. You’re all tied up, starting at your wrists and ankles, and there would be a pretty knot down your spine that I can grab while I fuck you from behind.”

Her cunt throbs at the sudden turn. She could only imagine: her face pressed into the pillows, choking on the sheets, her muscles tight, aching beneath the restraints, and her voice raw, sobbing from overstimulation. Exhausted and wanton, she would take anything that he would be willing to give her. He would shove her face into the mattress, mounting her, and he would tug on the rope until it felt like it would permanently embedded in her wet skin, telling her how much of a good little slut she is, taking him so well.

She doesn't know why she’s drawn to rope play; perhaps, it’s all a part of the subtle nuances of the sex, the intimacy of tying the complex binds around your partner and the intricacies of sensory manipulation with such overwhelming stimulation. It’s so much more than just being bound while fucking. There is such a deep reliance on the other person to understand your body, your limits, your needs. It’s about trust and vulnerability. She thinks of it in such a melodic and romantic way; it must have resonated with Tango.

“Or I’d tie your arms to your legs, keeping you spread open for me on your back, with knots around your belly, the lead falling between your tits.” Her eyes flutter closed. While rope play is something that she has always wanted to try but never felt comfortable enough with another person to act on it. He would be different though. She cups her pussy, languidly running her fingers through her wet folds, feeling the arousal slip down her skin before settling on her sheets.

She pinches her clit, and her legs immediately jerk around her arm. Feeling far too sensitive for that type of stimulation, she simply strokes through her lips, focusing her ministrations on the delicate inside, close to her sopping entrance, enjoying the slow build.

“Then, I could hold onto your neck while I fuck you, and I like being able to see your face, to see how good I’m making you feel, to see tears of pleasure run down your pretty face. You could suck on my fingers while I fuck you, deep and hard. D’ya wanna choke on my fingers, pretty?”

She wants absolutely nothing more. She would gladly suck on his fingers if it meant that she could see the look of awe in his eyes, lust darkening his features when she bites teasingly on his nail.

“But if you’re on your knees, I could watch you in the mirror and still see your face. From behind, I can see your pretty, tight pussy take my cock.” He whimpers. “I haven’t decided which I would rather have.”

She can’t decide, either.

Then again, they could always have both.

“Of course, I wouldn’t give you my cock that easily. No, you’re going to be crying for me, begging for me to fuck you, and I dunno if I would fuck you right away or make you beg for it. I think for the first bit, after you’re all tied up for me, I’ll tease you, just barely touching you, pulling on the lead, the ropes tightening around your aching body. I think your tits would look so pretty all tied up f’me, babylove.

“When you’ve finally had enough, crying for me to stuff you full of my cock, I’d let you come, but I’d only use my fingers, never giving you what you really want. Maybe I’ll put a little vibrator on your clit and leave you there, having you come again and again until it hurts. I’d have you keep your panties on, of course. Don’t want you making a mess of the sheets, and then, when I finally give you my cock, I’ll put them in your mouth to keep you quiet, and so you can taste yourself.”

His moans are in the forefront in his sensual song, mixed amongst a symphony of bed and friction sounds. She matches his pace, flicking her wrist in time with the sound of him working his wet cock. She massages the entirety of her pussy, messily rubbing her fingers from the tip of her poor, swollen clit to her throbbing opening.

“Fuck, babylove, you’d be so good f’me, taking my cock so deep in your pussy. Would you cry f’me, pretty? Cry for daddy to fuck you into the mattress.” A rumbling groan finally breaks free, and she is so close to falling apart, her high festering into her muscles, burning through her nerves; her skin feels hot to the touch. She struggles to breathe, but she doesn't yearn for air as much as she does her end. Tears in her eyes, she clutches onto her blanket, tugging it in her mouth to keep from crying too loudly. She sobs, feeling a familiar tightness in her body, just beyond her grasp. Her hand still moves over her pussy, arousal seeping through trembling fingers, but she can’t reach her peak with such light, varied stimulation, her hips buckling.

“My pretty rope bunny,” he mutters. He’s desperate, truly just rambling on and on about anything that comes to mind. “My pretty honey,” he whimpers, almost inaudibly, “honey, honey.”

For a second, she thinks of the times that word has passed through his lips in less sinful situations, a slow, lulling honey when he’s trying to get her attention, sweet and innocent. That’s his special name for her, and she wonders if, possibly, he thinks about her in the same way she does, if he wishes to be with her in such an intimate way, just as she does. She thinks, incredulously, that maybe she isn’t overanalyzing the situation.

His bed squeaks faintly in the background, just barely heard over his withering voice. She can only begin to imagine what he looks like in that moment, legs tense, feet digging into the mattress, his hips thrusting to fuck himself into his fist. The head of his cock would peek through the top of his fist as he coerced his release free. She wishes she could see what he looks like when he comes, when he finally reaches his most euphoric moment. It’s such a primal thing to witness, to see someone liberated of all inhibitions, to observe them completely succumbing to their instincts. It’s such a beautiful thing to see someone acquiesce control and thrive so harmoniously with their body.

“I wanna wrap my belt around your throat.” He swallows thickly. She whines along with him. Perhaps, she’s just fooling herself, but she can swear that she could almost hear the sound of a leather belt squeezing in his fist. A pitiful pool of wetness slips between her ass cheeks.

“My cock hurts just thinking about how you’d sound.” He moans, mimicking the desperate heaves that would undoubtedly slip through her lips as he pulls his belt tightly around her throat. “Then, when you’re bratty, I can just wrap my hand around the belt and make it tighter.

“Please,” he mocks weakly, “please, sir, I’ll be good. But you’re just saying that to get what you want. You’re just a naughty, little slut aren’t you?”

“Yes,” she returns weakly.

“Maybe, I could get you a collar and pull you around with that. Would you like that?” He hums. “Of course, you would. You’re my pretty, little bunny.”

In any other instance, she would feel humiliated to be so aroused at being so weak and submissive to another, but he could convince her to do anything at this point. She’s close, toes curling and muscles tightening, and she waits for his familiar profession that he is also near the edge, but the silence that follows is deafening, a disappointing resolution to an intense narrative. It makes her stop completely, wet hand flipping her phone over to see that, indeed, she had listened to all of the audio. It knocks the air from her lungs when she realizes that that was it. She isn’t going to hear his cute little whimpers as he comes nor his sweet aftercare.

Frustrated from her ruined orgasm, she calls him instantly, and he picks up after the fourth ring this time, as if he knows that she is this needy and frustrated. She doesn’t give him the chance to greet her.

“That couldn’t have been all of it.”

“Well, hello to you, too—”

“I didn’t get to hear you come.”

“Is that what you wanna hear, honey?”

“Well, yeah, I always come with—” She stops before she says something she’ll regret, but by the sound of his laughter, it’s already too late. She wants to hide away in embarrassment.

“It’s only partially finished. I thought I told you that.” She can hear the teasing smirk he surely has plastered on his face, the cheeky bastard. “I just wanted to hear what you thought so far before I finished it. There’s no point in finishing something that I already feel isn’t worth the time.”

“Well, then,” she stutters quickly, “How does it end?”

“How do you think it should end?”

There’s a certainty in his words, as if he has already accepted her as a lover, and she knows that he is giving her the opportunity to initiate the next step. Fear squeezes her chest, and for a second, she worries that she isn’t brave enough to follow through. Every fiber of her being is pleading with her to just take that risk, but another, more rational side of her, is saying it’s better to say a quick I don’t know, and they would move on as normal.

“Where would you come?”

Oh, it feels so filthy to ask that, but it’s so relieving to hear the hum of approval that passes through his lips.

Her heart races, not like before; this is exciting and new and arousing, and it feels wrong. She doesn’t even know what he looks like; hell, she doesn’t even know his real name, and she’s so fucking ready and willing to give herself to him. There’s just so many reasons to not pursue him. She feels ashamed, almost, that she is weak for a man she knows nothing about.

“Hmm, that’s a good question. Where would you like me to come?”

But how can she not get weak when he asks her things like that?

Shivers bloom on her skin in sunflower blossoms. She knows what he wants to hear, and usually, she would tease him, telling him that he didn’t care if he even came or not, but the throbbing between her legs is relentless, and she’s just lust-drunk that she’ll say just about anything to get what she needs. She begins rubbing herself again, focusing solely on her clit this time instead of the entirety of her pussy in the palm of her hand. Breathing out shakily, she answers honestly.

“Everywhere.”

He moans, and she knows that was the right answer.

“Everywhere? Such a greedy girl. You want me to come down your throat? You wanna taste it? Maybe, I’ll have you choke on my cock, fuck y’face until you’re crying.”

After he was done fucking her, she’s sure that he would yank her up either by the rope around her breasts or by the belt around her neck (she can’t decide which yet) and put his cock by her mouth, rubbing himself over her lips and chin, but never quite pushing past the barrier of her lips; no, she would be the one to open her sweet mouth for him, her jaw lax and tongue wet as she takes everything he’d give her.

God, yes, she wants to taste him. She wants him to use her in every possible, degrading way: to use her mouth while she tied up, under his mercy, to fuck her face until she has tears dripping down her cheeks, wetting her heaving chest, to come down her throat until she’s choking on him, but he would pinch her nose and make her taste it until her vision was blurry.

“You’d take it all, babylove. Won’t you?”

He asks so innocently, his deep voice having a soft twinge, but she knows that it’s not optional, not that she would choose otherwise. She would greedily lap at his cum and drink it all, proudly showing off her empty mouth when she’s done. Maybe, he would insist that she keep it in her mouth and pull her into a wet, heated kiss, prying her lips apart so he can taste himself on her tongue.

“I could make a mess on your belly or your tits, and then, I could lick you clean. Or I could mark up your thighs and watch it drip onto the sheets.”

