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mochimooon · 5 months

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DTF Only (Tinder Wh*re) - eren jaeger x reader 18+

pairing: Eren Jaeger x afab! Reader summary: On a six-day Tinder streak, you don't plan to stop for Friday night. Especially when Eren invites you out for a drink. word count: 4500+ notes: Part 7 of DTF Only. Aight, first time writing fanon! Eren. Ya'll know what to expect here. As always indented text refers to reader's messages. warnings: smut, explicit content, explicit language, oral sex (f! receiving), exhibitionism, semi-public sex, degradation, alcohol consumption, toxic power-play, name-calling, vaginal fingering, vaginal sex ☻ masterpost☻

MINORS DO NOT INTERACT 18+ !!

Pieck’s message lights up your phone.

Another one???

You’ve outdone yourself. Six dates in a row and your streak continues tonight.

The latest match, Eren invited you for a round of drinks. Simple and low-key.

As far as appearance goes, you’re mesmerized. His striking features had you scrolling through both his profile and Instagram (included in his bio). Green eyes, tan skin, dark brown hair that fell just shy of his shoulders, styled mostly in a haphazard bun. Not to mention the number of shirtless selfies, it’s obvious: he knows he’s hot.

Arrogance isn’t usually your flavor, but glimpses of a tongue ring challenge you to expand your palate.

He’s such a WHORE!! You can just tell

Yep. Whore-vibes. And that tongue ring…😛

lol, freak. I’m so proud of you. One week and you’re already thinking Colt who?

You laugh at that, albeit it’s a hollow one. A week later and you’re still not sure how to feel, and a part of you is concerned some untapped feelings will catch up to you later.

Despite the fun you’ve had on these dates, Colt has creeped into your mind a few times, mainly because he’s the last person you were with. However, thoughts of him don’t linger long enough by the time you’re getting busy with your Tinder matches.

Still, you do wonder what he’s up to.

Is he on Tinder too in his city? If so, you don’t feel anything strongly about that.

Just then, you get a new text message.

Heading out now See you there ;)

Much like the other guys, you and Eren had exchanged personal numbers. You had no problem with it, preferring it that way you could call them if you had to, and vice versa.

Almost ready 😊 Be there soon

…

It’s easy to find Eren at the bar. You might be pushing your luck, but you’re grateful that every guy you’ve matched with looks like their pictures (and even better in person).

He’s snagged a table near the bar, a negroni, barely touched, indicating that he hasn’t been waiting long. As you approach, you take this opportunity to assess him, and your face warms the closer you get to the table.

He’s…attractive, almost painfully so. An effortless kind of swagger in the way he sits on the chair, elbow bent over the edge, a hand stretched out on the table, tapping his fingers. You’re surprised that he’s not mobbed by a flood of men and women right now.

Walking past the bouncer, green eyes zero in on you, lighting up like a radar.

Eren gets to his feet, gliding forth to say your name in a smooth low tone. “Hey there, pretty girl.”

You shiver from the toned muscle you’re pressed against. “Hi, Eren, nice to meet you.”

“I opened up a tab,” he says as he returns to his seat. “Someone will come over and you can place an order.” As he speaks, you’re given the first glimpse of that tongue ring.

You force yourself to look away to keep from drooling over it. “Cool, thank you. I didn’t keep you waiting long, did I?”

“Nah. Barely placed this order.” He points to the negroni. “You’re good.”

A waitress comes by in a second to take your drink order.

“A tab’s open already,” Eren tells her. “Under Jaeger.”

You pause, mind reeling from the name. You wave it off. “Is this your go-to spot?"

Eren finishes a sip, nodding. “Yeah, my friend used to bartend here after college, and he always had the hook-ups. He doesn’t work here anymore, so the perks are gone, but it’s still a nice place to grab drinks.”

Your drink arrives a few minutes later, as you tell Eren about your week, omitting your previous Tinder escapades. He nods and hums to acknowledge that he’s listening, but his eyes are in deep thought, wandering from your face to your lips, down your neck with an indifferent expression.

When you pause to have more of your cocktail, a smirk ghosts Eren’s lips.

“So...let’s hear about this ex-boyfriend.”

You raise a brow, taken aback. Not once did you mention Colt, so you’re at a loss as to why Eren would dig for that sort of detail.

Confused and a little peeved, you say, “That’s an awkward thing to ask about on a first date.”

“I have a sixth sense.” Eren doesn’t parse his words. “Most women on Tinder are fresh out of a breakup and want to get under someone to forget them.” He shrugs. “Not judging at all. I’m more than happy to offer my service.”

Your brows knit together, unsure of what to do think of that. “Sounds like a hot take. I’m not going to talk about past relationships. It’s boring.”

This yields the opposite reaction you wanted from Eren. Because instead of dropping it, he leans closer, brow arched, ears peeled ready for gossip. “He was boring? How so?”

You purse your lips, averting his question. “What about you? On Tinder for a rebound hook up?”

The whore laughs, hearty and patronizing. “I’m not on the rebound.”

“So, you’re telling me every date you’ve gone on so far was to serve as someone’s rebound?”

He shrugs again, unfazed. “Maybe not every date, but most. Again, no shade, just curious to know. I feel like I’m right though.”

Is that what you’re doing? Rebound fucks? You don’t see it that way.

Sounds like he's just nosy. What he plans to do with any information you share about Colt, you’re not sure. But then Ymir’s voice rattles in your head from a phone conversation you had with her earlier that day.

You had just sent her screenshots of Eren’s profile.

“Hoodrat for sure. I’d be careful, though.”

“Why? If all he wants is sex, who cares?” you had said.

“I know you’re not interested in him like that,” Ymir continued. “What I mean is that a guy like Eren has a big ego. Game-playing, all that. Knowing you, that might get on your nerves before you get a chance to get naked with him.”

“Meaning?”

Ymir chuckled. “Meaning you’ve got an ego too.”

You wonder then if that’s why Eren’s so interested in knowing about your past relationship. Perhaps, it is a show of ego, a way for him to measure up or out-measure someone you’ve already been with.

You busy yourself with your cocktail as Eren takes a long gulp of his negroni, green eyes flitting back to the bar. While you try to get to a better read on him, you’re unable to concentrate.

Your mind spins in circles, moving and bobbing like his Adam’s apple. He’s leaning against the barstool, in the same careless swagger. Ego or not, you hate to admit that he has every right to be full of himself.

