#warmth is scary when you’ve been cold for so long | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

thedreamlessnights · 16 days

Note

Since requests are open, here's my suggestion: I recently revisited my old mythology book and found one of the myths about aphrodite bathing in a lake and blinds some pervs that sneaked up to watch her. Now, the reader might not have the powers of a goddess but you know what she does have? A dagger-happy vampire boyfriend more than willing to shank unwanted peeping toms (in his defense, he actually asked if he could be there, so no harm done here). Idk, I just like the idea of the reader having scary dog privileges and Astarion not minding looking menacing/scary while doing so

Thank you so, so much for this request, anon. It's an absolutely incredible concept, and it fits Astarion so well! I had such a fun time writing it, and I really hope you enjoy the result!

For Your Eyes Only

Astarion x F!Reader - NSFW

Content warnings: Mentions of brief, non-consensual voyeurism. Somewhat graphic violence, as well as mentions of blood, degrading terms, and the description of an injury and death. Explicit sexual content, including: oral sex (receiving), penetrative sex, fingering, multiple orgasms, blood drinking, and ear play. Tags: Takes place post-Cazador, some point in Act 3. Includes mild spoilers. Established relationship, a bit of emotional hurt/comfort, and tender smut.

Word Count: 5.8k

After the darkness and chill of the Shadowlands, the heat in the city feels suffocating.

You missed the warmth dearly back then, trudging through despair and gloom, thinking of nothing but the inevitable relief of the city. Your bones always ached something awful in that foul place, never warm enough to ward away the icy air. Now, though, it occurs to you that you hadn’t fully appreciated the cold when you had it.

The sun that streams down from the skies is blistering - scorching, even - and without reprieve or relief. Sweat courses down your neck, soaking the collar of your shirt. Your socks are damp inside your boots, and where the leather meets your calves, they’re chafing.

Gods, what you wouldn’t give for a bit of that chill again. Even with the achy bones.

What’s worse is the mud, somehow. One would think that Baldur’s Gate would be scarce on its share of the stuff, but it’s everywhere. Tracked up from Rivington, puddling in the streets, clinging to the bottom of boots.

Granted, your boots have seen more than their fair share of mud since the nautiloid: sticky, wet, warm. It’s seeped into socks and splattered across new armor, stained some of your favorite nightwear. Sometimes, when you’ve finally settled down for dinner, you’ve been able to taste it. No amount of scrubbing rids you of the earthy, bitter taste for long.

The mud in front of you is different, though. By all accounts, the heat should have baked everything at least somewhat dry, but this puddle remains. If it can even be called a puddle, really. The gloppy, wet mess looks more like a pond, and completely blocks the only path ahead. Even the edges of it remain entirely liquid. If you didn’t know better, you’d think it’d just rained.

A quick glance at your map confirms what you’d feared; this is the only nearby route to your destination. You’re on the outskirts of the city. Rock walls line either side of the path, too steep to climb. You know for a fact that Shadowheart had recently used your last Potion of Flying. Either you lose hours of progress to get Gale from camp so you can cross, or you’ll have to proceed through this stupid pond.

Astarion watches you eye the mess with a dramatic flick of his wrist. “Oh, by all means, darling, you go first!” he exclaims, raising a brow. “It won’t be me jumping in that slop.”

Karlach frowns at the mud’s appearance, tapping the toe of her boot against the surface. It ripples at the movement, brown waves gently sloshing against the surface of the nearby stone. “Can’t be that deep, right?”

“I don’t know,” you reply. You’re aching for a stick or loose branch, something to measure it, but there’s nothing around. Just grass and stone, the scalding sun on the back of your neck, and the muddy pond directly in the middle of the path.

“I say we go back,” Shadowheart urges. “I don’t know about any of you, but I’m not keen on dirtying myself.”

“We’d have to backtrack through hours of traveling,” you point out. “There’s no other way forward. I’ve checked the map.”

“Fine,” she relents, crossing her arms across her chest. “You go first, and we’ll follow behind you. Once we’ve seen it’s safe, that is.”

And, hells, you do not want to step foot in there. Not one bit. Still, do you have much of a choice? Your feet are already aching from the day’s walk. It would be devastating to lose all your progress. So, no - you really don’t have a choice, not if you want to get those Netherstones and stop the Absolute in time. The quakes in the city have only been getting worse.

“Alright,” you finally reply, your voice stronger than you feel.

You step forward, pressing your right boot against the mud, then apply your weight. Your heel breaks the surface with a terrifying rush of movement, and your leg instantly slides down into the muck - much deeper than you’d thought, deeper than it should be. When your foot hits the bottom, sticky, cold mud splatters up, painting your shirt, neck, and parts of your face.

Suddenly, the day isn’t quite so warm.

When you finally muster the courage to look down, your right leg is submerged up to the knee, soaking through your trousers. You can practically hear the sick squelch of it making its way into your socks, squishing between your toes.

“Urgh,” you mutter, wrinkling your nose as you attempt to pull your leg up. “Disgusting.” But it won’t budge. In fact, your squirming seems to be making you sink down even further. You try to shift your weight, but your balance is uneven with one leg in and one leg out. You’re dangerously close to losing your footing, and every bit you struggle threatens to tilt you face-first into the makeshift mud pond. In a prime moment of idiocy, you plant your other foot in the mud for support, and find your bottom half completely unable to move.

“What a brilliant idea,” Shadowheart says. “Now you’re stuck.”

“Thank you, Shadowheart,” you grit out, sweat dripping down your neck as you attempt to twist yourself around. “I had no idea!”

Karlach steps behind you, laughing a little. “Come on. Up you go, soldier,” she says, leveraging her arms under yours and giving a quick tug. You’re expecting the mud to release you, but it doesn’t. Your legs don’t budge - not even an inch.

“What in the…?” she mutters, giving another pull. This one has more force behind it; when she tries to haul you up, white-hot pain sears up through your ribs, ripping an agonized cry from your lips. No matter how hard she yanks, the mud’s grip only tightens around you. It’s beginning to feel like you’re a brittle piece of rope in a vicious game of tug-of-war.

“Shit! I’m sorry!” she exclaims. “So, so, sorry!”

“What are you doing?” Astarion asks, his voice suddenly sharp. “You’re hurting her! Put her down!”

“So she can get sucked further into the mud?” Shadowheart asks. Her voice is lined with fear now, which is scaring you more than anything else about this miserable situation. “We have to get her out!”

But it quickly becomes clear that no matter how hard Karlach pulls, it’s useless. Every yank is agony, and you only sink further and further. Tears stream down your cheeks from the pain, and your spine feels like it’s gained a good two inches from being stretched, but still nothing. No give at all.

Eventually, Karlach lets you go. Your body plops down in relief, but the mud is somehow deeper than it was before. It’s up to the bottom of your ribs now.

“Fuck me,” she pants, wiping her forehead. “What should we do?”

“How should I know?” Astarion’s face is drawn, more pallid than usual. His lips are pinched into a line. He should be telling you I told you so, making jokes - and you know he would be, if he were anything but absolutely terrified. Your panic is bad enough with the heaviness of the mud on your chest and lower body, but the look on his face? That tells you it’s even worse than it feels.

“Step back,” Shadowheart instructs quietly. “I have an idea.”

Once the two of them are out of the way, she steps forward. Stretching out her hands, she mutters an incantation into the air. In seconds, the slight chill of the mud surrounding you becomes sharp, painful ice that burns against every exposed inch of skin it touches. A very muddy shade of ice, but ice all the same.

Karlach’s axe crashes through the surface and it shatters, breaking around you. After another hit and a moment of digging, she finally has you out: freezing, still covered in mud, and very sore - but alive.

“Thank you,” you manage, choking out the words between your shivering.

“Never say I didn’t do anything for you,” Shadowheart says, smiling a little. She lets out a breath of relief, the tension bleeding from her shoulders. “Now. Turning around, are we?”

By the time you get back to camp, you’re the most uncomfortable you’ve ever been in your life. You’re wet and cold and exhausted, caked with dried mud that pulls at your skin when you move. It’s in your hair, on your face, and in your shoes, squelching with every step. The feeling makes you want to crawl out of your skin. Your ribs are sore and achy, and - on top of all of that - you’ve lost a good day’s worth of travel.

The only thing you want is to fall into Astarion’s arms, but he wrinkles his nose when you come near, holding out a finger to stop you. “Oh, no you don't,” he says. “Bath first. Then you can talk to me, darling.”

It seems no amount of persuasion is going to change his mind, so you head back to your tent and grab a number of supplies - soap, sponges, a towel, and a change of clothes. Your trusty knife for protection. The river is bound to be freezing, but it’s better than sponging yourself down and hoping for the best.

Thank the gods you’d found a decent pair of boots in an abandoned house today, because the ones that are currently plastered to your feet will take days to dry out, even in the hot sun. When you get to the nearby river, you don’t even bother to take them off before you plunge them into icy water, sufficiently drenching them until you can furiously loosen the mud enough to slip them off and toss them onto the riverbank.

The rest of your clothing gets the same treatment: the trousers which slowly pull away from your skin, the shirt that’s splattered with mud and covered in it up to the waist. Your hair will no doubt be a disaster, too.

You’re still sitting in the soaking-wet clothes when you hear the sound of a twig snapping behind you. Your hand instantly grabs for your knife, ready to throw it at whatever threat might be in the woods as your eyes sweep along the trees.

Nothing. You find nothing.

“Darling,” comes Astarion’s voice. He slips out from the shadows, immaculately clean, gazing down at the weapon in your hand with a lifted brow. “Planning to render me dead twice-over?”

“You scared the living hells out of me, Astarion!” you snap, sucking in a shaky breath. The blade drops from your loosened fingers, softly thumping against the dirt. “What are you doing out here?”

He steps closer, taking a seat on a nearby log. “You were taking ages to get clean,” he whines, sprawling out his legs in front of him. “And, unfortunately, our companions haven’t had an argument all night. How else am I meant to entertain myself? So here I am. Trudging through the woods for your company.”

“You could give me a warning next time,” you reply, still a little jarred. “I thought you were someone hoping to catch an eyeful.”

A smirk flickers across his lips. “Oh, but I am,” he says. “Do you mind terribly?”

Against your will, your cheeks heat, and his smile widens. “I don’t mind,” you say. “Not if you behave, that is. Hands to yourself.”

“I’ll be on my very best behavior,” he promises. Leaning forward, he prods your boots, wrinkling his nose at the sight. “Gods below. Those disgusting things should be burned.”

“I have an extra pair.” You move to tug your shirt off, but it’s clinging to you. “Gods damn that stupid mud pile. I should have asked Gale to use a cleaning spell.”

“Oh, please,” Astarion says. “He’s been sulking in his tent all evening. Apparently, being asked to blow yourself up by an old flame doesn’t do much in the way of socializing.”

The shirt finally pulls free, and it’s clear that your smallclothes have received the same treatment as the rest of your garments. Gods, you really should have asked for that cleaning spell. This mud is going to take ages to get out.

“Hand that here,” Astarion says, motioning for your shirt. You toss it to him, and he inspects it closely before setting aside.

“What?” you ask. “What were you looking for?”

“Oh, darling, nothing,” he says. “That’s my ‘to be burned’ pile. We’ll get you a new one.”

You’d argue, but you aren’t very attached to your current outfit - and besides, after weeks of trekking through wilderness and Shadowlands alike, it’s falling apart even without the mud.

“Do what you want with it,” you grumble, finally pulling off your smallclothes. “That shirt was barely surviving anyway.”

You glance over your shoulder and find him observing with a raised brow, slowly taking the sight of you in. You must look like a mess, but you’d never know it from the glint in the eye, or the complacent smile that plays upon his lips. Heat stirs low in your belly, simmering under your skin. Later, you tell yourself. When you aren’t covered in filth.

You lather up the soap on your sponge, scrubbing away the mud the best you can, but the damned stuff takes ages to get off. By the time you’re finally clean, the silvery moon is high in the sky, and your skin is beginning to prune.

Astarion makes a small comment or two, but mostly seems content to watch you in silence. His gaze burns over every inch of exposed skin, leaving phantom heat wherever it stalls. All you want is to get out of this damned river and touch him, but you’re determined to get every bit of the mud off before you do, and it’s taking much longer than you’d hoped.

When you’re finally presentable, you start on cleaning your filthy smallclothes. The soap is slippery, making it difficult to do much scrubbing, and the water alone is doing hardly anything.

Astarion watches you struggling, huffing as you nearly drop the soap bar in the river. After a moment, he lets out an exasperated sigh. “Dearest, you do realize that it would be much easier if you-”

But his words suddenly cut off. His head snaps toward the woods, and every nerve in your body burns with fear. In the span of seconds, he’s lunged forward, grabbed your knife, and darted after the sound.

Not a moment later, there’s a loud crash - some form of impact as he tackles whatever it was that he heard. You instantly push yourself out of the water without thinking, numb, your heart pounding in your chest as you stumble into the forest after him. It only takes a few steps in before you see it: a man on the ground, Astarion’s knife to his throat.

Your stomach churns, and your skin prickles in the air’s chill. How much had he seen? How long had he been standing there?

Astarion is shouting something at him, and the stranger is struggling against his hold, but it’s useless. He’s a scrawny, weak little thing, no match for Astarion’s lithe, nimble strength. No amount of twisting or fighting dislodges Astarion’s grip. After a moment, he finally gives up, cackling like an old hag as his head plops down against the dirt.

“Give me one reason why I shouldn’t kill you here and now,” Astarion hisses, anger contorting his features.

In response, the man spits in his face. “She’s your bitch, is she?” he croaks. “You can take a turn after I’m done with her.”

Astarion snarls in response, gripping the man’s collar and pressing the blade deeper into the skin until it draws blood.

“Wait,” you call, stepping closer. “Don’t.”

Astarion blinks in disbelief, sitting up, careful to keep his weight on the stranger underneath. “My love, you can’t be serious,” he says. “You want to spare this-”

“Spare?” you echo, cutting off his words. “Who said anything about sparing him?”

Something glints in his gaze as he takes in your words. “Darling,” he drawls, his tone admirational. “By all means.”

He hands you the knife, and you kneel down next to him. It’s heavy in your hand, cold and smooth as you run your finger over the flat edge of the blade. You stare at the shimmer of it for a moment, entranced, somehow calm in the midst of this chaos. Then you slam the bottom of the hilt into the man’s nose.

There’s a sickening crunch before he screams, blood streaming over his mouth and spilling down his chin. Even after last night’s feeding, Astarion tenses up at the smell of it, but the curl of his lip tells you that he won’t be drinking from this piece of absolute refuse.

When the stranger reaches over and grabs at your arm, you almost don’t even realize - you’re so caught up in your own mind, in the weight of the knife in your hand. Then his nails dig into your skin, and everything hits you at once.

The freezing night air. The stinging, throbbing pain that flares through your skin as he claws at you, unable to do much more. The feel of Astarion’s hand, gentle but firm, prying the knife from your grip. It happens before you can even react - a swift slice of the blade, slitting the man’s throat. Dark blood, gushing from the wound and onto the dirt below.

For a moment, there is nothing but the sound of your breathing. Sharp but shallow, straining in your chest. Jagged air that flows in and out, but it does nothing to stop the increasing amount of black in your vision.

You’ve fought and killed more people than you can count so… why does this feel different? Why here, why now? You’ve nearly died before, so why does the scrape on your arm feel like it’s much more than that?

Then Astarion’s hands envelop your cheeks, blissfully cool, and the panic and pain seep out all at once.

“Darling,” he’s saying, half-breathless, “are you alright?”

You manage to nod, and some of the concern leaves his eyes. He runs his fingers over the scrape on your arm, and you wince. “We need to get you patched up,” he murmurs, his brows pinching together.

“Don’t take me to Shadowheart,” you choke out. She’s already done you enough favors, and you won’t be able to stand her disapproving gaze if you disturb her rest after today’s fiasco.

He huffs. “Stubborn little thing,” he mutters, but he doesn’t argue.

Instead, he heads back to your supplies by the river. When he returns, he wraps a towel over your shoulders, and it’s only then that you realize you’re naked. Completely, utterly naked. It had been bold of you to break that bastard’s nose in the nude, but… well, it hadn’t been your intention.

He’s dead now, though. He’ll never look at you again.

Astarion sweeps you up into his arms and carries you out of the woods along with your clean change of clothes, holding you tight against his chest and leaving your soiled clothing behind.

You can’t find it in you to care at the moment. You’ve scrounged up plenty of clothing along the journey; those torn, stained things won’t be missed. Not to mention, if you ever need more, Astarion will gladly steal you some new ones.

He takes you to your tent, and you’re grateful to see that everyone else has turned in for the night. Anyone awake to see you would inevitably have questions, and this only affirms your decision to avoid Shadowheart - if you woke her up to heal a minor scrape on your arm, she’d be seething.

And though she’d undoubtedly be sympathetic after hearing the cause, you don’t think you can muster up the words to tell her what’d happened.

After he’s carefully set you down on your bedroll, Astarion yanks the flap of your tent closed and reaches for your pack, digging through the contents until he’s found some bandages. His grip is gentle as he takes your arm and swipes some remnants of a healing potion over it. You’ve been through this dozens of times, but you can never seem to shake the urge to wince as it sets in - the potion stings just a bit before it soothes, a sharp tingling that fades into a sweet, balming relief.

You’ve calmed down some, warming up in your tent with him, but Astarion’s hands are shaking as he wraps the wound. His brows are pinched together, his swallows are thick and strained, and he can’t seem to meet your eyes, even when he’s done bandaging you up.

“Astarion,” you murmur. “He’s dead.”

He stills in place, jaw clenching as he inhales sharply, still not meeting your gaze. Instead, he glowers down at the tent’s floor, his hands balling into fists. “He deserved so much worse than that,” he snaps.

You don’t argue with him. Instead, you let him fuss over you, taking the time to smooth through your wet hair, plucking out remaining leaves and twigs from the woods. He gets you into a warm, fluffy robe - only the gods know where he’d managed to find something like that - then pulls you close, his thumb stroking over your cheek. You rest your head against his chest and close your eyes, listening to the soft sounds of his body working under his skin. No heartbeat, of course, just the quiet churn of his movements, the rise and fall of his ribs that’s become habit to him.

After a moment, he takes your face in his hands, just as he had in the woods - but when you meet his gaze, there’s a sharp intensity in his eyes rather than fear. He takes you in little by little, tilting your head up to brush his fingers over the fading marks on your neck.

Then he leans in, and you catch the smell of him you know so well, lingering on his skin like soap. Bergamot, rosemary, brandy. It’s what you associate most with him, that sweet, sharp scent that bathes over you. When his lips finally meet yours, the kiss is rough and desperate, heated and aching. His fangs scrape over your lip, grazing the delicate skin but not breaking it. His tongue slides into your mouth, and his hand returns to the back of your neck, tightening his grip.

One of your hands fix into his shirt as you lean into him, nipping at his lip. You shift your free hand up into his hair, tousling through the soft, silky curls before gently tugging. He groans and pulls you closer, and - gods, it’s incredible. Warmth drags down your spine like a hot coal, searing and addictive. You squirm a little in his grasp, shifting until you’re straddling his hips, and he pulls away to kiss down your jaw, murmuring soft words into the skin.

When he gets to your chest, you let him untie the robe and spread his hands underneath, peeling the fabric off your shoulders, fingers slowly warming as they trail down your back. His hands settle on your waist as he kisses you again, mouth soft against yours.

Gods, you need him. You’re already soaked, and he’s barely even touched you.

You can feel him hardening underneath you, his movements growing desperate, his breathing labored. You grind your hips against him and he lets out a strained noise against your lips, shuddering. He pulls away, examining your expression as he tucks a strand of hair behind your ear.

The movement is tender and incredibly sweet, but you’re hardly patient. You’ve been wanting him ever since he sat on that log in the forest, gaze roaming over every inch of you. You let out a soft whine, attempting to tug off his shirt. He does absolutely nothing to help you.

“Astarion,” you breathe. “Please.”

“Hm? Did you want something, darling?” he asks, the desire in his voice betraying his otherwise casual tone.

“I want you,” you tell him, rolling your hips again in search of the friction you so desperately need. “Please. I want you.”

“Easy, love. You have me,” he replies, brushing his thumb against your lips. Your heart swells with a fondness that would threaten to make you cry if you weren’t so ridiculously needy.

And finally, thank the gods, he takes off his godsdamned shirt.

You run a hand up his shoulder, then into his hair. You’d once thought that he was using a special shampoo - his hair was so soft, it seemed the only explanation. Then you’d seen him with the same shampoo you were using, and you’d practically wept with envy over his ridiculously perfect genes. Even now, as you run your hands through the silk-soft curls, you don’t understand it.

Then you trace up the line of his ear, and he shudders, leaning into your touch. When you gently massage the tip of his helix, he lets out a soft, seeking noise and his eyes flutter shut. Hells, you swear that you can feel him growing even harder beneath you. Another roll of your hips and his eyes slowly open again, half-lidded and glazed with desire. His hands firmly grip your waist, and there’s the briefest sensation of falling as he rolls you back onto your bedroll, tucking the pillow under your head.

He kisses along your clavicle, nosing down your ribs, humming against your skin. Feather-light brushes of his lips meet your ribs, then your breast, pausing to swipe his tongue over your nipple before he proceeds downward. When he arrives at your navel, your legs automatically spread open for him, and he lets out a hum of approval. He takes a leg in his hand and kisses up the thigh, warm, sharp kisses that trail up to the place you want him most.

He starts off slowly - a long lick over your clit, a quick swipe of his tongue before he settles between your legs, propping your thigh over his shoulder and starting a maddening rhythm. After all this time, you really should know how much pleasure to expect - but after everything, after his confession in the Shadowlands and the fear with Cazador, this still feels… new.

And Astarion is very, very good at what he does. He seems to know exactly what you want before you do, before your mind can put it into tangible thought, and before your body can even search for it. He works a finger into you, then two, and you’re left gasping and squirming as he sets an agonizingly slow pace. After a moment, he speeds up, just where you want him, perfect, perfect-

And then he pulls away, and the look on his face practically shouts that he knows exactly what he’s doing to you. Of course he does. He’s always been a tease. His fingers continue their work, languidly dragging in and out of you as he speaks.

“You know,” he says, pressing a kiss to your thigh, “back at the river, this was all I could think about. Getting my mouth on you. Watching you come apart piece by piece.”

Gods, he’s been direct before, but never that direct. Frankly, you’re surprised you don’t come then and there. Instead, you clench hard around his fingers and whimper, rolling your hips in time with his movements.

“Astarion,” you pant, unable to coax your mind into forming a coherent reply. “Gods, Astarion.”

He hums in response, flashing you a wicked grin. “That’s it, darling,” he encourages, shifting his fingers until they’re brushing against a spot that makes your vision black out. “Say my name. Let everyone hear you.”

You manage a laugh that quickly fades into a soft moan. “The entire camp will kill me if I wake them up.”

He nips at your thigh. “Let them try,” he muses. “They’ll have to get through me.”

He lowers his mouth between your legs again, and your head falls back against the pillow. It’s an embarrassingly short time before your muscles start to tense up, wiring you with pleasure from head to toe. One of your hands fixes in his hair, pulling tightly as white-hot pleasure sparks through your abdomen, and oh, gods, you’re coming-

Your vision cuts out again. Your mind fuzzes over, drunk with pleasure, leaving you shuddering, clenching around his fingers, moaning into your free hand.

You know he’d prefer to hear you, but if you actually disturb any of the others, you’ll die of embarrassment. One day, the two of you will have your own house with a real bed, and you’ll be as loud as you want. For now, you muffle your cries into your fingers and tremble through your climax.

Your body floats weightlessly for a moment in what must be Elysium, until you finally rejoin yourself and find your limbs heavy and uncoordinated. Astarion huffs, placing a final kiss on you until he crawls upward, kissing up your chest again.

He’s still holding himself back - you can see it in the way he moves, in the tension of his muscles and the coil of his shoulders. There’s a fire in his eyes, a hunger that you recognize so well. When he reaches your neck, you instinctively tilt your head, allowing him access to his usual spot.

For a moment, he hesitates, his warm breath fanning over the skin as your pulse hammers in your throat. Then he groans, grinding himself into your leg as he bites down, chasing his pleasure against your thigh as your blood spills into his mouth.

You know this routine so very well by now. The sting of the bite, and the numbness that follows. The ebb and flow of your blood, filling his mouth. The slight dizziness that comes before he pulls away, swiping his tongue over the bite for one final taste.

“Gods,” he pants, gripping your shoulder. Then, to your utter disappointment and confusion, he pulls away. “Wait here, my sweet. I need to - I’ll be right back. I promise.”

And before you can protest, he’s scrambling out the tent. For a long, numb moment, you stare at the tent opening, wondering if you’re dreaming. The silence of the tent grates on your ears, echoing the sound of your breathing until you can barely stand it. Then he’s pushing inside again, a scroll in hand as he closes the tent.

“Do I want to know what that is?” you ask.

“A scroll of Silence, darling. I’ve been saving it.” He flashes you a grin, murmuring the incantation as the scroll shimmers in his hand. Pure Weave, confined into parchment.

You don’t hear the spell take effect, but you feel it. It’s a thickness in the air, a heaviness in your movements.

Astarion doesn’t waste another second. He pushes up to kiss you, and it’s messy - your tongue against his, the sting of sharp teeth, your hand in his hair and his hand on the nape of your neck. There’s the taste of metal and herbs: your blood mixed with the remnants of a healing potion. He spreads your legs with his knee, then sits back on his heels and reaches down to undo his trousers.

You study him for a moment. The crease of his brow. The alabaster of his skin, sculpted out like a statue from marble.

If you were an artist, you’d make him your life’s work. You’d chip out his every feature little by little, painstakingly working away at the stone to define the look in his eyes when he tells you he loves you. You’d spend ages carving every wrinkle, every line, every perfect imperfection. The touch of it would be cold, like him, but it could never compare to how he looks as he settles over you, eyes blown dark with desire.

He inches closer, still on his knees, and takes hold of your thighs, lifting them up to meet his hips before gently easing inside of you. He lets out a sharp exhale as he slowly presses deeper, his grip shifting to your waist.

Nothing could compare to the way it feels as he fills you up inch by inch, murmuring praise, telling you how beautiful you are for him. “Darling,” he bites out, gritting his teeth at the pleasure. “If anyone ever tries anything like that with you again, I’ll tear them to shreds.”

You laugh a little, breathless, delirious in the delicious stretch of him inside you. “I won’t stop you. I just might ask to break their nose first.”

He shakes his head, but a small smile plays on his lips before he straightens and starts his rhythm. Slow, even thrusts that leave you grasping at the blankets beneath you, trying to steady yourself in the waves of sensation. He stares down at you, half-drunk on your blood, lips parted and his cheeks flushed.

“You feel incredible,” he breathes. “Gods. You’re incredible.”

Your eyes don’t quite know where to land. They never do. Now, they flutter over his abdomen, taking in the sight of the muscles that ripple and contract with the rolling of his hips. The droplets of sweat that slowly build on his skin, glimmering like crystals.

His jaw clenches, and his pace starts to quicken, and the feeling of him inside of your aching cunt is just so godsdamned good. His cock stretches you out like it was made for you, and soon your lungs are hardly filling with air. You can’t think, and you can scarcely breathe. All you know is that you’re not going to last much longer.

You tug at the blankets and shut your eyes, and he lets out another soft, aching noise as he thrusts deeper, faster, filling you up, the slick sound of your arousal echoing through the tent and mixing with the heaving of your breaths. You clench around him and he groans, shifting the angle of your hips, rhythm frantic.

“That’s it,” he pants. “Come for me, darling.”

And you do. Your body clenches around him as you cry out, back arching, pleasure overtaking every thought but one: Astarion. Astarion, Astarion, Astarion. Your breaths scrape shallowly through your chest and ecstasy burns through every inch of you, every nerve - until you feel paralyzed. Content, thoroughly fucked and sated, but paralyzed.

You’ve just started to come back to your senses when Astarion follows you over the edge, a moan tumbling from his lips that sounds remarkably like your name. His hips thrust a few more times, chasing after his pleasure, clumsy movements that slow to a halt as he shuts his eyes. He shudders, then slackens, carefully pulling out of you before he wraps his hands around your thighs and gently lowers them back to the bedroll.

You can barely move, still lost in the aftershocks of pleasure as he cleans you up, smoothing the hair out of your face as he lays next to you.

“You know,” he says, “I think I’m going to ask Gale to make us another one of those scrolls.”

And, gods, all you can do is laugh.

#astarion x reader #astarion x tav #astarion x you #astarion fic #astarion smut #bg3 x reader #mywriting

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valliesworld · 1 year

Text

You Mean Something

masterlist

simon “ghost” riley x reader, mentions of other task force 141 members

genre: angst

warnings; she/her pronouns, mature content, standard call of duty violence, cursing, kidnapping, mentions of self harm and suicide, mentions of torture, starvation

synopsis; after a failed mission that left you in the hands of the enemy, you finally realise how much Ghost cares for you

Distractions came easy to you, even if you tried your hardest to stay focused, to stay alive and awake, your mind still thought of him while you were being subjected to such torture. You think about his eyes a lot, how in his eyes his his humanity was shown, the person he really was. There were times it got lost, when he would that mask and military vest, when he would become the man the army demanded of him. But you saw it in his eyes that day in the sunshine, waiting for the cadets to finish training. You saw the humour that burned there too, the sort that stays for an eternity. There was something in his spirit that danced when he trains, like a fire giving just the right amount of warmth. You have seen it die too, the flames almost extinguished, when he was under the gun of guilt, shame and fear after a particularly hard mission. You know that isn't him, not the real version, the person you’ve grown to love with everything that is yourself. That's why you had to see his eyes before you go, to see the real him before you decided to give up and let death win. You wanted him to see you too, the girl who messes up, but would do anything in her power to keep him and the squad safe, to keep him emotionally healthy, no matter how deep his scars go. So when you think of him, you see a cheeky man who made cadets run laps til they turned green and hope to god he thinks of the vulnerable version of you, the one beneath the soldier.

In moments of silence, when your captors would leave you be, you would remembered the last conversation you had with your family. She had wished you well with tears in her eyes, making you promise you’d come back to her. Your father had been busting himself with house work, refusing to acknowledge that his youngest child was off to another suicide mission, just like he always did before you left. You had kissed your mother on the cheek as a goodbye, not promising a thing but granting her a smile, just in case that was the last time she’d ever see you again. Death wasn’t scary for you, you had accepted that you would die young, in your line of work death was not something that could be prevented, no matter how hard you might try. What did scare you though, was your nieces and nephews growing up without you, only seeing you in photos, it was your mother and father having to bury their youngest, it was your older brother and sister living without you. Death didn’t scare you, but the impact of yours on your family did.

You didn't know how long you had been held captive for, it could have been weeks, months, even years, at that point. What you did know was that the starvation they subjected you to as one last punishment had began to take it's toll on your body, your weight had dropped rapidly, leaving those metal cuffs loose around your wrists and ankles. At first it had been small strands of hair falling out from stress, then slowly it became more and more til you were left with thin strands to cover your head. Your body was always shivering, cold to touch, and you didn't know whether it was because you were forced to sleep on freezing concrete or if hypothermia was beginning. to settle within your bones.

Makarov had captured you for one thing, he had seen potential in you, wanted you on his side, and the only way he believed he could do that was if he broke you down into nothing, just to rebuild you as the soldier he always desired. He had watched from afar as you had taken down men three times your size, as you cleared bases by yourself, and how you lived up to your callsign. He knew you were young, younger than the other task force members, and with being young came being naive and impressionable, Makarov wanted to use those attributes and swing them to his favour.