The thought of him marking her with his come is nearly enough for her to reach her peak. A voice in the back of her head chastises her for being so greedy; this is something she has fantasized about since they started talking, and it’s going to be over before it can even begin at this rate. She needs to distract herself, to focus on anything other than the painful throbbing between her legs.

“Or I could come inside you.”

That’s the last thing she needed to hear.

Only because it makes a thick bead of arousal seep into her sheets. It makes her finally give in and sink two fingers inside herself, and fuck, she’s so wet and swollen and pliable. She sobs, truly biting back even louder cries behind gritted teeth. She curses again and again at the feeling coursing through her veins, heat spreading in her belly as her hips frantically move against her ministrations.

“By the sound of that moan, I think that’s definitely preferred. Such a filthy girl. Y’want me to fill your belly? Want me to mark you as mine?”

She just knows that he could fill her to the brim, but he would want to prolong the experience as much as possible, teasing her with his cock and coaxing her to beg for his cum.

She could just imagine the determined look in his eyes, so close to coming, but he would pull out, just barely teasing her trembling entrance with his twitching cock. He wouldn’t move, and when she would beg for him to put it back in and just fuck her until she couldn’t breath, he would say very simply: if y’want my cum so bad, put my cock back inside.

God, his face would be gleaming with this power, satisfied with seeing her so needy for his cum. Shamefully, she would put one of her hands on his hip while the other grasps his cock, pushing on him until he sinks entirely inside her once again, but he still wouldn’t move, simply filling her, the both of them twitching with arousal. He would demand that she make him come if she wants it so bad, as if it's a gift from the heavens.

“Are you touching yourself?” He asks, and only then does she realize that she was drowning in her fantasy; the sudden change makes her stop rubbing herself, her vision hazy. She parts her lips with wet fingers, slipping back down to her entrance, gently prodding inside until that euphoria builds once again.

“Yes,” she admits shamefully. “‘M so fucking wet for you.”

“Dirty little slut,” he says sharply. He has no room to judge, especially since she can hear the all-too-familiar sounds to him jerking his cock, wet sounds of his fist passing over the thick head echoing in her empty room. She is near tears at this point, so needy and high and horny, but she wants to make this last.

“Would you let me come? Please, can I come?”

It’s his turn to moan with approval, and she feels proud. His heavy breathing in time with hers, he seems to be lost in pleasure, voice hitching as he struggles to find words. Her orgasm swells to a near crest once again, but she wants to hear him finish. At this point, she knows what it sounds like, from the frantic ramblings to the guttural moans, and he’s not quite there yet.

“Do you think you deserve to come, honey? You think you’ve been a good girl f’me?”

“Yes, I’m a good girl—fuck—please, please, I need to come.” She stumbles through her words, what little power she held in her withering grasp deflating instantly from his words.

“I dunno, I think you’re a brat who just wants to get off.”

It’s painful how much his words impact her, volatile muscles spasming while she staves of hee end. She whimpers, sinking further in her headspace; she feels a cloud settle in her vision (or perhaps those are tears), overwhelming yet freeing.

“No, I’m your good girl,” she insists.

“I think you’ll have to prove it to me, honey,” he replies slyly. “I don’t think I’ll let you come quickly. I want you to beg for it. Can you do that f’me, babylove? Beg me to come.”

“Fuck, I’m so close,” she says. “Please, please, I need it. Please, let me come.”

“You can do better than that,” he says, voice cracking. Their harmonious sounds of excitement drive both of them closer to their orgasms.

“Oh, god—please, I—fuck—I need it so bad. ‘M so close, please.” She can barely speak coherently. Chills wrack her sore body, waves of throbbing pleasure threatening to break her. She wanted—no, needed—him to finish.

“Come f’me, Honey,” he says. “You’re my good girl, so good f’me. C’mon, babylove, come with me.”

She does. With ears ringing and eyes closing, she comes until her pussy aches. It feels never ending, euphoria consuming every part of her sweat-laden flesh, chilling and fiery, for hours—or perhaps only seconds. She can’t tell.

“Thank you,” she whispers, her vision blurry. Her body trembles with residual aftershocks of her intense orgasm. She lays spread open on her bed, her pussy still too sensitive to close her legs entirely.

“Thank you for letting me come.” In her daze, her limbs fall away limply. All she can do is exist at this moment. She vaguely wonders if he finished with her, the thought of his deep moans fueling another fire. A part of her is disappointed that she wasn't present enough to listen to him, but another part knows that more opportunities will come.

“You’re so welcome, honey,” he says sweetly. “I think we both really needed that today.”

She hums, still recovering from such a powerful end. She slowly regains her breathing.

“I guess I should be thanking you because that’s one of the best orgasms I’ve ever had,” he says. She laughs.

“You flatter me.”

“I’m serious. Nearly gave myself a pearl necklace.”

And just like that, everything continues as normal. Both know that the other is naked and satiated, but neither feels uncomfortable with the fact. If anything, it makes things relieved, open, or comfortable. They’re both giggly in the golden after-glow.

“What does this mean for us, Honey?”

As, yes, the dreaded ‘talk’. Fear immediately spikes in her veins, and she struggles to find her words. Before she can answer, he begins speaking again.

“Look, I really like talking with you, and I don’t want this to make things weird, but I meant what I said earlier. That was probably one of the best orgasms of my life, and I don’t think that I could live without your pretty little moans now that I’ve heard them. Maybe, we can do that again. We don’t have to put a label on it or anything, if you don’t want to.”

Her heart sinks. Is that all that he wants?

“Right, it doesn’t have to be anything serious, just us having some stress relief.” Her words are dry and forced, feeling like bile in her mouth. She grits her teeth. What the hell had she just gotten herself into?

“Hey, uh, it’s late, and I have to wake up early tomorrow. Same time next week?”

She hopes that he doesn’t think that she regrets what they did, and she hopes he doesn’t think too much into her abrupt ending of the call. It’s not a total lie; she does have work early tomorrow morning, but she has had more than a few days where she was running on two hours of sleep and a miracle. She just wants to get off the phone before he hears the contemplation in her voice.

“You think I can wait a week after that? You have too much faith in me.”

“I think you’ll survive, babe,” she says.

“Good night, babylove.”

“Good night.”

She falls asleep quickly after, dreaming of the nameless, faceless man who she bares her soul to.

Later that night, as Harry edits the finally finished audio, he thinks back to Honey and their mutual pleasure, feeling like an absolute idiot for saying that it was nothing serious. He wasn’t expecting her to agree so emphatically, so quickly.

Although, what had he expected? He was the one who suggested it. No matter, he can’t have a relationship right now, especially a long distance one. He would just end up getting hurt, but he likes her too much to stop talking to her completely. He finally took their relationship further even if it won’t lead to anything more.

—

“Are you ready to admit defeat?”

Y/N lets out a breathy laugh, despite her current situation, her hand rubbing leisure circles on her already sensitive clit, which still throbs from her first orgasm of the night. Tango murmurs praise in her humming ears.

She’s not really sure what they are, and she doesn’t want to think about it. It would only complicate things more.

Friends? Definitely.

Well, maybe not definitely, since she doesn’t even know his name, but what other word could she use to define their relationship? What sort of friends would say such filthy things to each other? Why would he call her ‘my honey’ so emphatically if they were ‘just friends’? Too afraid of misinterpreting his intentions and embarrassing herself, she doesn’t mention anything, and he never does either, but it keeps her awake at night, wondering what they could be if she could just put her feelings to words.

This would be the second hour of their phone call, and it only took them ten minutes for the conversation to turn into one of their “stress relieving sessions”. Both of them had a terrible day; she was late for the first day at her new job (they were understanding given the circumstances, but it still left a sour taste in her mouth), and he slept through an exam. She eased him into a submissive headspace quickly, babbling about what a good boy he is and how proud she is of him. Within minutes, he came, and she whispered all the filthy things she wanted to do to him until he was completely spent, his cock milked of all remnants of his seed, twitching and throbbing with empty orgasms.

He easily fell into the dominant headspace after his quick high, and he was adamant that he could make her come more than any of her other partners, even without him truly there. She knows that he can; hell, she has touched herself to his voice more times than she could count, but she likes teasing him, hearing him get all riled up and stubborn.

“Are you gonna come again, honey?”

“Nope,” she breathes, “Not even a little close.”

“You’re obviously lying or not trying,” he says sharply, and a sense of pride swells in her chest at her ability to get a rise out of him without even trying. She smirks.

“What are you gonna do? Punish me?”

“I might have to.”

She’s sure he would, too, but it would be in the most pleasurable way possible, with his mouth and fingers and cock stimulating her until she comes so many times she can’t take anymore. Her fingers trace her most intimate area, nails scraping against her quivering core. She sinks two fingers inside, feeling her sopping pussy swallow them easily, adjusting quickly and craving more. She tries to find that sweet, spongy spot inside her, but she can’t seem to reach it.

“Wish it was your fingers,” she mumbles, her movements certain and even, but it’s never enough for her greedy body.

“Yeah, lovie?” He croons, “they’d be so big in your tight little pussy.” She hums, wishing that he was there to stuff her in every way possible.

“Would you wear your rings?”

“For you? Of course.” Her eyes roll back at the thought; his thick fingers could tear her at the seams, and with the added texture of his rings, she would be coming within seconds. Her clit throbs, blood rushing in time with her racing heart, and she massages it harder, wanton and waiting for yet another release. “C’mon, babylove, Come for me. Make me proud,” he coaxes. His words make her fall over that edge once more, thighs shaking and pussy weeping. She’s sure there’s a creamy stain beneath her, seeping into her wet skin.

“Again,” he demands. She thinks she may break. “Keep going, babylove. Where’s that toy you told me about?”

He knows that she won’t be able to come much longer on her own, with the pain overwhelming the pleasure.

“It’s so far away,” she whines.