Setting the glass down, Eren’s tongue falls out in a satiated sigh. You’re not discreet and Eren catches that. He grins, tongue swiping along his bottom lip. The metal stud sways like a pendulum.

Your jaw slowly loosens, hooded eyes zeroed in on the piercing.

“You like that?” Eren moves his tongue in a way that prods the stud out further.

Oh, you like it a lot. Eren hadn’t displayed it fully on his profile, but a few pics of him laughing, you swear you caught the shine of metal in his mouth.

Recollecting your wits, you say, “Tell me about that piercing. Does it hurt?”

Eren shrugs, tapping a few fingers along the table. “Never had any complaints.”

A rush of heat soaks through your skin. You swallow, like a cat fixated on a shiny object. “I meant getting it pierced.”

He shakes his head, grin widening. “Just a little pressure when they stick it in.” This man is so shameless… “Pain is an afterthought.”

You can’t help it, your mind falls back into the gutter, deep into a rabbit hole, curious to know what a tongue like that could do between your legs.

“I’m guessing your ex-boyfriend didn’t have a tongue piercing either?”

You deflate, irritation pricking the fantasy. “Let’s change the subject.”

“Still hurting from it?” Upon first impression, you didn’t expect Eren to channel anything other than arrogance. His softer tone is a sudden switch that you don’t realize has chipped away at your resilience to veer away from the topic.

“Never really hurt from it,” you say, indifferent, hoping to put an end to the subject afterwards. “My routine’s changed, so that sort of sucks. I got really comfortable.”

Eren hums. “That’s dangerous. Complacency. I’m going to assume he was very vanilla too?”

You roll your eyes.

Eren feigns innocence. “What?”

“I don’t want to talk about breakups, past relationships, none of that…”

“Fine, what about your body count?” He snorts, again, feigning innocence when you don’t answer. “He wasn’t your only one, was he?”

You roll your eyes. Like after, there were also men before Colt. Though they didn’t compare to the roster you’ve had this week. Maybe it comes with age, but your sex life had never been better. “I’m on Tinder, what’d you think?”

This seems to shift Eren’s mood. The snark stutters across his features into a scowl. “Oh…so you’re on Tinder to hook up only?”

“Didn’t say that.”

“You’re not looking for a relationship though.” He leans back, looking scorned. “Body counts going up then.”

What’s his problem? He’s the walking incarnate of a fuckboy, but the idea of you laying up with other guys he doesn’t even know spurs this sudden attitude. You’re strangers, both single, full stop.

He pushes his tongue against his cheek. “Is there any guy on Tinder you haven’t slept with?”

You balk, brows rising. However, the corner of your lips curl, less angry and more amused. Someone's competitive... “Are you upset that you’re not one of them?”

You expect another taste of his attitude, for his frown to deepen. You do not expect his eyes to light up, like a dare igniting.

“Oh, you’re a brat.” He tops his drink with a grin. “That’s in my pay grade.”

You shouldn’t entertain this, you already know. You’re both far too old to be playing games for strangers that only met to inevitably hook-up. You also know you shouldn’t be turned on by this challenge across the table, green eyes and tongue-pierced. Heat gathers at the center of your thighs anyway.

“I don’t mind taming a brat,” Eren continues.

“You’re an expert?” you challenge. “Because I don’t know what brat you’re talking about—"

His laughter cuts you short. “Oh no, you’re a brat alright. Tell me more about those Tinder hook-ups. Any of them better than that boyfriend of yours?”

At his condescending tone, your brow twitches. At the dark lust in his eyes, your thigh twitches.

“You seem really obsessed with knowing about my ex,” you say. “Are you trying to compensate for something?”

Eren tilts his head, smirk stiffening, a crack in his arrogant resolve. “Trust me,” he recovers. “I don’t need to compensate for anything.”

It’s like a bait you can’t resist, wanting to see to that promise. But you restrain yourself. Regardless of your intentions for being there, you can’t feed into ego, his or yours. However, Eren does make it difficult the more he pricks and needles.

Eren takes your silence as an invitation to barb you more. “If I were to guess, he sucked at getting you off. That’s a shame, you’re too pretty to deal with someone like that.”

You can’t explain it, but you find yourself taking Eren’s bait, defending Colt. “He knew how to love.”

“But he didn’t know how to fuck.” He folds his arms. “You do. That’s why you’re on Tinder.”

Your blood is flushed with heat and agitation. What’s worse it that you don’t mind it, but your ego refuses to let you give him that satisfaction. As much as you would like to hook-up with Eren, you might have to cut your loss instead.

Finishing your drink, you pucker your lips, tingling with the burn of alcohol. Eren frowns as you rise to your feet.

“Thanks for the drink. Have a nice night.”

Spinning a heel, you hear Eren scoff, beckoning you to come back and when you don’t, he clicks his tongue. But you don’t turn back, nor do you flinch when you hear the scrape of a barstool around the call of your name.

“Shit—I need to close my tab—”

You’re outside, crossing the back lot when footsteps haunt your own, rushing to catch up. “Wait!” Your name spills out of Eren’s mouth. “Wait! Just—wait!”

You peer over your shoulder with surprising level-headedness, but the pulse of your wrist skips, caught in Eren’s grasp.

Silence ensues as Eren catches his breath, fingers wrapped along your wrist to keep you from escaping. A few rogue strands have come loose along his hairline and his previous scowl inside the bar remains intact, though it has smoothed out since finding you.

“Yeah?” You level him with the same sharp glare earlier, patience thinning and heart pounding, charged with the adrenaline. “What is it, Eren?”

He leads you a few paces towards a parked black car that you assume is his.

“You know, you’re keeping me right now,” you say.

Eren’s eyes snap up. “Whoever they are, they can wait.”

You scoff. “Right, because I was about to run off to my ex-boyfriend, that’s who you think is waiting for me, hm?”

At the mention of Colt, the humor resurfaces in Eren’s face, though it’s pinched with slight irritation.

Fueled by the tension, you egg Eren on, delighting in the way his hand tightens around your wrist.

“Like I said, he knows how to love.”

Eren snorts. “Right, right, you mean he bored you.”

“That’s what you say."

“That’s what I know.” Eren’s eyes darken, dropping your wrist to run his fingers along the side of your stomach. “He was gentle, wasn’t he? Because that’s how you like them.”

You narrow your eyes, warmth flooding your neck and gathering between your legs. “You don’t know how I like them.”