In some of your exhausted delusions, you dreamt of your team, of your family. You had dreamt of your first Christmas with the task force, how you had sat in your room with the computer screen on, talking and listening to your family on the other line, wishing to be back home and apart of their celebrations, that was, until Gaz barged into your room and dragging you out for a Christmas surprise with your chosen family. You had dreamt of the day you accepted death, how you leant up against that brick wall, the rain pouring from above and mixing with your blood; red water sweeping the street. You had accepted your fate that afternoon, dying alone, until you knight in a shining skull mask whisked you off your feet and to survival. You dreamt of the day your nephew was born, how his tiny hands wrapped around your finger, chosing you to be his favourite person in that moment. You dreamt of many things, but one always kept returning. The delusion that Ghost would save you one last time.

"Fear is part of being human, Redback, it's the precursor to bravery. We need it, it wakes us up to what needs to be done. So feel it, own it, let it ignite your thoughts," Gaz's words echo in your mind constantly, they were one of the first words he ever spoke to you, and they resonated with her throughout her short years with the task force. They kept you alive at that point, they told you no matter how inhuman you felt, you were still alive, still breathing, still ready to fight.

Your cell was a hollow cube of concrete, one way in, no windows. In there you could have no idea how much time had passed or even if it was night or day. It was totally disorientating by design. Given enough time a person could forget their own name in there, and you were beginning to. The isolation was total and the stimulation was zero. No sound, no light, no furniture or cloth of any kind.

You could hear the sound of feet slamming against concrete, though your eyes never opened, refusing to see what was coming to torment you that time. They had stripped you of everything, they took your weapons, and your dignity. They had left you to rot in the cell in cotton underwear and a white undershirt, though both items were caked in dirt, grim, and stained with your own blood.

The sound of keys jingling had caught your attention, and when you opened your eyes you kept your gaze away from the intruder. Instead, you found the bruises and dried blood on your ankles far more interesting. The person had unlocked your hands first, fumbling with the keys as if he were nervous, as if something had gone wrong, and that had been his first mistake. When your hands were greeted freedom, you finally looked over at the man, your knife, the one they had stolen from you, sat perched on his hip. They had stolen your gear just to use it against you, and that fact gave you more motivation than anything previously, you wanted your things back.

Without a second of hesitation, your hands wrapped around the knife, plucking it from his tactical belt, your tactical belt, and plunged it into his thigh. He cried out in pain, something you never gave them the satisfaction of hearing, as he doubled over from the fiery sensation in his leg you pulled the knife out again and plunged it into his neck, blood that was not yours finally coating your body again. As you let out all your frustration on the man, pulling the knife out just to slam it back in over and over again, you began to register the sound of gunfire, the sound of Russian shouting, and the feeling of panic the base you were trapped within was beginning to feel.

Once you were positive the man below you was dead, you began stripping him as they had once stripped you. You took the keys from his cold, dead hands, and unlocked your feet from the shackles, your ankles screaming in relief. You then took his clothing, albeit they were far too large for you, they were better than what you had been forced to stay in for your time as a prisoner. Tightening the pants around your waist with your belt, you felt somewhat okay, you didn't feel helpless or hopeless, you felt determined, determined to get out of there yourself, since there would be no rescue party for you.

Gripping onto the rifle, one that wasn't yours originally, you began your escape. As you made your way through the base, leaving a trail of bodies behind you, you felt like yourself again, you felt like the soldier once were. You had reminded yourself of things that were facts; you were one of the youngest ever recorded female members to join the SAS, you were an accomplished soldier, a sergeant before your twenty first birthday, you were a force to be reckoned with; those facts kept you motivated throughout your escape, you were all those things, and more, and you could get yourself out of any situation.

Sticking to the shadows, you took down over twenty soldiers, cornering them til they were alone, and that tactic had worked well enough, til your luck ran out. The corner you took was one of bad judgement, over fifteen men resided there, all on high alert for your whereabouts, and with no shadows to conceal yourself, you had no other option but to simply turn back around, though when you did so, you found yourself face with thirty other men, ready to pounce. Weighing your options, you knew that to surrender was your only choice, if you wanted to stay alive. Letting the rifle hang from your shoulder, you held your hands up, defeat running thick through your veins.

They didn't make a move though, not one soldier stood out of line, all of them waiting for you to make the first move, to do something unpredictable, until he sauntered out of the crowd. Makarov's second in charge, Yuri, grinned like a mad man as he gripped you roughly, pulling you in the direction of another room and dismissing the men on guard. You were no longer deemed as a threat as he led you into the room, far nicer than the cell you had grown accustomed to.

He stripped you of your weapons, though he was not thorough, leaving your bloodied knife within your waistband as he took the rifle and pistol from your body, turning the safety on and throwing them across the room.

"I thought we beat the need to escape out of you," he tsked, hands feeling your body in a way far less appropriate than simply looking for weapons. "But I now see that you have to be broken in a different way to get you to comply with our rules."

Your heart dropped to your stomach as the five other men walked through the door, dragging their bodies with them. Three had a grip on Ghost's sluggish body, and two were struggling against Soap's protests. The men forced Ghost and Soap to their knees, Ghost having to steady himself by placing his hands in front of him to keep him from falling foreword. They had drugged him, most likely using the same one they had used to keep you compliant in the first weeks of your capture.

"Redback?" Ghost questioned softly as he looked towards you, confusion running through his mind.

"These two were found sneaking around our base," Yuri revealed, toying with a piece of your hair as he forced you to look at them. Soap held a look of distraught as he looked over at you, like he had just seen a real ghost, while Ghost's eyes held a look of resentment within them. You weren't sure who the resentment was pointed towards, but you had a sneaking suspicion it wasn't directed at you. "And now you'll watch them die."

Yuri stepped foreword, his own pistol raised, pressing the barrel against Soap's head as he looked back at you. With a clenched jaw, you pulled the knife from your waistband and pressed it against your wrist. The sharpness of it caused a small speck of blood to dribble down your arm and drip to the floor, but despite the sting you kept it in place.

"Makarov wants me, you kill them and I'll die with them," You spoke clearly, despite your voice being hoarse from not speaking for days on end. "How would that look for you? Under your watch, his prized possession dies because you can't do your fucking job right."

Yuri let out a dry chuckle, "so loyal," he commented, looking towards the men knelt before him, "and where are your pleas? When she was taken from you, you left her. Maybe you two would rather her blood spill to cover your sins."

"Shut up," You hissed, their silence to his words were deafening, a heartbreaking scene as Ghost looked anywhere but at you.

"I want you to memorise this moment, they weren't here to rescue you," Yuri growled, "They were completing another mission, and you so happen to be here as well."

Ghost's eyes, despite hooded with the effects of the drug, widened slightly, struggling even harder against the three men that held him in place. Soap on the other hand, used the distraction as an ample time to escape. Taking the gun from Yuri, Soap pointed it towards the men holding him down and left off two shots, killing them quickly. You had taken this opportunity to throw the knife, watching with a sickening smile as it lodged itself into Yuri's chest. Ghost, regardless of being under the influence of a drug, took down two of the men holding him hostage while Soap let off another shot into the final man.

Ignoring the two men, you walked over towards Yuri, watching as he spluttered out in pain. Hovering over him, you crouched down, twisting the knife deeper into his chest. Pulling it out, you relished in the pool of blood that began to form.

"I want you to memorise this moment," You repeated his words to him as you dragged the bloodied knife down his cheek, smearing his own blood on his face, "that nobody is here to rescue you." and with that, you plunged the knife up through his bottom jaw.

Months had come and gone, and you had not spoken a word to anyone on Task Force 141 since you had been brought back to the. safety of your base. The wounds, the injuries to your flesh would heal long before you're able to heal your brain. You had gone through a lot, many scars now littered your body, your ankles and wrists having a permanent red line from the rubbing of your shackles, and your mind was in shambles. Laswell had told you that they hadn't looked for you once, that they assumed you were dead and had even informed your family of you being killed in action. You felt almost betrayed that they didn't even bother to look for you, that the mission was more important to them, to Ghost, than to see you still breathing.

The doctors had gotten you healthy again, gave you the fluids and sustenance you had been deprived on before setting you up with a physiotherapist. That man had retaught you how to do simple tasks, explaining to you that the only reason you were capable of such things during your escape was because of the adrenaline coursing through your veins. It had taken you four months to get back to doing things on your own, and an additional three months before you were back to your usual abilities, and still within all that time, you refused to look at the men that had left you in the hands of the enemy. They had offered you leave, to go home and spend time with family, but if the mission was as important as leaving behind a team member, it only made sense to stay and complete it before gifting yourself with seeing your parents relieved faces.

The gym was quiet at three am, sleep no longer a need for you as it only plagued your mind with unwanted memories. The sound of your knuckles coming in contact with the rubber punching bag silenced your mind, created an inner peace within you as you assaulted the equipment. Nobody else resided inside as you continued to push your abilities, seeing just how long you could do this before getting tired. You used to be able to go for hours, but now, it seemed that you could only do half of that.

Your inner peace was quickly ruined by the sound of heavy footsteps, and before you could even register what was happening, his hands wrapped around your waist and pushed you against the closest wall. He turned you to face him, the hard skull plate from his mask was gone, his balaclava the only thing separating them from each other. His breathing was heavy and his eyes were hooded from lack of sleep, the black war paint he usually sported was not there, leaving his expressions easier to read.

"You never threaten to kill yourself to save me again," His voice was rough, reminding you of a hot long black in the early of the morning, bitter and abrasive, burning your tongue. "I'd rather get shot ten times over than ever see you do that again."

Scoffing, you looked at him with a frown, "A few months too late for this revelation, Lieutenant."

"I don't care," He huffed, grip on your waist loosening, "You don't get to do that shit, not anymore."

"And you don't get too care, why do you even care? Huh?" You spluttered out, words dripping with venom, "You left me there to die, Laswell told me everything, told me how you all didn't even give me a second thought, told my fucking family I was dead."

"I watched you die," He growled out, "I watched as that bullet went through your chest, as you fell to the ground."

"And you didn't think to check? The mission that important to you that you can't go over to a wounded soldier and check if their heart is still beating?" You all but screamed at him, if you were anyone else, your yelling at a superior would go severly punished, "I was wearing a fucking chest plate, you saw me put it on, you checked I had it on before we started that fucking mission, and you still left me for dead."

"You don't think I don't remember that now?" He yelled back. at you, voice booming throughout the gym, "You don't think I wasn't awake every night wondering about you? Thinking of things I could have done differently? I completed that mission and went back for you, you were gone."

"Why do you care so much?" You hissed at him, "The first time we met you told me that I'd be another dead body at the edge of your boot because you didn't think I was good enough, why care now?"

"Because you mean something to me," He revealed, though his words were sweet his tone wasn't, it was like he resented the fact that you meant something to him, "you mean more to me every single day, that's why I care."

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lovebugism · 1 year

Text

☄. *. ⋆ ┄ We Fight to Make Up

summary: after a run-in with your ex, steve's anger gets the best of him. sometimes you think he picks a fight just for the make up sex. pairing: steve harrington / f!reader word count: 7.6k warnings: smut, steve calls himself daddy once, briefly mentioned breeding kink, a touch of angst, insecure!steve, also steve with scruff because that needs a warning too, 18+ mdni a/n: ok i'm not the happiest with this but it's been sitting in my drafts for so long and she needs to see the world now so.. enjoy? <3

You don’t go out anymore. None of the party does, really.

Fighting through the end of the world and somehow surviving for three years straight made bars and clubs and getting drunk seem a little less important. It gets too easy to stay within the inner circle that’s seen the same sort of hell you’ve seen.

Eventually, time goes on and you don’t realize that you’ve only been around the same ten people until the thought of going to the grocery store alone sounds scary.

Fighting monsters, weathering alternate dimensions, beating up Russians soldiers — that’s cake. It’s the getting back to normal that’s so hard.

That's a bitter pill to swallow. None of you got to have too much of a childhood before the knowledge of a sentient darkness swirling beneath your feet turned everything upside down (no pun intended). A life with a regular routine unbound by the impending doom of an armageddon is hard to go back to, when fighting to stay alive is all you’ve ever done.

You try really hard, though. All of you do.

The kids try to find a nostalgic amusement in the arcade they used to frequent while grappling with the fact that they’ll never been those kids again. The older group of you dabbles in the simple pleasure of growing up and discovering what adulthood really means — getting drunk and going dancing just because you can, but facing the inevitable consequences of those actions all on your own.

The six of you find a certain solace at the Limelight. For Steve and Jonathan, they serve good beer — obviously cheap and unusually tangy on the tongue, but nice and cold nonetheless. For Eddie and Robin, there’s a karaoke machine and a stage across the bar, complete with every rock ballad imaginable. You and Nancy take special interest in the dance floor — a platform with light-up rainbow squares for all your drunken twirling needs.

It’s a nice place. More than that, it’s a familiar one. Eventually, going there every friday night is like comfort food in the belly, pleasant and warm. Steve feels safe there when he’s with all of you and tonight he’s especially fuzzy with a quiet sort of happiness that’s got his cheeks all pink.

Maybe the beer is partly to blame.

Or maybe it’s because you’ve got your hand tucked into the back pocket of his jeans, anchoring yourself to him and simultaneously fending off any unwanted attention from the scantily clad women around you who can't seem to take their eyes away from your Steve.

But he only watches you as you smile into your glass while Eddie Munson, all sweaty after his Madison Square Garden worthy rendition of Total Eclipse of the Heart, tells some stupidly unfunny joke. You’re pressed contently into his side, like you would melt into him if you could, and he’s buzzing with the comfort of your warmth and the chemically induced mellow from the drink in his cup.

It was a good night. An easy one. A fun one.

And then it just… wasn’t.

When your ex waltzes into the bar, he brings the cold air in with him and an unusual sophisticated energy that’s typically foreign to this side of town. He’s got on a gray corduroy blazer and slacks to match. The black turtle neck he wears beneath it clings to his lean torso and broad chest, like he wants people to marvel at how muscular he is.

You don’t even realize it’s him at first. You turn to Nancy to talk shit about the douchebag at your eight o’clock that just walked in while the guy settles at the far end of the bar, around the corner that faces the group of you. He removes the dark Ray-Bans from the straight bridge of his nose and uses them to push back his cinnamon-colored curls.

Steve feels you tense at his side then. You duck inside yourself and force him and Robin to form a makeshift shield around you.

It’s a tad too dramatic for two people who ended on pretty decent terms. It was about as amicable as a breakup can be — you were both seventeen and thankfully already mature enough to know that the relationship wasn’t bound to make it outside of high school. So you split up in search of more fulfilling things.

You found yours, in Steve and in the rest of the party. And by the looks of it — the obviously expensive suit and the silver Rolex glittering under the dim yellow bar light — he found his.

You aren’t exactly sure how, but he sees you.

Probably because Robin couldn’t stop ogling at him from over her shoulder, obviously not getting the hint to act casual and inevitably dragging his attention over to the group of you.

He’s confused by the attention at first and then beaming when he notices you. The man flashes a set of pearly whites beneath a plump pink grin, all but shoving through the crowded bar to come and meet you.

Steve is able to get a better look at him when he’s no more than a couple inches away. The guy wrenches you away from him to wrap you in a friendly embrace, smiling like a ray of a thousands suns while he laughs with a hearty mirth.

A childlike and terribly jealous scowl settles upon Steve's features as his stomach wrenches something fierce. This stranger is touching you, and he hates that he’s touching you, but it’s more than that.

Steve’s almost certain this is what he would look like if he hadn’t been through the end of the world. The ornate suit and sunglasses worth more than most people’s salaries could’ve been his. In another life, he could’ve been this pretty and perfect and pure.

But, instead, here he is — dressed in an aged Hawkins Tigers sweatshirt and hand-me-down jeans that are frayed at the hems. There are bits of dried blood on the knee that he can’t get out. He isn’t quite sure if it’s his or if it belongs to one of the three varying monsters he’s been face-to-face with over the years.

His hair is pushed back and visibly un-styled, fluffier than usual because it hasn’t been washed in a while. And only now does he notice the prickly layer of scruff itching at his jaw and above his lip because the effort to shave is just too much sometimes.

He wishes he had, though. Now, he wants to completely perfect his appearance and change his life entirely — all at the sight of some stranger he didn't know existed before now.

The man introduces himself to the rest of the group when he parts from you — Todd.

Because of coursehis name is Todd.

No one says that out loud, of course, but you do share pairs of knowing looks. Eddie’s the only one brave enough, or rather drunk enough, to take the piss out of the guy.

“Aren’t you a little overdressed for Limelight?” he asks before laughing into his beer.

The rhetorical question leads to the man, Todd, to start complaining about work — how he’s making more than he knows what to do with, that the lifestyle isn’t as lavish as everyone made it out to be, that work is his best friend most days because he doesn’t have time for real relationships anymore.

And it doesn’t sound braggy. This isn't some rich guy complaining about all the money he has. He’s genuine, and that’s somehow even worse.

Steve can tell he’s working for some big four accounting firm without him having to say it. He can practically smell it all over the guy. Todd’s just got that air about him, that he’s got an office on the fiftieth story with large glass windows that span from the floor to the ceiling. He’s making well into the six-figures if that’s the case. Just like his goddamn dad.

Just like he would be if the endless cycling of fighting hadn’t stripped him flesh from bone.

Steve forces himself to shove that thought to the back of his mind.

“You know I’ve actually been thinking about, you know, just dropping everything. Putting in my two weeks and fucking off to France,” Todd admits. His eyes sparkle like a pair of fucking diamonds when they lock in on you. “Like we always used to talk about.”

That was your dream. The kind of reverie that wasn’t at all practical or the least bit tangible, but the kind you fantasized about nonetheless.

And here this asshole goes, living it for the both of you.

You’re grinning at him anyway, patting him on the shoulder while you congratulate him. You tell him he should do it. That he deserves it.

Steve, meanwhile, is so angry he can feel the prickle of the red-hot rage on his skin, like so many little needles. It’s a simmering heat for now, all slow and lazy. The longer he holds it in, the more likely he is to pop into a full boil. He knows that. But he keeps the fire in his chest and wallows in that high-pitched ache.

Todd leaves not too long after. Makes it a point not to overstay his welcome. He’s polite when he goes, making sure to talk to all your friends even though he didn’t exactly come for them — he compliments Eddie’s leather jacket and Robin’s taste in style, Jonathan and Nancy are both blushing pink when he praises their work with the local paper. He says something to Steve he can’t quite register because he’s too busy fuming.

The brunette girl beside him is practically swooning, and he has to remind her — “Robin, you’re gay.”

The man was kind, terribly so, the sort of politeness you can’t help but notice and marvel at, like a pretty pebble you’ve found on the ground. He didn’t overstep any boundaries with you either, like he respected that you two were practically strangers now — fucking asshole — and whether or not he knew you were with Steve, he kept a chivalrous distance anyway.

He must’ve known, though, he did have eyes after all. There’s no way he missed the way Steve had been looming over you the whole time. Or the possessive arm he had around your shoulder. Or the stern chocolate gaze that had ping-ponged between you and him the entire conversation.

When he leaves, there’s nothing to talk shit about or make fun of him for. Not only is that really fucking annoying, but it’s boring, and it leaves you and Steve as the punching bags for all their stupid jokes.

“You certainly have a type, don’t ya, doll?” Eddie teases you as he reaches behind Nancy to shove at your shoulder. “Steve’s practically a carbon copy of that douchebag.”

“Holy shit, I can see it now,” Robin marvels breathlessly. Her deep ocean gaze is still locked on Todd across the bar. He’s minding his own business now, ordering another drink, while the rest of you can’t seem to stop talking about him. She turns back to Steve, her eyes flitting over his features like it’s the first time she’s seeing them while she puts the pieces of a puzzle together.

“But, Steve’s like the dollar store version of him, though, right?” she wonders rhetorically and then feels the need to explain herself when Steve furrows his brows at her. “—Because, you know… he’s a lot richer than you are…”

The boy rolls his and brings the beer back to his lips. The clarification makes it sting more.

“Thanks, Rob.”

Steve isn’t quite sure what’s got him seething. He’s the personification of a forest fire now — scorching, raging, and deadly — without a reason to be. It’s entirely likely you’ll never see Todd ever again. He lives in the city these days and he just told you that he was planning on moving to fucking France.

But these facts don’t mean as much to him when he knows that the guy isn’t totally over you.

Steve knows Todd would be more than happy to take you out for coffee tomorrow morning to tie up any left-behind loose ends. He’s a rich guy going through a quarter-life crisis (Steve knows a little about what that’s like, too), he’d be more than happy to sweep an old ex-girlfriend off her feet and take her all the way to France with him. She’d need only to ask him to.

Maybe that’s what angers him. There’s a man, all rich and pretty and unscathed by war, that might love you like he does.

The wildfire in his chest grows. It’s a wonder it hasn't seared a hole in the fabric of his sweatshirt. And it burns. It leaves aching blisters on his skin like it’s the real damn thing. It’s like punches to the face, worse than every time he’s ever been beaten up combined.

He manages to keep the ashes of himself together. It's the least he can do for the rest of you, who obviously aren’t as bothered by Todd’s lingering presence and have since moved on to things more meaningful.

It wouldn’t be fair to project his ache onto you.

You guys don’t get too many nights like this, with work and school and lingering bouts of PTSD — who’s he to ruin this night for everyone else when he’s the problem?

But if any of you notice his simmering anger, you don’t show it.

He isn’t sure if that makes him feel better or not.

Nancy and Jonathan stay no longer than fifteen minutes after the fact. “We’ve got an early day tomorrow,” the say with a shrug, though everyone knows what that’s code for. Robin makes kissing noises at them as they make their exit.

Now, the brunette girl stands in front of the stage that Eddie parades on. He belts “If you only hold me tight, we’ll be holding on forever!” into the microphone for the hundredth time. She cheers for the boy like it’s the first time she’s ever heard the stupid song.

The bartender hands you two drinks, a couple of Sex on the Beach’s for you and Robin to try.

She hadn’t stopped talking about it since she spotted it on the menu even though she hates peach schnapps. You tell Steve you’re going to run it to her and that you bet she won’t make it through one sip without gagging. You also promise that you’ll try and pull Eddie away from the stage when the Bonnie Tyler song fades and then inevitably loops again.

He only nods and mumbles a vague affirmative under his breath. He doesn’t even look at you. Just stares down at his empty glass of beer and draws patterns on the cloudy cup with his finger.

It’s hard not to notice his uncharacteristically long silence.

He hasn’t been King Steve for quite some time, but that version of him always manages to peek out after a couple of drinks. He gets loud and brash and smiley and stupid. It makes the quiet demeanor he possesses now that much more daunting. Like a flag he’s waving to make sure everyone else knows that he’s upset about something or other.

Eventually, it makes you burst.

“Is something wrong?” you blurt.

He finally glances at you then. And has the gall to look confused. “What?”

“I don’t know,” you shrug. You shift your weight on your feet and try to ignore the distant stinging of the ice glasses in your hand, how the cold of them shoots pins and needles into your palms. “You’re just… being really quiet.”

“I’m fine,” he dismisses with a shrug of his own. A hint of a smile flashes at the very corner of his mouth before he brings his drink to his lips. He swallows down the rest of it in one quick gulp. You watch anxiously as he waves to the bartender for another.

“We can go home if you want—”

“Jesus, I’m fine,” he interjects. The laugh that spills from his throat borders on annoyance. “Just go get the freak before he drives me crazy.”

With that, the two of you part ways. You, with the knowledge that something’s wrong with your boyfriend but having no way to make it better because he won’t tell you anything. And Steve, with another irrational reason to be angry at the world because how do you not get it?

If his ex-girlfriend showed up to a bar, looking like an airbrushed model with more money than all of you combined who’s got brains and wit and humility, he’d want you to get a little fucking jealous too.

It’s stupid. He knows it’s stupid. But he chooses to wallow in his anger than reflect on it, anyway. He takes pity on himself and makes everyone else out to be the enemy. Like he does best.

Even hours later, when he’s sobering up with room temperature water and a bowl of pretzels — and you’re calling a cab for a significantly drunker Eddie and Robin — he still feels the sting.

He makes sure you know it too.

The drive back home is uncomfortably quiet, which wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world if he at least had the radio on. But when he stuck the key into the ignition and music started blaring from the speakers (because he forget to turn it down beforehand), he turns it off completely. You feel to awkward to touch it.

“Do you, uh… Do you wanna talk about it now?” you ask him.

You’re unfamiliarly timid with him as you peer at him through your lashes. It’s like you’re looking at the sun, the way you have to glance at him from the corner of your eye so he won’t blind you. And it isn’t because of his usually sunny disposition because, somewhere along the course of the night, his shine got snuffed out. It’s because he’s practically lit himself on fire with his anger where he sits next to you.

And he still has the nerve to shake his head. “Talk about what? I told you, there’s nothing wrong,” he dismisses with one hand in a white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel and the other resting its elbow against the driver’s side door while his fingers pick anxiously at his lower lip. Nothing wrong, my ass.

“Are we seriously gonna play that game tonight?”

“What game?” he scoffs out a laugh.

“The game here you’re upset about something, but refuse to tell me why, so I have to guess what’s wrong with you until I get it right and you let me make it better.”

Steve glances at you and then back to the road. “I… I don’t do that.”

Oh, fuck, he totally does, he thinks to himself. Fuck, he hates that you know him so well.

“You’re literally doing it right now.”

“Well, I can’t be. Because I’m not upset about anything,” he argues with a shrug. “That’s, like, a mathematical impossibility. Or whatever.”

“Considering this is the most you’ve said to me all night, I know that isn’t true— And it’s not even a conversation! You’re just being passive aggressive!”

“Passive aggressive, huh?” he repeats sardonically.

“Yes!” you seethe. “You’re mad at me and I can tell that you’re mad, so just tell me why—”

“I’m not mad at you,” Steve grumbles. He feels even more like shit for making you think he was acting all pissy because of something you had done. You hadn’t done anything. You were perfect. You’re always perfect. And here he goes, making you think otherwise.

He slows to a stop at the last red-light before home. The neon scarlet matches that anger sweltering in his belly. He still refuses to look at you.

“Then what happened between when we got to Limelight and right now that’s got you so fucked up?” you ask him with a furrowed brow and inquisitive eyes.

The boy only huffs. His chest deflates with a heavy breath. He almost forgets to answer you because he’s too busy praying for the light to turn green so he can get the fuck home.

He just needs a little food in his system, he concludes, and a nice hot shower and a bed to rest his tired bones. Maybe then he’ll be able to function like he’s meant to.

He feels a sense of relief for the first time in hours when the light bathes the two of you in a neon emerald glow.

You let out a sharp exhale through your nose at his silence. You shake your head at him like an annoyed parent and cross your arms over your chest. Your knees turn away from him and towards the door in time with your gaze that flits to the window. Now you’re the one that’s pissed.

Steve mumbles lowly when he finally answers you. It’s nearly inaudible.

“Your douchebag ex.”

“What?” you reply, sparing a glance over at him. It isn’t a question of whether you heard him or not, but of why that’s what he’s being so mean to you about.

“Your douchebag ex,” he repeats louder and picks chapped skin from his bottom lip. He rubs his tongue over the irritated skin to soothe the burn. “That’s what I’m upset about.”

Your brows furrow as you rack your head for the conversation you had with Todd that you’d already forgotten about. He’d said hello, and that you looked nice, and then asked you what you’d been up to before making conversation with your friends. He’d wished you luck and walked back to his seat not too long after. You wonder if there was some code in his words that you’d missed.

“…I don’t get it. What did he do?”

“Really?” Steve wonders with an emotionless laugh. “You don’t have a single clue why that might’ve pissed me off?”

He barely slows at the sign of the four-way stop. The block is practically a ghost town now. No one’s out so late into the night. Any other time you might’ve said something about it, but you’re just as eager to get home as the simmering boy next to you.

“No! He stopped by to talk for, like, five minutes! Are you really upset because another man talked to me?” you shout and it burns him because, yeah, that is kind of what he’s mad about — but it’s more than that and you don’t seem to get it. It’s not your job to either. He’ll just burn for the both of you.

The car jerks to a stop when he parks in the driveway.

“Yeah, you’re right—” Steve mutters to himself as he snatches the keys from the ignition. “You don’t get it.”

You feel the impact of the slammed of the car door as he exits. The headlights illuminate the boy as he uses his key ring to unlock the front entrance of your shared home. The dim orange overhead light slowly dims above you and then shuts off completely, bathing you in darkness.

With a sigh and a fleeting thought of oh, it’s gonna be that kinda night, huh? you follow less unenthusiastically behind him.

“Then just explain it to me,” you plead, your voice coated with exhaustion. The warmth of the living room seeps into your bones and makes you that much more tired. “I really, really don’t wanna do this tonight.”

“That asshole was all over you,” Steve finally chooses to air his grievances while he toes off his sneakers.

“He hugged me once! What was I supposed to do? Push him off?”

“That’d be a start.”

“I would’ve done it!” you promise.

He plops onto the couch with a rather dramatic huff as you struggle to take off your boots, what with the zipper getting caught in the slider and being distracted by the storm cloud across the room.

“I don’t care about him! I literally haven’t seen him since I was eighteen! I basically forgot he existed in the first place.”

Steve doesn’t let himself take any solace in your words.

“I don’t know,” he murmurs with the shake of his head. He rests his elbows on his knees, runs his palms over his face once before dragging his fingers through his mussed hair. “Sometimes… I don’t know, I guess, sometimes it feels like maybe you deserve someone better than me.”

His confession feels like a stab in your heart.

You can only imagine how many daggers are piercing him now.

“Steve…”

“No. Don’t give me that bullshit spiel, alright?” he spurns with a shake of his stubborn head. When he laughs, it lacks any and all emotion; it’s gut-wrenchingly bitter and coated with venom. “We both know he could take way better care of you than I ever could. He’s practically a fucking millionaire, babe! And he’s, what, twenty-five? He has the money to drop everything and fly across the world— to France.”

“Steve—” you try again, to stop the spiral before it starts.

He doesn’t let you.

“I mean, fuck, I know how bad you wanna go there. You’ve been talking about it since we were eight,” he laments with wide, glassy eyes and an hand splayed out towards you. He brings it, then, to his chest and clutches at his heart, “But I can’t take you. Because I’m so broke, it fucking hurts. You deserve someone to do that shit for you, alright? And it’s not me. It’s never gonna be me.”

“…You really think he can take better care of me than you do?” you ask him so quietly that it sounds like a whimper. Your face is twisted in anguish, like his sadness pains you too.

“Well, yeah,” he chuckles like the answer’s obvious. He sniffles. “Considering we’re working our asses off just to make it through the week and you’d never have to work a day in your life if you were with that asshole.”

“It’s not about the money, Steve,” you agonize with the shake of your head. “I don’t love him. I would be so unhappy if I were with him because he’s not you. I don’t give a single fuck about France if you’re not gonna be there with me.”

You close the distance between you as you walk from the entrance to where he sits in the living room. He can hardly look at you as you round the couch to stand ahead of him, sparing only meek glances your way.

The small smile on your lips only half puts out the fire raging in his chest. It’s one of those natural wildfires now. The kind that you’ve just got to let burn.

“What do I have to do, Steve? What do you want me to do to prove that I just want you?” you ask him softly, nudging your sock-clad foot with his own. “I’ll fucking— I’ll find his number in the phone book right now and invite him over if you want—”

Yeah, because seeing him again is gonna make any of this shit better, he thinks bitterly to himself, though he’s pleasantly surprised by your following promise.

“I’ll make him come over here, act like I wanna catch up or whatever, and then make him watch while I suck your cock,” you paint the picture for him in a suddenly low, sultry tone.

Steve can almost see it — the look on Todd’s face as he stands in the foyer, his hands balled into fists at his side, wearing an angry amber tint upon his perfect face while he watches the girl that got away take a mouthful of another man’s dick. “I’ll get all nice and pretty on my knees for you and make him watch.”

Steve tenses at your words. His fingers twitch where they rests on his knees, itching to get a hold of you. His eyes go heavy as he gazes up at you, his stern stare looking much darker than before — hungrier.

Your eyes carry a similar sort of desire. They swim with innocence and yearning and knowing.