“Go grab it, love,”

Her legs tremble as she twists around, reaching blindly into her bedside drawer. She can’t close her legs too much without getting overstimulated; her legs ache and twitch. Once the toy is situated just above her clit, she ticks it on. Her body reacts immediately, limbs jolting about, hips ducking away, and her voice catching. Gasping, she almost wants to take the toy away, the stimulation being far too much.

He thinks differently.

“Turn it up higher, lovie,” he says so sweetly. Her chest feels like it could almost collapse into itself. Still dizzy from her orgasm, she’s not sure if she can take it, her body fighting against her. She wants to beg and plead for something, but she doesn’t even know what for. Is it for yet another orgasm that will surely be more powerful that any other? Or is it for the burning at every nerve ending to stop?

“I dunno—”

“You can take it, such a good little bunny for me.”

The vibrator ticks to the next setting, a sharp, persistent sound echoes in her empty room, followed by an even louder shout. She has not control anymore. Thankfully, she’s home alone or else it would be an awkward morning with her roommate listening to her cries of pleasure well into the night. Her hand shakes, but she presses the head of the toy harder to her clit. She lets out a guttural groan, feeling euphoria seep from every pore.

“There it is,” he moans, breathing growing ragged. He’s surely jerking himself off, basking in the pleasure with her, and it makes her arousal burn deeper. She wants to put on a show for him, to egg him on and make him feel as good as he makes her feel.

“There’s my pretty girl. Let me hear you, baby.”

She can barely squeeze out a few breathless whimpers from her chest, hedonistic—no, animalistic—sobs crash through her. Pain and pleasure fight for control, just as her mind and body do.

“Feel good?”

“Yes,” she says weakly. “Feels so good.”

She comes quickly with a silent cry, her lips parted and face scrunched. Saliva slips from her open mouth, and she is unable to wipe it away, lewdly dripping down her chin to her neck before finding it’s place on her dirtied sjeets. The recovery period is quicker this time; it’s either that or her body is becoming numb to anything but pleasure. It feels like it’s never ending with the vibrator still nestled tightly to her puffy cilt. Her lips are surely swollen now too, tender from too many orgasms, yet still sopping with arousal.

“Don’t take it away,” he says, “You got another one in ya. You can do it, lovie.”

His voice is muffled beneath blankets where her phone lies, lost in her ravenous bouts of pleasure, limbs writhing and tossing. Her body aches when she twists to put it back up by her ear to hear him more clearly, muscles tight from her previous orgasms. Legs closing slightly, she whines when the toy presses harder against her clit, hips ducking away from the strong vibrations, eyes fluttering closed. Her phone falls out of her grasp once more, but the light illuminates the dark room, casting a warm glow.

“Please—”

She’s not really sure what she’s begging for; it just slips out, a weak plea. Perhaps, she just wants him to be there instead of on the other end of a phone call, in some faraway place she doesn’t even know. The room would feel so much warmer with him here, her back pressed to his chest, their sweat mingling. Maybe he would wear those pretty lace stockings he showed her a picture of once, the glittery fabric coarse against her skin as he teases his toes along her leg, keeping them spread. His freckled and inked arms wrapped tightly around her middle, paying special attention to her tummy, he would whisper sweet things in her ear and press on the area right below her belly button, telling her of how he wants to grind his pretty cock against her soft middle until she is sticky with his precum, how he can fuck himself that deep inside her. She would feel him for days after.

“I know it hurts, baby, but just one more, then you can go to bed.”

It sounds so nice, the thought of sinking into her pillows for a good night's rest, but an orgasm sounds even better, one leaving her spent and satiated and sleepy.

“Such a good girl f’me.”

As much as she wants to, the sensitivity becoming nearly unbearable, she can’t stop; she wants to make him proud, to prove to him that she’s his good girl who can take it. Even though he’s not truly there with her to hold her and make sure she comes, she still wants to do as he says. Her legs tremble, threatening to close.

She squeaks when the vibrator hits a particularly sensitive angle on her clit, and she bites into her pillow to keep from crying out. Her hips work desperately, to reach that high for the last time, just one more, like an addict itching for one more hit. It’s her fourth orgasm within ten minutes, and this might just be her breaking point.

“I dunno if I can.” Her words slur, and she can feel spit dripping down her puckered lips. She suddenly wishes he was there to wipe it away, thumb soft and subtle against her skin, lingering on her puffy lips.

“One more, babylove,” he insists. “Just one more. You’re doing so well.” She bites back a mangled cry, eyes squeezing shut, her thoughts lost in a dark chaos. His voice is the only anchor amidst a dizzying high, coaxing her through her stupor with sweet words.

“My pretty girl, my good fucking girl, taking it so well.” His gravelly voice pulls her from drowning, his words gritty from his clenched jaw. “You’re not hurting too much, are ya?”

His deep voice is soft, lilting with a tender care she needs. She could simply melt, blanketed in the warmth of his rich voice.

“A little,” she admits, a dull ache in her belly when she clenches too tightly. “But it feels so good.”

The vibrations pulse through her body, leaving her voice shaky, and she shifts slightly, hips digging into the mattress. It settles on the underside of her clit, and it’s so close to that one spot, until finally—there, there, there—right there. She groans, low and guttural, drawn out from the depths of her chest, animalistic almost. Her body burns and trembles for a second before yet another strong, unrelenting wave drowns her. Every muscle in her body tenses as the head of the vibrator finds the one tender spot on her clit, catching at just the right angle that leaves her eyes teary, world dizzy. She knows it’ll be painful if she doesn’t pull away, a harsh orgasm building, but she can’t stop, not with him listening to her, waiting for her final bitter end.

She’s doing so good for him, such a good bunny. She trembles in the wake of such a violent euphoria, weak moans slipping in time with her belated breathing. It passes through in waves, the pain, a bittersweet burning welling deep inside her, but a different ache persists, one that leaves her yearning for more, one that makes her dig her feet into the mattress and press herself harder on the toy. Her toes curl, and her back arches, free hand twisting the sheets.

He hums appreciatively.

“My bunny likes it when it hurts. Doesn’t she?”

“Yes,” she sobs, “I want it to hurt.” Hips shuttering away from the relentless vibrator, Y/N feels her final orgasm build, pain lingering around the edges as her muscles twitch.

“Such a dirty little slut.” Her back arches at his filthy words, arousal pooling beneath her. She could feel it wetting her thighs. “Just f’me, right, honey? Just my pretty slut.”

She comes quickly, eyes rolling back as it overwhelms all of her senses. She feels tense yet relaxed. A broken cry breaks from her swollen lips as she shatters, falling apart for the final time. Her muscles quiver, tiny shocks lingering in the aftermath of so many orgasms in such quick succession. Her limbs ache. Her heart races. Her pussy throbs. She knows that this will be all she can take, her body completely spent. She can’t find the energy to keep her eyes open, and they roll back.

“You alright?”

“Yeah,” she says, still struggling to find her breath and collect her thoughts, but when she does, a smile breaks her face. She feels everything and nothing all at once, so perfectly numb. She finds herself laughing incredulously because that cocky little bastard was right: he made her come more times than anyone has before. She laughs until tears slip down her warm cheeks.

This is the part where the emotions start to become just as overwhelming as her release. So much sinks in all at once, and she realizes just how alone she is, and she wishes he was here to pull her back down to earth, to hold and to love. She feels deflated. The sexual release is such a rush, but it brings devastating lows. With tears in her eyes, she struggles not to cave into herself.

“You sure you’re okay?”

“Yeah,” she lies, a sob curling in her lungs, forcing its way out in a blubbering mess. Once the first one escapes, the rest follow easily. She can’t seem to stop, heaving cries wracking her already sore body as she clutches onto her pillow. She fists her phone to her ear in an attempt to be closer to him, but that makes the feeling grow worse, settling to a black hole in her stomach, sucking all euphoria from her. Tears soak into her skin and sink into her ear, muffling his comforting words.

“Let it out, babylove,” he says softly. “I know, I know. I know. Sometimes it can just get really overwhelming.” His words are gentle, just as he is, and maybe that’s what makes this even worse. He is everything she wants. He is just so perfect for her in every way, but he is ao far from her reach. Maybe it would be better if he wasn’t such a good person. Maybe that would make the yearning go away. She’s quiet, slowly breathing through stuttering sniffles.

“Hey,” he says softly, “Go pee and clean yourself up, babe. Know you don’t like feeling all wet down there. It makes your peach all sticky.”

She nods, knowing full well that he can’t see her, but doesn’t move. She honestly doesn’t think she can.

“Go on,” he murmurs when he doesn’t hear the familiar rustling of her sheets. “‘M right here, honey.”

A few more tears squeeze out of her eyes at his words. It makes her whole demeanor crumble once again; she’s upset because he’s not really there, he’s not there to hold her and kiss her and love her, and that’s not fair. She just wants to have him here to tell her that everything will be alright; she wants him to be there to laugh with, to just be with. He is such a good part of her life, but she just wishes that he could physically be there in the way she dreams.

She cleans up quickly, tossing her spent underwear into her dirty laundry. Just as she had suspected, the remnants of her orgasms stained her thighs.

What’s that ache in her chest?

“Good girl, feel better, lovie?”

She nods and whimpers, unable to calm her trembling lips.

“Good, ‘m right here, babylove. Y’did so good, so proud of you.”

She crawls back to bed moments later, shuddering breaths and swollen eyes being the only remnants of her breakdown. She sniffles and wipes her wet eyes with the back of her hand, which smells vaguely of her feminine wipes.

“Sorry, if it was too much,” he says.

“No, no need to apologize,” she says quickly to get rid of any lingering guilt he has. It felt amazing, to be tested just beyond her limits, to be pushed to a shattering breaking point, to trust him to know what she can take. “It was nice. I just sorta—” Her voice breaks. “I dunno. Everything just got a little overwhelming. I think I’m better now.”