Whether it’s the heat of the moment or ego, you refuse to tell Eren that he’s right. Despite how healthy of a relationship, you and Colt had, overall, he didn’t satisfy your sexual needs. Sure, you always knew that, as did your friends. But that doesn’t mean Eren needs to hear it too. With nothing else to say, you fall silent, bristling from Eren’s touch.

“So, I’m right,” Eren breathes as he leans closer, hands trailing south, beneath your skirt. He flicks his gaze up, and you acquiesce by not pushing him away.

He finds the gusset of your bodysuit and raises a brow. His surprise fades away in seconds. The crotch of your bodysuit is snapped aside, and you wince.

Fingers glide along the slit of your pussy that you fight to stand. Eren hisses a laugh, pleased to find you soaked. “Did your boyfriend make you this wet?” A knuckle presses against your center, and you release a shaky breath. “Did he?”

You mewl, shaking your head.

“Didn’t think he did,” Eren whispers, arrogance distinct. He replaces his knuckle with his thumb as two fingers rub your folds and a third prods your entrance.

Words evade you, dying on your tongue and you can only manage a gasp when his thumb quickens its pace.

“Who’s making you wet then?”

The added pressure on your clit makes you gush, and the victory in Eren’s smirk makes it harder to resist his allure.

You sputter, “Y—you.”

“Hm?” Eren’s third finger inches inside of you like a phantom touch, close but not enough to push past your walls. “Who?”

“You…Eren.” You’re so starved for more stimulation, you don’t care about your ego anymore, gladly tossing it away in exchange for relief.

A finger slides into your pussy. You moan, tilting your hips.

Eren breathes a laugh, tongue swiping his lip. “That’s a good little pussy.” He rewards you with another finger, pumping with enough vigor that promises to unravel you within seconds.

Your back flattens against the side of Eren’s car, chest rising with sharp gasps. Your hooded gaze fixates on Eren’s unshaken stare. His equilibrium combined with deft fingers bring you to the edge, your pleasure almost crests.

The pace dials down significantly, and you’re rolling back down the hill of a stable mind. Eren’s fingers continue to pump inside of you at a much slower rhythm, the pressure on your clit has reduced to featherlight.

You blink up at him, bucking your hips to reignite the dying embers in your lower belly.

Eren’s keen on taunting you, pressing onto your clit again with renewed pressure.

Breathless, you say, “Eren, don’t stop.”

He doesn’t listen, wearing a mask of mock confusion. “Oh. I can’t help you if you don’t tell me what you need.” His fingers pull away.

You snatch up his wrist, a desperate plea in your grip, leveling him with a yearning gaze. “Eren, I want you to fuck me.”

Victory pulls at the corner of Eren’s lips, his hand stroking your face in a delicate manner. “You want to get out of here?”

You rise on your tiptoes, giving him a heavy nod, hypnotized by the tension crackling from your bodies.

“I can take you back to my place. Give you the best rebound fuck of your life.”

You nod again, hasty and urgent, voice lost in the rising tide of desire.

“You want that?” Eren husks.

You swallow. “Mhm.”

Eren erases the miniscule gap with a press of his forehead against yours, a taunting glimmer in his eyes. “Too bad.”

The car door flies open, and you’re tossed inside, hitting the leather of the backseat. There’s little time to process anything, and no time to adjust your skirt that’s rolled up your thighs. Eren climbs in, pushing the fabric up.

His mouth is on yours, sucking the air from your lungs. When he pulls back, your head spins.

“Tinder whores don’t get fucked in private.” Sliding down, your thighs are hitched over his shoulders. “They get fucked in a parking lot.” He flashes the stud on his tongue, moving his mouth to push it out.

Your thighs quiver, hand digging into the leather seat.

Eren’s gaze falls to your pussy, ego resting on the edge of his smile. “Shit, you should see yourself right now. You’re dripping. You want to me to treat you like a whore. You need me to have a taste, huh?”

You would like to clapback, wishing for something snippy to spill out. But it would betray the anticipation flowing through your body. Whether Eren means it or not, you enjoy his overconfidence, aching at the degradation, growing wetter from it. Colt would never entertain such a concept.

Pride nowhere to be seen, you nod, biting your lip; pleased and pliant to be the whore he makes you out to be.

Eren’s brows rise, grinning, nonetheless. He yanks you closer by the hips, and for a moment you’re aware of the open car door. Although the lot is empty, anyone can walk by, sneak a peek over to witness what Eren’s preparing to do to you. And you moan despite all that.

“Time to chase that drink down.” There’s a strain to Eren’s words like he’s in need to gulp down his drool. He doesn’t, letting his tongue hang and a dribble of saliva meets the slick of your pussy.

“Oh—oh!” You lift your head, eager to get a visual of what you’re feeling. Eren’s piercing juts out, extending that the hard metal presses onto your clit. Your hips buck up to meet the stud again.

Eren’s mouth slots over your pussy, dragging his tongue along the slit, tongue ring grazing between your folds. It’s a foreign sensation, sparking more pleasure when it meets your clit again with a flick of his tongue.

Eren comes up, eyes deeper, richer, and lecherous. His sharp inhale sounds more like a slurp. “Fuck…you taste perfect to me.” You whine as his tongue meets your folds again, tongue ring nudging your pussy lips. “Cum on my tongue, yeah?” It falls out like a desperate demand.

“Yeah…ah!”

Eren’s tongue slides into your entrance, pushing past the flesh. You can feel the tongue ring exploring your walls, not as distinct as you expected it to be. However, it’s Eren’s technique that has you staggering close to release.

He’s ruthless, eating you out with an insatiable appetite. Two fingers press onto your clit, swiping in a stride that sparks your pulse.

“Ah—Eren—” You grind against his hold, climbing that peak of ecstasy. You grab hold of Eren’s hair by the bun to keep yourself steady.

Eren swaps techniques, fingers replacing his tongue to massage the spongy spot inside of you while the tip of his tongue laps at your clit. The pressure from the stud and the curling of his fingers, set you free, the world unraveling in the backseat of his car as you cry out your release.

Eren’s fingers pull away, he slurps you up as your body twitches around him, recovering from the rush of pleasure.

Your mindless as he cleans you up, hand carding into his hair lazily.

It’s like time’s been pulled from beneath you when he resurfaces, crawling over.

Tilting his head, he smirks. “Are you still there?”