Because both of you understand how your fights usually end. You’ve been together long enough to know. The anger grows and grows in the belly of a dragon until it’s all you can do to keep your hands off of each other. You make Steve come so hard he forgets all the reasons he was raging in the first place and then he apologizes with his tongue deep inside you, touching you in all the tender ways he knows how.

“Yeah,” he breathes with a nod, the word heavy on his tongue. “That’s what I want.”

“You wanna own me, don’t you, Stevie?” you purr.

Your movements are calculated and cat-like as you mount him. Your hands caress him from his knees to his thighs, then rise up to his chest when you straddle his lap. “You wanna fuck me and make me forget about every guy that’s ever had me before you. Is that it?”

He nods, too dumb to speak for now. Your voice is all silk and heat. It reminds him of your wet, hot pussy sitting just over his lap. Only the thin layers of your clothes separate you from him.

“You wanna ruin everyone else for me, huh?”

“Fuck, yes,” he breathes, both in an answer and a moan as your hand reaches between you to grab his cock through his jeans.

“You already have,” you assure with a sincere twinkle in your eyes. “But feel free to remind me.”

When your mouths collide, it’s all tongue and teeth and spit. It’s not passionate, it’s dirty.

His tongue forces its way between your lips and into your mouth, rubbing every part of you he can reach with the muscle, like he wants you to feel all of him there — a lingering touch that you can’t get rid of.

Your mouths caress each other and then break apart again in acute, wet, and filthy clicks that fill the silence in the house.

His stubble softly scratches you as it rubs against your skin. The feeling of it sends chills down your spine. Fuck, you curse to yourself. It’d feel even better between your legs.

Steve separates from you suddenly, his teeth digging into your bottom lip. A whimper leaves your throat as he mouths at it. With hooded eyes, he lets it go and watches it fall back into place. Then he grabs your cheeks with two large palms and drags you back to him, sucking on the bitten skin and then on your tongue.

The sensation’s got you moaning, your eyes rolling back in your head, and he hasn’t even touched you yet.

Your obedient hands worm between your bodies to unbuckle his belt.

“You gonna be good for me?” Steve asks you while your fingers undo that button on his pants. His lips are pinker and more swollen, coated with a fine sheen of spit that matches what's smeared on his chin.

“I’ll be so good for you, Stevie,” you promise before reaching through the band of his underwear to wrap your fingers around his warm, half-hard cock.

A grunt escapes his throat as he slides your panties to the side. He’s suddenly grateful for the easy access granted by your dress — the one that makes your tits look like heaven, the one he was cursing just hours because it had Todd drooling all over himself when he saw you.

The thought of the man no longer angers him. He’s not the one with his finger between the lips of your pussy, already drenched and coated with you.

“Yeah? You want daddy to fill your hungry little cunt?” Steve asks you, almost taunting you. He only uses that nickname when he’s in a certain mood — the mood to ruin you.

The tip of his finger catches the peak of your swollen clit and you keen.

His touch makes you so stupid that you’ve already forgotten to answer his question. He makes sure to remind you, though, when his hand rears back and smacks against the bare flesh of your cunt.

You hear the wet slap before you feel it.

It makes you clench around nothing and moan louder for him, pressing yourself closer to him.

“Words,”he demands softly.

“Please,” you moan helplessly into his shoulder. You love when he gets like this, assertive and showy with the power you let him have over you. He gets mean with you, but never too much that you forget how much he loves you, and that’s when you like him best.

His finger slips so effortlessly into you. You could easily take more than that with the way your pussy is so eager to suck him inside. He knows it, too. He just wants to tease you.

He wants to leave you empty and yearning before he fucks you silly. For now, he’s taunting you with his slow and clinical touch, observing everything he’s doing to you and how it has you twitching and begging for more.

He wants to commit it all to memory.

He’s barely got the tip of his pointer and middle finger prodding at your clenching entrance; it’s your pussy that drags them further in, opening for him and then tightening around the appendages so they’ll never leave. The obscenity of it makes both of you moan.

“God, you’re so fucking pretty like this,” Steve mutters to himself. “And so fucking wet— enough for me to slip right in, don’t ya think?”

You’re not so sure but you nod into his shoulder anyway. Even after all this time together, you can’t quite get used to how big he is. He still has to work you up to take his cock, with three or more fingers shoved inside of you until you’re ready. Even then, it still burns for the first couple of seconds. There’s always a grace period that you have to wait for before he can move.

And you feel the ache of him in your belly after, every damn time. Like he’s still there.

But you’re so wet now, impossibly so, you don’t think you could feel a thing other than pure bliss when he nestles his cock deep inside of you.

You whine quietly when he pulls his fingers from you, though it turns into a breathy moan when you see them glisten with your wetness. He slides them over his length, jerking himself to lube himself up for you. Just for good measure, he grabs hold of his cock and rubs the rounded tip between your velvet lips, coating it further with your slick.

“Think there’s enough for me to take your ass tonight, baby?” he asks over your low moan. He has to hold back his own, grit his teeth to keep it from leaving his mouth. God, you feel exactly like silk. “You want me to fuck that tight little hole, huh? You’ve only let me in there, right?”

“Uh-huh,” you answer tightly.

He doesn’t know which question you’re answering. Probably all three. Or maybe you’re just moaning because he’s got you all stupid with his cock and it’s not even inside of you yet. Both seems most likely.

Steve positions himself against you. When you feel the bulbous tip of his head, you hardly wait to slide down, down, down upon his cock.

It doesn’t take long for you to feel full. It takes less time before he reaches the apparent end of you. The feeling makes you jolt against him, like your body’s trying to move back up and away from the sensation on instinct. He’s quick to grab your hips to keep himself inside you.

“Uh-uh,” he hums. “Don’t run away from me.”

“Fuck,” you moan into his shoulder and then whine. The pleasure and the accompanying ache has your head spinning. “You’re already so deep.”

“I know, baby. You gotta take all of me, though, okay? Said you were gonna me by good girl, remember?”

His coo is enough to comfort you. You nod against his neck and let him guide you further and further down his cock.

You grit your teeth when you think he can’t possibly fill you anymore. The burn peaks all at once and ebbs so quickly, letting the rest of his inches slide in you with ease. And, god, if you don’t feel him in your fucking throat.

He stills, thankfully, and lets you get used to the feeling of him all over again.

“There you go,” Steve praises like he always does and then laughs at how rigid you’ve gone. “Breathe, baby.”

The exhale comes out as a sob and a small “fuck”, but you force yourself to relax against him nonetheless. His warm hands rub soothingly against the buzzing skin of your thighs beneath the skirt of your dress. “Doing so good for me, baby.”

“I can feel you in my fucking guts right now,” you slur, voice fragile like glass.

Your words are almost enough to make him burst and you haven’t even moved yet. A deep, hearty groan climbs from his throat. He tips his heavy head to the back of the couch and clenches his jaw, squeezing his eyes shut to stave off the feeling.

He makes himself climb down from the peak of pleasure and quickly gain his bearings all over again.

“Ride me, honey,” he whispers you.

Immediately, you start rocking your hips against him. His sigh is blissful, almost dreamy, as he watches you work yourself on top of him.

You’re always so patient with your pleasure, so calculated and attentive. You slide your hips back over his thighs and then up again, moaning every time the material of his sweatshirt rubs against your clit. You’re not chasing the feeling, you’re letting it come slowly and ease its way up to you. You know you’ve got all the time in the world.

Steve has always admired your patience, but it’s never one he could hope to possess. He rides toward an orgasm on a white mare. He claims it, he hunts it, he snatches it. Because, you’re right, you’ve got all the time in the world — he wants you to come as many times as the night (or, rather, your pussy) will allow.

So it isn’t at all surprising when gets impatient with your slow movements. And when one hand falls to your ass and the other slides up your back and clutches the opposite shoulder, you know what you’re in for.

Even though you’re expecting it, a high-pitched moan spills from your mouth when he starts fucking up into you. He’s doing a whole lot more than just hitting the right spot. The rubbing of the fabric is unrelenting against your clit.

You’re always done for when he takes you like this. Both of you know it.

“You already close, aren’t you?” he manages through heavy pants over the lewd slapping of his thighs against your own. “This is all it takes, huh?”

“’S because of you,” you slur into the sticky skin of his neck.

“Yeah?”

“Yes,” you moan.

He can feel himself getting closer and he groans through gritted teeth. The hand on your shoulder ascends to the back of your head. His fingers tangle in your hair and pull you from the refuge you’d found in the book of his shoulder. It allows him to see you for the first time since you’d mounted his cock.

Your cheeks are blotchy and glowing cherry. Your eyes are glassy and glazed over with pleasure. Your lips swollen from where you’d been biting at them.

Perfect, he thinks to himself.

He drags that hand to your chest, wrenching at the plunging neck and pushing it down to reveal your tits. They bound out of the fabric with ease, a small red and raw line at the tops of them from where the dress had kept them so tightly contained.

He palms at your left breast, digs his fingers into the fat of it and lets your hard and pebbled nipple rub against his palm.

“Fuck, baby,” he almost whines. It takes all of his willpower to keep his eyes open to look at them. “You’ve got the prettiest fucking tits I’ve ever seen.”

“That’s why I wore this— wanted your attention—” you confess through each of his thrusts.

“Yeah, you got my fucking attention, sweetheart,” he manages a breathy laugh.

His heart swells at the thought of you picking this dress because you thought he might like it. That you’d think of him doing something as mundane as picking what you wore out to the bar you went to every Friday night.

It gets too easy to want to slip into that softness. But he knows that you’re already close. So, so fucking close.

“Now come all over my cock for me, yeah?” he demands softly. “Cream on this dick and show me how good you are.”

And, like the good girl you are, don’t need to be told twice.

You shudder against him and then go rigid. He watches with a proud, lazy grin as you tip your head back, squeeze your eyes shut, and let your mouth fall agape. The feeling in your stomach builds and builds and builds, the pleasure disappearing for a moment, before coming back in an explosion that makes you gush.

As though your moans weren’t enough of a confirmation of your orgasm, you go so unmistakably tight around him that it makes his legs twitch beneath you. He angles his hips so he can peek between the two of you to watch the sheen of your cum glisten on his hard cock.

“God, you’re so fucking sensitive like this— holy shit.”

“Steve!” you whine when your high starts to fade and his thrusts only quicken.

He's chasing his own pleasure now, you know that, but the feeling against your abused pussy is growing into a nearly unbearable one.

You bite your lip so hard it’s a wonder you don’t draw any blood. You grip his shoulders and ball his sweatshirt in your fist, tethering yourself to him and to reality.

“Who’s making you feel this good, huh?” he asks with his chin jutted out to look up at you. “Who else can fuck you like this?”

You can tell by his glassy eyes and erratic thrusts that he’s close to his own orgasm. He always wants you to talk him through it, to praise him and to tell him how good he makes you feel. For obvious reason, the whole thing comes terribly natural to you.

“Only you,” you promise tiredly. “’S just you, Stevie—”

“Fuck,” he spits and tilts his head to the back of the couch. He squeezes his eyes shut tight and brings his bottom lip between his teeth, never easing his impossibly swift thrusts.

“Want you to come in me,” you whisper to him. You rest your arms on his shoulders and drag your fingers through his hair, lightly scratching his scalp and pulling every time he lets a moan slip. “Want you to come so deep inside me— I’m dripping for days—”

“Shit, baby.”

“And then, when I’m all round and full with your baby— everyone’s gonna know who I belong to, right?”

“Fuck yes,” he groans. “Gonna come so— fuck— so nice and deep in this pussy. My pussy.”

“Please,” you beg, like you aren’t half-delirious with your own pleasure. “Come in your pussy, Stevie.”

“Holy shit—” His cock pulses and twitches and then spits inside you. He grabs onto your hips more roughly than he intended and keeps you tightly pressed against him while he comes, giving you several long and warm ropes against your velvet walls. He whimpers when your pussy flutters around him.

You collapse against him when his orgasm comes and goes, rocking against his lap to get him through his high until he stops you with a firm squeeze to your thigh. You both sink further into the couch, swimming in the peaceful void that pleasure always pushes you into.

He rubs his hands beneath the skirt of your dress, petting your warm and sticky skin as the after-sex bliss rest heavily upon the both of you.

“Here,” he breaks the satin silence and taps at your hip. “Get off, baby. Let me get you some water or something—”

He feels you shake your head from where you’ve tucked it in his shoulder again. “Don’t wanna move. Want you to stay inside me.”

“Yeah?”

You’ve never done this before — cockwarming. He’s not sure if you have before, but he definitely hasn’t, and certainly not with you.

Before you, he was the kind of asshole that went to sleep right after sex. The thought of staying inside his partner never crossed his mind. But to his defense, none of his partners thought to do it either. Being King Steve and all meant there wasn’t a lot of cuddling going on after sex. It was usually one-and-done affairs, but he never did this with any of his girlfriends before either.

And now that he’s matured into a somewhat respectable adult, he takes great pride in taking care of you after, in cleaning you up and making sure you’re alright. And when you’re either falling asleep or wanting to shower, there’s no room to be kept inside you. Not until now.

“Wanna fall asleep like this,” you confess. The way you’re halfway slurring and settling more heavily against him tells him you’re not too far off.

“That’s not gonna be comfortable for you, baby,” he scolds softly. Because him — he’s perfect like this. He’s slouched in the plush cushion of the couch and you’re wrapped so tightly around him (in every possible way) you've become his own personal blanket.

But your back is hunched from where your neck is snug and pressed into his shoulder. You’ll likely wake up aching tomorrow, in more ways than one.

“Don’t care,” you mumble and sprinkle kisses to his neck, just because you can. “Wanna stay like this forever.”

“Forever?” he laughs tiredly.

“Uh-huh,” you nod. You shift on his lap to look at him, exhaling a moan through your nose when you feel him twitch inside of you, even though he’s going steadily soft. Your gaze is innocent and yearning and knowing — hungry again. “Think you can take that, Harrington?”

“Yeah, sweetheart,” he promises with a sincere twinkle in his cinnamon colored eyes. “I can take it.”

#steve harrington x reader #stranger things x reader #steve harrington smut #steve harrington imagine #stranger things imagine #steve harrington angst #steve harrington fluff #steve harrington #stranger things #stevie oneshot #published by bug #st oneshots

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batterygarden · 3 months

Text

In the least creepy way possible, Yuuta’s been keeping tabs on you tonight. He’s a bit of a wall flower in places like this—loud shows with flashing lights, a dancing crowd roaring around him like an ocean’s waves—so he’s fascinated by people who manage not to be. He wonders how your type seems to have a gravitational pull when he can barely hear what the person next to him is saying.

He watches as you smile and dance and laugh and cup people’s ears to tell them something. He likes to think he gets to know you a bit from what he observes—he thinks you must be a good friend, when he sees your arm wrap around some drunk girl to hold her up. He thinks you must not be shy the way you shove bodies away when you get close to the chaotic mosh pit in the middle of the floor. And most of all, he thinks that you are not interested in finding a man to keep you company this evening.

Not one of your friendly smiles has been directed at a man, Yuuta can’t help but have noticed. Especially not to the few who’ve had the gall to approach you, the expression you gave them was always downright cold. Not that Yuuta faults you by any means, watching as you deliver a particularly cruel glare to the bearded guy who just bought you a drink—these men aren’t owed your warmth. And, if he’s honest with himself, your harsh rejections have him relieved—whether you’ve got a partner back home or simply aren’t looking (Yuuta doesn’t dwell on the idea that you might not be attracted to men at all), Yuuta doesn’t mind so long as he doesn’t have to watch some mediocre guy earn your approval—or worse yet, your interest. The idea leaves a bad taste in his mouth, stranger as he is.

It must be a lucky night, because not long after you ditch the beard man, you start making your way closer to the stage—to Yuuta. He tries to be subtle as he observes you swaying in time with the current of bodies, closer and closer until you stop right next to his shoulder.

He glances down when you do and gives a polite smile—something in his heart setting on fire when you return it, peeking up at him through your lashes. If he didn’t know any better, he’d think your expression looked an awful lot like fuck-me eyes.

Before anything more can happen though, Yuuta once again watches as some guy from the crowd shoves his way closer to you–-pressing a hand to your back. Yuuta’s mouth falls open at the timing, barely making out the yelled proposal this man gives you, but having no trouble reading his lips. DANCE WITH ME?

He can hear your reply though.

“NOOO! I’M GOOD!” you take a baby step away, bumping into Yuuta.

Yuuta’s eyes flick to the man’s ugly little hand where it rests on your back, noting how it’s still there for some reason. Then the man makes a frown—it’s a much worse expression to see on his face than observing it on yours across the room earlier.

Before the guy says another word, Yuuta gives him a yank away using Rika, and thanks to the relentless crowd, he’s swallowed up easily.

You meet Yuuta’s eyes after that and your gaze lingers, expression warming—soon you’re leaning in close on tiptoes to shout something in his ear.

“DO YOU WANNA DANCE?”

…

Later in the night, after learning his name and thoroughly whipping Yuuta around on the dance floor, you drag him away from the stage towards the venue’s bar.

You like how his big palm engulfs yours when you hold it to lead him, glancing back often just to get another peek at his expression—he never disappoints, his wide dark eyes sucking you in like black holes. He’s intense—objectively scary and intimidating, but you like the way he covers it up in blushing cheeks and sweet smiles. He’s intriguing in a way you want to snatch up for yourself—territorial against every soul who’s gaze lingers on Yuuta’s tall frame, despite that he seems to be unaware of them.

The first time you noticed Yuuta tonight was when you watched some drunk woman in the process of an elaborate trip, losing her balance slowly but surely before falling completely over. You witnessed it from a bit away, wincing at what you were sure would be a messy collapse, but the girl never hit the ground. A handsome ink-haired stranger was spotted lifting her by the elbow, his other hand saving her drink from a spill.

You caught the way her expression faltered when she took in the man who helped her, eyes widening, cheeks reddening. She smiled so huge for him, looking back over her shoulder again and again as her friend dragged her away.

You’ve been eyeing Yuuta all night since then, intent on getting him to yourself. And now that you finally have, you don’t wanna let him slip through your fingers.

You already asked Yuuta his go-to drink, so you’re confident when you ask the bartender for two gin and tonics, fumbling with your phone case to retrieve your card. Yuuta’s quicker though, offering the man behind the counter his own instead, opening a tab. When you frown at him he gives you a sweet smile that says you’re stupid for thinking he’d let you spend your money.

“Thanks for paying, stranger.”

“Ouch! Still a stranger after all those twirls you had me do?”

You lean closer as you giggle, and Yuuta seems to relish in it, his gaze smoldering when he mirrors your smile.

“No, I’m just teasing. I know you like the back of my hand, Yuuta.”

You sip your freshly delivered drink, leaning even closer till your head rubs against his shoulder.

The laugh he gives you is boyish and light—the kind that catches in the back of his throat so you know it’s genuine. You want to gobble this man up, to swallow him whole, he’s so cute. So you let him know.

“Yuuta, I want to eat you alive. Like, everything in me is telling me to bite you.”

You catch the pretty flush that creeps up his neck then, the way his eyes darken when he looks down at you.

“I wouldn’t mind.”

#yuuta x reader #jjk x reader #yuta x reader #yuuta okkotsu x reader #okkotsu yuuta x reader #yuuta fic #yuuta fluff #yuuta drabble #🐞 writes

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omgreally · 1 year

Text

Comfortably Close

Joel Miller/You, E for Smut™, 2.1k You and Joel share a couch. The classic Huddling for Warmth with Joel Miller smut trope, yet another take.

It’s cold in the dilapidated old house you and Joel hunker down in, and the blizzard screams outside as if it has a personal vendetta against the two of you.

You haven’t known Joel long. The quiet, grizzled man might have struck you as scary if years of surviving hadn’t blunted you so much to the savagery of others. He’s polite enough, and he keeps his hands to himself.

Decades ago your standards might’ve been higher for the company you keep. But that was then, and this is now.

This isn’t the first time you’ve been caught out on a patrol together, and it probably won’t be the last. Joel’s had your back long enough that you trust him more than most, but that isn’t saying much; you’re one of the ones that’s had a harder time settling into this new life of safety and warmth. Maybe that’s why you get along so well. You don’t take things too seriously, and he discounts your flirting as good-natured harmlessness.

He’s wrong, of course. Your standards aren’t so high these days, after all, but he doesn’t have to know that.

Life’s too short, you tell him once - it can turn on a dime, and everything can change in a heartbeat. Or the lack of one. And Joel, with a low murmur, agrees.

You’ve both lost people. That much is evident, in the fierceness of the way he protects his girl, the wary little redhead you’re pretty sure could kill you despite appearances. You’ve seen Joel talking to her once or twice, quietly intense before leaving on a patrol, and she always looks like she wants to tell him not to go - but she holds herself back.

It’s sad how quick kids have to grow up these days.

You sigh at the dark thoughts creeping in through the cold, shifting beneath the mouldy carpet draped uselessly over your shoulders to try and keep you warm. The creaking walls don’t hold heat well, so there’s no point in starting a fire. You watch your breath gather in frosty white clouds, obscuring your face, as Joel does the same from the couch.

“Least if I freeze to death before morning that’ll save me the ride back,” you mutter. The horses are huddled together in the garage, but you can’t say you’re fond of your uppity mare. She may be just a horse, but you can tell she doesn’t like you.

“You really hate ridin’ that much?” Joel drawls, and you glance up at his hunched form.

“Horses? Yes. They’ve got minds of their own. Machines and men, on the other hand..”

Joel’s chuckle, warm and unexpected, forms a quickly-dissipating fog. You resist the urge to glance over at him. He always brushes you off, like he does most in Jackson; you’re lucky to get conversation out of him most of the time. He doesn’t talk about himself much, and he asks about other people even less. Keeps you at arms length - safer that way, you know, but it makes you curious. Only natural, you tell yourself; you tell yourself it doesn’t make him any more intriguing, any more interesting than anyone else. But there’s something about that look in his eye, sometimes, and you wonder about him, more than you should.

“You cold?” Joel asks, as a particularly nasty shiver wracks you. You look up, raising your eyebrows.

“Sweltering,” you reply, resisting the urge to roll your eyes; you’re pretty sure they’re close to frozen in their sockets. “Sure we can’t start a fire? I hear horse fat burns pretty well.”

“You sure do have a sick sense of humour when you’re cranky,” Joel obbserves, perhaps the most personal thing he’s said to you. You try not to let it sting, but maybe he means it as a compliment - you can’t tell.”C’mere.”

“You try being in a good mood when you’re freezing your tits off - what?” you add, as your freezing, sluggish brain catches up with what he said. “Where?”

Joel looks at you and lifts the edge of his threadbare blanket. “Come. Here. I ain’t gonna let you freeze to death, girl.”

“Girl? I’ve got more grays than you,” you gripe, but you don’t leave yourself to hesitate too much while your fingers and toes are busy going numb. You discard the useless carpet and climb up onto the couch. It’s a big, old, moth-bitten thing that creaks under your weight as you add it to Joel’s, but there’s enough room to curl up next to him, back to his chest. He drops the blanket unceremoniously over you and tucks an arm over your waist, far too familiar.

“I never noticed,” he murmurs in your ear, and you feel the hairs lift on the back of your neck. You shiver, but it’s not from cold this time.

It’s been a while since you’ve slept with anyone - even this near, with clothes on. Despite your propensity for flirting, the follow-through was the problem; Jackson was a small community, after all. But Joel is very warm and solid at your back. Then he starts rubbing the outside of your arms with broad palms and you suddenly realize how much you’ve missed human touch.

Joel must feel some kind of tension in you, for he stops pretty quick. “You okay?” he wonders, his chest a rumble against your spine, hand on your shoulder.

“Yeah,” you confirm with a tight nod, pillowing your head on your folded arm. It’s too cold to be thinking like this - you have to think about conservation of body heat, about survival, like Joel is. So you breathe out and let the tension go and say, “You still wanna take first watch? I’m beat.”

“Uh-huh.”

“‘Kay.” You close your eyes, force yourself to breathe, to think of something other than the fit of Joel’s body against yours. “And Joel…Thanks.”

He doesn’t say anything, but his hand squeezes your shoulder. And eventually, your breathing evens out into sleep.

—

You wake with an arm wrapped around your torso, the sensation of breath hot against your neck. The tip of your nose is cold but the rest of you is warm with the body pressed against yours.

Sometime during the night Joel must have nodded off, wrapped himself around you like a serpent. Your ass resting firmly in the notch of his hips you can tell the very natural reaction his body’s had in sleep - the firmness pressed against your cheek definitely not that of a weapon holster.

You wonder if you should wake him, but you don’t need to pee yet and the blizzard has quieted outside and quite frankly, this is nice. You haven’t had anyone hold you quite like this for a very long time, so you close your eyes and arch back against him a little, pressing your thighs together for a little friction, a little stretch through your muscles that feels good.

His hand migrated from your shoulder to your ribcage, long fingers tucked under your arm, fanned out underneath the swell of your breast. You don’t mind it. Even as compromising as this position is he hasn’t gone for a full grope, which you appreciate. A gentleman, despite his baser natures.

Rare, these days.

Joel shifts with your stretch, his breath hitching into a wakeful rhythm, but you try not to let on that you’re already awake - to try and preserve the moment for a little longer. You resist the urge to sigh in disappointment when his hand draws back, only to flinch in surprise when you feel those long fingers move the hair away from your neck.

“Mornin’.” He doesn’t move his hips either toward or away from you, belying the fact he’s probably quite aware of his current state of arousal. The intention of the lack of movement makes something in your stomach drop in hopeful anticipation. “I know you’re awake. You ain’t snoring.”

Not very romantic, but you can work with that. “I know you’re awake, too,” you point out, shifting back against him - again, he doesn’t move, but his hand settles on your hip and your stomach swoops this time. “So much for taking watch.”

“I dozed off for a second,” he says, and you feel him shrug, “You make a nice pillow.”

“You sure know how to compliment a girl.” But your voice has no real venom in it. Not when he’s thumbing the edge of your waistband like that.

“Girl? Thought you had more grays than me?” Joel teases, and you feel the strong bridge of his nose nudge beneath your ear, beard a rasp and lips against your neck.

Then, infuriatingly, he stops. “Let me know if I’m oversteppin’ here, or readin’ things wrong…”

Such a fucking gentleman.

“Shit, Joel,” you breathe, resisting the urge to turn over to smack him, “I was beginning to wonder if you could read at all.”

“See? Cranky,” he rumbles, the chuckle you feel to your bones. He’s efficient from there - stripping your jeans and panties to your knees with one big hand. He gets his other arm beneath you, fingers under your shirt, callouses ghosting the puckering flesh of a nipple. “Glad you didn’t freeze these off,” he murmurs in your ear.

“You’re in a good mood this morning,” you observe as you arch back against him. His groan rumbles satisfyingly against your back. Then you feel him move back, and hear the quick rasp of his zipper. Your gut - and lower - flutters with powerful arousal.

“Been a while since I woke up to somethin’ nice.” A strange, warm feeling in your chest, one you’re afraid to examine, is quickly replaced by thigh-tensing anticipation as you feel the blunt head of his cock drag down squeeze in between the V of your thighs to notch against the already weeping clench of your cunt.

“Joel Miller, I definitely ain’t nice.”

“You feel nice,” he corrects, as he pushes in. He loops his arm back around your waist and pulls you close- so suddenly you struggle to adjust to the sudden intrusion of his full length inside you. “Fuck.”

You echo the sentiment as his long, clever fingers work between your legs. Two fingertips find the hood of your clit and you know you shouldn’t be surprised at how precise he is - it isn’t quite the roughness you may have expected.

No, it’s better.

You’re almost embarrassed by how good it feels.

The thick, pulsing weight of Joel’s cock as he pulls back and slides in again, much more slowly this time. Slow enough that you can feel every vein and ridge of his shaft as he drags it through you.

“Your turn to take watch,” his mouth, hot at your ear, his voice a deep buzz. You shiver even as you shove your hips back against him with the next thrust.

“Your turn to sleep, then,” you tease back. His fingers on your clitoris roll slow, lazy circles into the swollen nerve.

“Not til I’m done with you, darlin’.” Darlin’ - that’s a new one, you think, even as your eyes threaten to roll back next time he fills you.

There’s no words after that. Just his groans, like faint, occasional thunder - when you clench up, and your pussy starts to ripple around his cock. You gasp his name as you come, clamping down, squeezing your thighs together to cling to the feeling as it floods you, floor to scalp. You’re wrung out, sweaty and gasping as you feel Joel pull out, feel his come splash across your ass.

“Sorry,” he pants, and hearing his voice like that nearly breaks you all over again - husky and breathless, not from running from a Clicker. “Lemme get you cleaned up.”

“A gentleman to the end,” you say when you eventually turn onto your back. Joel looks good like this - cheeks flushed, jaw tight, hair and eye wild as he gets himself back under control. He raises his eyebrow at you.

“Oh, I’m not,” he assures you, after a quick check of the room. “We still got time.“ And a crease appears on his bearded cheek as he leans down and descends on you with, “I ain’t done with you yet.”

#tlou smut #joel miller smut #joel miller #joel miller x you #joel miller/reader #joel miller x reader #joel miller/you #the last of us #pedro pascal fanfic #omgreally; joel miller/reader

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chronically-ghosted · 6 months

Text

Third Base.

rating: 18+, explicit

pairing: max phillips x f!reader

word count: 9K

summary: after the last session went awry, you and max don't know how to be around each other. two months after a blow out fight, max catches you in the parking lot and decides it's time to talk.

warnings: angst, is that plot i smell? period sex (oral), impossible positions but he has super strength and doesn't breathe so shut up, semi-public sex, car sex, some briefly scary imagery (it's a dream), monsterfucking, mentions of a car accident and injuries related, arguing, max being a dick

a/n: MASSIVE shoutout to @jupiter-soups , @beardedjoel , @gasolinerainbowpuddles , @covetyou and @huffle-punk for giving me their blessing to do a vampire + period sex fic. The discord ladies really came in clutch here 👌i hope this makes you as horny as that thread made me

i wanted to get this out by halloween, but that didn't fucking happen so here's a fic that mentions halloween as a plot device. fun fact: orgasms can bring on your period early so no it’s not your 🐈 that’s sore it’s your uterus lining shuffling off

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You’re warm. Everything is warm. You’ve sunk beneath a fresh layer of volcanic ash, heartbeat pulsing with the lazy roll of molten lava at the heart of the mountain. Hands outstretched, you can’t find the edge of the mattress because there isn’t one.

There is only warmth and rocking, gentle waves.

There is only this.

There is only him.

Shoulders hunched between your legs, his tongue is a hard muscle, leverage against which you grind and shift and when you find that spot together, you throb in sync with the rush of blood to your cunt and sink a little deeper into the endless sheets that flutter against your skin like paper in the wind.

Your lips form the shape of his name but in the sigh that leaves your mouth, you can’t be sure if you called out to him or if everything coherent had been swallowed up in a cry of listless pleasure. But he responds all the same. The vibrations in his chest between your thighs, his tongue wrapped around your clit, nearly tear you over the edge that very second – you cry out, not wanting this to end, not wanting to leave this hearth of him, folded over you as if you were made of fine ceramic and he was a fiery kiln. You arch, your release dangerously close, and his grip around your thighs tightens, tightens, pulling you deeper down into his face, his nose, that wicked, wicked tongue, and his grip tightens and it hurts. His fingers, his nails, pinch down into you, your flesh swells between his knuckles as if he’s going to tear straight through your skin, your muscles, your bones – and you yelp.

It’s not fun any more.

You struggle, but he’s on you too tight, a riptide sucking you under. You try and kick him off, push him off with your hands but it’s no use.

Everything is cold and metal and it hurts and you’re begging him to let you go, let you live, when those fangs, as sharp and jagged as steak knives, suddenly embed themselves in your thigh. Your hips jerk with the force of it, with the agony as he slices your femoral artery and drinks deep. And then he bites your other thigh, tearing through your flesh, turning the cradle of your thighs into dripping viscera.