“What do you need from me, honey?”

She nearly starts crying again at how sweet he is. She almost could imagine that only a few minutes ago he was calling her his dirty little slut and demanding her to come until she could handle it.

“Just talk to me,” she says.

“So, I saw a couple dogs today,” he begins awkwardly. “Well, I was attacked by two little frenchie’s when I was walking to class, and it completely made my day ten-times better. They were so cute with their chubby little legs.”

He rambles on about his week, and it feels nice and familiar.

She’s nearly asleep when he begins talking about his mother. Apparently, she was visiting him last week, which was nice for about a day; then, he began realizing why he moved away in the first place: she is so smothering.

“And my mum is always nagging me to go out and socialize. She was like,” he breathes in, adjusting his tone to a falsetto. “Harry, you’re never gonna be able to find anyone if you don’t…”

He continues as normal, chattering away in his low, sleepy voice. She doesn’t think he even realizes his slip up, words spluttering out of his mouth so quickly that even he probably couldn’t hear it. She smiles as sleep finally overwhelms her.

Harry.

His name is Harry.

—

#also if this is too niche and it flops lets just forget it happened #okay? okay.#harry styles #harry styles imagine #harry styles x reader #harry styles smut #harry styles one shot #harry styles fanfiction #ellie writes #ellie writes smut #ellie writes filth #gif not mine #credit to owner

2K notes · View notes

suchawrathfullamb · 1 month

Text

okay but realistically speaking I am TERRIFIED of a season 4 because I am old and hopeless and I don't actually expect them to give us hannigram explicitly and I know it will be fatally disappointing.

#like idk yk? I find it so hard to believe because we have been to deluded by fanfiction and yes it's canon but explicit? idk idk I DON'T #i don't wanna hope man I am scared #I feel like they will try to keep the general audience without niching too much to the gays you know? cause it's such a famous character #and I feel like they won't let us have it FUCK I HATE THE WORLD #I HATE THE ENTERTAINMENT INDUSTRY FUCKERS #anyways #hannigram #nbc hannibal #hannibal #will graham #murder husbands #hannibal lecter #hugh dancy #mads mikkelsen #lamb freaks out

274 notes · View notes

forhappysake · 5 months

Text

Criminal Minds characters and their Hunger Games equivalents, including a few unsubs.

210 notes · View notes

19burstraat · 3 months

Text

I don't really care for a 'soc 3' as a full novel (I consider the duology a very finished narrative, and I'm doubtful it'll ever happen anyway) but I would go fucking crazy for a short story collection, both pre-and-post canon. susanna clarke's the ladies of grace adieu which accompanies jonathan strange and mr norrell, and tamsyn muir's short stories for each of the locked tomb paperbacks are so great, and I'd kill for something like that for soc... I know this is a niche that fanfiction can and does fill, but there's so much stuff that's only alluded to in canon that could make a killer short story. tell me about kaz's heist on the diplomat's wife who loved emeralds. tell me about jesper's time on the novyi zem front with colm. tell me about imogen; what happened to her? what about the other barrel gangs? this could even be a chance for leigh to tell us what kaz's full name actually is lmao

#this is a fanfiction niche I cram myself into with stuff like gmbm and wcs... but still. there's a few things I'd like leigh to weigh in on #six of crows #soc #soc 3 #grishaverse #I maintain that kaz did not NEED a full name and he COULD just be kaz but I understand the temptation...#also the fact that it literally never crosses his mind once is hilarious #my post

140 notes · View notes

gentil-minou · 8 months

Text

student council au where wei wuxian ran "as a joke" but won president with lan wangji as his vice president and their shenanigans as wwx uses a sizeable amount of their budget for carnivals and student events and lwj just...lets him

his uncle, the principal, asks him what on earth are you doing and lwj just takes out a research paper that shows the benefits of fun and relaxing activities on student mental health while wwx is shooting a t-shirt canon at the crowd behind them

there's a sofa in the student lounge that wwx uses to take naps and everytime he does his shirt rides up revealing a sliver of skin and lwj has one hand in a tight horny grip as he calculates how much of their budget they can devote to a bunny petting zoo even though the insurance will be a nightmare but wwx really wants one so he will get one.

(at the petting zoo, wwx tells him the bunny petting zoo was a birthday gift for him)

(lwj kisses his big stupid perfect little face)

#i think i'll probably repurpose this into a student activities council au which is extremely niche and personal for me specifically #but oh man i have so many ideas and 90% of them are gonna be from my own college experience #get ready for falling in love while stapling flyers to dorm hallways during office hours #bed sharing because your advisor booked the wrong hotel room at a convention leading to activities that are never spoke about again #planning for weeks on a single event that flops but then the weekly low budget game night is a sucess cause you got jalapeno poppers #all of this has happened to me personally this au is just my college experiences and love sdkjfhdskjghsj #mdzs #mdzs au #mo dao zu shi #wangxian #the untamed #wei wuxian #lan wangji #bushy writing #mdzs fanfiction

254 notes · View notes

serenescribe · 4 months

Text

A gift for @suntails my beloved <3 Based off her iconic and incredible Sheriff Silver nui. I wrote this while we were on call to flex how fast I could write. I am sharing it for the world to see.

(I'd say Silver is about... a preteen or a young teenager in this one.)

“Father… what is this?”

“Oh, just an outfit I found while out on my travels,” Lilia replies smoothly, eyes shining as he rests his fingers against his chin, his other arm folded. “I thought it’d look rather cute on you, so I decided to buy it back, hm?”

And cute Silver looks indeed! Even as his eyebrows pinch together, a v-shape forming between the brows as his lips press together, Lilia cannot deny how dashing the outfit looks on him. He wears a bandana, wrapped around his neck, covering a matching vest and shirt. A sheriff’s badge is pinned to his lapel, signifying the role the outfit mimics. With a pair of chaps covering his pants and a pair of spurred boots, the final thing to finish off the look is the massive hat on his head — a cowboy’s hat, as it is called.

Despite the authority the outfit is supposed to radiate… Lilia cannot help but grin at how sweet Silver looks in it. If he only put on a serious face instead of a confused one, he would surely emit a powerful aura that would drive any enemies into hiding!

“Father,” Silver sighs, shoulders slumping as he shakes his head, “not that I want to turn down a gift, but… why did you get me this?”

Lilia pouts; does Silver not believe his words? “Does it matter?” he sighs, shaking his head morosely. “Don’t think too hard about it.” And as he says that, he reaches out to pluck off the hat and ruffle Silver’s hair.

That, at least, elicits a smile. My little sheriff, Lilia thinks warmly.

Not that Silver knows what a sheriff is, for that matter. Or a cowboy.

(Photo taken by @suntails! What a dashing lad!)

#my writing tag #tumblr drabbles tag #twst #twisted wonderland #twst silver #lilia vanrouge #twst writing #twst fanfiction #diasomnia #yeah this is silly and has a niche of two people interested (me and catriona)

133 notes · View notes

wildflowergirlie · 25 days

Text

nobody tells you the worst part of being a fanfic author is deciding if you want to make an idea an au or actually try to write a book. like this trope would be amazing with this ship but also it's been my lifelong dream to get published.

#do I choose whimsy or security?#the niche internet fame or the actual job?#it's actually so hard tho #au #fanfic writing #fanfiction author #fanfiction #authors #writing things #writing humor

108 notes · View notes

wandaspetal · 10 months

Text

Late Night Talking

𝐅𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐨𝐦: Marvel/MCU

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐞𝐫(𝐬)/𝐒𝐡𝐢𝐩(𝐬): Wanda Maximoff x Reader, Natasha Romanoff x Wanda Maximoff (past), Carol Danvers x Natasha Romanoff

𝐓𝐫𝐨𝐩𝐞: Friends to Lovers, College AU

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 2.6K

𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: Cursing, flirting teasing, mention of insomnia, anxiety and stress, jealousy, and huge fat warning college, some angst with happy ending

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: If you’re feeling down Wanda wants to make you happier baby

𝐀𝐍: Reader uses she/they pronouns. Loosely based on Late Night Talking by Harry Styles and my insomnia (surprise surprise). This was written at 3 in the morning and is unedited. Enjoy! :)

At first it was passed off as a quirky trait they had by their friends and family members. Now they were starting to acknowledge how much of problem it is for Y/n to deal with. Hopefully Professor Harkness wouldn’t be on her ass about it. The last time they were here the professor showed an immense amount of concern at the lack of livelihood in them due to their insomnia.

She was becoming somewhat of a concerned mother figure towards her while still maintaining her professionalism.

Thankfully she wasn’t at her desk yet and it was still 5 minutes before class started. As Y/n plopped down into their seat they barely spared the person they sat next to a glance. It wasn’t an auditorium styled classroom it was one of the smaller ones. Only 20 people were in this Psychology class and it was the smallest one the professor had (she has joked about it multiple times).

Wanda couldn’t help but stare. The droopiness in their eyes and bags underneath raised so much concern. The Sokovian cleared her throat and debated giving the gift she had for Y/n now or after class. Her utensils and items she uses for class were all perfectly laid out in front of her.

She quickly reached into her bag deciding she could use Professor Harkness as a distraction in case Y/n didn’t like what she gave them. Wanda removed the plastic bag and slid it towards them.

“What- oh good morning Wanda, don’t forget your stuff.” Their voice was laced with tiredness.

Wanda giggled. Even when they were sleep deprived they were cute. “It’s for you baby.” The pet name slipped out causing both their cheeks to burn.

Y/n cleared her throat and sat up in attempt to straighten their posture but still hunched over the desk a bit to grab the bag. They untied it and looked inside to see an assortment of snacks, a water bottle and two different brands of melatonin. Their cheeks flushed for another reason. Y/n had no clue Wanda had been paying this much attention to her.