You nod slowly, head floating. Words are robbed with Eren’s mouth on yours. His tongue slides along yours, stroking you with his stud.

Breaking apart, you and Eren catch your breaths.

At the sight of Eren’s dark gaze, your mind returns to you, punctuated with a telltale bulge pressed against your pussy.

Pleasure renews and you shudder.

“We’re not finished yet,” Eren says.

You lick your lips, brows furrowing together to fill the blanks you’re unable to verbalize.

Eren’s amused by your silence. “Nothing to say to me? Does my little whore need a break?”

You bite your lip again, needing more friction between your legs. Trembling thighs wrap around him.

Eren takes your chin, leveling you with a look, overflowing with confidence. “Use your words…I haven’t fucked you dumb yet.”

You shake your head, watching a flame flicker behind Eren’s eyes, a challenge sparking there. “No, now, c’mon, just fuck me already before I change my mind.”

You both know you don’t mean it, but it doesn’t stop Eren from teasing you.

His arms cage you on either side of your head, voice dripping with arrogance. “I think I’ve done my part convincing you, angel.”

Your pussy weeps at the pet name.

In a flash, Eren pushes away, hunched over to reach in the center console. His teeth rip into the condom’s wrapper, watching you with hunger. He undoes his belt, shoving down his boxers in haste.

His cock springs free, pearly with precum. You want to get a glimpse of his manhood, but you’re pinned to the leather. He moves so quickly, doesn’t bother to stroke himself, already rock hard and ready to burst. The condom slips on, and he draws closer, yanking your thighs in.

The tip of his dick kisses your entrance. The pressure alone is enough warning of his size. You meet his eyes and spread your thighs as far as they can go in the tight space.

He falls forward again, elbows bent on the seat your head lays upon, green eyes fixed on your face. He pushes into you. “Gonna mold this slutty pussy to take me.”

The stretch pushes air from your chest in a pleased moan, and he slides in until he’s fully sheathed inside of you.

He gives you no time to adjust, doesn’t waste any to flex his ego anymore. He fucks into you hard and erratic, hovering so close to your face.

It’s an oddly intimate view, you forget that you’re being fucked in the backseat of his car in a parking lot. However, you’re a sucker for eye contact and relish his hooded gaze, bewitched by the feel of you clenching around him.

Labored breaths fill the backseat, steaming up the windows from the passion between your bodies.

Eren grunts out your name. “Fuck! This pussy is still so tight—”

On cue, your walls clamp down on his girth, an animalistic sound rumbles in his Eren’s throat.

“Fuck—fuck—” Eren’s tongue pushes past your lips. He pulls away with a smile, a surprising tenderness in his eyes, contrasting his rough nature.

Eren’s hand plants itself against the fogged window, and the other travels south, rubbing your clit in a hurry. “Want you to gush over my cock.”

You writhe like a spirit reawakened, clawing at the leather interior again, and that’s when you feel it—arching your back as you cum for the second time.

Eren’s hips slam into yours, hot pursuit of his own release that tears through him a moment later, in a long-satiated groan.

You watch him fall apart, eyes shut, brows pinched. His jaw hangs open, giving you another peek of the tongue ring.

A moment passes. Eren’s fingers slip from the window, arm shaking from the impact of his climax, his body sinks.

You press your hands against his chest to keep him from crushing you.

Eren catches himself, hovering over you. “Thanks.” He blinks at the window with a grin. “Look at that. We fogged up the place.”

Your head tilts. Fingerprints streaked along the glass, clashing with the sudden chill that enters the backseat.

You scoff lightheartedly, reeling from the throws of passion and the excitement of having tried something daring, something you’ve always fantasized. A carnal itch has been scratched.

Car sex. You’re a new fan.

…

Eren gives you a lift home.

You point out your complex. “That building just before the stop sign.”

The car rolls to a stop at the front, the engine shutting off.

Unbuckling your belt, you pull out your keys, hand on the door.

Eren takes your other hand, reeling your attention back as you turn to him.

He’s smug, and you can’t deny that you feel the same way. Though what he says takes you aback.

“Um…I didn’t mean any of that by the way. You’re not a whore.”

Your shoulders slacken with the release of a faint laugh. “Oh, don’t worry, I didn’t take you seriously. I didn’t mind being called one.” You bat your eyes. “Or…fucked like one.”

The corner of Eren’s lip curled, widening with pride. “I’m up for another round, any time.” He kisses your knuckles. “I’ll text you.”

Like the other guys, Eren was not a bad lay. But with him, you don’t put stock into anything he says. You’re not naïve, too mature to act like a school-girl to his charms. He’s a womanizer at heart.

A new notch on your belt is all.

You open the door. “Sure, have a good night.”

☻ masterpost☻ taglist: @moonmalice @daisynik7 @theragethatisdesire @squidalapobre @arlerts-angel @shepnicolo @porples-blog @jeanboyjean @fictional-d-supremacy

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peachesofteal · 7 months

Note

read dd zombie au as a horror and zombie enthusiast and I had to say this-

what if darling was bitten but somehow "immune"?

she gets bit, symptoms come in but strangely she doesn't turn. she hungers like a zombie but the thought of hurting someone brings her back.

johnny and simon are kinda happy. you're not a zombie! yay! but the blueish bite on your shoulder says otherwise. at night, they tie your hands to your waist and bind your mouth shut, but apart from sleepy shuffling and grumbling, you don't seem to want to eat them.

the bagged mre's they try to feed you make you gag unless it's suspicious patties, so they guessed you were hungry, just not enough to try to eat them.

strongly believe that johnny treats you like a child. hand feeds you your meals that you reluctantly chew on, washes your hair and braids it ( he knows you hate waking up with tangled hair ) even brushes your teeth for you. he does this because you're too weak and tired to do it yourself ( no he doesn't. he does it because he hates seeing you like this, wishes he could cure you, but he can't. so he makes sure you eat and drink. he needs you. )

simon has seen so many people die to the virus that it feels unreal to him. he's still waiting for you to suddenly snap at him. however, watching the way you stare at him and johnny like you genuinely are there, it reassures him. he tries to talk, have conversations with you, make sure you remember. he despises having to leave you, though. he feels that if he take his eyes off you for a second you might pass or turn.

by the two week mark, you're getting better. the dark circles under your eyes are fading and the hollow dent of your cheeks is getting fuller. the mre's still make you gag, but it seems you'd rather eat those than a squirrel.

there's hope, they think. but if people find out you're immune... they'll try to take you away.

you can't leave them. they'll make sure no one takes you.