Max, you think you beg, the fight all but drained out of you as your blood flows freely from between his fingers, from the gashes in your thighs, your throat, your wrists. He’s torn out chunks of you and swallowed them whole.

Max.

The creature lifts its head, its eyes blood-red, pupils black as the darkest night, mouth twisted and wrenched open screaming, four glistening bone-white fangs, dripping blood, your blood, your life, your flesh. Begging won’t save you now.

It snarls, the sound pinching off like a dying woman’s scream, inch-long talons tearing up your hips as it crawls forward, crawls into your throat and just before it delivers the killing bite, it whispers:

You asked for this.

The first thing you see when you jerk out of the nightmare is the crease of your pillow, looking up at it from the plush of your mattress. Your cheek smushed into your blue sheets, duvet tangled between your legs, the horror of the nightmare still pressed into the corners of your brain like a tacky, sticky film, you can’t quite understand what you’re looking at. The adrenaline is fast in your blood, heart pounding, your unconscious mind unable to determine what is real and what is not, safety or danger, and your fingers dig into your sleep shorts, arms tucked up underneath you. You blink twice, the headache from yesterday returning, your swollen, black eye almost immediately painful, and then you realize the pounding you hear is not your final heartbeats, but someone at your door.

That buzzing is not the last conscious thoughts in your head fizzling out, but your phone on silent, humming incessantly. Groaning from the pins and needles that shoot up your arm after having slept on it all night, you flop onto your back, your other wrist twinging painfully in its flesh-colored wrap, as you crawl to the edge of your bed – which is thankfully in sight. You can’t pick up your phone with your dead-fish arm and your twisted wrist so you answer the call without looking and put it on speaker.

“Hello?”

“Why aren’t you at work?” His voice is clipped, short, pissed. As if he was your actual boss and not the sales manager, while you worked in legal. After the dream, it immediately sets you on edge. Every major part of you is sore and hurts, either from the accident, or sleeping so hard you figured you briefly went into a coma.

“What’s it matter to you? I called my department and told them I’d be out.”

“Yeah, and I had to find out from Tim.” The pounding from down the hall gets louder and suddenly you connect the two. It should be illegal to be this furious minutes after waking up. “Open the door,” he snaps into the silence over the phone.

“Are you fucking serious right now? You’re at my apartment?”

“Yes, now open the fucking door.”

You chew your lip because you genuinely do not want to see him right now. There’s a reason you called Tim to pick you up after someone T-boned the back of your car yesterday evening and the plausible excuse is that he lives in the same apartment complex as you.

“Open the door right now or I swear –,”

“Alright, jesus. Gimme a fuckin’ –,”

You shrug on your cardigan, hissing as you bend your shoulder.

“What was that?” You swear his voice takes on an edge, catching on something and tearing just enough to let something vulnerable bleed through.

“It’s nothing – I –,” you twist your other shoulder into the arm of the cardigan, the phone pinched up against your ear. “Jesus – okay, fuck this, just stay there and don’t break down my door.”

You pound the red button with your thumb and launch your phone onto your bed before you limp lightly down the hall, the weight on your right ankle just a little less than on your left. It’s half a second difference in your regular gait, but something tells you he’ll know.

He’s across your threshold before you have the door fully open, glaring around your dark apartment as if it personally had a hand in keeping him outside in the hallway. There’s something frenetic in the way he moves, in the way he stands, even if he is completely still. It’s the same sort of wired energy that is usually reserved for end-of-quarter deadlines, isolated to sustained knee bouncing or wearing out the spring of a pen with one too many clicks. Max is . . . uneasy.

“Well?” He rounds on you, hands on his hips, as if you’d just been caught pilfering through the company supply cabinet for ink cartridges to sniff and get high. You’d never been on the receiving end of Max’s bad temper before – in fact, you’d been the solution to it for quite some time now. You’d seen him go off on a vendor that screwed up an order or chew out the competition, but not this. Not that tense jaw that can’t find a place to settle, eyes narrowed in warning. Don’t test me.

“Well, what?” Maybe you should have changed out of your pastel blue pajamas before coming to face your co-worker/occasional sex-fiend/boyfriend(?) but it’s too late now. You try to stand as tall as you can, arms crossed.

“You wanna tell me why you weren’t at work today and I had to hear from Tim – fucking sandwich-eating, wormy-mustache, sword-dildo Tim – that you’d been in a goddamn car accident.”

“It was minor and he lives in my building,” you respond, chin high.

His eyebrows arch as his mouth twists indignantly. “So minor your car wasn’t drivable?”

Point 1 for Max. You bristle, fighting the heat on your cheeks. “It was just easier to call him. He picked me up, dropped me off with some painkillers and some juice, and left. I didn’t fuck him if that’s what you’re worried about.”

He picks up on a thread you didn’t expect him to follow. “He gave you . . . juice?”

“Yes. His sister is a nurse and it was something about the adrenaline and sugar in orange juice – and I don’t know – it was comforting, at the time.”

“Comforting?” He asks like it’s a foreign concept. Something alien and unnatural. “What, like he gave you a hug or something?”

Your stomach turns on something sour. “Sure, Max, yeah. He could see I was upset and he did the terrible, horrible thing of giving me a hug when he saw I was in pain.”

“So was it a minor accident or not?” He takes a step forward and you remember how much bigger he is than you. How wide his hands are. “Fuck, can you turn on a light? I’m fucking straining to see anything.”

The migraine had set in moments after you closed the door behind Tim and like a creature retreating to lick their wounds, you shut off every single light in your apartment and close the blinds tight. You stick a comment about vampire sight up between your teeth and switch on the lamp by your couch.

You catch a glimpse of that pretty face cut with sharp, angry lines and flared nostrils, before it flickers, fades out when he spots the black eye, the wrist splint you forget to hide with your sleeve before it’s too late, the way you hold your weight off your sensitive ankle.

For some reason, you can’t look him in the eyes, so you watch as the taut line of his shoulders deflates, his wide hands with his thick fingers slide bonelessly off his hips, how he stands up right instead of that aggressive forward lean, reserved only for what you thought he saw as enemies.

He swallows whatever was sitting behind his teeth and stares.

Where he had been even temporarily vulnerable with you days ago, it’s your turn to shy away, hiding your tender spots.

Guilt washes up to your eyeballs the longer he stares silently, taking in every bruise and bump. You hate the fact you feel guilty, and you hate that you don’t know where the guilt comes from or why it sits so heavy in your chest.

The truth of the matter is you did think about calling him. In fact, he was the first name you pulled up on your now cracked phone, but sitting on a curb outside of a gas station as a tow truck came to take your car away, you scrolled down past him.

The truth of the matter is Max hasn’t been back in your apartment since the night you went to second base and he bit you on your tit. In fact, he’s been avoiding you in the office for days now. When he wouldn’t meet your eyes over the coffee machine, it became easier and easier to wonder if this was the same man who set out all those candles for you, who put down all of those insane precautions to keep himself from going too far, who couldn’t help but vibrate with pleasure as he drank from you. First base had gone over without a hitch, but something went wrong that night and he’d sooner let the relationship fizzle out than talk about it.

The following shower that night had been awkward and uncomfortable, too close and the steam too hot. He left shortly there after, only a handful of mumbled words exchanged, and he hadn’t come back.

So, maybe, sitting there, your head aching, your wrist pinching, you wanted him to feel as abandoned as you had.

“I’m a little . . . banged up, alright?” Your fingertips brush the edges of the Ace bandage around your palm when your fingers curl and uncurl, your head tilted just off center as if you could hide the swelling from him. “Nothing that a few days of rest can’t fix, so you really didn’t need to come over.”

“Rest and juice, right?” The look in his eyes is raw, rubbed down into nothingness, blackness, totality.

“Oh, fuck off,” you snap, “it wasn’t like that and you fucking know it.”

His head tilts as if considering your words, or considering something else, and by the time you open your eyes in a millisecond blink, he’s got your chin in his palm, his fingers curled up your cheek, thumb firmly pressed into your jaw. Dark eyes roving, he’s inspecting every cut, every bruise, every hair out of place.

Irate at the hot flush low in your stomach at the way he grips you, you push against his chest, yowling out some disgruntled noise, but that only makes him squeeze you tighter. He doesn’t even look you in the eye.

“I’ve healed much worse than this,” he murmurs, breath smelling deliciously of mint and not a hint of anything metallic. “Especially on you.”

His thumb brushes dangerously close to the rim of your purple and green eye and while even the slightest touch stings, it’s nothing compared to the bite of pain his words and soft tone inflict. You give him one more good shove and he backs off, thumb swiping briefly against your chin. His mouth is a straight line when he finally meets your glare.

“I didn’t call you because I didn’t think you gave a shit, Max.” You’ve been in tense business negotiations all your adult life so standing your ground and not crying is something that has become second nature to you. And yet, your eyes grow hot and tight all the same. You’re not crying, but your body is remembering how good it feels to do so. “Ever since that night, you’ve been acting like I’m diseased or something. You made it pretty clear we’re not actually dating, so I called Tim because it was the path of least resistance. I was tired and I hurt and I didn’t want anything complicated. And I didn’t tell you because quite frankly I didn’t think you’d notice I wasn’t there unless the breeze blew the wrong way and your dick got hard.” Every unanswered text and call straight to voicemail over the last two weeks flashes in your mind and your wrist twinges painfully as you gesture to your bedroom. “Because that’s what this is, right? Just a good fuck? A good time? For the record, you didn’t ruin that lingerie set. I put it on cold in the washer and the blood came right out, okay? Everything is totally fucking fine.”

You don’t realize how loud you’d gotten until your apartment rings with silence. It is the absence of noise, of only one set of lungs in use, that makes it so loud.

Max’s jaw still hasn’t found a place to settle, to calm himself. He purses his lips as his bottom teeth grind against the top. His eyes are unreadable, black coals in his head, instead of that gooey warmth you swear you’ve only seen in your direction. He swallows once before opening his mouth.

“So then, do you want me to fix you? Just so we can get back to fucking and I can get what I came here for.”

Soft. Quiet. A rattlesnake you don’t see coming until its fangs are in your foot, pumping you full of poison.

“Get the fuck out of my house. Right now. Leave.”

As if mocking you, he walks out the front door. He could be out and gone before you draw your next breath, but he chooses to click his fucking Armani leather shoes across your tile, open the door – the knob demonstrably small in his massive hand – and slam shut so hard the painting on the wall shudders.

If the shower had been a separation by omission, this had been the real thing.

The heat behind your eyes becomes unbearable, sharp, painful as you begin to choke on everything you didn’t say to him lodged in your throat. Vision blurry, you yank your curtains close and flip the light switch, plunging the apartment back into darkness.

It’s not until you’re curled up on your side in bed, duvet over your head, that the tears come. They’re silent, you’ve only ever known how to cry silently, but they fall fast, dripping off your nose. You squeeze your eyes shut and your black eye throbs, a thunderbolt in a storm. You cry out and touching it makes it worse and you cry because it hurts and you cry because you’re pathetic and you cry because, worst of all, you didn’t make Max realize what a fucking asshole he is.

It’s not until you wake up at two in the morning, suddenly and without a descent, that you realize Max walked into your apartment without a jacket on, his sleeves rolled up and his tie loose. As if he had heard the news and immediately left the office to come to you.

Days pass. And days turn into weeks. It’s two months later and you haven’t heard a word from him.

Everyone at the office has been very considerate about your injuries – holding doors for you as you hobbled through them, your team taking on more client-facing calls while your eye healed, typing up the last bits of the reports when your wrist started to ache. For a company that employed literal hell-spawn, you’d been rather touched by the kindness everyone showed you.

Even Tim. Who offered, after clarifying he definitely wasn’t hitting on you (if only because he feared the legal repercussions you could bring down on him like a smiting hammer) to drive you home while your car got fixed. Those nights when Evan sat in the back because they were headed to a DnD session afterwards were always a little awkward.

Everyone helped out, except one person. A significant person that made your chest twinge every time you saw his door close seconds after you came into the breakroom. You could hear your sister’s scolding voice now: never fuck where you eat.

For sleeping with a vampire, you supposed that statement was doubly true.

As the world turned towards winter, night came early and stayed longer, eager for mischief. The air grew thin, cold, trees sagging, turning brown, and molting. There’s a smell to the air that usually excites you, usually makes you smile and yearn for your couch and a long movie night. But not this time.

Halloween falls on a Monday this year and given the majority of its workforce still remember when it was called Samhain, it’s a company holiday. Ahead of a long weekend, this late, the office is empty. With nothing (and no one) to greet you at home, you stay until it could be officially counted as pathetic to keep working in an empty and dark building, before powering down your laptop, gathering your things for what you foresee as just a long working weekend, and locking your office for the night.

Paper bats hung from the ceiling, with orange and black table clothes thrown over tables in the break room. Cardboard witches and zombies grinned wickedly from the dark corners, woolen webs with freakishly large spiders hiding near the ceiling. The office manager, Carla, has really outdone herself this year, you think, as you unplug the rows of purple and orange lights looping around the ceiling tiles. With your leftover lasagna from Amanda (who insisted you still needed someone to make you dinner), you flick off any remaining lights, the red exit signs guiding you out in the dark.

His office door is open, not unheard of but not common.

The room is dark, so maybe he left early and just forgot to lock up. Your chest tightens at the thought that he ran out of there in a hurry because he was eager to meet up with someone, a pretty someone who looked great in a set of heels and had a fang fetish. You swallow; one of a dozen scenarios you’ve tortured yourself with over the past few weeks, particularly painful.

It’s strange, to go on and live your life when there has been a fundamental and irrevocable change, when there is nothing where there once was something – an outline almost visible as though the air itself was trying desperately to remember, to hold on.

Your eyes grow hot and you blame it on season allergies when you wipe your eyes with your palm. You blame it on the steady headache you’ve had all day. You blame it on the irritability that’s been rubbing you the wrong way for days now. You blame it on the lack of sleep you can never seem to get enough of. Fuck, is it possible to drink yourself into a wine coma? You’d really love to find out.

Without the sun, the wind is particularly chilling, curling over the collar of your jacket and pinching the back of your neck. Your feet ache, the plastic holding the lasagna is starting to sweat, and you’re pretty sure you’ve got a run in your nylons. Fighting back a shiver, you unlock your car and toss everything into the passenger’s seat when you hear your name.

For a fraction of a second, you think it’s the wind. That your mind has been circling its own loneliness for so long, it’s taking pity on your pathetic ass and imagining comfort out of thin air. But you hear it again, stilling with one foot in your car, hand on the door. Your name – quiet, reserved, purposeful.

So unlike him.

“Can we talk?”

Just get in the car. Just get in, turn it on, and drive. Your fingers bite into the cold metal.

“Max, it’s late and I’m exhausted –,”

“Then I’ll make it quick.”

His long coat flutters around his knees in the uneasy breeze, his hands in his pockets. You can’t really see his face in the shadows between the streetlights.

You haven’t moved. One foot on the floor of your car, hand on the door. He sighs and tugs at the tie around his neck. You wait.

“You said you’d be quick –,”

His jaw ticks, finds your gaze for the first time. “It’s fucking freezing out – can I at least sit in the car?”

“There’s lasagna.” Max had the unique capacity to trigger your most basic instincts seemingly out of nowhere. Where did he get off demanding anything? You want to stomp your foot and stick your tongue out. “I mean, you have to move the lasagna . . . and some other stuff.”

Briefly thankful for the dark shadows to hide your childish blush, you plop into the car seat without looking back at him. His figure moves around the car and you make the express decision to make him deal with all your shit in the passenger's seat. But to your enormous surprise (and swelling embarrassment), he gathers your briefcase, the plastic container, and your empty coffee mug without comment and puts them gently in the backseat – without flinging them or sighing like he just moved mountains.

Your fingers curl over the stiff steering wheel as he folds his long legs into the car, fighting with his jacket, and grunting a bit when his knees press up against the dashboard. The click as his seat slides backwards to make room is painfully audible.

The overhead light in your car fades long before either of you say anything.

“Max, it’s cold and I wanna go home–,”

“Okay, okay, sorry – fuck –,” he twists the coat tighter around his chest, sliding low in his seat like a toddler throwing a tantrum. “Okay. It’s just . . . this isn’t easy and I don’t –,”

“You don’t what?” You snap, rounding on him, patience finally running out. “You don’t know how to apologize for being a fucking asshole?”

“No – I mean, yeah, but –,”

“So you admit it! You were being a shit and you know it!”

“It’s not like it’s that fucking simple–,”

“Yeah, it is. It really is, Max. You got scared the last time we were together and you took it out on me the first chance you got.”

He shoves his palms into his eyes. “Okay, yes, I was scared, but not then. I mean, it freaked me out a little bit, but . . . it wasn’t the bite that got to me.”

“Yeah? Then what was?”

He huffs, lowering his hands slowly, his shoulders curving in as his hands drop into his lap. “You told Tim and not me. And,” he adds quickly at your rapidly reddening face, “and for about fifteen minutes, I didn’t know if you were alive or not. I just heard ‘not at work’ and ‘car accident’ and I assumed the worst . . . and because of the way I’ve treated this relationship, you didn’t think about calling me just to let me know you were okay. And . . . I fucked up.”

You blink. Slowly, then several times rapidly. “You were scared that you lost me.”

That pained grimace deepens and he scowls at you like you called his Tonka Toy Truck stupid.

“Don’t say it like that. It makes me sound pathetic.”

You scowl back. “Would it kill you to be genuine for two seconds? It’s okay to have feelings. Even ones about me.”

“Of course I have feelings for you,” he rolls his eyes and you want to bite him on his finger. “Why would I put us both through the fucking ringer just so I can bite you if I didn’t care about you?”

“So then if you can easily admit that you have feelings for me, why were you so fucking awkward that last time? Why didn’t you answer your phone? Why were you so fucking mean to me at my apartment?”

“Because I don’t wanna keep this a secret anymore!”

Your car feels abnormally cramped as all the air is sucked out with a vacuum. But, as a vampire, maybe that’s not a problem for him.

Or maybe if he stops, he’ll never be able to get it all out.

His eyes are wide, his broad shoulders pressed up against the door, as if he is trying to escape the confines of the car, or look at you straight on.

“I want to be the one you call when there’s a problem, not fucking Tim. I want you to know I’d never, ever hurt you, no matter how blood drunk I was. I want . . . I want to stay overnight at your apartment and I want . . .” he trails off, swallowing over the words that are seemingly choking him. “I want to be your . . .”

He murmurs something and you assume you didn’t hear him because you are simply too shocked.

“What?”

Max groans and puts his hands over his face as if he is being physically tortured.

“I wanna be your boyfriend. In public. At work. All the time. I wanna . . . I wanna tell people I’m your boyfriend and you’re my girlfriend.” He makes a face and sticks his tongue out, grimacing. “And I wanna fucking graduate kindergarten apparently. Get married on the blacktop. Blegh.”

As he wrestles with the apparently juvenile terms, you fall into speechlessness. There’s a dozen emotions flashing through you like fire embers: relief, anger, embarrassment, curiosity, joy, sadness –

Desire.

Watching his tongue roll around in his mouth, even comically, reminds you exactly why you entered into this relationship/not relationship with him in the first place.

Mouth finally closing, he lifts his gaze to you, chin tilted down, and you can almost imagine the ears turned back and low on his head.

“And I know that’s not what you want. I didn’t want to say anything but then it all just fucking snowballed, and it’s been killing me not being around you, so when I saw you leave tonight, I thought–,”

“Why do you think that’s not what I want?” Your heart rises, just a bit, in your chest, and you feel it tap against your breastbone. “Why wouldn’t I want to go public?”

Max watches you cautiously, eyebrows drawn down. “HR nightmare for one. But in the beginning, since we didn’t, you know, go public then, I just figured . . . Figured you’d want to end it before calling me your boyfriend.”

“But you didn’t want that either, in the beginning, right?”

He nods, suspicious.

“But things changed for you. And . . . you know . . . things might have changed for me too.”

God, maybe your mom can take pictures of you two together at the kindergarten graduation ceremony. Why is this so fucking hard to talk about?

Max blinks at you, his turn to be struck silent.

“So, theoretically, if I stop being an asshole and you call me for all your rides home, I can call you my girlfriend to Tim’s stupid face?”

“If you’re ready to deal with the HR nightmare,” you say, meaning that and a handful of other things. If you really want to deal with all of that for me.

You swear Max’s eyes twinkle gold for a second.

“Um, yeah. I mean, I am if you are.”

“I am if you are.”

“I asked you first.”

“I asked you second.”

A grin sparks across his face, the tension leaving his jaw. Joy crinkles in the corners of his eyes.

“Then I wanna kiss you first.”

Your heart is now knocking between your breastbone and your throat. You nod, swallowing nerves.

“Finally, something we agree on.”

For the first time in your memory, Max moves slow, hesitantly, but encouraged by the smirk on your lips. The car still feels small, but now in the best way possible. He leans forward, the console in the middle squeaking as you press your forearm against it, his hand sinking into your hair, nails against your scalp.

You smell mint, coffee, and finally, something coppery.

You lick your lip a second before his slot against yours.

It’s chaste, as chaste as kissing Max Phillips can be. A thoughtful moment of rediscovery, of possibility, of relieved familiarity. He knows just how to turn his head, to press into you, to make you sigh into his mouth.

“Am I forgiven?” He teases, his voice soft and quiet, eyes half open as they take in every pore and feature of your face.

Desire, buttery and warm, melts into sticky arousal between your thighs. The fingers on his chest dig in as you grasp at the material to drag him closer.

“I think you owe me a base, slugger.”

Max’s eyes widen. “Here? Now?”

“I’m pretty sure the office building is locked up, so unless you have another suggestion–,”

He groans, hands immediately tugging around your knees to pull you literally out of your seat and into his lap. He grinds your hips down against him, as if he couldn’t help it, and you gasp, embarrassingly turned on from his hands on your hips and his sudden show of strength. That goddamn vampire strength.

“I missed you so much, you fucking freak,” he mouths against your cheek, his hand squeezing your thigh once before curling around your neck and yanking you into his hot mouth. Your muffled noise comes across as protest and surprise, but he keeps you pinned, his lips and teeth and tongue fighting over themselves to get to your skin first. “I’ll give you any base you fucking want, but I wanna neck in this car for a bit.”

You nod, quelling the flush of heat between your thighs and the subsequent whimper by burying your hands under his jacket, under his blazer, and tugging his shirt out from his waistband. His skin is cold, despite three layers of clothing and a heated seat.

Max grunts as you palm his stomach, muscles tightening, and he dips his mouth to your ear, your cheek, your neck. The brush of teeth against your hammering pulse point carries only the threat of pain. His tongue circles your vein like a bullseye.

His fingers knotted in your hair, Max rolls his hips once, breaking off the kiss to watch the shiver go through you and end in a subtle moan that has you knocking your forehead into his shoulder.

He mouths your ear, that soft skin just below it, hands rubbing up your hips and inching your skirt up your thighs.

“Are you sure you want it here?” His words are as gentle as his lips — which is to say not at all. He roughly captures your mouth again before you can answer and sucks your bottom lip between his teeth as if he can bleed the answer from you.

He’s kissing you so hard, your back nudges the dashboard. You respond in retaliation; swirl his tongue with yours like a goddamn preview, hands low on his groin as you push him back.

“Yes,” you murmur against his mouth. “Yes, Max, please. Here.”

“Then we’re moving the fucking lasagna again.”

He twists you as he opens the car door, and immediately the wet patch between your thighs is slapped by the cold air. You stumble, shuddering, your nipples tightening in the chilly air. But he’s already knocking everything on the back seat to the floor. Grabbing you and guiding you by your hips to lay back against the pleather and spreading your knees with the brush of his thumbs, his eyes darken as if he can see through your skirt and nylons. Like he can hear your cunt throb for him.

He hovers over you, his Armani fucking shoes hanging off the seat as he kneels on the seat, seemingly struck silent by the sight of you, even with all your clothes on.

“Max,” you say against the swelling in your chest, “you can bite my calf if biting near my pussy is too much.”

Just the mention of that wet, warm place he is so ridiculously fond of has drawn his attention back from his distant thoughts.

“So I can’t eat your pussy after I eat your pussy?”

“If you think you can handle it,” you nudge at his elbow with your toes, “go for it.”

Over his shoulder, you can see the wind tug on his jacket, hear it ghost over the treetops, but with his thick, broad body over you, you feel nothing but warm. Max unbuttons his collar and slides his already loose tie from around his neck. He tickles your nose with it before dropping it onto the floor.

“Leaving this within reach in case you need to scream into something, okay?”

You roll your eyes, flushed hot at the idea that you’re about to have semi-public sex. “You’ve been gone for a while. Maybe you’ve lost your touch.”

Something in his eyes grows dark, sharp, and his chin tilts just slightly.

“I guess you’ll have to judge that for yourself.” He pushes up your shirt to your throat, exposing your white linen bra (that’s what you get for assuming your sex life was over) and your twitching stomach to his hot, wandering gaze. Before you can pretend to protest being cold, he drops his mouth to the swell of your breast and teases your nipple with his teeth. “You tell me if I’ve lost my touch.”

Immediately, a full body shiver radiates from where his lips suck and you stretch out against the leather, eyes fluttering open and shut. He hasn’t earned a moan yet, a fact he seems acutely aware of when his eyes flick up to watch your face as he palms your other breast. He digs one finger over the cup, curling over the material and grazing your nipple with his nail, when you shake your head.

“Too public,” you breathe, as you wrap your legs around his waist, tugging him against you because you want to feel how much this affects him too. “Someone could see.”

“But you want me to eat you out? That’s not too public?” He grins as he tucks his face into your neck, lazily rolling his hips because he knows that’s exactly what you want.

“Just stick your head up my skirt.”

He stills, teeth ghosting your skin. “Yeah?”

You feel him twitch against your thigh and you have to remind yourself not to ask him to full out fuck you in the backseat of your car. You nod, your chin ruffling his hair. His grip on your ribcage tightens, an errant thumb swiping the underside of your breast, as he lets out a noise somewhere between a grunt and a moan.

“Have I told you you’re a fucking freak and how much I love it?”

Your toes curl in your shoes, heart in your ears, and blood hot under your skin. Just as he moves to shuffle back, you cup the back of his neck, turning your teeth and lips to his ear, the hairs there as soft as peach fuzz.

“No. I’m a monsterfucker.”

The sound that escapes him is no longer human, deep, jagged, a warning cry to hunted prey, and you feel just a prick of fangs against your neck. Immediately that rush of endorphins bows your back, a Pavlovian response to be fucked so good over and over again, and you keen into his chest.

“Max, baby, please–,”

Your cunt actually aches.

Max shoves himself away from you, yanking off his coat and suit jacket in one motion, and he actually lets them fall to the concrete parking lot. Before his sleeve is all the way out, he curls over you, one hand shoving up your skirt, and the other snagging the front of your nylons. His grip pinches the coarse hairs and your cunt involuntarily clenches as he peels the nylons over your hips and your knees with one hand. To get them completely off, you’d have to stretch out your legs, so he shoves your nylons to your ankles, before grabbing the backs of your thighs and thrusting you up the seat. Your head knocks against the car door, but he doesn’t seem to care – and neither do you.

The back seat of your ford is not meant for two people, much less two people hellbent on oral sex. And yet . . .

He shoves one knee under your low spine, lifting your hips up and you acquiesce – tightening your muscles to keep the position that nearly folds you in half, but he shakes his head.

“I don’t need to breathe, honey,” he purrs into your thigh and takes your knee around the back of his head, and then does the same to the other. The height gives you enough leverage to balance against the roof of the car, giving your weight onto his shoulders, and your cunt exactly where he wants it.

“That’s it, pretty girl. Now, let me eat.” He sticks out his tongue, flat against his chin.

He clutches your hips and tugs you closer, right into his waiting muscle.

Your spine arches even further off the seat when he takes advantage of the position and licks you from the curve of your ass to your clit. He catches the dripping wetness in his mouth, using it to massage that bundle of nerves with the tip of his tongue, his fingers firm against your hip. Any more pressure and he’ll bruise you. Any more after that and he’ll crush your hipbones.

Your hips thrust weakly, thighs squeezing his head, as he forcibly reminds you that he hadn’t lost his touch, with an additional reminder that no one else touches you like he does. No one. Not a living soul or otherwise.

A side lick to your clit and you bite your lip, eyes shut, your hands above your head to find leverage. You push back against him and he groans into your pussy, aquiline nose breathing harshly into your damp curls.

“Fuck, Max – yes, right there – oh god –,”

That soft teasing feeling that makes your hips cant forward with a sudden desperate need expands with every swipe of your tongue.

He’s never going to let you live it down if you come this fast.

“M-Max,”

He opens his jaw more, dropping his mouth to your exposed hole and licking so deep inside with a curled tongue, your thighs start to shake. You gasp, head lifting forward before dropping back, as he fucks you with his tongue. You want to ride his face.

And then Max lets out a grunt, shifting underneath you, his gaze flicking up to yours. With a hand on your knee as he practically hangs you upside down, he pulls back.

“You taste different.”

It takes you a second to realize he’s said something coherent. “W-what?”

He licks his lips, smeared with a wetness that makes the lower half of his face shine in the murky street lights. He licks you again as if to make sure.

“Your taste . . . your cunt, it’s . . .”

Max’s eyes widen slightly like a wolf catching the scent of a deer.

“Hold on, baby, I gotta try something.”

Without warning, he plunges two fingers inside of you and sucks on your clit. He times his sucks with the rapid pump of his fingers and you’re at your peak in seconds. Your thighs shake, your cunt tightens, the sudden ascent overwhelming and intense, and with a tap against that spot inside you he’s forever marked as his own, you flatten against the seat, as everything inside you bursts, wet and bright, into his waiting mouth. His eyes flutter at the taste as it drips out of you, corners of his mouth smeared with your release.

Max slowly slides his fingers out of you, watching you with apparent curiosity, pride evident in his eyes, and immediately your cunt aches, as if he had just given you three orgasms instead of one. There’s a low throb at the crux of your thighs and you groan, the pain only dull.

But he doesn’t seem to notice. He nudges your thighs back from his ears, opening up you just a bit before he tucks his tongue into you again. The throb, alongside the still settling waves of your orgasm, wants you to push him away, but it’s not overstimulation. After being with Max for so long, you knew what overstimulation felt like and this is not it.

“Max, c’mon, give me a second — fuck,”

Your eyes widen as you feel something wet trickle out of you and into his mouth, his eyes fixated on you. His grip around your waist pulls you closer to his chest.

You watch each other the second you realize what’s just happened.

He leans back and there’s blood on his bottom lip.

Embarrassment scorches through your body and all the shitty feelings you had all week suddenly identify themselves as symptoms of PMS. Fuck.

You immediately push on him, trying to de-tangle yourself from his shoulders, but he shakes his head.

“You wanted me to drink your blood, right? Third base? Well, now we don’t have to worry about where to bite you.”

“But Max,” you struggle, working to sit up right but he won’t let your legs go. In fact, his grip turns rougher and you feel his fingers crush into your hip bones, his other hand pinning your knee to the back of his neck. “Max, c’mon, you don’t have to do that. This is silly and –,”

His wide palm smooths over your knee, like he’s trying to settle a frightened cat.

“Who’s scared of genuine feelings now?” He murmurs.

Only Max Phillips can go soft and sweet with your cunt inches from his face. Your apparently bleeding cunt.

His hand moves from your knee, down your thigh and over your hip, before making the reverse trail, just as slow, just as comforting, while his gaze never leaves yours. You swallow something harsh in your throat, as your lower pelvis starts to ache.

“The last thing I want is to hurt you, but I’ve heard that orgasms can actually help with cramps.” Max says softly. This isn’t a ploy to get (further) into your pants. He’s being genuinely – really, seriously, genuine. Your heart beats just as hard as the cramps as they settle.

“What woman told you that?”

Max huffs out a laugh, turning his head to nuzzle your thigh. “I was lonely without you and had to make do . . . so I befriended Carla and her gang.”

“The office manager?” You gape at him.