“Oh Wanda I’m sorry I- do I bother you during class? Because I can move–”

“None of that.” Wanda shook her head immediately cutting her rambling short. “Whenever I’m sleepy during class it helps me to stay awake to eat or drink in between writing…and because it helps me stay awake, I thought it might help you too…I also used to take these melatonin brands when I had issues sleeping during finals from all the stress and they worked pretty well unless you blatantly ignore the tiredness they cause you like I did at the start of taking them…” Wanda scratched the back of her head, she could not read Y/n’s expression. “Point is, I got this stuff for you because I wanted to help.”

Y/n could not fathom why someone she rarely sees outside of class would do something so kind for them. Kate, Yelena or one of their other friends would do this but Wanda and her only interacted because she briefly dated Natasha until the two decided they were better off as friends. And even then Natasha and her never got that close due to the overwhelming crush Y/n had on her in highschool. But that can be reminisced on another time.

Y/n placed her hand on Wanda’s wrist immediately feeling it relax under her touch. “Wanda, thank you, seriously.” The two shared a smile. “You’re sharing them with me throughout class though.” Wanda began to protest. “I wasn’t asking, Maximoff.” Y/n smirked when her cheeks flushed and a shy “okay.” Reached their ears.

The two shared the snacks during class and Y/n carried the melatonin around with them for the rest of the day. After eating dinner with her roommates she laid in bed for two hours until she glanced at her night stand and saw the melatonin mocking her. Melatonin usually doesn’t work, she’ll feel drowsy then immediately begin to doze off then wake up and be awake for the rest of the night.

They sighed and reached for the melatonin, ripping the package open. “5 milligrams per fruit gummy.” Y/n popped in 4 and hoped for the best.

Their phone buzzed on the bed signaling a text message coming in. Y/n grabbed it without looking and unlocked her phone. The time read 1:20 in the morning which was less worse than usual.

Wanda :D | 1:20 AM

You up?

Y/n forgot Wanda had her number after they (her friends, Natasha and Wanda) all went to the arcade together. Seems Wanda didn’t forget though.

Y/n <3 | 1:23 AM

Yup! Just took the melatonin though so let’s see if it works.

Not even 30 seconds went buy before Wanda’s name popped up on her phone, signaling she was getting a call. Y/n answered, propping herself up against the head board with her pillow for support.

“Hi.” Y/n sang.

“Hello.” Wanda’s accent was pronounced as ever. “I…sorry I called you I just- I wanted to talk to you and hear your voice, I also don’t feel like typing any longer.”

“That’s alright, not like I’m asleep.” Y/n joked with a hint of amusement in their voice.

Wanda chuckled deeply. “That’s true, which one did you take?”

“I’m too lazy to grab it and look but it has a clear packaging with the label on front.”

“Purple top?”

“Yeah.” Y/n grinned.

“Oh cool, I figured you would like gummies more.”

“And what made you think that?”

Wanda twirled her hand between her fingers as she sat at her desk inside her room at her brother’s apartment. “I sort of remembered how you said you enjoy fruit flavored things so…yeah.”

Y/n nodded even though Wanda couldn’t see them. “Yeah well you are what you eat.”

Wanda giggled. “Shut up.”

“Oh okay well I’ll just hang up now.” Y/n said with mock offense and their hand on their chest.

“Stop, no teasing.” She chastised playfully.

“Me tease? Like you weren’t calling me nicknames in class earlier.” Y/n’s chuckle was deep and raspy. After not hearing a response they pulled the phone away from their ear. Then put it back as it said the call was still going. “Hello? Wanda.”

Wanda muted herself and screamed into her pillow then calmly moved her hair out of her face as Y/n questioned where she went. She picked the phone back up and unmuted herself.

“Wanda you okay?”

“Yes, I’m okay just wanted you to see how empty your life would be if I hung up on you.”

“You are so–”

“Pretty, smart, amazing–”

“And also annoying.”

“That’s rich– you think I’m pretty?”

Y/n responded without hesitation. “What? Of course you are! Natasha only dates pretty girls and you’re the prettiest I’ve ever seen– dating her aside.”

Wanda’s smile faltered at hearing Natasha’s name. Then returned at full force as Y/n reassured her right after making that comment. Nat and Wanda being in the same friend group was a decision Wanda regrets but also loves. Her friends are some of the best people she has ever met. Once Carol and Nat started dating soon after they broke up Wanda avoided speaking to Natasha as much as possible.

“Sorry, did I make things weird by bringing up the ex…I didn’t mean too.” Y/n was now laid down in bed, snuggled under the covers with her phone to her ear.

“No you didn’t, baby.” She cleared her throat. “Are you feeling sleepy?” Wanda asked, physically resisting the urge to write notes on their current state.

Y/n swooned at the nickname for the second time that day. “Yeah.” She sang. “Are you– wait why are you still up?”

Wanda grins. “I stay up late sometimes when I don’t have plans the next day, it’s like a reward for getting through the day or week.”

“And you decided to use your reward time to call me? Such a sweet girl.”

Wanda giggled, shut off her lamp and laid down in bed under the covers. “I try.” She glanced over to see the clock read 2:30 in the morning. “We both have to try going to sleep now though angel, get some rest for me okay?”

Y/n hummed in response, her heart fluttering at the nickname. “Okay…night.”

Wanda grinned knowing the melatonin was kicking in. “Goodnight angel, sleep well.”

They both hung up and for the first time in a while Y/n got a full eight hours of sleep. Wanda sighed happily and held her phone to her chest. It was clear Y/n needed some guidance, someone to take care of them. Wanda just so happened to have her favorite love language be acts of service, what a coincidence.

Two weeks go by and Y/n’s sleeping habits start getting better at the same time Wanda and her become even closer. Unfortunately some habits take a while to stick.

“It’s not working.” Y/n cries out of stress, feeling physical tears start to come to their eyes. “Finals are right around the corner and I need to have this together or–”

They’re sitting outside in the court yard near the student center. This was the first time Wanda and Y/n have hung out outside of class without their friends around. Wanda places her hand on Y/n’s wrist effectively stopping her speech.

“Yes you will, everything’s gonna be fine baby.”

“But Wan I–”

“Baby? Didn’t know you two were that close.”

Y/n groaned and dropped her head on the metal table at the sound of another persons voice. They were already having a break down outside it’s worse that another person had to come and perceive them. Wanda forced herself to relax instead of snapping at her friends for interrupting. She understands how emotional Y/n feels as it’s how she felt during the summer semester not too long ago. Wanda turned her head to greet them as politely as she could to see Carol’s concerned expression but see Natasha’s eyes bouncing between them both with an emotion Wanda did not like; jealousy.

“Yes we are, that close. In fact I adore Y/n with everything in me and I’m trying to comfort them so now is not the best time–”

“Y/n/n what’s going on baby girl?”

Wanda felt like a hypocrite at the sound of her exes voice. Now she was jealous and looking at Y/n to avoid glaring daggers at Natasha. Her shoulders tensed up at the hand she placed on their back. Wanda nearly smiled as Y/n’s whole body tensed up at the contact.

“Ask Yelena.” Came Y/n’s muffled voice.

Natasha smiled playfully. “I will if she could answer her phone.”

Y/n sat up right and took a deep breath, inching closer to Wanda. She wiped her face as she spoke. “She’s in class today doing a double to catch up and make up for her grade so she won’t be out of class until 5:30 and I made sure her and Kate are doing a buddy system so that they won’t be around after sundown by themselves because we are women on a college campus be fucking for real and use the buddy system whenever you can and however you can….Yelena is also the size of five stacked up toasters, black belt or not buddy system always works.”

They all laughed in a various octaves at her rant.

“That is very true, the buddy system is what works best.” Carol agreed gesturing towards them with her can of soda.

“Can I have some?” Y/n asked with a pout.

“Did you have soda today already?” Wanda asked softly, scooting closer to her.

Y/n shook their head. “No, I want a sip.” She pouted.

“Okay, baby.”

“What’s with the nickname seriously,“ Natasha passed off her comment as a joke with a forced chuckle. “are you two dating?”

Wanda opened her mouth to respond but Y/n beat her too after handing Carol back her drink. “And what if we are?” They asked.

Wanda beamed at the protectiveness on their voice. “Yeah what if we are.”

“So what if Wanda is the air that I breathe and the water that I drink.” Y/n added with a shrug, pulling the brunette into her side. “I adore her just as much as she does me, if not more.” The sleep deprivation was definitely talking but so what Wanda didn’t seem to mind. Natasha looked off to the side, avoiding eye contact with them both.

The brunette giggled and kissed her cheek.

“Well congrats.” Carol added with a grin.

“Thank you fellow lesbian.” Y/n beamed.

Carol threw her head back and laughed. “You’re welcome fellow lesbian.”

They all laughed at the exchange.

The day left and night began, as the clock hit 8 Y/n took their shower and did everything they needed to be done before bed. By the time they took their melatonin it was 11 at night.

They laid down in bed with all the lights off and the quiet thrum of voices coming from the living room as Kate and Yelena worked on a project for a class they had together. Y/n’s phone began to buzz on the night stand. Knowing the only person’s notifications she had on at this time of night she answered the phone without looking at the caller ID.

“Hey.” Y/n said.

“Hi.” Wanda sung.

“How’s my pretty girl doing?”

Wanda’s cheeks burned as she left her bathroom and moved to lie down in bed. She was stunned into silence and Y/n knew it. They began to laugh.

“Sorry, too much?”

“No, not at all just a shock that’s all.”

A few minutes of silence passed as Wanda got settled down into bed with the lights in her room off and her brother out for the night.

“About that conversation earlier…”

“My breakdown or Natasha’s jealousy?”