BITCH (affectionately) the way this is so fucking good. I LOVE a caretaking fic (clearly) and a protective Simon and Johnny. Love the idea of them on the run, hiding you, protecting you from those who are hunting immunes. Honestly could be an entire book. This scratches my itch so well. Love your brain.

Johnny just wants to take care of you. He knows you’re still in there, knows you’d be so distraught if you realized how filthy they’d let you become, so he takes him time leading you down to the creek by the campsite. He uses one of the t shirts they’ve been using as a washcloth to sponge you clean, humming sweetly to gentle you as you flinch against the water. Your skin is starting to turn back to its normal color now, a recent development that they both feel good about, and you’ve become more sensitive to temperature, occasionally shivering against the chilled cloth. Simon keeps watch, and you watch too, tracking Johnny’s hands with sluggish eyes and a half open mouth, tongue flicking between your teeth.

If he didn’t know any better, he’d say you’re preparing to take a bit out of him-

“Just gon’ brush yer teeth, darling.” He cradles your jaw with strong fingers and your brow furrows, confused when he pops your mouth wide, the little toothbrush you packed for yourself when you evacuated lightly scrubbing across your bottom teeth.

“Be careful, Johnny.” Simon warns, but he clucks his tongue.

“She’s alright. Cannae hurt me.” He knows you wouldn’t. You already would have, at night. Already would have turned on them, ripped their jugulars free with your teeth when they slept.

But you wouldn’t. Because you’re still in there. You’re still darling.

Once he’s done, fixed your hair so that it’s up but not weighing your scalp down, ensured it’s in place how you like, he passes you to Simon so he can make dinner.

Simon walks patrol at this time, and you go with him, listlessly walking at his side.

“D’ya remember last summer, when we all went to that carnival? You were so excited. Made Johnny and I play that bloody ring game against one another. You were so chuffed, I swear I can still hear you giggling when Johnny beat me the first time.” You moaned in response, something that didn’t sound quite like words, but more positive to negative.

Something catches his eye. A deer in the woods. A doe. Sizable. He glances from you, to it.

“Darling.” He holds your shoulder, trying to jog your gaze. “Darling, I need you to stay here.” He doesn’t want to leave you, but if he can get closer, he can get a clean shot off. You stare at him, and he sighs. “Alright.”

He makes it ten meters before the brush rustles behind him, the sight of you lumbering slowly towards where he’s crouched. You’re staring past him, watching doe with a glazed over look, and he tenses.

Once you get to his side, you look down to where he’s kneeling behind a bush, and then you start to, painfully slow, crouch beside him, fingers lightly brushing against his thigh.

You look at him, and then at the deer with a grunt. The hope that blooms in his heart is infectious, and he can’t fight it. He won’t.

Weeks later, they’re on the road when they come across a group of others.

You’ve improved, greatly, but your ability to speak never came back. You can’t talk, only point and make little noises here and there, and your fine motor skills are still struggling, (Johnny is still brushing your teeth for you, and feeding you. He doesn’t complain, they both have always loved taking care of you) and your pace is very slow, like you’re sore, and always tired. Simon is careful to go easy, not wanting to do anything to stress you or make your condition worse.

The bite mark on your neck has never gone away. It’s a scar now, rough and raised flesh like a fucking beacon on your skin. They usually keep something tied to it, but for some reason on this day, you had pulled it free, and they never noticed.

But the others did.

“Is that a bite?” One of them says, and Simon tenses, positioning himself in front of you, Johnny pulling you into his chest, protective arm across your shoulders.

“No.” Simon tells them, but they don’t buy it. One them stares at you, greed dripping from his gaze.

“Heard there were immunes out there somewhere. NHS is offering a big payday for one alive. Or dead.” He licks his lips, and Simon shakes his head.

“Trust us. Ye dinnae want to do this.” Johnny calls, but the group is already staring at you like you’re worth your weight in gold.

There’s five of them, versus Simon and Johnny, but they like the odds.

They’ve got bullets in three before you even realize what’s happening, Simon’s blade buried in the flesh of another’s neck in a flash, Johnny pressing his weight into the last one on the ground.

“He’ll tell others.” He spits over his shoulder, and Simon nods.

He will. And they can’t allow that. Can’t allow anyone to know about you.

The last thing the man sees is Johnny’s hands around his neck, and you watching half interested over his shoulder, half bored.

#peaches asks #peaches writes #dead disco zombie au

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imaginespazzi · 2 months

Text

Part 1: Don't Be A Stranger

Masterlist - Part 2 - Part 3 - Part 4 - Part 5

But if (my) world was ending, you'd come over right?

(In which UCLA anon's roman empire became this writer's roman empire and we've finally reached the beginning)

Pairing: Paige Bueckers X Azzi Fudd

Themes: Angst, Pining, Hurt/Comfort and a little bit of Fluff

Words: 8.4 K (other parts will be shorter....maybe)

TW: Swearing, Alcohol, Injuries, Alludes to Sexual Content

A/N: Hello my lovelies <3 Gonna keep this as short and sweet as possible but we've finally, finally gotten to the UCLA fic. A huge shout out to UCLA anon, because this is their master idea. Couple of things, I've never been to LA or UCLA and therefore some things are out of whack. The timeline is also a little out of whack but I swear I will try to keep it as consistent as possible. In the mean time, just ignore some of the inconsistencies pretty please. As always, feel free to let me know what's bad, what's good and what else you'd like to see. I hope y'all enjoy this first part and let's get another W today!