“They all tried to set me up with their daughters,” he chuckles, his hands still roaming over your body. He adjusts his knee so you have something to lean into. “So, pretty harmless. But they are also some of the most incorrigible gossip hounds I’ve ever known.”

“They didn’t mind setting their daughters up with a vampire?”

“Not all of them are human, honey.” His eyes roll up your chest to your face. “And the ones that are were practically begging me to turn them.”

“But you didn’t.”

“No, baby, I didn’t.” He shifts again, tugging you further over his shoulders, thumbs pressing gently into the backs of your knees. “We don’t have to do this if you really don’t want to.”

“I know. It’s just . . .” You touch his thigh behind your back, needing to feel him to gather up the strength to say what you wanted to. “No one’s ever done this before.”

Max’s solid eyebrow jumps, lips pulling back into that wicked smirk. You swear you catch a glimpse of fang as he focuses back onto your cunt.

“Well, you’re a monsterfucker and I’m your monster to fuck.”

His mouth lowers, eyes on you, waiting and begging. You nod and he prods your clit with his tongue again, before licking anything and everything out of your hole.

Max doesn’t eat. He feeds.

He grunts through his nose, trying to kneel as high as he is allowed in the cramped space. Finally, his gaze falls from you, eyes flickering shut, as the cramp in your pelvis digs deeper – you cry out – but then, it melts. The dull ache is spread across your hip bones until it is just warm, hot with your rushing blood. You moan, throwing your head back, and finally you dig your hands into his hair.

As that warm bright coil begins to sink into your pelvis, Max groans between your legs. He pulls back just an inch, his lips a gooey red, to say:

“Pull on it if you need to hold yourself up.”

Why you thought you could ever go back to a human lover after Max is a fuzzy, hazy notion at the edges of your mind when you dig your fingers into his hair, slightly longer than it’s been in the past, and pull yourself even closer to his mouth.

In a truly impractical position, you feel his iron-hard cock poke your back, his hips stuttering, fucking empty air. His arm bands around your hips, your knees knocking against the ceiling, as he adjusts his grip.

The inverse of blood has you going dizzy; blood rushing to your head as Max coaxes blood out of your cunt.

And then you feel it.

Behind your thighs, his chest vibrates and the air is filled with a delicious, primal sound. The sound of a beast being satiated, of a hunt gone well, a feeding that will sustain for a long, long while. Before you found it rather adorable, funny that a grown man like Max Phillips would purr when deeply satisfied, but now, it’s a hair-pin trigger to your demise.

You cry out, loud and wet and wanting, as everything from your hips down starts to tighten up again. You lock your ankles together against his back, toes exposed to the night air, and you use the last of your waning strength in your thighs to lift yourself even further to him. Your hips thrust weakly and that grip around your hip bones seals you to his chest.

Don’t fucking move.

But it’s enough. Your inner thighs a gooey, hot mess, he prods his tongue deep, licking up every liquid that drips out of you, before coating your clit in your own mess.

He sucks and you come. Long and loud.

Your vision slowly begins to unblur, black spots fading, as he lowers you down, careful not to go too quick like he’s trying to not to wake someone from a light sleep. You can feel that sleep, that endless relaxation swelling over you as you go boneless while Max untangles you.

Your eyes stay open long enough to see the smear of red across his lips before he wipes it away. The cramping in your pelvis has been reduced to a gentle throb.

Gingerly, Max pulls your skirt down, hand arching your back so you don’t have to lift your hips as he adjusts you back into some modicum of decorum. He reaches back and snags his coat and jacket from the ground before tossing them into the passenger’s seat. With your feet in his lap, arm stretched out across the back of the seat you just debauched, he shuts the door and instantly the smell of his cologne permeates the air.

You grin, wriggling down in the seat as far you can go like a housecat warmed by the sun.

You sit in silence for a bit, content to just be, a welcome retreat for your breathing to go steady and his cock to soften. His hands brush against the heels of your bare feet.

“You made me purr again,” he says with a grin.

“There’s no way that’s the technical term for it, whatever it is,” you say teasingly as you watch him trace your ankles with his finger. “You should ask another vamp what you’re supposed to call it.”

He chuckles, squeezing your foot once before glancing up at you. Whatever he sees in you, it makes his eyes go soft.

“You mean ask about the thing that only happens during the most intimate moments a vampire can experience? Yeah, sure, I’ll bring it up at the water cooler.”

Satiated and warm and a little loopy from a truly record breaking orgasm, you stick your tongue out at him.

“Fine. I’m going to tell people that you purr like a cute, innocent little kitten until you find a better term.”

He bends your knee so he can press his lips to the curve.

“Just because you’re my girlfriend, don’t think I won’t turn you over and swat your bottom.” He nips at the hollow of the joint with flat teeth, opening up your legs to him again. You can feel that heavy wetness trickle down again, and you sit up, not embarrassed by your bleeding, but suddenly tired beyond belief.

Max lets you move out of his lap as you curl a hand around his cheek. It’s a shame you only see that touch of vulnerability, the man without the quips and the teasing and the bravado, after a good fuck. But you think you might finally have it your way, sooner than you ever hoped.

“Well if my boyfriend would drive us back to his place, maybe I could show how sorry I am for teasing you.”

He studies you for a minute, a full minute that has you surprised he’s not roughly kissing you again.

“Sometimes, around the office, you’d smell different and I never knew what it was. I didn’t put enough thought into it to realize the pattern, but it makes sense now. And it makes sense why you were suddenly very busy during that week when I’d bootycall you.”

You shrug, your neck suddenly very warm. “I dunno. I figured you wouldn’t want to be around me when I’m like that. Not to mention I dress in baggy clothes and wander around my apartment with a heating pad taped to my hips.

“Really? They’re that bad?”

You nod. “Women around the world rejoiced when working from home became an option. Video calls only show from the waist up.”

“Now that’s all I’m gonna be thinking about at the next all-hands meeting,” he grins and squeezes your knees.

“I guess I set myself up for that one, didn’t I?” You shake your head. He nods, humming his affirmation, and kisses you.

“Let’s go to your place,” he mutters against your lips. “There might be no place on earth less equipped to handle Shark Week than a male vampire’s bachelor pad.”

“Shark Week?” You giggle.

“Carla’s words, not mine. The Rising Red Tide. Code Red. Aunt Flo. And my personal favorite, communists in the fun house.”

Your giggle turns to a snort as you lean forward into him, laughing. His lips press affectionately into your hairline as you settle down.

He moves to take your feet out of his lap when you gently take his elbow.

“So we’re good, right? This wasn’t too much?” You are a little concerned by the total and complete lack of fang he showed, but entirely grateful.

As if reading your mind, he says, “the fangs only come out when I need to get through pesky flesh to feed. Your blood came out like a broken ice cream machine at McDonalds.”

You wrinkle your nose as he laughs and you push him out of the car.

“That’s disgusting, Max.”

You snag the keys from your briefcase and toss them to him as he rounds the car and you crawl into the passenger’s seat.

He drops in and immediately turns on your seat warmers. The gesture is subtle and thoughtful, things you thought Max Phillips never could be.

“Speaking of which,” he holds onto the head of the seat as he backs out of the spot. “Carla also told me that ice cream is the cure to most cramps. So, with the lovely picture I just painted in your mind, do you want to go to McDonalds?”

As you look at him, shadows flitting across his face as he drives under streetlight after streetlight, his fingers that had been inside you minutes ago loosely holding the steering wheel, your heart twinges as you come to a certain realization.

This can’t last, right?

He’s only acting like this because he feels bad, feels guilty, right?

Max Phillips isn’t boyfriend material, despite his claims.

As proven before, feelings can change. So you wonder how long until his feelings about you change again and he grows tired of you. Max Phillips is not a housecat.

You swallow, glancing away before he has a chance to catch your eyes.

“Yeah, Max, let’s do it.”

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#max phillips #max phillips x you #max phillips smut #max phillips fanfiction #max phillips x reader #max phillips x f!reader #blood sucking bastards #max phillips x female reader #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal character fanfiction

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polyklok · 11 months

Note

nate might have really intense kinks but he is a MASTER of aftercare.

if you’re a groupie and/or one night stand, he’ll still tend to your injuries albeit hastily as he doesn’t want you to spread rumors that ruin his “grrr scary tough guy” image and out him as an actually good person. he’s a bit weird about it, doing it silently while pushing and grabbing you in all the places you’ve been hurt, but he isn’t rough—not nearly as rough as he was. if you make a sound out of pain he’ll stop and look at you before returning to the injury with an even gentler hand.

if you’re his partner though, god he will not let go of you for a second. he loves cuddling after sex—especially if it was rough—to make sure you know he still cares about and loves you. he’ll quietly ask if you’re okay while he runs his hand down your thigh or back. if you’re injured, he’ll honestly feel pretty bad if you can believe it (post-nut clarity) and will jump at the chance to take care of you. he needs a bit of reassuring on occasion; let him know you aren’t afraid of him or angry with him for what you two did. remind him that it was consensual and you had fun. he’ll gently kiss your forehead and start to get dressed.

sorry i’m fucking gay

Bro, I AGREE, you don’t need to TELL ME-

LOOK AT HIM

Btw I’m writing this since I love this but idk what do with it-

Aftercare W/Nathan Explosion!

Nathan rolls over, taking his weight and warmth off of you. Only when the cold air hits do you finally realize how hot your own face is. You stare at his ceiling, blinking away tears from your blurry vision, a mellow sense of pleasure still swishing in between your thighs; it’s wonderful. You try to take some deep breaths but only let out pitiful whimpers. You’re still shaking, still caught up in his powerful motions that now only ghost over your body. You can feel Nathan beside you, breathing out his own grunts. The entire room has a strong scent of sex.

You’re unsure how long you’re laying there next to him, could’ve been a few seconds, a few minutes, lots of minutes. But at some point your body years for warmth again. As soon as your shakes are replaced with shivers, he somehow knows and pulls himself up to encase you. Big mistake. Once he moves your body even an inch closer to his, it becomes horribly clear just rough he had been. All the cuts, scratches, bruises, bite marks, and sore spots begin to scream on your skin. You moan, in agony rather than bliss, as your body is consumed with aching and stabbing. You begin to weep again. The pain alone, you could’ve handled, but the sense of pleasure and love fighting pain and embarrassment overwhelms you to tears.

Nathan cringes. Just moments ago, it was so lovely to torture you whilst you lay underneath him, screaming his name. But the aftermath was nothing short of hell and he couldn’t stand to see you go through it. Of course, it wasn’t entirely Nathan’s fault, you had begged him to ruin you and he had happily obliged. The two of you have always had your moments of…cruelty in the bedroom, but never before had it been so much and all at once. Tonight became particularly passionate and therefore particularly harmful to your anatomy, and now the consequences were reaching you. You were bleeding in random places. Bright hickeys and bruises were beginning to form all over. Your throat was strained from all the noises you made. Your legs wanted to die. Tomorrow, the pain would be even worse.

“I’m sorry,” he grumbled, running his hands over you, light as a feather, “I’m so sorry.” God, his voice was addictive.

You tried to forgive him, but your words tangled in your mind and refused to leave your throat. You moved a hand up to brush over his scalp. He understood the sentiment. Still, he began to kiss every single mark he made that was visible on your body, and there were plenty. His lips sent your mind into fuzziness. The rough pads of his fingertips gently danced over your thighs, caressing your bruises oh-so-lightly before a warm kiss took over. Your face buried into the pillow, letting him heal the wounds he had created. It was wonderful, he was wonderful.

“Love you,” He grumbled, mouth pressed again your flesh. The vibration of his rich voice gave you goosebumps. His tongue slipped over a patch of dried blood on your hip, where he had used the most beautiful blade to slice you open. He had never been shy about blood, in fact, he seemed to thrive in it, as he now made a guttural sound from tasting yours.

You whispered, all you could manage, “I love you, too.” You had stopped crying, luckily. Now you basked in warmth and tried to soothe your throbbing head.

He stared up through his dark lashes, mouth still attached to you. As much as he hated to see you in pain, this moment of vulnerability made his heart melt in ways that he could only describe in the lyrics. He pities the past Nathan, who still destroyed you all the same and yet refused to show such courtesy to fix you back up. It was once minimal, hasty, even harsh the way he seemed to be so eager to be over with you. Never again. Now, he was willingly addicted to your touch and drowned in the way you felt underneath him as he slowly treated you with all the compassion he could muster.

Nathan loved to fuck, torture, violate you until you were a mindless mess for him. But, just as much, he learned to nature and cherish the wonderful body that you so kindly submitted to him.

#polyklok is real #metalocalypse #dethklok #metalocalypse x reader #request filled #tw bloodplay #tw wounds #nathan explosion #metalocalypse nathan #nathan explosion x reader #dethklok x reader

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joshlmbrt · 28 days

Text

w; no title since slightly short!, lower case intended - fuller fics will have upper case!, possessed!josh, josh kisses r but like i said - possessed!josh, r gets KNOCKED out, scary elements, unrequited lauvvvvv angst - i cannot stay away

an; SO EXCITED TO WRITE FOR PATRICK WILSON’S CHARACTERS!!!! i hope you all enjoy this little blurb hehehe.

it’s strangely quiet at lorraine lamberts home - a beautiful white house that looked victorian.

you’d been visiting since josh and renai had been staying at her home. you’ve known josh since middle school, growing and becoming close friends. but once he had gotten married, it changed - which you had figured would happen.

bitterly.

you pause at the door, glancing over your shoulder before looking back at the oak door, knocking with a bit of hesitation.

your arm drops to your side once again and you can’t help but feel the hair on the back of your neck stand in alarm.

from the inside, you can distantly hear a chain being slipped from the door and the lock being turned before the door swings open.

josh looks a bit sick, tired. bags under his eyes, skin paler than what it’s usually compared too, slightly sunken cheekbones.

your head tilts, brows pinching in slight worry, lines creasing your forehead. “josh, are you okay? you look…” you pause because you don’t actually know what to say - sick. tired. dead.

“just woke up feeling a bit under the weather,” he says. his hand remains on the brass doorknob as he stares at you for an uncomfortably long time. “would you like to come in?”

“oh, if you’re not feeling well i don’t-”

“nonsense. come in.” he steps to the side, slippers rubbing against the fabric of the carpet. you look into the house, noticing how quiet it really is. you peek over at him before looking down at the ground and stepping over the threshold and into the house.

it seems colder inside as well, your arms crossing over your chest as your eyes continue to seek out any form of life.

you flinch when you feel a hand rub at your arm. “you cold?” it’s whispered, and you shiver from the slight warmth that hits your jaw.

“i - uh —” you step away from josh, turning and giving a tight lipped smile. “i’m fine. where’s everyone at?”

he inhales deeply, floor creaking when he steps an inch closer. there’s a slight twitch in your brow. “mom and renai went grocery shopping. dalton and foster are with jessica.”

“oh,” you nod. you don’t know what else to say and you had never felt this awkward around josh before and now you want to leave. because this didn’t seem like josh. “well, i’ll go so you can rest. i hope you feel better soon.”

your feet start as you speak, wanting to get out as soon as possible. but with the grip around your bicep that causes you to pause your steps, eyes staring straight at the closed and locked door.

breath hits the side of your face again, the tip of his nose gliding slightly against your cheek. “you don’t want to stay?”

you release a shuddering breath, blinking as your eyes cut over to his face. “i… i can’t. i need-”

“you’re not slick, you know,” his hand trails up your arm slowly. you can’t tear your eyes away from his face, noticing how lifeless his eyes seem. “there’s a reason why you keep coming over.”

your eyes flutter close when his fingers reach your cheek, a cold contrast against the heat. your hair gets tucked behind your ears before the same fingers trail down slowly towards your neck.

“what are you doing?” your voice is breathy and shaky. the sound of your own heartbeat loud in your ears. there’s a familiar burn in your eyes and you’re not exactly sure why you’re about to cry.

he finally steps in front of you, other hand reaching up and following the same ministrations his other hand did - a trail of fire licking up your face where ever he touched.

“doing what you’ve always wanted me too.”

your lips part, words disappearing from your mind. you loved josh, of course you did - but there was no way you could do this to renai, a sweet woman who brought him happiness that you couldn’t.

but you’re frozen in place and his lips that are slightly chapped meets yours, fingers curling over your jaw and towards the back of your neck.

you melt slightly, your own hands lifting and landing on his chest. his thumb presses against your chin and your heart sinks, eyes shooting open as you push him away, fingers covering your mouth as you stare at him.

“i…i need to leave.” you’re rushing past him, trembling hand reaching out and quickly unlocking the door. you open it and it slams shut again, a flannel clad arm in your line of sight.

his fingers flex slightly against the wood. a gasp leaving your throat when you feel his other hand tangle into your hair, roughly yanking your head back.

“you’re not leaving.” it’s a rough whisper - deeper than josh’s actual voice. you blink and feel a tear roll down your cheek as you stare over at him, body shaking violently.

“josh… you’re hurting me.”

his face scrunches slightly, teeth baring as he closes his eyes, head shaking. his chest is heaving with heavy breathes and you feel your heart drop when his eyes shoot open, face dropping of any emotion he was just showing.

he says nothing, a look of anger crosses his features, before your head flies forward into the oak door, your body dropping onto the floor, vision blurry as you watch his body loom over you, feet on either side of you.

you suddenly feel the dizziness, head lolling to the side as your eyes slowly close, your world going black.

tags to boost !! (i won’t do this again - i apologize!) ; @reysorigins, @officerrrfriendly, @thecreelhouse, @hollandweather, @fear-is-truth

#cherry writes ✿#patrick wilson x fem!reader #patrick wilson x reader #josh lambert x fem!reader #josh lambert x reader

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earthry · 8 months

Text

The Emeritus Opera House (Secondo & Copia Headcanons)

Unhinged phantom of the opera inspired AU where the Emeritus Brothers run an Opera House passed down to them from Papa Nihil. It was failing and on the brink of bankruptcy until the brothers took over. They're all virtuosos in their own ways.

tw: sfw, no big warnings, only secondo and copia hcs right now but i might make terzo and primo eventually. i have ideas for them but just couldn't write anything i liked so far.

Secondo

A famous traveling composer and now returning to the Opera House to oversee rehearsals for the big upcoming opera that he wrote.

You are a ballet dancer with a lot of passion, you often stay behind after rehearsals to practice more-- you don't realize that Secondo is watching from his private viewing box (each brother has one of their own).

It's pretty much love at first sight for him, and he decides that he just has to have you.

Everyone is jealous because his only interest is you, and he is very charming. Kind of a cynical bastard who is hard to impress, but with you it's like he's head over heels. He's so soft with you, so indulgent. He spoils you. Buys you new ballet shoes, takes you to see shows that you want to see, etc.

It was his song you were singing that night in the empty opera house. When the dancers and directors had already packed up for the day, when the stage was bathed in darkness save for the center spotlight. You had bribed one of the stagehands to keep it on so that you may practice your pliés, your turns, your steps.

You had thought yourself alone in the theatre, for why would anyone else be around? You’ve done this plenty before, and you would do it plenty again.

You were a goddess in the light, soft beams illuminating your ethereal shape against the dull backdrop. Each hair displaced was perfect, each bead of sweat clung to your skin was sure to be sweet. When you moved, it was as if you were dancing in the rain under the safety of a parapet, the way you bent at the waist with your arm out in flawless form. And your voice; the siren’s song that called him to the heart of the opera house tonight. Soft and honeyed despite disuse, the way your mouth wrapped around the words, the way you caressed each line before granting merciful freedom. Oh how he longed to be a dissonant chord for you to hold in your arms with such devotion, to be enveloped in your warmth as you love the hurt from his bared soul.

Putrefaction, a scent that cursed be– under cold dark dust.

This must be the devil’s work, he thinks to himself as he stands alone in his box, watching you from the audience. Lucifer himself must have summoned him here tonight, for why would such an angel as you rest in the palm of his hand like this? So soon after his return from Italy, has his dark lord delivered onto him a blessing?

From the darkness, rise a succubus– from the earthen rust. It’s his song, too. His song falling from your lips, his song that you are humming the notes to, his song you giggle to when you fuck up a line or two. His.

To the envy of the other dancers, you're the only one he has eyes for after that. His return to from Italy has been all everyone's been talking about for weeks, murmurs and gossip about if anyone will catch his eyes. He was an unmarried, unattached Emeritus brother– everyone wanted to stand out to him.

The first time the two of you formally meet is at the welcome back party in which the entire company, cast, and crew were invited. More of a lavish banquet of sorts, to be honest.

When he entered the room, his presence was domineering and almost cold as he regarded the crowd. When introductions began, you decided to take the opportunity to raid the dessert table.

So thus, it was as you were stuffing your face with hors d'oeuvre that Secondo approaches you. For a second, you almost choke at the sight of him strolling towards you. He's an intimidating and scary looking man, but as he nears you, his expression softens.

He introduces himself, as if everyone hadn't been talking about him since he'd arrived, and takes you hand like a gentleman.

You hold your breath as he brings it to his lips and presses a gentle kiss to the back of it, swallowing a little as he flickers his eyes up to you, his lips still ghosting over you skin. You feel little goosebumps up your arm but it isn't entirely unpleasant.

"A pleasure to meet such a beautiful angel as yourself," his voice is a purr and you feel just a little faint as you whisper back in a high tone that that the pleasure is all yours.

He seems to think it amusing in a fond way, his lips quirking up in a slight smirk as he finally releases your hand. He's pleased to have held your hand, to have graced you with worship.

Though you don't realize it at the moment, he's already swept you off your feet.

Copia

The youngest of the Emeritus brothers and the only one that has yet to leave a permanent mark in the musical world. He feels a lot of pressure to do just as well as his brothers, but to also keep up with you and stay by your side and match your talent.

You and him debut together as the main leads in Secondo's opera, a dream you've shared since you were children.

Yep, we're childhood friends with Copia again.

The idea of spending hours alone with Copia just practicing and struggling together to reach your goals and dreams is just chef's kiss to me.

Whenever you accidentally hurt yourself or sprain your leg he takes very good care of you and vice versa.

Plenty of companies and talent agents have tried to recruit either you or him and neither of you will join unless the other gets to join too.

Post opening night of your duo debut, you celebrate together and and he kisses you and you absolutely melt into his arms.

It’s like his body lights up with electricity every time the two of you touch. Your hand in his, his hand on your hip, when he supports you as you bend backwards and he holds you in his arms and dips you low to the ground.

Your voices are intertwined, hanging in the empty spaces between the two of you and the audience that holds its breath.

There’s a crescendo, and he twirls you out as your voice hits a higher note. He meets your eyes and they twinkle with elation. You’ve practiced this so many times but nothing will ever compare to this— the adrenaline and the lights, the glimmer reflecting off your costumes under the light, the orchestra carrying the melody with gentle inclinations. It sounds like coming home and feels like a birthplace.

When the two of you were children, best friends both with family in the music world, you had declared with serious certainty that when you grew up, you wanted to be a leading starlet. You wanted the spotlight.

Copia hadn’t quite known what he wanted back then, only that he’d do anything to stay right by your side.

If you wanted to take dance and vocal lessons, he did too. If you wanted to audition for a show, so did he. If there was a specific school or dance company or choir you wanted to be part of, well— he was going to want to, too.

His mother had been thrilled that he wanted to continue the family legacy, but he only had eyes for you.

And so when the curtain draws back in the Emeritus Opera House— his family’s Opera House, it’s your hand he holds guiding to center stage.

You’re beautiful under the spotlight, just like he’d always known you would. Sometimes as children you’d sneak into this very theater and stand in the middle together, daydreaming what it would be like one day to be up there.

There’s a studio somewhere, with memories sunk into polished floorboards like ink on a page. The in between of endless practice sitting on that bench in the back of the room and staring at your reflection in the mirror across from you.

Copia is the one that wraps your injured feet, the one that rubs them when they're sore. The one that encourages you when you're down, when you feel like your dream will never be in reach. You don't think you could have done it without him. Or perhaps along the way it's just become that you don't want to do it without him.

Because some nights are spent staying up late to rehearsal only to dissolve into laying on the hardwood floor together and talking well into the morning. Any shows, any lessons, any choir— if Copia didn't make it too, you'd move onto the next opportunity.

Never one without the other, after all.

#the band ghost #copia #secondo #ghost band #ghost bc #papa emeritus iv #cardinal copia #papa emeritus ii #papa emeritus ii x reader #papa emeritus iv x reader #papa emeritus x reader #cardinal copia x reader #headcanons

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sculptorofcrimson · 21 days

Text

My Angel

@kit-williams I take FULL responsibility. Behold, more scary golden boys!

~~~~~

“Je prie les anges et les anges m'ont pris”

Translation from French: I prayed to the angels, and the angels took me.

~~~~

It's not a pretty feeling, is it, when you are denied even the right to die?

The Aquilan Shields. The desire of any, the saviors of countless. The gilded heroes in gold and crimson, thundering from the skies.

But they are not heroes.

They are not saviors. They are not angels, they are seraphims bathed in fire and brimstone and choking smoke. They do not chase off death, but rather prolong it, until you can die by their command.

It is a tradition, they say, a practice that carried over from the First Custodian and into their Order. The First to seal what belonged to him in gold and crimson, the first lifebringer who preserved life in a dead man walking. The outcast dead, preserved beyond an end, beyond life, beyond even adoration itself, until love curdled into obsession.

He was the First of the Custodes, the First to adore so vehemently it was beyond even death itself.

It is a tradition for them not to love, but to protect, to adore and nurture, to keep. It should be an honor. It should be adoration. Many want to be loved. No one wants to know. Many yearn for that pretty delusion, the warmth of the fire without fearing its heat. You cannot love a heartless man.

It was hard to imagine Leinth had once wished for the stress of their regard.

“You seem melancholy today.” He observed. His voice filters through perfect vox lines, yet she could detect no waver beneath it, no human imperfection. It was as if he had been mastered as a machine, without deviation, and without error.

Leinth offered a wan smile, the girl kicking her thin shins out over the rooftop’s edge. He had found her with ease, as he always had, regardless if she was in the Palace’s grand gardens or had paid a civilian to carry her to the outskirts of Terra. He would always find her, after all.

Sekhmet Andas of the Aquilan Shield made no noise as he shifted to a resting position besides her, making eerily little sound for one as large as he. For a moment they were silent, watching the setting sun bathe the slums of Terra to red, then crimson.

“I had thought Terra would be beautiful.” she spoke, after a long while. Sekhmet inclined his head.

“What makes you think it is not?”

“These.” Leinth gestures with one hand. Her fingers, still unused to the exercises she had been subject to, awkwardly form crude signs in thoughtmark. + These. The ones you never show. + Her voice had yet to be taken away from her in her ascension to a full Sister, but her freedom to roam certainly was.

“You cannot drape wraiths in raiments and call them beautiful, Leinth. You cannot show the shadow of the sun.” Sekhmet, with surprising tenderness, gently nudges her index finger to the proper form. "Longer, Ley. Thoughtmark is not an unelegant language."

"But are they too not loved?" she bats his hand away. "These wraiths." Leinth couldn’t help but feel irate at the simple use of her endearment. It had once belonged to her brother once.

"I cannot speak for them." he replied. "Only that they were not graced by His light."

"Like I wasn't?" Leinth chuckles softly, bitterly. "Like I wasn't blessed, for the first decade and half of my life? Worthless, until my gift was seen?"

“No. You were…exceptional.” Sekhmet’s tone was as level as always, even in the face of Leinth’s capricious wrath. The thin girl was shivering, but seemed unnoticing of the setting sun’s cold. Sekhmet reached out, and wrapped his cloak around her shoulders. Leinth never looked up.

“Oh, you.” Leinth’s giggle sounded far too jaded, far too cruel for a girl of her age, all of twenty-three and as bitter as a veteran. “You’ve spent so long in the gold, you’ve forgotten how to speak of the bronze.”

Sekhmet did not respond to that. He simply wrapped the cloak around her, and tried to fasten the clasp. Once more, Leinth shakes his hand away. Sekhmet contends with draping the fabric around her.

When she next spoke, her words were laden with vitriol. “I had a brother once. Down here. We were together.” There was an old rancor here, an ancient ache. Her eyes had become unfocused, her legs swinging out into the void as she gazed upon Terra’s slums from the shelter of the rooftop.

She sounded almost wistful.

“We were together when Father died. You wouldn’t know. Of course you wouldn’t. You wouldn’t care how Liaser fed me, clothed me, fought off a gang and ended up losing a third of his index finger from a knifethrust that was meant for me. You never saw the bodies left in the streets to rot, the trashheaps we buried ourselves in to hide from the gangs, how he took in a pariah at the age of twelve and refused to abandon her. You never knew what it felt like to starve, not knowing if you’d live long enough to scavenge from the streets. But he refused. Not even when my gift suffocated him, not even if he hated my soul, but loved me enough even when I drew “visitors”. When my aura drew…others here. Visitors that beat him. Visitors that tortured him. Visitors that hated me, hated my mind. Visitors wanted me.” her eyes had become unfocused, bitterly embroiled in the past. Sekhmet placed a titanic hand on her shoulder. He could feel the Pariah’s pulse from here, beating fast and hard like a dying rabbit’s, her shaven head bobbing from side to side with seemingly no consciousness. She was shaking. His other hand, still clad in gold auramite, rubbed soothing circles next to her spine.

She regained her voice after a few moments, still trembling. “One of them tried to skin him alive unless I showed myself, were you there to protect me from then?”

“Ley, you know that-”

“Were you there?” She half screamed. “Were you there when they broke three of his ribs and I robbed a clinic with my gift, when I walked in and the doctor called me a soulless monster and ran? When I left that dingy, rundown place with credits in my bag, knowing they feared me, knowing they looked at me and saw nothing but loathing? Knowing how it felt like not to be unnoticed, but to be utterly hated?”

“The golden do not know hate, dear Ley.” His hand wrapped around her, tightening and dragging her close when she tried to move away. Leinth snorted in derision and annoyance. He continued on. “And they will never step foot nor hide, so long as you’re beneath my gaze, little Sister. Where love is made impossible for you, Pariah, then contend yourself with fear.” With more tenderness than thought possible for a creature so cold, he reached out and gently turned her head towards him, tilting her face up until they were eye to eye. Leinth saw nothing, not even the cold spark of life, behind those eyes. It was like gazing into the eyes of a corpse, a corpse that would hold her, love her, suffocate her, for eternity.

“Contend yourself with fear, little Pariah. Where they cannot love you, they will learn to fear.”

Leinth pulled away from his grasp. “But I do not want to be feared.”

She did not ask to become a Sister, she did not want to be plucked from her brother’s arms and paraded like a trophy before golden eyes. She did not ask to be in that alleyway when they came, her thin arms over her head as the blows rained down one by one, still hearing her brother screaming at her to run. Sobbing for her life, pleading to be spared, praying for the angels to come and save her. And she prayed, and the angels came to save her.

“I do not want to be feared.” she repeated.

“But you will be.” His grip was like iron. He did not allow her to turn away. Instead, he dragged her close, cold auramite upon her shoulders and her neck. “You will be feared, not loved. Because, after all, who else would love you except for I, little Pariah?”

Who else would love you, when the world itself has turned away in fear and horror? Who else could love her, when even the Emperor’s light could not warm her?

Who else would love her if not for him?

Leinth tried to move away, but his auramite grip was unbreakable. He dragged her against him, and this time she didn’t even struggle. Unshed tears had dripped steadily from her lashes, her sobs too proud to be spoken yet too painful to be restrained. Her small frame was shaking, but her voice was bitter, and filled with more vehemence than either of them had known.

“I prayed that night you saved me, you know. I prayed for you, Sekhmet. I prayed that you would find him and bring him back. But you never even tried, did you?”

The silence was his answer.

“You never even tried to find him. You left him there. And you took me.”

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punk-in-docs · 2 years

Note

Can you give us some quick headcanons about Halloween with Eddie?