Wanda rolled her eyes so hard she wouldn’t be surprised if Y/n heard it through the phone. “Oh god don’t get me started, that was so annoying! And I hated when she started touching you like you two are close and that she speaks to you outside of you and Yelena practically being sisters like don’t touch her!” Wanda huffed.

Y/n giggled so loud she knows her bestfriends heard it. “I didn’t realize she got you so riled up my love.”

“Tell me about it.” Wanda sighed then bit her lip at the sound of their laughter. “But no, before they walked up I wanted to tell you that I understand how you feel and I’m here for you, you’re going to get through this.”

Y/n wished the Sokovian stood in front of her so that she could give her a hug. “Thank you sweetheart.”

“Of course angel.”

“You wanna stay on the phone with me tonight? I like the sound of your voice.”

“Well you have to I am your girlfriend now.”

Y/n chuckled. “Yeah…” Silence passed between as they both thought over that part of the conversation. “I would actually like for you to be my girlfriend in the future Wanda…I feel like you want the same but I could be wrong–”

“You’re not. I like you so much. Our nightly talks are something I’ve been looking forward to every day since they’ve started….can I take you on a date?”

“Absolutely.”

228 notes · View notes

cryingatships · 2 months

Text

Thinking about Kenta slowly settling into the X-Hunter family over the course of weeks and months, partly cause it's a foster home Tony's adopted kids, and partly because he's Kim's boyfriend.

Kenta visits Kim after a group practise just a few weeks after the events of canon and stands stiff next to the doors of the garage, not daring to step inside.

No one notices him (cause we all know how lax X-Hunter's security is lmfao) till the practise is finished and Kim is coming into the garage with the rest of the team to look at their performance reviews, and he notices Kenta standing all awkward and small and tiny.

He waves at Kenta, and it catches Alan's attention and of course he has to invite Kenta in (the man has a knack for picking up 'kids' at a moment's notice).

North tries to protest a little because hello this man literally tried to kill a few of us and sabotage our team in the worst possible way??? But Alan (and Kim's) glare shuts him up, and Kenta is invited inside graciously by Alan.

Kim perks up in his presence, but the rest of the people are still a little tense, especially Babe, Sonic, and Way (he's alive cause I said so. And he and Kenta has history, and not the good or the spice kind so!). They are not the most pleased, remembering the past, taking Kenta's actions as fatally dangerous but nothing personal, remembering how the circumstances made by Tony, and how Kenta went through weeks of therapy, and will be going to years more of it, all narrated by Kim during practise-breaks and team-meetings after he officially joined the team.

Jeff greets him with a smile, and Charlie nods in acknowledgement, having heard of Kenta from Jeff for years, though without any face to put the name onto before. But they resume talking numbers and times with Alan and the technical team, and soon no one is paying any attention to Kenta as he shuffles himself into one of the couches in the corner, stooping down and trying to make himself look as small as he feels.

He hears words, but does not register anything, thinking about the warm smile of Alan, the man who's entire team he tried to destroy, the same team he has poured his life and savings into, according to Kim. He thinks about Way, who has faced Tony for years too, just like Kenta himself, but has betrayed Tony in the end and sided with people who care for him, who loves him, who surrounds him now and would surround him forever. And he thinks about the eyes of Babe, who, like him, has gone through it all with Tony, who pulled himself out, even if it's right at the end. Babe never bent himself back to Tony's will, never put a gun on anyone's head and killed them just because Tony asked him to, never did all the terrible things Kenta has done, even when everything went against him, even when Kenta tried to destroy his career and imprison him in Tony's mansion again. Even when he was at his lowest, he was still strong enough to stand in front of Tony and spit in his name. He thinks of Jeff, who smiled at him, who had run away too, and about Charlie, who almost died thanks to Kenta playing villain for Tony and yet stood up and challenged Tony anyway.

They have suffered so much over the years, as much as Kenta has gone through in Tony's hand, yet they have run away, made their lives in the world outside without fear, have stood in front of Tony and looked at his face and not flinched.

And now they have looked at Kenta, and have let him in, let him stay, even though Kenta does not deserve it in the least bit. Even though he has pulled dirty tricks, tried to kill them again and again. Yet they nod at him, and smile at him, and let Alan and Kim invite him in, even when he doesn't deserve it, doesn't deserve forgiveness, doesn't deserve love, doesn't deserve Kim's love and Jeff's smile and Alan's kindness, even when he's a traitor, even when he's dirtier and lower than anything else, even when-

"Hey, you ok?"

A hand rests on his back, warm against the fabric of his shirt. The familiar scent of coffee, lemon, mixed with engine exhaust and gasoline tickle his nose. It's a strange combination, potent and slightly stinging, but it feels like warmth, cuddles, and home, even when Kenta does not know what a home is.

Kim sits down next to him and pulls Kenta's face on his shoulder.

"You ok? Are the smells here too much? Wanna leave?"

Kim's voice is an anchor against the rough waves of guilt, shame, anger, regret. He's warm and real by Kenta's side, and his hand is soft and forgiving as it moves through Kenta's hair—now longer and falling on his shoulders after Kim telling him how hot it looks for days. He, at least, doesn't seem to hate Kenta in the garage, since he invited Kenta and all.

"Don't you have more to talk about cars?"

"Not really. Alan let me go today. Saw you shaking alone in a corner and all... thought I should ease you in your first visit here."

"Will that be ok? I'm being a bother here, aren't I? I'll leave-"

But Kim doesn't let him go. A wraps an arm tight around Kenta and holds him to his side. The hands on Kenta's hair become gentler, and Kim's calming pheromones slowly spread between them.

"Nah, it's all good. We weren't talking anything that imp. Plus, Alan's worried about you, y'know?"

Kenta can't fathom why Alan would ever be worried about him. Being concerned for Kim is understandable, Kim's a racer and a good one at that, he's an important new addition to the team. Forgiving Kenta and letting him come in the garage for the sake of keeping Kim satisfied was also understandable, even downright kind, but...

"Why?" Kenta has to ask. "I... did them a lot of wrong."

"You can ask Alan later, if you want." Kim shrugs. "He's like that, I guess. He picked me up too, in case you didn't notice." There's a smile in his voice. He seems comfortable, far more than Kenta had thought was possible in a team that used to be his competitors till a few weeks ago. He seems... at home.

Kenta's glad he has found his home.

"..."

He doesn't say something for a while. Talking to Alan personally, asking him something like that? Kenta can't even imagine it. Tony would never allow someone to walk away without a punishment after trying to harm him in the littlest bit. And Kenta has done so, so much more to Alan and his team.

"Is this making you uncomfortable?" Kim asks after a minute of silence. "I swear Alan likes you, and the guys have all forgiven you too. Mostly, anyway. North's always a bit impulsive, but he's coming around too, so don't feel bad."

Kenta feels bad. He feels so bad. Worse now that he knows he's received so much forgiveness, and all of it undeserved too. Why would someone even do that, forgive people who brought them harm?

Kim notices his silence. And perhaps he takes it for discomfort, for he asks if Kenta is tired, if he wants to go home.

Home. Is that what he and Kim are making together?

He does want to leave, get away from the inquiring, sometimes concerned eyes. Get away from the forgiveness that burns shame and guilt into his skin. He wants to go home, bury himself in the piles of blankets on his and Kim's bed, breathe in lungfuls of his scent and drown in his kisses. But...

"Didn't you say you had to go for a team dinner after practise?"

"Right! About that... Alan's actually asked me to tell you to join us, if you'd like to. But if you want to go home now, then we can leave, let me just tell them goodbye."

And Kenta really, really does to go home. But he also wants to stay. He doesn't want Kim to miss a dinner with his still-new team, not when he wants to stay with the X-Hunters for many seasons still. And... he wants to stay, too. Check if Alan's really ok with him going, if the rest of the team will still be civil in closer proximity.

He wants to see how far kindness and forgiveness can go.

It will be uncomfortable. Enduring prying gazes for a few more hours, and maybe even awkward small talks as they try to shift around and bend the established pack dynamics to let Kenta, coward, traitor Kenta, come into their circle even if it's only for one dinner.

And then again, Kenta may just fuck it all up with ill timed words, or perhaps someone from the team, maybe North, or Way or Babe or Charlie or Sonic, or perhaps even Alan, kind as he is, realizes they've had enough of tolerating a weak, pathetic excuse of a person in their table.

But he wants to be brave, even if it's years late.

Kim deserves a pack. Kim loves him, and Kenta loves him just as much. He's not going to take it all away form Kim just because he's afraid, just because of 'what ifs'.

"No, I'll go for dinner with you. Tell Alan that, please, if they'll still have me."

Kim presses a kiss on his forehead, takes a long inhale of Kenta's scent, and gets up.

"Be right back, then!"

Kenta watches him walk towards the small circle of people gathered around the screens with blinking numbers of red.

He doesn't know what will happen, but he wants to try. He wants to brave. He wants a home. For Kim. And for himself.

#pit babe the series #pit babe #kimkenta #kentakim #pit babe fanfic #yeah so it happened #idk how i swear i was just gonna write a few lines about him being all awkward and then???#anyway if there's mistakes or inconsistencies blame my sleep deprived brain it's literally like 5am -#ma fanfic #fanfiction #should I write more into how kenta slowly finds his own niche in the X-Hunter team slach pack slash alan's foster family for lost children?#kenta x kim #kim x kenta #where should we fit pete in this i wonder #i need a title too.. but i'm so bad at em

66 notes · View notes

nichenarratives · 1 month

Text

Hurricane Heller 25

A Niche Narratives Fanfiction

last | first | next

25. Lackadaisy Austerity

Even in his youth, Mordecai was never an athlete, struggling to keep pace with peers and often the last to finish even after those with weak chests. As with most innate insufficiencies, the nine year old tom had refused to accept he wasn't athletic and instead turned to his strengths, studying how to become a fit and healthy young man who could rival an Olympian on the track. The scrawny tom believed he could do it as well; books had yet to fail him, from botany to mathematics, so was certain all he needed was to buckle down and understand, to flourish here too.