August 2021

where are you

i literally have to be at the airport in an hour paige where are you

dude

are you on your way?

you better be driving and that’s why you’re not answering

PAIGE

i’m sorry about last night i shouldn’t have said that

but you said a lot of shit too so call it even?

this isn’t funny where are you?

i have to leave in 15 mins

are you actually not coming?

wtf????

this is actually bullshit

get over yourself bueckers

wow

fuck you

just landed

thought you might like to know

sorry my plane didn’t crash i guess

September 2021

dude enough okay

can you just call me back??

i just wanna talk

i know you're mad i get it but i miss you

November 2021

hi i’mma be in dc over christmas

nvm

idk why i’m trying again

maybe i should block you

this is kinda pathetic of me what the fuck

December 2021

i thought i saw you today but idk

couldn’t have been you cause if it was

would you really not even say hi?

i’m done trying paige

merry christmas i guess

March 2022

i misz you

lyke a wot

love uuuuu pppppp

even if ur a bwtich

pkese pick up

ignore that

people drunk text exes apparently i drunk text you

wait

i don’t need to tell you that

you already ignore it all anyways

August 2022

i heard about the acl

i’m sorry

idk if it means anything, but if you wanna talk

nvm

***

September 2022

When the doorbell rings, on a quiet Thursday afternoon during a rare moment of alone time, Paige expects it to be a lot of people. One of her parents deciding that they actually weren’t going to leave her alone. Someone else in her family showing up out of the blue to provide comfort. Maybe one of her teammates popping up to keep her entertained. She even thinks it might be some random fan who got too invested and figured out the address for her air BnB. It’s the saddest testament to how broken they are, that the idea of it being Azzi Fudd standing outside her door, never once crosses her mind. But there she is, when Paige opens the door, dressed in ripped jean shorts and a light blue tank top, the girl that had been her best friend, and maybe a little bit more.

Silence stretches between them as Azzi fidgets with her hands and Paige continues to stoically stare at her. It’s been almost a year since they’ve seen each other, even longer since they’d last shared a happy smile. And you’d have to go back to before she’d told her about her future plans, to find the last time Azzi had properly looked Paige in the eyes.

“Hi,” Azzi says finally, mustering up a small smile. Paige doesn’t know if hearing that voice, soft and subdued but still so familiar, fixes a crack or breaks her heart even further. She wills herself to be polite in response, to match Azzi’s polite greeting with a greeting of her own. But there’s clear discord between her mouth and her head, because her words are harsh and hollowed.

“What are you doing here?”

Azzi swallows, smile disappearing as she immediately digs her fingernails into her palms and Paige feels the guilt settle into her stomach. It’s like the night before all over again. If she closes her eyes, Paige can still hear her voice loudly echoing in Azzi’s childhood bedroom. She can hear the angry words that she’d hurled at her best friend, each one like a well-aimed arrow piercing the other’s girl's heart and tearing into Paige’s own soul. Some would call what she’d done self-preservation. She’d call it her biggest mistake.

“I um-,” Azzi sucks in her bottom lip, “I was in the area and thought, maybe I’d check in.”

“How did you even know where I was?” Paige hates how cold and accusatory her voice sounds. It’s a version of herself she doesn’t quite know how to deal with, one that hasn’t ever appeared for anyone other than the girl in front of her, “I know I didn’t tell you.”

Any semblance of calm is gone from Azzi’s face, as she seems to realise that she’s not going to be getting any cordiality from her old friend.

“And we’re off to a great start,” she mutters under her breath before replying to Paige’s exact question, “no you didn’t. Your dad-”

“You talked to my dad?”

“Yeah. I mean you know Drew looks up to Jon and José so much and they still talk and stuff and he came over- Drew I mean- and then your dad was there and we just got to talking and you came up and yeah. He told me and well I live here, kinda, so I thought- well I thought maybe you’d like some company?”

As Azzi’s rambling explanation comes to an end, Paige doesn’t miss the tinge of hopefulness in her voice at the last bit. The younger girl shuffles her feet, as she stares at the blonde expectantly.

“I don’t-” Paige struggles to draw in a breath as the voices in her head argue, “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

Her words are met with silence as Azzi stares at her blankly.

“I- you,” she blinks rapidly, clearly at a loss for what to say at the blatant rejection, “I can’t come in?”

“It’s just- I’ve had a lot of people visit you know,” Paige bullshits, suddenly feeling very exhausted, “and my family were here a couple days and my friends are coming soon and-”

“And I’m neither of those things,” Azzi says, her tone low and breathy.

“That’s not what-”

“It is,” Azzi closes her eyes for a brief second, when she opens them, the flash of hurt in them feels like a dagger through Paige’s chest, “it is like that and it is what you meant and it’s- it’s fine.”

“Az-” Paige chokes out, feeling her lungs collapse when the other girl moves to leave, “please,” and she’s not even sure she’s asking for, but it’s not this. It’s never been this.

Azzi stops and when she turns back around, there’s a determined look on her face.

“I just-” she rubs her face, composing herself before focusing her eyes on Paige, “you’re the strongest person I know. And you’re going to come back from this, better than ever. I know it. The whole world knows it. Because you’re Paige Bueckers. You’re something else. You’re the hardest worker, you’re just- you’re the best.”

“You don’t-”

“Just- just let me finish okay and then, then I’ll go or whatever but Paige, you’re all of those things you know? Strong, brave, the best fucking player- but, it’s also okay if sometimes-, if sometimes you aren’t. It’s okay because this- this is hard, I know it is. So if sometimes you’re not strong or-, or brave- or not feeling like working hard- it’s okay. And if there are moments where you- where you want to give up, that’s okay too. It doesn’t make you- it doesn’t make you any less than what you are. It just makes you human, and it’s okay you know- to be human. It’s okay if- if you hurt and it’s okay if you’re not okay. It’s- it’s okay.”

The two girls stare at each other, eyes shining with tears, as Paige let’s Azzi’s words wash over her. She’s been told a lot of platitudes about her injury, from her coaches to her teammates to her family. And she knows she has plenty of people in her corner, who root for her and who genuinely do believe she’ll have the greatest comeback ever. But the motivational speeches get draining after a while and all she’s wanted to do for the last couple of weeks is wallow. Then she felt guilty about wallowing, that little voice in her head yelling at her to be productive and work on getting back to herself because that’s what everybody expected. Paige hadn’t even realised how badly she needed someone to give her permission to not be okay, not until the only person who’d ever known that part of her, had finally said the words she so desperately needed to hear.

The thing is, when she was younger, Paige used to keep everything bottled inside. She’d always been hyper aware of her privilege and her problems had always just seemed so insignificant in front of her parents’ or her friends. So she’d kept them to herself, trapping herself in a web of her own burdens that sometimes threatened to strangle her. And then she’d met a girl at a USA basketball camp when she was 15, a girl who had gently flicked her fingers and Paige’s walls had fallen like dominoes. She hadn’t even known she was drowning, until Azzi had shown up with a lifeboat.

“I just-,” Azzi breaks Paige out of her trance by breaking the eye contact between them, “I didn’t know if anybody had said that to you yet and I just- I wanted you to hear it.”