🍂 Eddie Munson Halloween Headcanons 🍂

“So as it turns out I don’t know what the word ‘quick’ actually means. I’m sorry. No further questions your honour.” punk-in-docs, 2022 @asnackdriver

Halloween with Eddie Munson; dear god you’d think it was Christmas and his Birthday all rolled into one. He gets so whirly and excited about it.

Scary movies. Crunchy brown leaves underfoot. Rubber masks. Candy corn. Halloween costumes. Pumpkins. Cocoa with some whiskey sneaked in it.

Explains in lengthy detail just why it’s his favourite time of year: summer in Hawkins is too fucking hot. Too sweaty. Everywhere is stifling and busy, it’s just no fun to be stuck in that soupy humidity. Weedy old fan not enough to keep him sweating his balls off in his sauna of a bedroom.

He basically whines and suffers through summer. Autumn is his time;

“Pumpkin spice baby, fuckin’ pumpkin spice!” He yelps, as he jiggled up and down like a puppy.

“You’re insane Munson.”

“I’m not insane. I’ve got the psychiatric reports to prove it. A slender majority of the panel decided in my favour.” Then comes that maniacal grin.

“I just love fall. Kay? Almost as much as I love you.” He explains.

He loves loves loves the cold. Mega love. Likes jumpers and layers, and endless blankets piled on his bed. Like a baby bird wedged safely in a nest. Warm cosy things to wrap himself up in. The cool evenings where he can truly feel the burn of a cigarette sparking warmth, and nicotine swirling through his lungs.

He wears fingerless black wool gloves in the cold (you can’t convince me otherwise on that one, nope, sorry)

Even though he wears gloves, he still comes in from the autumn chill outside, rubbing his palms together, and is immediately shoving chilled fingertips around your neck to make you squawk. Feel them sweetcheeks. Freezin’ my ass off out there-

Then he dives in to rub his cold red nose all over your neck. Boys a fuckin’ menace.

There’s something cozy about the trailer when it’s all wrapped up warm and bitter cold is pressing in from outside. Sure it’s not fancy but it’s a home. With a capital H.

It’s not stuffy or elegant. It’s welcoming. Even with its squashy matted carpets pocked with coffee stains, it’s scratchy curtains and it’s lumpy unappealing couch. It smells like detergent and cigarettes.

It’s the best place on earth to be when you’ve got your favourite crazy metalhead wrapped around you. Arms around you. Lips in your neck. He’s like a sunshiney heat lamp that never shuts up. You love it.

You bake cookies, Eddie is a terrible kitchen assistant. He gabbles too much. Can’t keep still. He gets in the way - nicely - he faffs with the radio and turns the oven up way too hot. Thankfully you’re there to salvage it.

Icing cookies. Shaking orange and black sprinkles into the dough. Stamping them into the shape of pumpkins and ghosts. Vanilla and sugar studded kisses whilst you wait for them to rise in the tiny oven. Drizzling icing on when they’re cool. Eddie smothers your cheek in sticky sugar kisses.

Going to the movies near Halloween is almost a pilgrimage for Eddie. He sneaks a glance at Wayne’s paper to see what’s playing, and scoops you up every Friday night to take you along. No arguments.

He buys you butter popcorn and a humongous cherry coke. You buy him gummy bears, red vines, and milk duds. His sweet tooth is insane. He stuffs ten cookies in his face and still says he needs something more after-

You watch whatever they show that’s spooky. Happily. Little Shop of Horrors, Young Frankenstein, Rocky Horror Picture Show, House of Wax and Aliens have been your collective favourites so far.

You’re both down for anything. Hammer horror scare jumps. The old black and whites and their swelling suspense. Slashers with ear shredding screams, overdone gore and long gleaming knives.

He tucks an arm around your shoulders and nuzzles his smug lips over the shell of your ear. You can hold my hand if you’re scared, Princess.

You chuck popcorn at him. Shove it in his mouth with three fingers till he smiles. Cackling in the dark.

Then he’s the one screeching like a banshee, and leaping out his seat on the hair splitting jump scene. You choke on your sip of coke.

“Awh honey. Did you want to hide in my chest if you’re scared?”

He grins and makes grabby hands for your boobs.

You drag his ass out of bed early one weekend to go to the pumpkin patch. It’s worth it though.

You romp around with him there, following along in his chunky boots and his leathers and you’re picking up big fat gourds like happy little kids. Taking them home to carve and set outside the trailer steps.

Jagged scary mouths and and sharp frowning eyes, and a candle flickering fiery inside. Your hands are stained turmeric yellow. The smell of carved Jack O Lanterns is almost suffocating. Pressed from thin wall to wall in the Munson trailer. Gooey gourd and the pipped squelching orange insides.

You warm the cider bought from the farm shop on the stove, to share with Wayne.

Bubble it with a cinnamon stick, orange peel and grated nutmeg. Maybe that would shift the scent of pumpkin innards. Apples and cinnamon stroked on the air. It’s delicious.

You weren’t planning on going trick or treating. But as it turns out, some of the kids - Hellfire Club included - want help with their costumes.

You were the responsible babysitter whose been looking after these kids on and off since middle school; of course you’d take them. And yes, you would also stop by the Diner after and get a mega ice cream shake. Maybe you’re a soft touch.

Eddie sidles up to you and rests his chin on your shoulder. Chocolate drop eyes all melty. “I want a mega shake too.”

“For gods sake. Alright. Get in the car.”

So it’s a visit to the craft store and then the dollar store to get body paint and fake cherry red blood, and scary rubber masks with fake tufts of tacky hair. Prop foam knives and plastic Jack O lantern buckets to store the hauled goodies in.

Eddie wrestles on a white Michael Myers mask and grabs you from behind in the costume aisle.

Pretends to put the edge of the foam knife over your throat. Those scrawny hips swaying into your ass. Ringed fingers spread over your stomach. Holding the knife to you menacingly.

“I’m in character sweetie. Got a thing for hella cute babysitters.” He cackles. His fingers walk playfully up your stomach. He saws the knife across your neck. Soft squishy edge of foam pressing into your collarbones.

You laugh in amusement. Clutching your hand over those chunky silver rings. “Does this make me a scream queen, Munson?”

He cackles. It’s lewd.

“Definitely my scream queen, baby.”

You tip your head back and away into him. Head on his shoulder. Hip to hip. His chest pasted to your back.

“In that case, you’re the scary monster of my heart. Honey.”

“You guys are seriously distressing. Can we go get shakes now?” Henderson asks.

“Eddie you’re gonna have to get off me. Let’s go kiddos.” You round up your wandering band of troops.

“I have attachment issues. Trouble around letting my prey go.” Eddie saws the knife side to side around your throat again. Up under your jaw. Like Norman Bates in Psycho. Playing with knives and pretty girls.

“I prefer what’s under the mask, handsome.” You beam.

“Now come on. If you want your mega chocolate shake you gotta unhand me if we have to get a move on.”

“A good killer never let’s go of his final girl. Don’t you watch the films?.” Eddie grins as he slips off the mask. Chucks the knife into your very loaded cart. His hair is all mushed around and you try and pat it back into semi-respectability.

“Not that you’re interested but I wanna puke.” Erica grimaces. Didn’t stop her reaching for more apple cider oreos though. Layering more goodies in your cart when she thought you weren’t looking.

“Lady Applejack- if I may-“ He holds his hand out. Other one clutched over his heart. Sweet sugar smile.

Five seconds later and Eddie had her hop up in the cart, cushioned by the sheer amount of costumes stuffed in there. And he’s running full pelt down the aisles and leaping on the back as they rocket along. Her laughs and Eddie’s rolling through the store back to you. He’s just a big kid too.

A couple nights later and Halloween finally strikes.

You expected to spend it cosied up at the trailer with Eddie, snacks, and a seriously good joint. You actually spend it taking the rag tag pack of kids, trick or treating.

You don’t mind it. Not really. They’re a pain in the ass. But they’re your pain-

You wore a chunky rust coloured sweater and jeans with your suede jacket. You were too old for costumes. Eddie agrees. Way too old for that shit. Like he’s all jaded. A grizzled veteran. His years of ghost costumes consisting of bed sheets with wonky cut out eyeholes, has passed.

But you’ve glimpsed the tattered polaroid Wayne had in his wallet. Sun bleached from the years and the thumbs over it, to know that little middle school Eddie wore a costume and got his plastic pumpkin bucket just like the rest of them.

He spends the whole time your shadowing the kids, with his arm slung over the back of your waist, slipping his hand up your warm spine and grumbling how hot you are. Your heat burning through to his rings.

You wander along. You listen to kids laughing and shuffling down the safe dark sidewalks of Hawkins. With its kitschy square box houses, painted picket fences and straight trimmed hedges. The golden porch lights that glimmer off the gold house numbers, and the carved pumpkins glowing orange off each doorstep.

He raids Dustin and Lucas’ buckets when they come back. He demands a Reece’s cup, a charleston chew and some Hersheys kisses. Escort fee you little pipsqueaks.

He also finds something else in one of those buckets. Rifling his big hand through the little bowl of plastic as Lucas tries to shuffle away. You’re just fixing the loose something or other on Dustin’s ghostbuster costume, so you’re distracted momentarily.

You pat Dustin on the back and send him off on his merry way. He gives you a fun size snickers as a thank you. Bobbing off to join the gang. You tell them to stay close by.

“Don’t go running off on us, kiddos. Or there’ll be a candy penalty by way of recompense.” You warn.

When you turn around Eddie’s grinning with something behind his back. He swoops suddenly to grab your waist and nibble on your neck.

You yowl laughter cause he’s got a set of those fake bleach white vampire fangs sinking into the soft of your neck. The goof.

“I vant to suck your bloooood.” He croons in a fake Transylvanian accent. Hissing and stabbing the teeth along your jugular. Gumming them into you. Stumbling you along joined along the sidewalk. Feet tangling and clashing together.

“Very convincing, Drac.” You laugh.

Then he’s on his ripped knees on the dirty leaf strewn tarmac. Probably getting his jeans all kind of dirty and wet.

Hands planted on your hips to keep you steady. He’s rifling through his leather jacket pocket and ripping a packet open. It’s too dark to see what it is.

Then he’s holding out an electric blue ringpop to you. He slips it up your ring finger on your left hand. Goofy grin - with big plastic fangs - shining up at you. His muddy puddle eyes shining all sincere. Bursting with little shooting gold stars in the street lights.

“Be my bride for eternity?” He asks. Speaking awkwardly around the fangs.

You hold your hand out and inspect the big gem of candy. The plastic was loose on your finger. But it made you smile. He always finds a way to make you smile. That’s who he is.

You reach across and wriggle those fangs out his mouth. They’re all spitty and gross. But it doesn’t stop you kissing him sweetly. Cupping his face and getting a good press of those adorable lips.

“Sure. But dealbreaker. I’m not sleeping in a coffin. Would be murder on my back.”

He grins. Back to being looped around you. Loping his steps along with yours. Leather hooked around your shoulder.

He’s kissing your cheek. Kiss after kiss after kiss. You twist to the side and meet his lips. Hand digging into the back of his messy hair. You smile cause he’s damn irresistible.

“Let’s make cocoa after this. Warm up. I got some marshmallows and some rum to put in it. Spice it up a bit.” He winks at you. You can’t resist that smile - fangs or no.

You raise an eyebrow. “You’ve got rum?”

And there’s that cheeky Munson grinTM surfacing. Stretching cheeks and bringing up dimples.

“It wasn’t always mine.”

Sounds about right.

Tagging some beloved Munsonites @indouloureux @stiegasaw @munsonquinns @fujiihime @youaremyfamiliar @captain-tch @ghosttownwherenoonegoes @svenyves @sammararaven @feralgoblinbabe @groupie-love-71 @andromeda-andromeda @starbxcks @morganamoonstone @ramona-thorns

#eddie munson #eddie munson imagine #eddie munson headcanon #eddie munson x original character #eddie munson x oc #halloween fluff #halloween #halloween vibes #autumn #fall spooky vibes #honestly fall and eddie? my jam son #falloween #punkwrites

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damn-stark · 1 year

Text

Chapter 30 Beyond the sun

Chapter 30 of Cherry

A/N: Who’s back? I’m back! IM BACK!!!! *cue in Oprah you get a car gif*

Warning- Angst, long chapter, swearing, fluff, mentions of blood, wounds, ptsd

Episodes- 4x88 (special episode pt.1)

Pairing- Jean Kirstein x reader

(Let me know if you want to be tagged)

————

There he stood calmly, every bit of that boy you knew before he abandoned everyone in Marley, before he turned to this cold person, before he started the rumbling and began to stomp on the world beyond the Island. Here he was standing before you with those same ferocious green eyes full of hope and determination.

Eren was here before you.

“What do you need to say, Eren?” You probe. “What's so important that you couldn’t include everyone?”

Yet even if you saw him before you, your annoyance and anger doesn’t fade.

“Is it perhaps about what you’re doing?” You spat. “The destruction? The killing of innocents? Eren, what is—”

“Stop,” he cuts you off, and still doesn’t seem annoyed. “Just listen okay?”

You blink to look down at the sand beneath your feet and don’t respond with anything to let him speak.

“I know you have a lot of questions, I know you’re angry, you have every right to be, but,” he pauses and sighs. “I just need you to hear me out. I won't be able to say it again.”

What? What does he mean by that?

You slowly look up at him and narrow your gaze.

“When the time comes,” he continues and steps closer to you. “I need you to do what’s right. It’s all going to come down to one final act…you’ll know it when it comes. And if anyone else can’t, if no one will, please do it.”

Your anger and annoyance begins to fade, and concern and confusion replace it. “What are you talking about Eren?” You ask with a puzzled look. “What’s going to happen?”

Eren let’s out a deep breath, and then offers you a faint smile, one you haven’t seen in months. One so kind that this now seems like a dream.

“You’ve been a good friend,” he suddenly changes the subject. “You’re like the annoying sister I never had.” He scoffs softly, and you just look at him with more confusion. “I…” he pauses and his breath trembles. “I really hope you get everything you want out of life. You deserve it.”

“Eren,” you breathe out and still can’t figure out what to feel, even if you’re beginning to understand why he isn’t being cold, why he looks kind and sounds genuine.

“Live your life to the fullest, y/n, don’t regret a thing.” He closes the gap that was between you and holds your gaze with his watery eyes. “And promise me one more thing?”

Since you’re unable to comprehend what’s going on you remain quiet.

“Promise me you’ll look out for her…Mikasa.”

You blink in disbelief, and then it hits you like a bullet to the flesh. You finally accept what you were trying to deny. This….it’s a goodbye.

“Promise me you’ll be there for her.” He adds.

You shake your head, and now your lips form to a sad frown whilst your eyes fill with tears. “No, Eren, no. You can—”

“Come back?” He cuts you off. “After all I’ve done?” He shakes his head. “I have to do this. I have to say goodbye. Just promise me you’ll live your life, okay? Don’t think about me, be happy and live your life with Jean or whoever you want. And look out for her, please tell her to live a good life, a happy life, tell her not to think about me. Please,” he begs as tears roll out of his eyes.

“Eren,” you whisper softly.

Said man offers you a gentle smile and lets his eyes linger on you to take you in one more time before he wraps you in an embrace.

His warmth and comfort shocks you at first since he’s never been one to be this affection. But as you take in his words, as tears escape out of your own eyes you hug him back.

“I’m glad I…” your voice quivers. “I got to meet you. You were a headache and quite scary, but I will never forget you.” You assure him so you won’t regret not saying what’s on your mind, and feel him hold onto you tighter. “I’m glad I got to have a brother.”

Eren lets out a slow sigh and whispers. “Keep this between us okay? You’ll keep your promise?”

You sniffle and nod. “I promise.”

And just like that the starry sky is gone, that bright tree is no longer ahead, and the comfort of Eren’s arms are no longer holding you. It’s cold and bright only due to the lights that come from the ceiling above.

He was right too, nothing changed around you in this physical state; Jean, Connie, Armin, Onyankopon and Reiner were still pulling in the flying boat, only your mood changed. Now instead of wanting to tease Connie as he struggled, as you were annoyed you couldn’t help, now a sad frown decorates your features, and tears roll out of your eyes.

Why did Eren have to tell you that now when you’re with everyone? Why you?

You suck at lying, people see right through you. He knows that. He knows it’s hard for you to keep things from Jean. It’s hard to keep in what makes you emotional from Levi. Why say goodbye?

Why does he have to say it?

No matter what—

No, no you can’t think about it any further or else you’ll just sob and not stop….but now, now it’s hard to actually be furious. What he’s doing is still wrong, but it’s hard to…hate him.

Fuck, fuck!

You let out a shaky sigh and push yourself away from the tall crates you’re leaned against to…do what exactly?

You can’t help the men because Jean doesn’t let you, “you’ll open your stitches”—please.

Maybe Mikasa needs help unloading!

You wipe away the tears and thank the night sky that it’s dark or else they’d see your puffy eyes. You the head over to the ship. Yet when you see her walking down with a crate in her hands, when you see her face all you’re reminded of now is what Eren told you, the promises he made you keep—you can’t be with her right now. Not now. So you turn on your heels and just take a step forward and stay there. There’s nowhere to go. Nowhere to hide.

You can’t go to Hange or else they’d make you spill everything, you can’t walk around the harbor because what if someone is out there in the shadows ready to take you back to a cell. You can’t talk to Annie because…well there’s nothing to say, and Levi?

You can’t lie but he wouldn’t force you to say anything, he’ll be good company too.

Thus before anyone can talk to you, you turn around again and just keep your head down as you make a beeline to Levi’s quarters. You rap your knuckles on the door and wait for a response. Which you don’t get so you knock again.

“Come in,” he mutters.

You slowly open the door and poke your head inside first, causing him to sigh. Yet before you can react you notice him sitting on his bed. “What are you doing?” You complain and rush over to him. “You should be resting. Laying down.”

Levi scoffs and swats your hands away. “I’ve had enough of it. I’m tired of being useless.”

“But you’re not, we understand,” you argue. “Please just rest.”

Levi looks up at you to meet your gaze. “I will if you do. You need it too, you’re putting too much strain on your wounds. If it gets infected what then? You’ll get a fever,” he answers his own question. “What if your heart can’t take it?”

You step back to sit next to him and sigh deeply. “I had a fever before you know? When I was on my way here, I didn’t die.”

“But how close were you?” He asks without hesitation. And that’s when he makes you go speechless because last time was a fever that almost took you.

“Exactly,” he interjects in your silence.

You swallow thickly and begin to fiddle with your fingers. This is not the talk you expected, but it does keep you from thinking about what Eren said. And to keep that up you comment on something discussed before. “So is it true that you’d go back home if we make it out of this?”

Levi turns his head to look at you with his eye and nods. “If it’s what you want? What of Kirstein though? You really think he’ll want to live in the slums?”

You shrug. “We don’t have to live underground….I just want a home. Some place where we can feast and see the stars,” you smile softly and meet his gaze. “Just like what we wanted. He can come, but if he doesn’t want to that's fine too.”

Levi raises his chin and narrows his eye. “Well isn’t that a change of heart.”

You drop your gaze and draw in a deep breath. “Being in Marley,” you sigh. “It changed me. I…” you shake your head. “I just don’t know. I don’t know what I want.”

Jean fills your head with so much pretty stuff, you want to still cling onto your previous wishes that you had before getting trapped in Marley, but as the days go by, as the nightmares haunt your mind slowly those dreams and wants get torn away. You want peace, you still love Jean, but it’s the future that’s hazy now.

Levi huffs out and carefully pats your hand before he slowly holds it. “That’s fine too. You’re young, if we make it out you’ll have the whole world to see. You can fall in love again and again. You’ll have choices, that’s something we didn’t have before.”

You hum in agreement and nod slowly. You stay quiet after that and just watch your hands, and it’s your silence that he reads you like a book.

“What's bothering you?” He asks.

You blink in disbelief and keep your gaze down as you shake your head. “Nothing. Just thinking of what we just talked about. What…we probably have to do.” Without giving anything away you lift your eyes slightly to share a question while also trying to find comfort somehow over what Eren said to you. “If it came down to it could you…get rid of Eren?” You can’t even say the word anymore. It hurts too much.

Levi studies you for a moment, tries to figure out why the sudden bleak question, but all he sees is anguish you can’t hide.

“If it came down to it,” he says but hesitates. “What else can we do? Why? Having doubts?”

“Whatever he’s doing, after all he’s done, he's still my friend, my comrade, and family.” You share with a sniffle. “If I regret then I will be miserable. But I’ve never had to fight against someone I really truly care about.”

Yes you fought against Reiner before when you learned of his betrayel, but this is different. Eren is different.

“Yeah,” he agrees. “But sometimes we have to make hard sacrifices for the better.” His voice goes quiet and his gaze flickers away. You don’t question him, you don’t have to, so you just sit there and linger in the silence.

You need comfort and help with much more but you made promises you can’t break. So as for now that’s all you’ll say.

However, that silence that had filled the room, is broken by the springs of the bed sounding as the mattress begins to move. When you lift your gaze you catch Levi getting up.

“What do you think you’re doing?” You snap at him as you jump to your feet.

“Getting out of this room,” he throws out like some senile old man. “I told you I’m done resting.”

You scoff and begin to follow behind him. “I promise I’ll come get you when we leave, you can—”

“Stop babying me, I…” he pauses and sighs. “I’m grateful, Cherry, but I can’t lay there anymore.” He opens the door of his room and begins walking out with struggle, but he still does it.

“It’s still crazy, you should still be in bed,” you keep reminding him and turn the hall with him, seeing the stairs coming up.

“So what?” He quips. “So you shits can forget all about me?”

You sigh and put your hands out behind him as begins to slowly descend the stairs. “No, we would never do that. You know that.”

He scoffs. “Besides that bearded bitch who passed out after her arm was broken is awake.”

Who is feeding him this information?

“And I’ll be damned if we don’t make her tell us where Eren’s going.”

Footsteps approach the stairs from below, and when you look down you see Armin. So if he’s here now that means the flying boat is in the hanger getting prepared for take off.

“What?” He gasps as his eyes go wide with worry. “What’s going on?” He tries to climb up, but stops when Levi shoots him a glare.

“He’s not listening, that's what is going on,” you remark and grab Levi’s arm to help him down the last step, whilst Armin reaches for his arm to do the same. Albeit Levi then swats both of you away.

“Stop, need I remind you I’m still your superior,” Levi throws out. “Being close doesn’t erase that. So stop trying to help me.”

He turns to head where Yelena is being kept, letting Armin and you share a concerned look before you both follow him to the room.

“I can say that Eren won’t be hard to spot considering who his travel companions are,” you comment.

“Well, we can’t waste fuel flying in blind,” Levi counters as he opens the door before Armin could.

As you walk in after Levi, you notice that Hange, Pieck and Lady Azumbito are already inside searching for the same information Levi is.

“Look at you,” Levi throws out to Yelena in disdain as she slouches in her seat. “You look pathetic now that your ape is gone.”

Yelena spares him a glance before looking back at the map. “Here,” she points to a spot on the map spread over the wooden table.

You pull the chair out for Levi and once he’s seated you lean over him to look.

“….Is most likely Eren's second target.”

“Fort Salta,” Pieck names before you could decipher the letters—“true. If he knew of the existence of weapons that had the slightest chance of harming the Founding Titan…”

“I expect that’s his next stop after Karifa Naval Port,” Yelena cuts Pieck off. “He’ll go destroy the airships.”

You sigh and lean back.

“You answered mighty obediently,” Levi interjects.

“I have a request for all of you,” Yelena shares and fists a handful of her blanket. “Please acknowledge something. Zeke was defeated. But he was right. The only solution to the two-millennium-spanning Eldian problem was the euthanization plan. I’m sure you can see that in the wake of this disaster.”

Even you have to admit that she’s right. As horrible as that alternative is for your future, for your peoples future, that plan would’ve been a thousand times better than what’s happening now.

“Yeah,” Hange agrees. “I admit it. I wasn’t able to show Eren any solution, or hope, or a future. I admit my powerlessness.”

You avert your gaze and quietly comment. “It’s not your fault. It seems he had made up his mind long before. Nothing to do now but stop him.”

Everyone stays quiet, but you know that they’re all in agreement.

“Anyway, if we’re done here,” you add on and walk around Levi’s chair to be in front of him. “Let’s get out of this room, yes?”

Levi narrows his glare on you for the way you speak to him, but he doesn’t argue this time considering there’s nothing left to do now that he has what he needs. Once you’re out in the hall he speaks up. “You should get some rest, Cherry, the flying boat won’t be ready soon, I’ll wake you up in the morning.”

You shake your head. “No. There’s things to do, like check my gear, I,” you sigh. “Can help them out there. Keep lookout.”

Hange pats your shoulder and contradicts you much to your liking. “Don’t worry your pretty head about that. We got that handled. But you haven’t slept since we left the forest, sleep, we’ll be around.”

Alone? Across the ocean? What if a Marleyean soldier sneaks in, what if colossal Titans come. You can’t possibly sleep now. So you turn them down again. “No. I’m okay. I can’t sleep.”

Hange turns their head to shoot you a pointed look, which is threatening for them considering when they look at you it’s never as serious. “Sleep, that’s a command. Levi will even accompany you.”

“Tsk.”

“I myself will come back and get you both. Swear.”

You look at Levi and then out the small circle windows on the wall of the ship to make sure that somehow someone isn’t looking in from outside. “Okay,” you whisper.

Hange shoots you a smile and a quick nod before they turn the hall and head out, leaving Levi and you to walk back to his room.

“Just,” you murmur once you walk in his room. “Leave all the lights on. And,” you add in a quivering voice. “Don’t leave.”

Levi meets your gaze to read your look, and doesn’t fail to see your utter terror that now haunts your eyes.

“Fine,” he agrees. “Just sleep though.”

You nod stiffly and sit on the edge of the bed to throw your boots off, climb in bed and try what they ask from you. Sleep. Which doesn’t actually long to take you under, your body and mind are exhausted so you fall asleep fast.

It’s peaceful, and for the first time in a long time it’s quiet.

At least it was for a moment because then a dream begins to infiltrate your mind. Albeit, this dream unlike the others is kind, sweet and nostalgic; you’re back home, not the barracks, home in that shitty apartment Underground.

You recognize the dirt street the moment the dream paints the picture. You recognize the damp dirt smell, you remember the fire lit street lights. It all looks so real, you even feel real, like somehow you got put there. But this time you aren’t young, you’re yourself, you’re even wearing your military uniform.

It’s scary real, but a relief from all the nightmares, the grief, pain, and destruction. You actually wish it was real….

Maybe the inside looks real too?

You break away from your spot and head to the house. And as you do, you then spot them through the window; Furlan and Isabel. They’re there, you see them talking and smiling. They’re home.

So quickly before any of it can disappear you break into a run and hurry home with a smile on your face, and tears in your eyes. When you make it to the door, you don’t knock, you just turn the knob and push the door in, seeing the candle lights travel out, and letting out the fresh smell of flowers that Levi liked to fill the house with so you wouldn't smell the stenches from outside.

You then walk in and expect to see Furlan and Isabel where they had been, but you then gasp and frown as you don’t see anyone, nothing but sudden darkness as all the lights go off.

“No,” you mutter and quickly turn to get out, but the door suddenly slams shut and even the lights from outside go off leaving you basked in pitch darkness. “No,” you breathe out, feeling even your breaths turn ragged whilst your heart and mind begins to race.

“My, my,” you hear a familiar voice taunt, “my Ackerman.” The doctor, you’d recognize his voice anywhere, anytime.

It’s just a dream though. It’s all a dream though, this is home. Home; comfort, relief, safe, nostalgic. It’s home.

It’s all just a dream.

You close your eyes to try to wake up and ignore the approaching footsteps. You lift your hand, and pinch your arm.

Hoping that worked you open your eyes—and now you see the room you were in before, you’re still on the ship. Levi isn’t here, but the lights are on, you’re okay. It’s all okay.

You let out a deep sigh and sit up to collect yourself.

“You thought you could run away, did you?” The voice cuts in again, making you snap your head up and look at the door. And there the doctor is walking in, no blood or injuries, just him and a straight jacket in his hand.

“No,” you snap out and crawl back to the wall. “Get away from me!”

He seems so real, he looks so real.

“Let’s go back home,” he says and begins to approach you. You try to crawl back more, but you then hit the wall and have nowhere else to go. “It’s where you belong.��

You shake your head and look up at the window, but it’s too small to escape out of.

“I said we’re going home!” He yells out and throws himself on the bed to grab your ankles.

You try to kick back, but he’s too strong he manages to pull you back.

“No!” You cry out and dig your nails on the matress. “No! Get away from me! I’m not going back! Let go! Let go!” He pulls you off the bed and then slaps his hands on your arms, making you jump and shut your eyes out of defeat.

“Y/N,” another voice mutters, and triggers something to break. “Y/N, wake up, open your eyes.” This voice is more soothing, this one is closer to you.

You shake your head and begin to cry. You can’t open your eyes out of fear that you wouldn’t see the man that’s calling out for you; Levi.

“You’re safe,” he whispers. “You’re safe. You’re with me. Cherry.”

You slowly peel your eyes open and see the bland ceiling, you move your fingers and feel the stiff mattress, not the cold floor. You’re afraid to turn your head, but you do it slowly and luckily see Levi with a worried look painted on his face.

“You’re okay. You’re safe. You’re not going back,” he assures you.

You let out a shaky breath and sit up to drop your head on your hands. Nothing changes now, he doesn’t leave either, he stays by you on the edge of the bed.

“I thought Hange and Mikasa were being dramatic,” he adds quietly. “I've never seen you like this.”

You sigh and lift your head to look at the white bland wall that brings nothing but more sadness. “It’s new, weird too. I can’t tell the difference between what’s real or not sometimes.”

“Can’t say I can offer much help with that, but you can ask me or anyone else,” he lets you know, causing you to blink and meet his gaze. “I’ll tell you.”

Tears fill your eyes and you nod slowly. “Okay,” you let out in a shaky voice. “Then can I ask one thing?”

Levi nods in agreement.

“This.” you whisper and avert your gaze. “War, we’re almost done. Is that real?” You drift your eyes back to him and wait.

Levi takes long to answer, but it’s not because he’s hesitant, it’s just hard. “Yes, one way or another, we’re almost done with all this shit.”

You let out a deep breath and nod. You want to just unload everything that Eren told you now that you’re sharing this moment with Levi, but you made a promise to Eren. One you’ll regret breaking if you do. And even if life has turned to shit, you can’t break that promise you made yourself about not regretting.

“Come on,” he encourages you and stands up off the bed. “Sun is rising, the flying boat is almost ready to go, we need to put on our gear.” He doesn’t hesitate to begin walking out, and you don’t take long to follow either. However, Levi does stop when you reach the end of the hall. “Clear your mind, Cherry, you can’t risk getting lost now. No matter how hard it is, don’t lose yourself in your mind, understand?”

“Yes,” you nod in agreement. “I understand.”

Levi opens the door, welcoming in the natural soft sunlight. “Good,” he says. “We need you. I do.”

You smile softly at that and can’t help but get all giddy. Even if it’s just a short moment.

The moment you make it to the ship's ramp your name is immediately called. “Y/N.”

You lift your head and land your gaze on Jean heading your way, so you smile even wider. He meets you halfway on the pier and immediately bombards you with concern. “You feeling okay? Did you get any sleep?”

Your small begins to falter and you shrug. “Some. What have you been doing?” You probe and walk towards the hanger by his side, noticing the gear he’s carrying in his hands. “Working hard?”

Jean smirks. “You know me.”

You scoff softly and nod before pointing to the gear. “Is that for me?” You meet his gaze and offer him a soft smile.

Jean glances down at it and nods. “Thought I could help you so as to not add strain on your wounds when you don’t need to.” He looks up and looks you in the eye, making you avert your gaze and tilt your head away to hide the scar on your face.

“You okay?” He asks without needing to be told anything, he knew by your look alone.

“Yeah,” you nod as you come to a stop so he can begin helping you. “Just tired…you know.”