Though he was aware of his intellectual differences well before fourth grade, the discrepancy between Mordecai’s attempt to overcome this challenge with applied research, compared to how his teacher and peers responded, would ultimately skew any future interactions with others for the worse. Attempts to discuss his physical limits or potential adaptations to optimise both his own and classmate’s development were met with irritation; his notes stuffed into a desk, he was escorted out by the ear and deposited back into the school yard roughly, a reminder to respect his tutors ringing in the sore appendage.

To wit, he was pushed harder in gym class, until an inescapable physical exhaustion claimed his body and he fell. This was received with amusement by his peers, especially when it was usually followed by a yardstick to the rear and accusations of laziness. For the rest of the year he was at the epicenter of his tutor’s storm, miserably exhausted and never able to improve his physical state. Yet adult Mordecai would look back on those months as an important learning experience, one he subscribed to even neck deep in the Savage Family Corporation.

If he wanted something done right, he should remove the middleman and simply do it himself.

While he hadn't been particularly successful with an extracurricular exercise routine - life seemed to develop an uncanny ability for throwing proverbial spanners in those particular cogs - a discernment of keen proprioceptive capabilities in adolescence allowed Mordecai to ‘hack’ his biological malleability.

According to the physiology books, proprioception is an awareness of where one’s appendages remain in space without thinking. Realising he’s acutely aware of this sense, preteen Mordecai would consciously engage his entire body’s muscle framework while he undertook mundane tasks like paperwork to enforce an almost ambient regime into his schedule.

The initial results were as expected; a deep seated exhaustion and a dread of repeating it all tomorrow, which he almost surrendered to on a monthly basis. Every night, he’d collapse into bed, his entire body aching but thankfully too exhausted to be kept awake by pain. He'd sleep fitfully and awaken with residual soreness in his core, both a physical and mental battle of wills to overcome and rise before the day even began, but he persevered regardless.

Until one day he realised the pain was simply gone his mind and body finally in sync as both analysis and reaction became a seamless response to any stimuli. While Mordecai never became the Olympic contender he'd envisaged as a kitten, he gained something more useful; a finely tuned core strength that enabled swift, precise movements within a tiny window of inaccuracy, a margin of error easily rectified with basic calculations.

It still bothers the tuxedo that he can't pinpoint a day his muscles adapted. Applying tension upon waking eventually became automatic, as much a part of the mask he wore to sequester his emotions. This skill is what made him an exacting amateur surgeon for interrogations, a formidable foe with a firearm and a swift, decisive hand in high tension altercations.

It likely saved his life the night Fiores attempted to murder him also, though as he sprints through the back alleys of Queens in driving rain, path heralded only by the cloud-crested moon, the unanticipated limitations of his biological hacking quickly become apparent. Already fatigued from constant flexion, his core muscles reject the sudden exertion and begin to ache as they drown in an excess of lactic acid, low base energy stores swiftly exhausted.

His legs feel immensely heavy, his chest tightened by an underdeveloped lung capacity, but as a shot whistles past his ear the tuxedo forces himself on through sheer willpower, towards the station he can see a few blocks away. A small part of Mordecai's mind agonises over his missing satchel, but there is no time to return for it; he has no money or papers, just a pen, a pocket watch, and a useless safe code wrapped around a dime in his pocket.

An awkward step on the cobbles and he stumbles. Mordecai gasps and barely prevents a fall onto the glistening streets by grabbing at the nearest wall in desperation, claws digging into the mortar with an unsettling scratch across brick. He pauses only long enough for the moon’s shine to glint off of the barrel of a pistol and pursuer’s eyes before pushing off the wall, ignoring the growing stitch in his side and the burning in his lungs, hellbent on survival.

The station is barely fifty feet away when a thought hits him. I can't purchase a ticket. A revelation that is swiftly accompanied by a trajectory shift towards the unfenced tracks extending from the southern side of the illuminated building. It troubles Mordecai to know riding the train without procuring a ticket is theft - something he refused to indulge even in the depths of poverty - however, he decides imminent mortality is an effective extenuating circumstance to allow it this once as by divine doctoring, a train pulls out of the station when he's a mere twenty feet away.

With a grunt and a final surge of energy, Mordecai sprints the distance with a burst of speed before he leaps forward, jumping for the nearest carriage as the rear stairs draw level.

Time seems to stop when airborne. Breath caught in his throat and heavy body suddenly weightless, his heartbeat becomes a rapid, dicotical metronome in his ears and throat as hot smoke envelops his body. Suddenly blinded, the tuxedo is forced to have faith in his calculations and physical reflexivity, reaching through the choking gray smog with little more than a muttered prayer to a god abandoned years prior.

When his hand closes on a cold metal railing, time resumes with a sudden explosion of sensation; rain raps heavily on his bare head and chugging engines are thunderous in his ears as he clings to the railing for dear life, soaked loafers slipping on metal steps before finding purchase. Exhausted but relieved, he clutches onto the guide rail and sucks deep breaths into aching lungs, unstable legs threatening to give as he casts his gaze out in search of his pursuers.

Between the darkness, smoke and driving rainfall, viability is poor. Mordecai squints towards the alley he'd fled from as the train begins to pick up speed, pulse still hammering and breaths drawing deep. He can see nothing; lanterns eaten by darkness, smog too thick to dispel. Assuming they can’t see either, the tuxedo finally sags against the guide rail, acutely aware of the patter of rain on his head and the deep thrumming of engines rattling through his teeth.

As the adrenaline surge begins to wane, his body comes alive with aches and pains. Both his throat and lungs burning with exertion, his thighs aching almost as much as his blazing calves, a stitch in his right side flaring with each heavy breath. Whipping winds and unsteady legs mean he dare not release the guide rail lest he simply fall into the tracks, so he remains steadfast as they gain momentum, taking a moment to recover from-

A bullet pings off the train car barely a half inch over his head. Hair waving wildly in crosswinds between carriages and eyes startled wide, Mordecai ducks behind the guide rail with a gasp just before another shot dings off the metal right where his head had been moments before. The tuxedo peers around the edge of the carriage behind his own and squints in the smog, until he sees two dark figures hanging off a guide rail two train cars down, attempting to fire as the rails jostle their aim.

His second adrenaline rush is more like a trickle, a heavy delay between noticing the danger and acting on survival impulses. He jerks back being the train car between them as a third shot pings off the metal guide rail and with the last of his remaining strength, Mordecai wrenches open the rear door and throws himself inside, slamming the door behind him.

The air within the train car is still, the trundling of the train and heavy rainfall muted by thick window panes and thick metallic architecture. A couple of yellowed or green pairs of eyes turn to observe their belated fellow passenger before they return to their books, newspapers or work. None take interest, nor inquire of his arrival mid transit, merely sneaking a covert glance as he stumbles down the middle aisle to an empty pair of seats at the front of the carriage and collapses against the window.

Finally safe, if only for a short period of time with his pursuers just two carriages down, Mordecai allows olive eyes to flutter closed as he can truly catch his breath. He barely feels the usually uncomfortable sensation of soaking clothes on coarse fur or the way his hair sticks to his face, his mind distracted processing the events of the night with the clarity of a man aware of his imminent demise. There's no time to dwell on misfortunes when it's at a premium.

He shuffles through data, from limited inventory to loose ends, until finally, the tuxedo has a course of action to follow. Sitting straighter in his seat, he first pulls a pencil from an inside pocket and digs it into the inner lining of a coat pocket, destroying stitches he'd added the week prior to extract the dime, and paper wrapped around it containing the safe code in his apartment bedroom.

Using a tissue from another pocket, he soaks up the worst of the water from his right knee and folds his right leg over the left. It's only as he begins writing he truly notices his left glasses lense is cracked, but it does not stop him from transcribing his last words.

Mother,

Forgive my unannounced departure. Circumstances relating to my employment have required me to travel on short notice. It may be some time before I am able to correspond again, but you will find savings in my rented room above the dry grocery adequate for living. Give Mrs. Kovitz the name Ezra and she will allow you upstairs. There is a safe hidden in the southeast corner behind the baseboard.

He makes sure to outline the safe code where it had faded slightly from formerly hurried penmanship. He may have sat there for hours procrastinating the end of the hastily scrawled letter were it not for a sudden and short lived increase in engine noise and driving rain. The rear carriage door opening and closing, a shuffle of fabric as someone silently takes a seat, an additional passenger changing carriages amidst the rainstorm worrying for the pursued tuxedo. Incensed to finish his letter, Mordecai carries on.

Please use some portion of it to relocate to more suitable living space, expeditiously. Purchase somewhere if you are able. The building is poorly ventilated, molded and unhealthful.

-M

Before he can sign his name, a thick drip of red falls to the crumpled page. The tuxedo pauses to stare at it, distracted brain struggling to comprehend what it is and where it might have come from, before a thick warmth oozing down his lip preludes an accompanying second drip of blood joining the first. Mordecai rubs at his snout with the back of a hand and pulling back, is greeted by a smear of red on dark fur. His own body betrays him, coating his only note paper in blood of all things, which he cannot send his mother lest she worry or ask questions of unsavoury people in the city.

“Damnit, damnit.” He rubs his nose roughly on his sleeve, inadvertently smearing the blood across his muzzle, before ripping the bottom of the letter away to remove both his blood and the laments regarding Mother’s current housing. Casting a glance over his shoulder as he crumples the soiled paper in hand, he spots Brady’s sour face immediately beside a man Mordecai recognises as Gabriel’s chauffeur.

They don't meet his gaze, but Brady smirks for the briefest of moments, hand thumbing something in his pocket. Dark ears folding flat as time speeds past, the non-stop train journey to Missouri rapidly closing in on its, and his, inevitable end.