In the span of a minute, a thousand and one phrases take birth in Paige’s mind and then die on the tip of her tongue. She opens and closes her mouth, trying to express even one of the myriad of emotions that are swirling like a tornado in her brain. But nothing comes out except a litany of incomprehensible noises. And Azzi seems to find the wrong answer in the silence, giving the blonde a timid nod.

“Take care of yourself P,” her voice catches on the familiar nickname, as she shoots Paige a sad smile, before beginning to walk away. When Azzi chose UCLA, she’d lit Paige's heart on fire. So, Paige had drowned their friendship. And while all this time Azzi has struggled to breathe, Paige has burned but god, is she so fucking tired of it.

“Fuck, Azzi wait,” Paige curses, hobbling to catch up to the brunette, who stops with a sigh but doesn’t make a move to return. Stubborn as always, Paige thinks, continuing her way over. When she does catch up, she’s not fully sure what to say and so, “I uh- I’m out of milk.”

Azzi raises her eyebrows in question, crossing her arms protectively around her chest.

“I can’t drive,” Paige explains slowly, “or walk obviously.”

Realisation dawns on Azzi’s face, “you’re asking me to drive you to the grocery store?”

“I guess,” Paige shrugs, trying to be nonchalant.

“Seems like the kind of favour someone asks of their family, or their friends,” Azzi emphasises bitterly, never one to let go of an opportunity for sarcasm.

Paige flinches, “right, I kinda deserved that one.”

She gets a raised eyebrow in response that very much says “ya think?”

“I’m trying here,” she says quietly, and Azzi’s hard demeanour softens, “I’m raising a white flag Az, calling a truce or whatever but it kinda needs to go both ways.”

“What do you think me coming here was supposed to be?” the younger girl says exasperatedly, but she’s smiling again. It’s the third one Paige has gotten out of her today, and finally, she smiles back. They look a little foolish, standing in the apartment hallway, cheshire-cat-grinning at each other like idiots, but it feels like something has clicked into place again.

“I’ll go grab my wallet, you go heat up the car.”

“It’s like 110 degrees dude.”

“Bro shut up, you know what I mean,” Paige huffs and when it makes Azzi laugh, she feels like she’s floating. It’s not as if she hasn’t been happy in a year because won’t you look at that, her world did keep turning after that one decision. But this is different. She feels airy and light, like she could jump off a cliff and fly instead of fall.

“Well hurry up, I have things to do outside of just being your chauffeur.”

“Poor passenger princess, how the roles have reversed,” Paige mocks and it earns her an ever so familiar fond eye roll and for the first time in a year, she feels free.

***

When she gets downstairs, Azzi’s leaning against her car door, a pair of sunglasses shielding her eyes. The hot California sun shines brightly against her tan skin, and Paige’s heart stutters because fuck, Azzi is golden. She looks every bit reminiscent of the girl Paige still has memorised and yet, every bit the promise of a girl Paige wants to learn by heart.

“Nice car,” Paige smirks, alerting the younger girl of her presence.

“It does the job,” Azzi says, looking up with a smile of her own, opening the passenger door for Paige to get in, “not all of us are raking in NIL deals to get the big guns, but we make do.”

“Steph Curry brand ambassador say what now?” the blonde girl teases as she slides into the car. When she looks up, Azzi’s frozen in place, “what?”

“Nothing I just-” she’s wearing sunglasses, but Paige knows Azzi's trying to avert her gaze, “I’m kinda surprised you know that.”

It’s Paige’s turn to look away, their newfound comfort giving away to that old awkwardness, “I keep up with most basketball news.”

To Azzi’s credit she doesn’t push. Instead, she makes her way into the driver seat without another sound. She’s about to connect her phone to the aux but Paige beats her to it.

“Hey,” Azzi squeals, making grabby hands, “my car, my rules, my music.”

“Nuh-uh injury privileges,” Paige gloats, sticking out her tongue.

“That’s not a thing.”

“Is too.”

“Fine, we’ll listen to your crap music.”

“I resent that,” Paige retorts, as Drake blasts through the speakers. The sound of it makes Azzi groan, and she dramatically bangs her head against the steering wheel. Paige spends the rest of the car ride singing at the top of her lungs. Azzi spends the rest of the car ride alternating between shaking her head and joining in with the singing. It’s like they’re back in 2020 all over again, back before they found themselves in the whirlwind of life, back when they were just Paige and Azzi.

***

Their trip inside the grocery store takes less time than the ride to get there, even if Paige takes her time dilly-dallying in the dairy section, pretending she’s going to get anything other than just regular milk. She’s overly conscious of the fact that their time together might be coming to an end, that this time she might actually have to deal with saying goodbye. But she’s not ready to go back to missing Azzi just yet.

“Maybe you can show me your dorm,” she says quietly, once they're both back in the car, playing with the hem of her shirt. Beside her, Azzi draws in a sharp intake of breath, clearly not having expected Paige to want that of all things. In all honesty, the idea of stepping into the world that had stolen Azzi from her is not all that appealing to Paige but she wants to hold onto this moment just a little bit longer.

“You wanna see my dorm?”

“A chance to see how the non-blue blood peasants live? I’d never pass it up.”

“Non blue blood,” Azzi scoffs, "Ever heard of John Wooden?”

“I was talking about women’s basketball but yeah I have heard of him. I won the award last year. Over you,” Paige smirks, wiggling her eyebrows.

“Not everyone’s a phenom their freshman year,” Azzi retorts fondly, unable to mask the hint of pride in her voice.

“Well we’ll see this year-” Paige stops herself, cold seeping into her lungs, as she remembers why she’s in the stupid state of California in the first place. The lighthearted mood in the car goes tumbling out the window as her words hang like a dagger in the air.

“Paige,” Azzi whispers, trying to wrap that one syllable in comfort. She reaches out to touch the blonde’s shoulder but must think better of it because her hand hovers mid-air for a second, before she pulls it back. Paige is suddenly hyper aware of the fact they haven’t touched yet. It’s a reminder of the fact that whatever progress they’ve made today, there’s still so much they haven’t even begun to unpack.

“It’s fine,” Paige’s voice is steely, “just drive.”

Azzi opens and closes her mouth a couple of times, before simply nodding and starting the ignition. She’s clearly holding back and Paige doesn’t know how to feel about it. There’s a part of her that wants Azzi to push her to talk like she would before, but there's another part of her that knows this new rope they’re trying to string between them is fragile.