Jean lets out a deep sigh and remains quiet as you know he stands there unconvinced. “You sure? You left in quite a hurry when you were so adamant on helping us.”

You meet his gaze and nod softly. “Yeah….” He can’t know. Him most of all.

Damn Eren.

“Okay,” Jean breathes out and finally begins to help you get your gear on. “Well you need to eat, so grab something after we’re done here.”

You hum in agreement and then let him help you get your gear on, you relish in his presence, find comfort in the warmth that radiates off him, and shiver at the feeling of his hands grazing your skin. However, as you’re holstering your weapons you catch your reflection on the metal, you catch a glimpse of the scar that ran from under your eyebrow up to your forehead, and all those blissful feelings disappear.

Out of all the scars you have on your body, this one on your face is the worst, not only because it’s hideous and ruins what you once cherished, but it’s also a ugly reminder of this war, of all the comrades you killed to get here, it’s the reminder of all the tragedy…

You let out a small sigh and holster your weapon, Jean steps back as he finishes helping you, and as you look ahead you catch the gaze of Reiner on you.

How long was he watching you? He looks like he has something to say from all the way over there too.

Was he watching you as you studied your scar?

Creep….

You look away first and focus on your boyfriend. “You need help?”

Jean shakes his head. “No, I got it. You grab something to eat.”

You offer him a sweet smile and nod, even if your appetite is lost. “Fine,” you mutter and begin walking past him.

Yet before you can leave his side, he grabs your wrist and pulls you to him to cup your cheeks and smile at you. “You look beautiful, you know that?” He says as if he knew what you were just being insecure about.

You sigh softly and offer him a wobbly smile.

Jean leans in and presses a gentle kiss on your lips before he murmurs against your lips. “We’re almost done here. For good this time. After that it’s just you and me. Just keep fighting, okay, sweetheart?”

Before you can dare to answer, Jean pulls you in for an embrace that immediately makes your chest feel heavy as tears fill your eyes.

Again, it’s like he can read your mind, you were in such desperate need of comfort that thinking of pulling away pained you. But you had to eat the dry ass ration food.

Once upon a time you actually liked eating them because it’s not something you had underground. It was a long time ago though, your tastes have changed, and this lack of appetite doesn't make this any more appealing.

“Hange!” You hear Onyankopon shout whilst you make your way to them after getting your food. “In about an hour, we can begin preparations for takeoff!”

“Got it!” Hange retorts and turns back around to face the group.

Once you finally reach them, they share their order so they wouldn't repeat themselves. “You heard the man. Each of you, inspect your gear.”

“Yes, Commander,” everyone agrees at the same time whilst they were all doing exactly that.

“Cherry,” Hange now directs at you. “You have everything handled?”

You swallow back the food in your mouth and nod. “Yeah. Jean helped me.”

“Good,” they nod.

Since jean said he didn’t need help, and the others can help themselves, you look to Levi to offer your help, but before you can even part your lips, you freeze as you notice his blade handle shaking as he’s trying to press the trigger with the two fingers he has.

He never was one to struggle before, not when you were a kid and not when you were above ground, so seeing hin strain, seeing that glimpse of his frustration as he tries hard to press that trigger, filled you with shock and pity.

“Two fingers is all I need,” he says as he finds the way to press the trigger. “I’m ready.”

He’d hate you feeling pity for him, so you shove all that away and let him be to continue eating. And since your friends are getting ready you stand back and wait for them to finish.

And just as they do finish, Hange and Connie yell out, “Annie!”

You shift your gaze to the boat and see her stopped by the ramp.

“Annie, take care!” Connie says.

Oh that’s right she’s leaving.

“See you later!” Hange tells Annie too as they wave at her.

You hold no grudges against her anymore so you shoot her a faint smile before you turn away again.

“To be honest,” Jean interjects. “I was relying on her.”

“But Annie has fought enough,” Connie adds, making you scoff.

“Haven't we all?” You counter and put the spoon in the can as you finally finish. “What makes her different from all of us? From her own comrades?” You ask.

Connie and Jean look at you and are unable to answer to your shocking response, so you continue.

“Nothing, that's what. She’s just running away, that’s just as bad as giving up,” you whisper that last part and break away from the pair to go sit on a wooden crate under the furious dawn painted sky.

You sit and hear them all in the hangar standing behind you, you find safety in hearing them work, hearing others talk as they eat, you sit and breathe in the fresh air, you sit and reach your hand out to watch the sunlight bask your hand. What would that little girl dreaming to come above ground think of you now? What would she think of the person you are now?

What do you think of yourself now?

So much comes to mind, but it’s hard to pick one specific thought.

“Taking in the sun, huh?” You hear someone interject behind you.

You pull your hand back to peer over your shoulder, spotting Pieck walking your way.

“While I still can,” you respond and watch her fall by your side. “It feels different when you’re not stuck behind walls.” You peer back to check if Reiner would be with her since it’s surprising to hear talk to you, but he’s not with her, he’s actually with the others. “Would you agree?”

Pieck nods. “I can actually say I can. It feels….hotter, richer, like it actually shines for you.”

You smile softly and nod. “Yeah.” You shift your glimpse to her and probe. “What about when you’re on Titan form? How does that feel?”

“Well being in Titan form feels liberating, for one,” she shares. “But when the sun hits I’d say it’s cold, like it doesn’t shine for me but the form I’m turned into. It’s perhaps one of the reasons why I don’t like being in Titan form for so long. I miss the sun.”

You smile down at your hands and retort after a moment of silence. “Well soon perhaps you won’t have to turn anymore.” You say and meet her gaze. “You won’t have to miss the sun.”

Pieck folds her arms over her chest and sighs. “You might be right. And from now on, regardless of the outcome with Yaeger, the walls won’t be a problem for you.”

You swallow thickly and avert your gaze to nod without actual sincerity because lately finding bliss under the suns light has been difficult.

“A month ago, in Marley,” Pieck interjects suddenly. “Why didn’t you kill me when you had the chance? I heard I was only inches away from death, so why didn’t you?”

“Simple,” you don’t take long to answer. “I hesitated.” You begin fiddling with your fingers and let out a deep sigh. “And well—”

Yet you don’t get to finish what you want to tell her because the sound of bullets being shot from in the hanger steals your attention, and causes the both of you to run over. That’s when you see Floch at the other end of the hanger with a gun in hand. You then barely manage to catch Mikasa hastily shoot out her grapple as she zips forward to stab Floch right through the throat.

It doesn’t seem believable at first, like, where the hell did Floch come from? Has he been around the entire time, lurking?

Yet you know it is real because well, it’s just everyone’s shitty luck so far, two, by everyone’s startled and panicked reactions, and three, why wouldn't he try so hard to fight until the bitter end?

Not like his end actually bothers you. Not anymore, perhaps once you would have been affected by his death once, but now, after seeing what he did in the name of freedom, of what he wanted, you don’t care that Floch is dying. It’s why as Jean, Connie, Armin, Mikasa and Hange run over to his body, you instead run over to Onyankopon.

“Onyankopon!” You call out as you reach him lying on the floor with his hands over his head. “Are you okay?”

He doesn’t seem to have been hit in any way from what you can see, thankfully.

Said man lifts his head and sits up on his knees, letting you grab his arm to help him to his feet. “You okay?” You ask again and examine him for any sign of fresh blood.

Onyankopon studies himself and shakes his head. “No,” he breathes out shakily. “No. I’m fine. Thank you.”

You let him go and offer him a nod.

“The flying boat,” he interjects and runs past you, making you turn to watch him approach it and check it out for any new defects. And since he’s blocking your view, you walk to where Levi is under the hanger to look at the flying boat better.

Alas, that’s when you catch the sight of bullets on the flying boat. Yet you don't know where exactly.

“Hange!” Onyankopon yells out when he notices the same thing. “There are holes in the fuel tank!”

Your breath catches in your throat as your eyes widen.

��We can’t fly like this,” Onyankopon says.

“Don’t lose hope,” one of the Azumabito tells him when he approaches Onyankopon. “If we cover the holes, we can make it work!”

“Get the wielding tools!” Someone else orders their comrade.

You get closer to the flying boat and squint your eyes on the damaged part, and even if they’re small little holes, they still did enough damage.

“How much will it take?” You ask the men out of curiosity.

“With tin plates, we could do it in an hour, barely,” a man answers you.

An hour? No, that's too long. Way too long.

Yet before you, or Hange right beside you can rebuttal, the ground beginning to shake steals all the words out of your mouth, and the breath out of your throat.

It can’t be…

“This sound,” Hange mutters.

“Don’t tell me,” Reiner yells out before he runs out of the hanger.

You stand there frozen in your spot feeling the ground tremble beneath your feet, hearing the echoes of loud stomps on the ground hit like lightening. There was supposed to be more time, you were supposed to have more time!

You snap from your stupor and run out to join the others outside, catching the thick clouds of smoke that already cover the horizon. You swear you can already feel the heat too, but maybe that’s just an exaggeration. The one thing you do feel is more shock and fear as you now see the titans marching your way.

“Armin,” Mikasa interjects through the shocked silence that was spread over your group. “Do you have any ideas?”

“Only one,” he says. “I stay behind and slow them down.”

One of your greatest friends, and best assets to ending this war? No. Hell no, not him. Going out there means certain death, everyone knows that; everyone has to.

“It can’t be you,” Reiner quickly rebuttals. “You’re our sole trump card for stopping Eren. I’ll do it.”

“And I’ll help,” you volunteer without a single doubt; you’re fast, and whether you want to admit or not you do make a good team. He’ll need you.

“What?” Jean quickly protests and grabs your shoulder. “It can’t be you!”

You snap your head back and part your lips to argue, but Hange then cuts you off as she joins the group. “That’s obviously not the play. We can’t afford to expend another shred of Titan power, or lose Ackerman strength. I’m the one who led you this far.”

No….

“And we killed many friends and comrades to get here,” Hange continues. “I'm taking responsibility for that.”

Not them either. It can’t be them either….

“Armin Arlelt,” they add and walk past you to reach said man. “I hearby designate you the 15th Commander of the Scout Regiment. The position calls for a certain quality. A mindset of continuously pursuing understanding. There’s no one more suitable than you. I leave everyone in your hands. Well, that’s that. See ya, everyone.” They just throw it out as if nothing. As if they aren’t sacrificing their lives!

“Wait,” you whisper, but it’s not loud enough.

“Ah, yes,” Hange adds one last thing. “Levi’s your underling now, so really put him to work.” They continue to walk down the pier with nothing else to add, with nothing to tell you, not even a glance to the other scout they’ve known the longest, the one person they raised. Hange just walks off.

“Wait!” You yell out and walk a few steps forward.

Hange comes to an immediate stop but doesn’t look back. “Don’t make this hard Cherry-girl.” They say to the air. “You can’t stop me, you know you can’t. It’s for your own good. For everyone’s own good. I’m giving my heart.”

You shake your head and swallow back thickly the lump that begins to form in your throat. “Let me come,” you plead softly. “Let me help you. Let me give my heart and give you a chance to see this through. Please,” you beg and take another step towards them. “You deserve to see this through. Please…”

Hange shakes their head. “I told you that I can’t spare Ackerman strength. It has to be me and me alone. Leave on that flying boat that’s an order.”

An emotional weight falls on your chest that makes it ache, and a tight sharp grip wraps around your heart that makes it bleed as you know that there's nothing you can do to change their mind.

“Please,” you plead one more time in a shaky voice.

Hange exhales and keeps their back turned. “I said no. Who would I be if I let you come with me? Huh? Fight and live your life for me, for all those we lost, okay? Promise me.”

As to not break their own heart by not responding, you nod. “I promise,” your voice breaks.

Hange nods and then continues to walk away, only stopping to share a few words with Levi that you can’t hear over the pounding of your own heart, over your own disbelief that begins to fall more and more each second.

You don’t even want to accept their….sacrifice though, the fact that you’ll never see them again. You try to play it off as some silly dream, a cruel dream actually. You close your eyes and open them again in hopes it is just a stupid dream, but no the titans are still approaching, and now they’re actually flying off. They’re leaving….

You can’t deny it no more.

“No!” You cry out and try to run out after them. You lift your gun to shoot your grapple to chase after them, but before you can get far with Armin, Mikasa and Jean who run after them down the pier, arms then wrap around you and stop you. “No!” You fight them off through thick and hot tears. “Let me go! Hange! Hange!” You call out and try to desperately reach out for their retreating figure getting smaller and smaller in the sky, but those strong arms stop you from moving.

“Hange!” You cry out as loud as you can so you can they hear you, even if you yourself can’t see them anymore with the cloud of tears that cover your eyes. “Hange!”

“You can't stop them,” you recognize Reiner’s voice. He’s the one who’s holding you. “You have to let them go.”

You shake your head and sob out, you grow weak by the fact that your heart was shattering more and more. So weak in fact that you can’t even hold your weight so you fall to your knees, and Reiner falls with you.

“Please,” you mewl out even if they can’t hear you anymore.

You then wipe your eyes to try and see them fight off the Titans, but Reiner then holds the back of your neck and turns your head away so you wouldn't see.

Which is actually good, you probably couldn’t see their last moments, you couldn’t be strong enough to watch them…die. So since Jean isn’t here and Connie is too captivated by Hange’s fight, you clutch onto Reiner and bury your face on his shoulder, and keep crying out for yet another lost comrade, friend, and family. You just play the memories you share with them over and over again, you just hear the sounds of the titans falling, but don’t look.

“It’s sealed!” You hear someone shout from the hangar. “Start fueling! Hurry! Hurry!”

“Come on,” Reiner mutters and begins to pull you back. “Let’s get you on the flying boat.” He grabs your arm to help you up, and without holding your anger, your hate or grudge against him you let him help you back to your feet. You let him walk you to the flying boat, and let him help you inside so you could keep not seeing and only hearing.

“They’re right on top of us,” someone shouts. “There’s no more time for fueling! Start the engine!”

Losing comrades, friends, family should be dealt with ease now since you’ve experienced so much loss in your time of living. Knowing death, feeling its vast emptiness every time it takes someone else shouldn’t hit you as hard, but after losing them your grief only gets worse and worse each time. This time you can’t even handle that sharp ache that radiates all over your chest, you can’t even feel your heart.

“Push through fuselage forward!”

They push the flying boat out of the hanger, you see the light hit you, but you keep your eyes averted from the small windows to avoid seeing them die.

“Launch the ship!”

And with those last words shouted out Jean is the last one that jumps in before the door closes behind him, blocking that tragic view, that last view you could’ve had of Hange. The boat then flies off and you close your eyes and rest your head on Levi’s shoulder to not watch your own friend's grief. Not this time. You can’t even handle your own.

“So long, Hange, watch us,” Levi mutters to himself.

You stay quiet and just assure yourself of one last thing, Hange was a hero, a brave hero who gave their heart. You will too.

Tagged- @expectoscamander @greenygreenland @that-soft-lesbian-friend @dai-tsukki-desu @usernamehere91 @avocadopoosae @romancried @victor-criss-bish @moo-moo-meadow @stareatceiling @padfootii @ravensleepyeyes @thanosisadilf @dawneee @babyyblueey @leahseclipse @ifimnotabushimnoone @luvelyxp @ameliabs-world

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clusterbuck · 2 years

Note

hi lovie, how about “don’t let this one go”? i hope you feel better soon!!

hiiiiii ily 💫 i do feel better thank u!!

eddie’s sitting on his back porch steps when a mug of coffee appears in front of him, grasped in a slender hand. it’s his favourite one—picked up from a craft fair with buck and christopher a long time ago now, worn and a little faded over time.

he follows the arm in front of him all the way up to maddie, her brown hair tumbling around her shoulders and a smile on her face. “hey,” she says, offering the mug.

“thanks,” eddie murmurs. he clasps the mug in both hands, wraps his long fingers around it; he leans forwards with his forearms on his knees, huddled against the chill of the early january morning.

it’s not that cold, buck would scoff if he turned around right now, if he stopped running around the yard with christopher and a tiny, toddling jee-yun for long enough to see.

but eddie gets cold easily, always has, and he welcomes the warmth that floods through him when he brings the mug up to his lips.

maddie settles in next to him with a mug of her own, sitting close like she knows he wants to leech her body heat.

“so,” she says after a moment of sipping their coffees in companionable silence. “are we ever going to talk about the fact that you’re in love with my brother?”

eddie turns to look at her, squinting against the bright morning sun. “you know about that, huh?” he shakes his head, rueful, then glances at buck again.

“i think most people who’ve seen the two of you together probably do, yeah,” maddie laughs.

“great,” eddie mutters. “do you think—does buck—”

“does he know?” maddie asks. “no, i think he might be the only one who doesn’t.”

“well, that’s something,” eddie says.

“you could just—tell him, you know,” maddie says, drawing her knees closer to herself and resting her mug on one of them. “how you feel.”

eddie shakes his head and tries to dive headfirst into his mug of coffee.

“eddie,” maddie says, impossibly gentle. she reaches over to pull the mug away from his mouth, squeezing his hand. “you’re so convinced it’s going to end badly. why?”

“it’s just—not worth it, you know?” eddie says. he scuffs at the porch step with the toe of his shoe, looking down just to avoid maddie’s gaze. she looks at him like she knows just a little too much about him, sometimes, and he’s not sure he can take it right now. “this is good. right now is good. and there’s no chance of either of us fucking it up somehow. it’s—”

“lower stakes?” maddie suggests.

“yeah,” eddie says, blowing out a breath. “sometimes i think—i don’t know, sometimes i look at him and think i could tell him. i think it could be good. it could be—really fucking great, honestly. it could be what i’ve been looking for my whole life.” he laughs, runs a hand through his hair, a little self-conscious, but maddie just hums, in acknowledgement and understand.

eddie sips his coffee, savouring the warmth and the kick of the caffeine waking up his system. “it could be good,” he says again. “but if it went bad—”

“it would be really bad,” maddie finishes for him.

“yeah,” eddie says. “maddie, i don’t think i could live without him. in some capacity. any capacity.”

“i know,” maddie says. “i know what that feels like. i know how scary it is. i know you’ve both been burned before.” she glances out at the yard again and eddie follows her gaze, his eyes landing automatically on buck’s long, muscular form, the strength and grace in his movements and the joy radiating out from him.

“but what if it didn’t go bad?” maddie asks. “is it worth missing out on all the good just to avoid the chance of bad? we get a limited number of good things in this life, eddie. don’t let this one go.”

and eddie’s about to answer, but just then buck turns to face them, his face stretching into a wide smile. he’s got jee-yun up on his shoulders, her tiny fists clenched in his hair to keep her balance. buck kneels down, careful, and eddie watches as christopher takes jee-yun’s hands to help her climb back to the ground. buck checks to make sure jee-yun has both feet solidly on the ground then gets up again, jogging over to eddie and maddie.

“any coffee for me?” he asks.

“in the kitchen,” maddie says. “where normal people keep their coffee.”

“that’s so far away,” buck whines. he sits one step below eddie and swipes his mug, draining the rest of it while leaning against eddie’s side.

“you’re getting the refills,” eddie warns, trying to sound stern but aware that his voice mostly just sounds hopelessly fond.

“sure,” buck says, his eyes drifting shut. “just give me a minute, i’m too comfortable to move.”

buck’s head rests against eddie’s chest, one of his arms thrown across eddie’s legs and his feet tangled with eddie’s. maddie looks at eddie, sidelong over the top of her brother’s head, and he smiles before dropping his head to rest against buck’s.

maybe maddie’s right, he thinks, settling his arm around buck’s waist. we get a limited number of good things in life.

he shouldn’t let this one go.

#911fic #buddie fic #becominglionhearted #dearestdiaz #ask emma #emma writes

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mixtmedea · 2 years

Text

just a hunch

fluff | college(?) au | gn reader

cw: none (small alcohol mention once?), not proofread

megumi seeks advice from his dear sister (in a world where she’s not in a coma lol)

♡o。.✿ฺ ❣︎ ᪥❤︎ ❀ .• ♡o。.✿ฺ。

“you like someone?”

tsumiki gapes at her brother in awe, standing over her half-mixed cup of tea on the kitchen counter.

from the other side of the counter, megumi’s face is flushed pink as his gaze drops to focus on anything but tsumiki’s shock.

“yes, i have for a while. i’m not- i’m not sure what’s right for me to do.” he barely manages.

“wait, pause,” tsumiki raises her hands. “who is it?”

megumi’s pause lasts for a few seconds too long, and takes a great deal of courage to raise his eyes to look at tsumiki.

“..y/n.” he mutters hesitantly.

“called it.” tsumiki raises her floral ceramic cup to her mouth and takes a sip. had it not been a smoldering mug of hot tea, she probably would’ve chugged it like a shot glass in the victory of her correct guess.

“you knew?” his voice filled with disbelief.

“hmm.. well, i didn’t know for sure, i just had a hunch. you’re both pretty close.” tsumiki hummed. she places her cup down and clasps her hands together.

“anyways, that’s so sweet, megumi! i’m glad you told me! are you planning on telling them?”

megumi’s eyes widen. tell you? tell you that you’ve been giving him heart palpitations for months? that he walked into a pole when he saw you across campus? that each time you smile so brightly and warmly at him he considers buying sunglasses? that the thought of you loving him back flips his stomach?

“i can’t do that.” megumi’s head lowers to the counter in instant defeat.

“why not?” tsumiki’s head tilts.

“because…” megumi covers his head with his arms in pure embarrassment, “what if they don’t.. feel the same?” the last few words were muffled, but tsumiki could still understand what her flustered brother was saying.

“this is both very uncharacteristic and very on brand for you, megumi.” she chuckles.

“how.” he huffs.

“you’re normally not this discomposed. but i can tell you’re thinking really hard, as usual.” tsumiki circles around the counter and stops at her brother’s side, who’s head is still resting against the cold surface while he leans on it for support.

tsumiki rubs his back comfortingly. “y/n is a very lovely person, megumi. and so are you. you’re thoughtful and you’re always considerate of the people around you.”

tsumiki pushes her cup of tea towards megumi. he looks up from the counter and gradually sits up, pulling the cup closer to him and gently holding the sides of the mug, absorbing the warmth radiating from the hot tea inside. his brows are furrowed from doubt and worry, as he peers up at his guardian figure, with eyes full of uncertainty.

he’s almost like a kid again, tsumiki thinks to herself, and the thought makes her smile.

“i know it might seem scary, but it’s obvious that you both care for each other a lot. i’m sure what you have to say would mean a lot to them, since they mean a lot to you too. whenever you feel you’re ready, let them know.”

“your feelings are a wonderful thing.”

megumi’s heart twists. he plunges his gaze back into the cup. why do his eyes sting? his skull felt like it was burning with concerns, and somehow they melted away in an instant at tsumiki’s words.

tsumiki wraps megumi in an embrace as his thoughts start to calm. megumi starts to relax in her arms, feeling a weight lifted off of him.

he’s glad he confided in tsumiki, and that she was present with him in the midst of his tangled emotions.

needless to say, tsumiki’s hunch was absolutely on point, when megumi walked into the apartment the following day with a rare smile, collapsing on the couch.

♡o。.✿ฺ ❣︎ ᪥❤︎ ❀ .• ♡o。.✿ฺ。

#megumi fushiguro #jujutsu kaisen #jjk #jjk fluff #jjk megumi #megumi fluff #fushiguro megumi #fushiguro x reader #megumi x reader #jjk comfort #yeah thats right #tsumiki is AWAKE #and shes a GREAT SISTER #big sis tsumiki to the rescue #fushiguro tsumiki #tsumiki

191 notes · View notes

blublublujk · 2 years

Text

it was destiny (5)

part 1 part 2 part 3 part 4 part 5

words count: 9k

summary: milf reader finally opens up (confessions?)

pairing: dilf jungkook x milf reader

warnings: 18+, swearing, insecurity??, explicit sexual content (dirty talk, praising, stripping, spanking, possessiveness, thigh riding, multiple orgasms, overstimulation, protected passionate sex, dom jungkook??) if i missed anything sorry T—T

—> m.list

By the time you had woken up the next morning, Jungkook had been long gone. And it’s not that he didn’t want to stay or that he felt uncomfortable. No, Jungkook felt the best he had felt in years. Jungkook did it for your sake. Because maybe it would be easier to wake up alone rather than wake up next to the person you’ve been sleeping with for months beside you. Plus, he thought about Jia. He wanted to be long gone before she woke. Of course, there was nothing he wanted more than to personally meet the precious human whom you brought to life, but Jungkook thought there would be a time and day for that. He felt one day it would be possible because anything felt possible around you. Things were simply complicated.

And of course, it was the first he had ever spent the night much less stepped a foot into your home and vice versa. You had dozed off on him here and there at the hotel, a couple of times after sex, but never actually once have you fallen asleep and he the same. He was always curious about what you looked like in such a calm state. Now he doesn’t have to imagine it becoming his reality. Without this sounding weird, he’s never been more fond of you.

However, leaving you at the crack of sunrise was not that easy. Especially when Jungkook woke up from his peaceful sleep with his arms wrapped around your sleeping figure. Your breathing was slow and steady. Your hair had covered half your face, Jungkook did his best to move it aside— still there was a slight stir in your sleep. Jungkook smiled admiring the sight, your lips had formed into a pouty frown. He was so badly tempted to steal a kiss. You looked so beautiful, you always did, he thought. Jungkook wished he could wake up to this view every single day.

Was he asking for too much?

Was he getting ahead of himself?

You woke up about 30 minutes after Jungkook decided to leave. Typically you didn’t wake up cold, but today you did. Losing his warmth after being kept warm within his arms all night really brought shivers down your spine. How could you miss someone you haven’t even had completely? You felt like a fool.

Tossing the sheets aside, you stood up to find a note posted on your nightstand, reminding you of last night's encounter. It was scary just how quickly you broke your own rules for Jungkook. It wasn't like you at all. You would have never done this for the average man. But Jungkook wasn’t the average man. He was so easy to give into though, he never asked much of you. Was this all too much?

Shaking the crucial thoughts away, you gave yourself a nice stretch before reading the post-it note.

Y/N, thank you for letting me spend the night, but also I’m sorry if I crossed any boundaries. I slept very comfortably. I hope I wasn’t a bother.

He could never be a bother though. Jungkook was just so nice to have around and that was scary.

I’m not really sure if you are a morning person (it’s okay, I’m not one either LOL) but I hope your day goes well. :)

You weren’t, but the reassurance and smiley face made up for it. You’ve never seen anyone use the term “LOL” besides text messages, but anything Jungkook did was too cute. You quickly realized there was nothing he could do that could give you an ick. He was going to drive you insane eventually.

Thank you once again.

Instead of pushing these feelings aside like you had been used to, your insides were screaming ‘come again’ and ‘you’re always welcomed here’. What the fuck was even going on?

P.S. You sleep so pretty. Is that weird? I suppose we have crossed many boundaries for things to be weird between us.

It’s not. But he was right, too many boundaries have been crossed. At some point, you stopped caring for them.

Enjoy your morning.

— JK

Before you could stop yourself, you picked up your phone dialing this so-called JK. There were three crucially long rings and then he picked up.

“Jungkook?” You call his name as if confirming it was him on the other side of the line and not some strange man.

“Y/N, hi.” Jungkook’s voice was sweet even over the speaker. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“I just read your note.”

“Ahh.” Jungkook pauses, clicking his tongue against the roof of his mouth. “Is something wrong?”

“Nope.’, you chew your lip nervously before you continue, ‘Actually, I was hoping I could see you soon?”

Jungkook checks his schedule though sure about his availability. “Yes.” He was always going to be available for you and even if he wasn’t, for some strange reason, he would make the time. It had gotten that bad for him. “Does lunchtime work well for you?”

“Actually, no. I have something I must do today. Can you meet tomorrow?”

“Yeah… yeah that works.” Jungkook sighs, secretly wishing it was tomorrow. “Does late night work for you? I have some work to get done.”

“Yeah, of course. That’s perfect actually.” Some silence carries. “Thank you.”

“For?” Jungkook asks.

“The note. You called me pretty.” You feel your cheeks tint pink saying the words aloud. Talking to Jungkook made you feel like you were back in middle school and he was your crush that everyone, including teachers, knew about. It was the kind of crush that friends would tease you about. Like everyone around you knows that the crush is mutual, but the actual people involved, that being— you and Jungkook. It was more than just a crush you were sure of that much, but dating doesn’t come easy for parents. There is so much to think about, so much to consider and that was a problem for another day.

Jungkook chuckles, pulling you out of your thoughts. You could imagine his smile (the same one that resembled one of a bunny) in your head. “Y/N, you always look pretty.” Jungkook's voice was gentle and quiet, but you could tell he was being so serious.

You scrunch your nose at the compliment, you weren’t always the best at accepting them. “Well, thank you anyways. You sleep pretty too.” It was one of the worst compliments you had ever given someone mostly because it sounded wrong being said aloud, nevertheless it was true. Everything was pretty about Jungkook.

“Impossible. Me pretty?” Jungkook snorts, completely arguing against the idea. “Those two words should never be used in the same sentence.”

You scoff defensively. “But you are. You are very pretty Jungkook. I have never seen anyone so pretty. There’s no way you don’t notice the way people look at you.”

“How do they look at me?” He asks in a lower tone, you picture his tauntingly stupid— but sexy grin. He totally knows how. People look at him like they want to eat him alive, the whole room stops and stares at him— he’s the kind of attractive nobody sees back home.

“I— I don't know. Everyone seems almost in love with you.” You stutter over your words. “Like they think you are pretty. That’s how.”

“Is that so?” Jungkook's smile grows. “Is that how you look at me?”

There was a sudden itch in your throat that caused you to cough like a very sick child. “Oh god. Um, yes— I mean no. I— I don’t know? I have to go now, thank you again.” You clear your throat.

“It’s my pleasure.” Jungkook replies so casually as if he is completely innocent. “See you tomorrow?”

You nod to yourself. “Mhm, have a nice day Jungkook.”

“You too, Y/N.”

You hang up the phone before he gets another word out. Your heartbeat was getting faster by the minute, it didn’t take much to get you going anymore. Jungkook could say or do anything and it was more than enough for you. You were weak for him and he had to have known that by now.

But of course, Jungkook thought the same about you. Both clueless, both just waiting for feelings to slip and possibly become a lot more than you were now.

Time would only tell.

That’s how things seem to work for parents. Time seems endless and short at the same time. Do you open up and risk losing a great lay, now a friend? Do you risk letting this so-called friend into your life— into your daughter’s life? It would be stupid right, after all he was nothing more than sex on a pair of legs. Wasn’t he?

But, what if he was exactly what you imagined him to be? What if he wasn’t?

Could you make it work?

Parents fear too many things, and for a very good reason. Though many people advise to lead with the heart, the heart doesn’t always lead you to the right choices. And those same choices could affect those who mean the most.

Jia was a very compassionate kid and you were sure she would understand you if you opened up about wanting to start dating (if you even ever got that far with Jungkook), but the whole situation was weird. After all, Jungkook was the father to her friend. She has never seen you with anyone much less another father. It would be very different, not only for her but for yourself. You didn’t know what to think anymore and it was weighing on you. The longer you were around Jungkook the more you were realizing your feelings were evolving, and very quickly.

That’s why you decided to meet with Namjoon. He was wise before anything else. Namjoon always had the answer to everything. Even when he didn’t, Namjoon didn’t rest until he did. He was that type of man. That is one thing you really enjoyed while being with him and still he gives the best advice— even after your separation. You figured now was the time to open up before things with Jungkook escalated any further. You owed that much to the man who helped create the beautiful daughter you’d been blessed with.

After dropping Jia off to school, you met Namjoon at a cafe he used to take you to when you both were both younger and deeply in love. The cafe maintained many beautiful memories. This same cafe is where he first took you after your first official date. Just the simple smell of freshly baked bread took you back to those sweet memories you shared.

“Okay you can totally tell me the truth now and don't lie.” Namjoon placed his palm over his heart, dimples deepening as he smiled. “I promise, I can handle it.”

“About what?” You whispered, reciprocating his wide smile.