Fatigued adrenals activate a final time when he turns forward to find an unfamiliar man in a flat cap also observing him over the back of a seat. This man watches him openly, a lit cigarette dangling from thin lips and a brow quirked in a question the young tom cannot decipher. Noticing the three men briefly sucks the air out of the carriage, a suffocating sensation making it nigh impossible to draw breath.

Fear isn't an emotion Mordecai entertained often in recent years. He'd become as adept at masking that weakness of character as any other, sequestering it beneath a stony façade and severe tone most were themselves too intimidated by to query. In the face of death however, a young tuxedo cannot prevent bile churning in his stomach any more than the rapid jittering of his leg, an outlet for the intense anxiety created by knowing his time is running short.

Mordecai inhales and the spell is broken; the man in front turns away and lights a cigarette, the train still trundles along its track, rain beating mutedly against thick panes of glass. With a ragged exhale, he digs in an inside coat pocket for the blank envelope that so recently held a thick wad of cash and presses the folded letter to his mother inside. The sealing glue is bitter on a dry tongue, taste lingering as he scrawls her name and address on the front.

This very envelope previously had once contained a payout, monies accrued through sanctioned abuse, suffering bloodshed at his own hand.

As a kitten, Mordecai was enraptured by fairytales not for their whimsy and wonder, but the dichotomy of good and evil so frequently portrayed. Black and white, heroes and villains, light and darkness. The concept had made perfect sense; that badness was as inherent to a soul as was blood to a paper cut, to know even as a child whether you were good or evil. It was a comfort in an otherwise difficult childhood to know he was good and that would never change.

Joining the Savage Corporation had congealed bad and good into various shades of malignant gray. In order to benefit his family he was forced to entertain fixed odds, inflated prices, lying and stealing his way to middle management in an organisation with its very foundations rooted in moral debauchery. The kitten so sure of his integrity had become tainted by shadows and soon, was no better than those who now sought his death.

All before one final, poorly conceived embezzlement endeavour had left Mordecai staring down the barrel of his own pistol. He grimaces, pencil stilled on the last digit of his family address, his grip on the shaft so tight his hand shakes. It's almost poetic that the former vessel of such funds should deliver his final words home but the prospect that money tainted by moral ambiguity required his untimely demise before Mother could discover and utilise the funds?

In hindsight, that is nothing short of zemblanity, but now is not the time for lamentation. The tuxedo tom tucks his pencil away safely and leaning forward, he speaks softly to the man sitting in the row in front of his own. “Excuse me,” Mordecai begins, then clears his throat softly to attract more attention. Though his eyes never leave his paper, the man’s head turns toward him, which is enough for the desperate tom. “You wouldn't happen to have a postage stamp, would you?”

“Sorry kid, I don't.” The man goes back to his paper without pause, leaving Mordecai to mumble half hearted thanks and lean back in his seat, ears flat to his skull and tail tucked beneath his legs. While the response is polite, it's useless; even if he manages to alight in St Louis and find a post office, he can't afford to buy a stamp with just a dime to his name.

Resisting the urge to surrender to anxiety he casts his gaze around and spies a finely dressed woman reading, one seat back and across the middle aisle. Suppressing the growing anxiety in his chest as the train speeds towards its destination, Mordecai turns in his seat to try a more direct approach. “Pardon me, uh… perhaps I could impose on you to post a letter? I wouldn't ask a stranger, except that it’s-”

The carriage plunges into darkness as it enters a tunnel, a cavern of semicircular bricks and mortar that couples as an echo chamber, exponentially and rapidly increasing the thrumming of metal wheels on tracks. A clamber of engines and a heavy trundle of bolts and divots of very carriage pulled forthwith all join the cacophony of screeching couplings, rattling window panes and screeching horns that only grows by the second, a locomotive thundering through a wonder of modern architecture with all the disruption that seemingly accompanies industry.

With the accumulation of these sounds, the carriage interior almost becomes intolerable. Yet Mordecai does not notice intense auditory stimuli that would normally cause him great discomfort. Instead, the sight of a man standing in the aisle, a glimmer of something in his hand catching tunnel lighting as it flashes past, has his blood run cold. White fingers tighten on the pivotal envelope still in his grasp as desperation devolves into desolation, for as Close as he came to achieving his objective, this is where it must end.

The figure takes a step closer, the cover of darkness and intermittent flashing of passing lanterns keeping his identity shrouded in mystery. The glinting in the figure’s hand comes closer and the tuxedo flinches, eyes squeezing shut and head turning away. Final breath caught in his throat, he awaits an inevitable oblivion as overt peril draws his overwhelmed mind inwards, to a nauseatingly empty vacuum sans the rapid biological metronome drumming in his ears.

Ba-dum. Ba-dum. Ba-dum.

Chest burning with depleting oxygen, his body tense for anticipated pain, it takes until early morning light falls on his face as the train exits the tunnel for the tuxedo to date squint as his executioner. Mordecai is not met by the barrel of a gun however but rather, a visage he will remember for decades to come as a moment his life changed forever; a gray tabby with pure white across his muzzle, a glinting cane under one arm and a newspaper under the other, the pale tips of his fur illuminated like a beacon of hope by the sun’s tender morning rays.

While not a particularly spiritual man, Mordecai is captivated by the imagery even as the tabby takes a seat directly opposite, placing his newspaper down out of sight before resting his cane against a hand. Impeccably dressed; a sharp three piece of better quality than anything Mordecai could dream, fitted leather gloves and manicured whiskers, he's flawless even as he stoops to spark up a cigarette, a habit the tom holds with a deep level of scorn as a wasteful vice.

As if feeling the young tom's gaze upon, the man tilts his head to regard Mordecai in return. Despite his obviously ruffled appearance, this businessman looks upon him without distaste or irritation, but a curious interest. Dark ears turn forward as yellow eyes meet olive across the gangway, a long moment of mutual, silent study before the gentleman turns his gaze to the rolling Missouri fields outside.

Time speeds past and soon, the train is pulling into its final stop in St Louis, Missouri. Palms slick with a nervous sweat, Mordecai watches as the gray tabby stands and disembarks without a second glance, leaving the newspaper on his seat. Mordecai’s only respite is seeing the unfamiliar man in a flat cap at the front of the carriage follow, after briefly meeting his anxious gaze. Not another assassin then, but a concerned third party, or perhaps a bored traveler concocting gossip for his next tiresome meeting.

The relief is short lived, for when the well dressed woman also stands to depart, it leaves him alone with Brady and his chauffeur. The tuxedo feels his nerves fray as they stand, wordlessly reaching into their jackets, cold eyes and wicked smiles telling of their intentions. Breath so heavy yet fruitless, the young tom feels he might faint. He clutches onto the seat in front of him and murmurs a quiet plea to the God he’d lost faith in years prior.

One last chance, that's all I ask. One more-

It's surely coincidence alone that he notices the glint across the aisle at that moment, a metallic shimmer catching the sun’s still virgin rays. Wide olives settle on the newspaper the gray tabby left behind and finally sees the gift wrapped within; a revolver with an ornate handle, ivory or bone to contrast a brown casing and the sleek sliver of a metallic barrel. A custom piece, one not left behind easily, and a clear direction for a lost kitten to take.

Mordecai dives across the center aisle just as a shot embeds in the seat in front of the one he'd occupied. He crouches between one bench seat and the backrest of the next as he retrieves the revolver, a heavier kind than he's used to. A swift check of the chamber to know precisely how many practice shots he has before he can't afford to miss - four shots, far more than necessary to recalibrate - and he's ready to take this final chance seriously.

With the swift mobility he's come to rely upon, the tuxedo rises, aims and fires at the chauffeur within a second and a half. As expected, his aim isn't sure with an unfamiliar weapon; a shot intended for the chest instead rips through the chauffeur’s left bicep. Mordecai ducks just as Brady curses and takes a shot, the bullet searing a path through air so close to his face, the tuxedo feels the heat of expulsion graze his face before the bullet embeds in the seat behind him.

The proximity doesn't phase Mordecai now he has a tool to wield. He takes a breath and makes a swift stab at ballistic trigonometry. Intersecting axes, angles and calculations overlays the memory of his failed shot behind sharp olive eyes until the basic math completed, Mordecai once again rises, aims according to estimated mathematical adjustments, and fires. This shot lands just shy of his intended mark, striking the chauffeur in the lower right lobe of his heart for a fast, fatal wound.

Blood blossoms on a white shirt as the strong scent of iron fills his nostrils. The man screams in terror, a gun clatters to the floor as shaking hands clutch at a punctured heart, desperate wails swiftly suffocated by blood rising up his esophagus. Brady hesitates, his gun raised but eyes averted to the chauffeur. It's all the time Mordecai needs to reload the chamber, adjust his aim and finish the job.

Only once Brady hits the floor beside his compadre does the world flood back into focus; screams and shouts echo beyond the train car, fluffy of shadows in all directions as panicked passengers scramble to flee the platform. A whistle screeches over the noise as calls for police cut through the chaos, orders for men to surround and search each carriage issued in short order. Mordecai has to get out of here, before he's apprehended holding the murder weapon in a strange city, with no papers or credentials.

Pocketing the ornate revolver, Mordecai skulks low between the seats to the rear exit, diligent as to not step in the rapidly widening pools of crimson around his former pursuers. Unseen from without as chaos unfolds, Mordecai unlatches the door and slips into the masses, joining civilians fleeing the gruesome scene of a double homicide that will make the papers in just a few hours.

A Shadow in St Louis: Double Murderer Disappears Without Trace from Overnight from NYC!

#lackadaisy #mordecai heller #lackadaisy cats #tracy j butler #niche narratives #lackadaisy mordecai #fanfic #fanfiction #hurricane heller #no beta we die like atlas may #ch25

42 notes · View notes