“Did you really enjoy your day with me? You don’t think I’m like a total loser now, do you?” Namjoon winced, expecting the worst. He was positive he talked your ear off, typically not the best scenario during first impressions. He liked you so much, he feared messing anything up so early, it was a bad habit of his. His longest relationship consisted of a long—short month, exactly thirty-two days. Namjoon was a great man, but terrible at picking up hints. Girls disliked that, but good thing you weren’t like most.

“Namjoon! I’m offended you would even think that. Of course not! I think it’s super cool you know so much about art. I was impressed to say the least. I don’t know much about it, however I really enjoyed today. I learned a lot because of you. Thank you.” You smiled sweetly, bumping into his shoulder playfully.

Immediate relief set over him. “Gosh, I’m so glad. I was starting to think I was losing you already.” He rubbed his heart as if it was aching.

“You couldn’t get rid of me that easily.” You teased, poking his rather solid bicep.

“And I wouldn’t dream of it.” He quickly responded.

Funny, you both had no idea.

“It’s kinda chilly, no?” You shivered scooting closer, hoping to share some of his warmth— or maybe it was just an excuse to get closer to him. A woman has her own needs, right? Nothing wrong with that.

Namjoon picked up exactly what you were putting down. He had recently watched this one movie where the male lead shared his body heat with the female lead during a cold winter storm, though the male lead was a werewolf and she, a fragile human, he was sure this situation could work in real life (romantically speaking and for the sake of avoiding hypothermia, of course).

Namjoon put his arm over your shoulder bringing you to rest against his warm figure, nearly cuddling you. “Here. Is this okay?” He asked, eyes attentive of your response, but you weren't even listening anymore, placing your hand against his broad chest.

“More than okay.” You whispered, stealing glances from his plumped lips and then back to his eyes, repeating the action again and again. He was doing the same, practically begging you to make the next move, praying silently he didn’t misread the situation. It didn’t take long for you to lean into his touch and you shared a sweet kiss. It was slow at first, but quickly got heated. You shyly pulled away, blushing at the fact that you were nearly eating his face in a public area, you hated when couples did that yet here you were, doing exactly just that.

“Let’s take this somewhere else, yeah?” You whispered into his lips.

He gave your lips a quick peck before he replied. “Hell yeah.”

“Namjoon!”

“Y/N, hey!” Namjoon's smile was as warm as when you first met him. Always welcoming. He didn’t hesitate to take you within his arms for a quick tight hug. “You doing good?”

Most people would assume meeting with an ex is a bit awkward— strange even and maybe it was, but not between you and Namjoon. You two had been through too much together to allow anything awkward or any resentment invade your friendship. For fuck’s sake, you have a whole child together, this same man watched you carry his baby in your belly for nine months then witnessed you pop it right out, literally nothing could be awkward now. Neither you nor Namjoon would ever allow it.

“I am Joonie. Thanks.” You smile, pulling away. He already had your seat open and drinks placed upon the table. “You okay?”

“Yes, of course. Vanilla latte still okay?” He gestures towards the drink still asking after years as if your order would ever change.

You nod, taking a seat. “Always.”

“You look good! It’s been a while, no?” He says casually building conversation. “I’m starting to think you’re avoiding me.” He dramatically accuses.

“It’s only been a month or so.” You roll your eyes to the back of your head, quick to your defense. “Please, Joon. If anything, you’re ignoring me.”

“Mhm sure.. so,’ Namjoon clears his throat, ‘what’s the meet up for?”

You figured there was no better way to tell him besides just being hundred percent honest with him. “I’m seeing someone.”

Namjoon's eyes widened and surprisingly he looked pleased more than anything. “Really? Wow, that’s uh— amazing. I’m happy for you.” He smiles with all his teeth.

“What.” You breathe out.

“Here I thought you would never move on.” Namjoon confesses harshly though you knew it was all jokes.

You gasp with great offense.

“I'm kidding, Y/N. I’m really happy for you. Really.” Namjoon grins, clapping his hands cheerfully.

“You are so annoying. Really.” You copied his tone.

Namjoon annoyingly massages his heart with his palm. “Ouch? That’s not how you should treat your baby daddy.”

“Oh, I’ll throw up in this cafe. Stop being weird.” You threaten.

Namjoon laughs hard, clutching his stomach, completely enjoying himself. “Wouldn’t be the first time you embarrassed yourself here.”

“Fuck you.”

“Already have.”

“I’ll kill you, Kim Namjoon. I’m being so serious.”

“What the fuck? My full government name?” You raise your fist up, the man immediately puts his hands up at your mercy. “Okay, okay. Sorry. Let’s talk.” Namjoon smiles apologetically, resting back against his seat.

The mood suddenly changes.

“This was supposed to go smoother.” You huff, taking a sip of the iced coffee in front of you. “I have so many things to say and nothing at once. Is that strange?”

“No, of course not. That’s totally normal.” Namjoon assures, taking a sip from his own drink before placing it back down. “We are only human, Y/N. It’s okay to be confused. We always find our way around, right?”

“Right.” You answer unsure.

“How long have you been seeing this guy?” Namjoon asks, leaning into the table, settling his strong arms against it.

You can’t help but to notice how much he has been working out, it is definitely paying off. You look away for your own good. “God, I don't know. I lost count. It’s been more than a few months, I guess.”

Namjoon nods, tapping his fingers. “Months? And I’m hearing about this now?”

“Well, to be fair you never told me a word about this girlfriend of yours.”

“Fair. Sorry about that. I didn’t really know how to tell you.” He awkwardly mumbles, scratching behind his head.

“It’s okay Joon. I just wished you would have told me before telling Jia.” You easily confide. You were lucky to have Namjoon as the father of your child, it was always easy to open up to him. He would do anything for Jia.

Namjoon immediately worries. When he told Jia, she didn’t have much to say about the whole situation. He assumed she was completely okay with the idea of him dating. Of course, it wasn’t always that simple. “Did she not handle it well?”

“No, no. She did. We talked it out, like we usually do… she seems okay with the situation actually. She likes that you are happy and now receive twice the love.” You tell him, easing his concerns.

“I'm glad to hear that. I was a bit worried. I didn't want this to harm her in any way. I’d end it immediately, if that’s what it meant to keep her happy.” There wasn’t a single doubt in his tone. He didn’t hesitate to put his daughter's wishes first.

“No Namjoon-ah. I would have never allowed that. I understand where you are coming from but we should never let our happiness be taken simply because she isn’t okay with it now. That’s how all kids are. Shit, that’s how us adults are. We all require time to process these things. She will come around, though I’m certain she already has. She loves you so much Joon. You have no idea.” You explain things carefully to him as you would to any other friend.

Typically, it was Namjoon in your place. You always had many doubts and questions, but he would always respond with ease and a solution.

“You’re starting to sound a lot like me.” Namjoon chuckles, his cheeks slightly tinting pink.

You shrug, taking another sip. “Yeah, I guess I am.”

“So, who is this lucky guy?”

“Ahh, about him.” Namjoon's eyes softened making you feel as if he is genuinely listening to all you have to say even if it didn’t apply to him in any way. Namjoon was always a great listener. “He’s really cool.”

“Yeah?” He purses his lips.

“Yeah… when I first met him I wasn’t sure I wanted him around for long. Now, it's like I can’t see myself spending time without him. I think about him literally all day. Our situation isn’t favorable or the best in any way. There is a lot we must talk about before we jump into anything. But he’s vulnerable with me, Namjoon. He listens to me and understands me. He has no idea how much he has done for me. He’s patient, doesn’t rush me into anything. He’s kind, so kind. Sometimes, I feel I don’t deserve his kindness.”

“You do Y/N, you do. What made you realize you wanted him around? That you couldn’t see yourself without him?”

You shift in your seat thinking about how to respond to his questions. “I don’t know where it started. Maybe I’ve always known, it was just hard to admit to myself, well anyone really. That’s why I’m here. I couldn't bear to imagine what would occur if Jia didn’t approve.”

“Y/N, listen to yourself. You just scolded me earlier about not letting Jia’s current feelings come across my happiness. It is only right that you follow your own advice. I know our daughter, she’s the most selfless being to exist on this selfish planet. Trust me, she will come around for you just like she did for me. You are her Mother, after all. You deserve to be happy too.” He went on to say exactly what you imagined he would say. But, there were too many consequences to think about. He made everything sound too easy.

“There is another problem though.” You pause, gnawing at your bottom lip. “He’s also a father.”

“Ahh wow… that is something. So, you also fear not being accepted into his life?” Namjoon guesses, spot on.

“Right. He has a beautiful daughter around the same age as Jia and they just so happen to be great friends. Everything is a mess Namjoon-ah. What if I risk putting myself out there and it just doesn’t work out?” The busy cafe seems to go quiet for some time. Your stomach suddenly starts doing somersaults just imagining the worst possible situations.

“And if it does?” Namjoon quickly counters. His tone is firm, forcing you to really pay attention to his following words. “Y/N we can’t possibly live a life of ‘what if’s’ because there is always a positive outcome that may come from these infinite possibilities. I don't know anything about this guy, but I can tell you really like him. Why let something this small stop you from being happy?”

“It’s easier said than done. Fuck, I don’t know. I haven’t dated anyone for this exact reason. I’m scared Joon. I like him so much. He’s perfect and I don’t want to mess up what we have right now.” You confess feeling worse than before. Maybe you should have kept this to yourself, but you would hate yourself if you did. Hoseok warned you many times about letting things like this eat you alive. It wasn’t right and it wasn’t fair— to you or Jungkook.

“I understand that. But you got to put yourself out there. Give your heart a chance to love again Y/N. You deserve that much. If he turns out to be the one then he does, but if he doesn’t you will move on and I’m here if anything.” Namjoon advises grasping your hand gently in support.

“Yeah. Yeah, I understand. Aren't you scared it won't work out with uh— sorry what’s her name?” You awkwardly question.

He scrunches his nose, smiling at your carelessness. “Dasom.”

“Yes, Dasom. You aren’t scared?” That was a great question. And it was only fair to assume everyone was scared of change, especially when it involved giving up the most vulnerable pieces belonging to yourself.

“Of course, Y/N. I am a father after all. I fear the same things you do, but time will only tell. Like I said if she turns out to be the one then great, if not, I’ll move on. Heartbreaks are only temporary, love can be everlasting.” He expresses with wisdom, his lips forming an encouraging smile. “I’ll be happy with all I have now, whatever is to come later, life will prepare me for it.”

You sigh, lolling your head back slightly. “You make things sound so easy.”

“Because they are. Plus, this isn’t a decision you have to make now. Think about it. Take time to really understand what it is your heart desires. Though it sounds like you have made up your mind about all this. You deserve to be happy and if happiness is found within him, then I suggest you make your move now before it’s too late.” The man drops his final advice, finishing the last of his drink.

“Yeah, I understand. Thank you Joon-ah. For everything.”

He smiles, content that he was able to hear you out. “Of course Y/N. If you and Jia are happy, that is all that matters to me. I hope you find peace in your situation.”

“Yeah. Me too. Thank you again. I hope you are happy as well.” You reply, giving his hand a quick squeeze before letting it go.

“I always am, don’t worry about me. I must go back to work now, is there anything else on your mind?” He asks eyes on his phone before turning his attention back on you.

“No, no that’s all. Thank you for coming.”

He shoves his jacket back on, depositing the device back into his pocket. “No problem. I’ll be picking up Jia from school tomorrow, we’ll be taking her to an aquarium this weekend. She’s been dying to go since they created an advertisement on tv for it, so it will be a sorta surprise for her. Ahh— I was going to ask, is it cool if Dasom joins us?”

“I suggest you ask her. I’m sure she wouldn’t mind. But please be attentive around her, she’s still adapting.” You reply truthfully.

Namjoon nods, understandably. “Of course, Y/N. Thank you for today, it is always lovely meeting with you. Don’t be such a stranger.” He teases.

“You as well Namjoon-ah and I won’t. I’ll see you tomorrow.” He nods once again giving you a quick side hug before he waves his final ‘goodbye’.

—

It wasn't until you were standing outside Jungkook’s suite the next day that you became a complete nervous wreck. There wasn’t going to be a better time to talk about your feelings for Jungkook but being quite honest with yourself, how were you to tell someone who was supposed to be no more than an easy fuck that you caught feeling for them? Though it sounds harsh, it was only supposed to be just that, an easy fuck who would become only later, a blink of your memory.

Until you met him.

Jeon Jungkook.

Jeon Jungkook was no ordinary person. He was no ordinary fuck. He was understanding, patient, and funny. He was a father, a very attractive father. Teenagers would say he’s a dilf and he is, a dilf you so badly want to make yours. How could you tell him this without sounding utterly insane?

“Y/N?” The man only stares at you, probably confused about your stillness. “What are you doing still standing there? Were you ever planning on knocking?”

You shake your head, stuffing your hands into your jacket. “Can I come in?”

“Sure.” He moves out the way, watching you claim a spot in his freshly made bed, placing your jacket aside. “Everything alright?”

“Yeah.” You say, the man closes the door, taking a seat across from you.

“Um, it doesn’t look like you came for what you usually do.” He shyly admits, toying with the ends of his hair.

His shyness brought a smile to your lips. He was so cute. “Nope, no I don't.”

“I’m sorry.” He blushes awkwardly.

You shake your head. “No, don’t apologize. I came to talk.”

“Talk?” His bambi eyes soften, confused.

You nod looking down. Well, here goes fucking nothing. “Talk. I came to talk about us.”

“Us?” You don’t bother looking up, if those eyes could do anything it would be, melt your inside out.

“Yeah, Jungkook. I think I like you.” You lamely say. The butterflies that once lived in your stomach turned into angry rhinos roughing each other around inside the confined space, you were beyond nervous.

“You think?” He asks, before saying anything else.

“Sorry, I don’t know what the fuck I’m saying if I’m being honest.” You awkwardly shift in your seat. This was supposed to be easy. At least, that’s what you expected after talking to Namjoon. But you have to wrap around the idea that you’ve known Namjoon for years now, you share a kid for fuck’s sake, this isn’t someone you have much in common with besides the fact that you sometimes share the same bed. But it’s someone you’d like to know, you’d like to know how he like his eggs in the morning, whether he make a dramatic noise every time he yawns or not, if he prefer ranch or ketchup with his french fries (some even prefer ice cream), you’d just like to know it all. He’s someone whose presence kills the ambience of anything around him filling it with his own, he’s someone you simply like from what you’ve seen so far and though the situation isn’t most favorable it’s what brought you two together. He had to understand.

And he did. “That’s okay, take your time.”

“No Jungkook, I don't need time anymore.” Your fingernails start to dig into your palm anxiously, finally you look up at the man. “It’s just hard, I guess. It's hard to say this aloud, it scares me.”

“I scare you?” Jungkook was too clueless for his own good. Who knew a grown man could be so cute?

Honesty is key, right?

“No Jungkook, the thought of liking you scares me. The thought of liking you and this not working out scares me. That’s what scares me.” You admit.

“Y/N—”

You interrupt him before he gets to finish. “And I know you probably think I’m crazy, why would I like you. After all this was nothing more than just some good easy sex, I understand that well Jungkook, but I just fucking do. I like you so much that every time I see you I feel my heart beat a mile per minute. Every time you look at me, I feel I might burst into a million pieces. When you touch me, my skin burns, it burns and I like it. I enjoy it so much. You make me feel so good, so fucking good. I don't know how else to spell it out for you. I like you. I do. I caught feelings for the only person I should’ve avoided. I know how this sounds I—“

Jungkook repeats a scene you were very familiar with when you went on your anxious rants. He smoothly lays his hand behind your neck pulling you in, kissing your lips so sweetly. At first it was just one peck, but it turned into two and then three. Your eyes fluttered at the sensation, lips soft as clouds. You liked him so fucking much even when he interrupted your rants.

Slowly opening his eyes, he kissed your lips one last time admiring your cute face, pecking the small crease that settled between your brows. You could have sworn you felt your heart beating out of your chest. Jungkook was feeling so much then too, how did he ever wait this long? He didn’t let go of you then, but held on tighter, taking everything in before he began, “I like you too. I like you so fucking much. I’m scared too Y/N, so fucking scared. But no one understands what you feel like I do. I understand you, I do. I’m going through the same problem. I’m not good at saying what I feel on the spot so I hope you don’t mind me freestyling this.”

His honesty made you giggle, driving a smile out from him. “It’s okay.” You assure him. “I don’t mind at all.” You say, poking the dimple on his face which makes him smile even wider.

“Okay, let’s just be honest from now on. I’ve liked you for quite a while now. I’m sure that was obvious.” He shyly confesses.

“It wasn’t. I have too.”

He satisfyingly nods. “Well, I’m glad to hear I wasn't alone. You’re right this is difficult to admit, but honestly feels a whole lot better than keeping it in. It's scary and relieving— all at once. Confessions always lead to the scary ‘next step’. I honestly don’t like thinking too much about what continues after things. Like what does that even mean? You can’t predict endings. At least, that’s what I think. I’m more of the spontaneous type, if that makes any sense?”

“It does.” You shrug, feeling a lot of the same things he’s saying. If you were to take a guess, it’s why many people thought you were an amazing parent, only imagining Jungkook was the same from what you have seen. You would never put harsh expectations on your daughter, as long as she was happy nothing else mattered to you. You could never expect something of your daughter that you never were, even then everyone’s different. She's allowed to grow and become the individual she wants to become. You are only here to guide her and support her until the very end.

“Well, I just find it difficult to think too hard about myself and what comes next. I like to simply do what feels right. And this— us, this feels right. It will be scary as most things are, but we can figure things out, can't we? We are parents, we do this stuff all the time.” Jungkook pleads his case, there wasn't much to argue against.

“Yeah, that we are. I think that's the problem though. Choosing for myself, deciding what I should do next is the hardest part. There is just so much to consider. You get me?” You thoughtfully explain.

He gently nudges his nose against yours. “Yeah, completely. We have time.”

We.

You can’t help but to smile, a lot of your worries disappeared that same moment. “We do.”

“Why rush this? Let’s take it slow.” Jungkook suggests, smiling back.

“Slow?”

“Yeah, slow.” Jungkook caresses your cheeks with his thumbs. “Slow.”

You nod, looking directly at his plush pink lips. It was almost like being stuck in a trance, one you never wanted to escape. “Slow.”

The mood shifts once Jungkook pulls you by your waist into his arms. He licks his lips before connecting with yours, though there wasn’t a rush into the kiss you could feel him everywhere. His hands engulf your thighs pulling you onto his lap. Your fingers quickly knot into his hair lazily kissing him back. Though this kiss felt different, there was no teeth clashing, no biting, it was a slow emotional, sensual kiss.

Jungkook pauses between a kiss before asking, “Is this okay?”

You nod bringing him into your mouth once more. At this point, nearly devouring each other.

This is where things started changing, and for once you trusted yourself. This was right, at least for now.

The man starts palming your ass that sat perfectly against his intimate area. You boldy start grinding against his already hardened member feeling him whimper into your mouth. His palm came down heavy, suddenly striking your ass, driving a gasp from your lips as your hips came to a sudden stop. “I said slow.” His voice was strong and firm, still it was gentle. Funny how quickly the man could change, after all this is what you were both good at.

If you weren’t already turned on before you were definitely turned on now. You could feel your pussy dripping from arousal, begging you to give her what she wanted.

With a smile you continue, “Whatever you say.” Your hips lift up again, rocking against him a lot slower than before. He encouraged your movements by pushing you down, his tented bulge rubbing right against your aching cunt. “Fuckkk.” You whine.

Jungkook’s eyes dropped, enjoying every second. He loved watching you fall apart in his hands. His hand faintly caressed your cheek before grabbing your chin, forcing you to look at him. “Today… today you make yourself come. You think you can do that?”

You only nod, waiting for his next instructions.

“Good. Take your clothes off.” He instructs squeezing the sides of your hips, carefully pushing you on your feet, adjusting his position in bed. “Slowly baby.”

“Slow.” You confirm, bringing your hands to your shirt, peeling it off yourself as slow as you possibly could. Jungkook didn’t dare take his eyes off. You tossed the shirt aside, next came your jeans. This time you turned around showing your backside to him and very slowly lowered your jeans, well aware of the view you were giving him as you stretched down a lot more dramatically than you usually would.

You heard a muffled growl behind you as you stepped out of your pants. “Look at you, so fucking wet and I haven’t even touched you.” You bite your lip to avoid the moan slipping from your throat.

Jungkook had been right. Your panties were soaked as you expected, it didn’t take much to get you going, especially when it came to Jungkook’s touch, even his voice had you going.

“Keep the rest on.” Jungkook demands, patiently waiting for you on the bed. “Come here baby.”

As you turn, he pats his thighs.

Once you were situated on top of his lap, left only in your bra and panties, Jungkook made it his mission to devour your lips completely. His hands made sure to keep you still on his lap, soothing your inner thighs, avoiding your sweet spot every time they went up. You only felt yourself dampening more in the process feeling sorry for Jungkook’s jeans who were paying the price of your actions, your skin prickled at the tingling sensation almost instantly. His tongue came to play eventually playing with yours, while your hands managed to run all over his hard abdomen, squeezing his thin waist.

More.

“More, I want more.” You say popping off his swollen mouth.

He looked down at your lips as you spoke desperately, wiping the spit that covered them. “Take it then.”

Your hands flew to his waistband but he had other plans, his hands snatched your wrists immediately. “No.”

You look at him with confusion written all over your face. Jungkook propped you up, lifting you from your waist, situating his thigh between your heat. “Fuck yourself against my thigh, sweet girl. Take what you need.”

This time you didn’t suppress the whimper in your throat. You always had a thing for Jungkook’s muscular thighs, now they were yours to make a mess of. You didn’t dare waste any more time, the instant you felt Jungkook thigh brush against your swollen bud a moan fell from your lips. Your hands rested upon his shoulders. It was embarrassing just how much you were already leaking, your flimsy panties covered almost nothing feeling the rough material of his jeans underneath you. Fisting his shirt roughly, you continued getting yourself off, rutting your dampen cunt against him. Jungkook didn’t move, he was allowing you to use him solely for your own pleasure, but he was enjoying this just as much as you were. His brows started to crease, watching you fuck yourself onto him. Your mouth had fallen open, letting high pitched moans fall from it, still you felt empty.

Your hand dropped its grip from his shirt, cuffing his cheek instead. “More Jungkook, I need more.”

By this point, you were grinding against him frantically chasing the knot loose in your stomach. But it was so hard when your greedy pussy was begging for his cock.

He bit his lip at the sight, sweat had started to form against your forehead, your cheeks were burning, a hungry gaze set upon him as he watched you ride his thigh desperately.

“No baby. You’re almost there, keep going.” Jungkook croaks, sucking in his breath. His friend was as hard as stone by now, but it was so worth every minute of it.

You shook your head, releasing a shaky breath through your nose. “No Jungkook, f-fuck. I can't.”

“You can baby, you can.” He cooed, his finger brushing your cheek. “Come for me baby.”

That was all it took for your knot to explode. Your thighs started to shake, feeling your juices slip from your sex beautifully. You threw your head back slightly, moaning through your high. Smirking smugly, Jungkook propped his thigh against your gushing pussy helping you through the last of it.

“Oh fuckkkk. Nghh.” Your voice made sweet sounds releasing your sweet essence. “Mmhhh.”

“Fuck, you’re so hot.” Jungkook’s dick twitched inside his pants, nearly coming from the view, the poor material beneath you became a damp mess. “That’s it, make a mess sweet girl.”

When you finally came down from your high, your attention immediately caught the puddled wet spot you left on Jungkook’s thigh.

“Jungkook your pants. I— I’m sorry.” Immediately apologizing for the mess left behind.

Jungkook grabs your cheeks once more, caressing them softly. “Don't apologize about that baby. Such a pretty mess. Next time, I want that mess all over my mouth, but not right now. I won't tease you any longer. I’ll treat you real soon baby.”

You nodded, feeling faint from the intensity of your orgasm.

Jungkook smiled. “Lay down for me sweet girl. I’ll take care of you.”

You drop into the sheets, exhausted.

“You think you can handle one more orgasm baby?” Jungkook sweetly calls. “We can stop here.”

“No, no.” You shake your head. “M’ fine.”

Jungkook chuckles. “Okay sweet girl, you’ve been so good. I’ll make you feel even better.”

He always knew how to keep his promises. You were extremely happy seeing as Jungkook started stripping his clothing off, you as well took the last two pieces that covered your lady parts off, not minding where they landed.

The man didn’t waste time reaching for a condom, he was quick to place the rubber onto his length. It didn’t take long for him to situate himself between your legs looking down for your consent. “This still okay sweetheart?”

You nod desperately. “Please.”

Not teasing any further, he eased himself inside you, immediately feeling the stretch of his big cock delve into your pussy, wrapping around the crown of his head nicely.

“Fuck.” You both moaned synchronously. His eyes looking right into yours as he dove in further, he could only imagine what you must feel like with no condom. Spreading your legs out further he set a slow pace, taking his time with his movements. By this point, you were overstimulated to the max, but he felt so good regardless.

“You okay baby?” Jungkook asks, attentive.

You peck his lips, nodding. “I can handle it.”

He chuckled, only fucking deeper into your pussy. The man sure knew how to use his cock well. “Oh I know you can, baby. Always take me so fucking well.”

The man doesn’t slow down but instead goes faster. He rolls his hips heavenly, hitting your g-spot with every thrust. He did not hold back once, letting his own beautiful melodies fall from his lips. You quickly learned his whimpers and moans were your favorite songs. You wanted to become his personal cockslut for life if this is what it took to hear his pretty sounds daily. Good thing you were all his, as he was yours.

You think?

“Kook… fuh-fuck.” You whine feeling his huge dick greedily caress your tight walls.

He almost came to a stop hearing the nickname being used especially during sex, he didn’t even like the nickname as his friends would tease him by using it to annoy him but coming from your mouth, he liked everything, so he kept going. “What happened baby?”

Suddenly, you started feeling very insecure. “W-what are we?”

He seemed confused but quickly understood. “We can be whatever you want us to be, baby. We can go as slow as you want us to go. You tell me angel.” His movements were much slower, being very careful.

Your eyes start watering at his softness and carefulness, still making you feel so good nonetheless. “You’re mine right?”

Jungkook’s eyes softened, lifting his hand to your cheek. “Yes baby, yes. All yours. I’m yours.” He leaned forward taking your lips into his, making love to them. Your hand tightened its grip on his hair tugging him as close as possible as if he wasn’t deep in your guts.

He was all yours. How did you get so lucky? Jungkook was thinking the same. Jungkook always questioned life, always felt he was missing something from it. This was that. He was missing you all this life. You two weren’t even fucking anymore. This was sealing that deal. The deal you started a few months back. This has never been a quick fuck, not when you two were nearly making love to one another, night after night. He was all yours as you were his.

You detach yourself from his mouth, bringing your mouth to the birthmark on his neck. You always wanted to kiss it, but didn’t dare want to overstep any boundaries before, but now there were nearly none. You softly peck the cute dot then bring your lips closer to his jawline right at his sweet spot sucking on it with purpose. You were only claiming what was yours. Selfishly, you wanted the whole world to know that Jeon Jungkook (aka DILF JEON) was no longer available.

Jungkook moaned, no longer focusing as much about the situation between your legs. His rolls started to get lazy and desperate all at the same time. He was close. He was aching for a release.

You gasp into his neck as he sets a brutal pace no longer having any mercy for your poor lady friend, he is determined. He bit his lip at the feel of your tight pussy sucking him in so deliciously. “Oh fuck, Kook. Nghh…”

The sound of skin slapping against each other fills the room, he lets out his own grunts. “Fuck baby, keep saying my name.”

“J—jungkook, Jungkoook. I’m gonna fucking come.” You whimper. “Don't stop, please.”

His hips snap harder into you, faster, filling you to the fucking brim. “Can you feel how much I like you? Tell me you can feel me.”

You can barely move but you nod the best you can at that point in time, he was deep in your guts. Your inner thighs were burning from the stretch, but this feeling was always worth it. “Kook, I’m so close.”

“I know baby, I know.” He brings his forehead on top of yours looking down at the mess between your legs. “Come all over this cock angel, let me hear those pretty sounds.”

Finally, you felt a wave of pleasure hit your body. Almost immediately your mouth falls open, moaning throughout the release. He fell close behind you, thrusting into you powerfully until the very end. Jungkook grunts as his climax approaches him, spilling himself into the condom.

All that you both could do after was catch your breath. Jungkook very carefully slipped from inside you careful of your sensitive afterglow, ripping the condom off, almost instantly falling beside you. The man tossed the rubber into the trash, letting himself fall limp into the bed, you followed his calm state.

“You okay?” Jungkook asks in between breaths.

“Never better.” You breathe, both smiling though facing the ceiling. “No cleaning up Jeon? This isn’t you.”

He laughs at the use of his last name. “On it, Ms. Y/L/N.”

He immediately stands on his feet, bringing back to you a wet rag, very gentle when cleaning the mess between your legs, even the once clean and fresh sheets got a taste of you.

After getting rid of the filthy bedsheets to replace them with clean ones, and changing into more comfortable clothes (though you insisted Jungkook that he didn't need to let you borrow any clothing) you both laid back in bed, this time facing one another. Talking after sex became a habit, one you now enjoy participating in happily.

“And she basically argued with me all morning about how she could beat me in a game of basketball.” Jungkook ends his sentence in a sassy tone.

“Kook, you cannot be serious. You argued with a seven year old… about basketball…” You pose.

“Yes. She started it.” Sounding like a whole five year old himself. He was definitely a character.

“Well, little baby. Maybe she can beat you if you are this upset about it.”

He gasps completely offended. “How dare you take her side already? We just started dating and this is how you betray me? Shame on you.”

You giggle, fingers playing with his soft hair. “Is that what we are doing? Hmm. Dating?”

He nods. “Yup, we skipped a few bases. Nothing we can’t do to make it up though.”

“Mm, I don’t know Jeon. I’m pretty picky when it comes to this stuff. I expect only the best from men I date.” You shrug, sounding uninterested.

He pulls you closer, entangling your body on top of his. “Please baby, don’t underestimate me. I’ll make it up to you.”

You smile pecking his lips just once. He smiled right after you. Then pure admiration came. You both didn’t speak, just admired each other so up close and personal.

This is what he’s been missing.

It’s you.

“Stay.” Jungkook says, his hands caressing your back. “Spend the night.”

“I don’t know… you snore.” You tease kissing his cute nose.

“No, I don't.” He scrunches his nose in an attempt to look angry, but in reality he looked even cuter. You don’t understand his duality just yet, but it was definitely something you could get used to.

“No you don't, baby.” You coo, kissing him sweetly all over his cheeks to hear that precious giggle of his. “Fine, you convinced me, I’ll stay.”

“YAY!” He cutely yells.

“Only if you promise to buy me breakfast tomorrow.” You tap his nose gently.

“Anything you want.” He promises with the sweetest doe-eyes.

“Anything?”

He nods, dimples poking out as he smiles. “Anything.”

You don’t even bother to keep the conversation going. You trust him and in his arms you fall asleep that night. Though you fell into a deep sleep, you could swear you felt kisses to your cheeks during the warm night.

Maybe this was a lot easier than you expected.

Loving Jungkook was not scary at all. Actually, loving Jungkook was easy and you were willing to make this work.

“Goodnight baby.” Jungkook whispers, delivering a kiss to your cheek.

For now, you settle for that.

a.n: omg hello everyone and im sorry this was incredibly late >.<

bts has done so much since the last time i updated sooo everything has been a bit crazy. i hope everyone is doing well.

thank you to those that reached out to me during the time i was gone i’ve missed updating sm. i’m so happy to be back.

i’ll be honest with you all, i’ve been working on another project so i hope to post that here soon ! with that being said please enjoy this update !

thank you for waiting my loves <3

#jungkook x reader #bts fanfic #bts jungkook #jungkook fanfic #jungkook smut #bts smut #jungkook fluff

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