They ride in silence to Azzi’s apartment, both of them too caught up in their own thoughts to bother with music this time. As the UCLA campus nears, Paige can’t help but hate it just a little bit. She’s aware she’s being petty. Acting like Storrs, Connecticut is some hub of beauty is probably a stretch of the imagination for anyone but she’s determined to dislike this place out of principle.

“Hmm not too shabby but like where’s the fucking cows?” Paige jokes, as the car comes to a stop in front of Azzi’s apartment building. She steps out gingerly, pretending to inspect her surroundings, making tsk-tsk noises at the most random things.

“I’ve seen your apartment Bueckers, don’t even try,” Azzi retorts.

It shouldn’t surprise Paige to see one of Azzi’s teammates when they enter her living room. It’s just like UConn really in the sense that there’s always someone there when you walk in but something about seeing Charisma Osborne just chilling in Azzi’s space suddenly makes it more real that the younger girl is definitely a UCLA Bruin.

“Oh,” Charisma gives Paige a once-over, clearly not having expected to see her, “hi Paige.”

Paige waves, shuffling her weight on her crutches, unsure what to say. It’s not like she doesn’t know Charisma, they’ve literally won a gold medal together for USA basketball. She’s even met the girl a couple of times after and she likes her, she does. But her bitter brain is focused on the fact that this is one of those girls who had gotten Azzi as their teammate, one of the girls who got to see Azzi everyday. All things Paige had not gotten.

“You didn’t tell me you were bringing company Az,” Charisma says pointedly, looking at Azzi and Paige bristles at the use of the nickname. She’s being all sorts of ridiculous but at least she’s self-aware of it.

“Last minute decisions,” Azzi replies airily. The two girls lock eyes and Paige can tell they’re having some sort of unspoken conversation and now the green-eyed envy monster is out in full force.

“I insisted on seeing her dorm,” she says finally, breaking into whatever staring competition the two UCLA guards are having.

“It’s not a problem,” Charisma reassures, standing up from her position on the couch, and coming over to give Paige a tentative hug, “I just didn’t know you were coming. But it’s good to see you, Paige.”

“Yeah,” Paige tries to muster up a proper smile as she leans in to return the hug but it comes out more like a grimace, “you too.”

“We’re gonna go chill in my room,” Azzi says, beckoning to one of the doors in the hallways and Paige obediently follows her, waving a half-hearted goodbye to Charisma. She’s secretly pleased to have Azzi back to herself.

The room is nothing out of the ordinary except it has Azzi all over it. She’s in the pink comforter that is thrown haphazardly over a clearly not made bed. She’s in the unicorn plushies laid delicately over a dark blue couch. She’s in the little flower stickers that outline the mirror on the far side of the room. There’s a wall dedicated solely to pictures and fairy lights on one side and Paige is immediately drawn to it. A familiar ache reverberates in her chest as her eyes flicker over the pictures of Azzi’s family. She’s missed them. Then there’s the photographs of Azzi in her UCLA uniform, her teammates surrounding her and Paige has to resist the dangerous urge to rip those off the wall. Be happy for her happiness, the logical part of her brain yells, not seeming to realise she’d left any chance of that in the dirt a year ago. As she tears her eyes away from those offending pictures, they land instead on a whole other set of photographs and she feels her heart catch in her throat.

It’s a set of three images of her and Azzi, taken at various moments. Paige brushes her thumb against the one of the two of them with their arms around each other at the Minnesota state fair. Azzi’s beaming at the camera and Paige is beaming at Azzi. They look so young, so naive, so happy.

“I’m on your wall,” Paige breathes out, turning to face her best friend, “Fuck, I’m on you wall.”

“Of course you are,” Azzi affirms, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world but she shuffles nervously, giving away the reality behind her stable demeanour.

“I never answered your texts. I didn’t call you back,” Paige lists quietly as the first tear falls from her eyes; she’s been holding them back all day, “and I’m on your fucking wall.”

Azzi looks away, unsure how to deal with the fact that apparently they’re no longer tip-toeing around the past. She doesn’t know how to tell the blonde that there had never really been a second thought about whether or not those photos were going up on the wall.

“Doesn’t matter,” she shrugs finally, “you’re my best friend. You’re always gonna be my best friend. Ride or die right?”

“Ride or die,” Paige repeats in a whisper before she all but throws herself at Azzi, practically moulding herself into the younger girl’s body. Caught off guard, Azzi stiffens for a second, before relaxing into it. It’s late outside and the sun has set, but in this moment, the world shines the brightest it has in a year as two stubborn girls finally find their way home to each other.

***

That night, Azzi asks her tentatively if she wants to stay over and of course Paige agrees. Lying awake next to a familiar stranger, she lets herself finally remember the day things had first started unravelling.

November 2020

“You’ll probably get one of the upstairs apartments, so we probably won’t actually be living together which is good because can you imagine if I had to see your goofy ass 24/7?” Paige puts a dramatic hand to her forehead, as she leads Azzi into her room.

She’s too caught up in her excitement having Azzi at UConn, and planning what’ll happen next year, to notice that the girl in question isn’t participating at all in her enthusiasm. Paige has been waiting for what feels like a year (in reality it’s only been a few months) to finally have her best friend come visit. The minute the car had pulled up, she’d taken it upon herself to start her sales pitch all over again, missing the sympathetic smiles she’d gotten from the rest of the Fudd family as she pulled Azzi away to show her the glories of the campus.

“Did you see my assist to Christyn today?” Paige gloats, falling onto her bed with a smirk.

“It was pretty great,” Azzi concedes.

“It was fucking perfect thank you very much. I set her up perfectly, exactly how she likes it.”

“Right.”

“And then did you see how excited the team was for her? For everyone? Never gonna find a greater group of girls.”

“They seem wonderful P.”

Paige furrows her eyebrows as she catches Azzi still lingering by the door instead of joining her on the bed. The brunette fidgets with the sleeve of her sweater, chewing on her lips.

“Are you allergic to my bed?” Paige waits for some smartass response. When she doesn’t get one, she frowns, instincts going haywire, “Az, you good?”

“I- '' Azzi looks away, swallowing nervously, “I need to tell you something and I- I’m not sure how you’re gonna react.”

“You get a boyfriend or a girlfriend or something in the last few months that I don’t know about?” She says it light-heartedly enough, but the thought of it sends a sharp sting through Paige’s heart. In hindsight, she thinks maybe she could have dealt with it having been that.

“What? No. Just- just don’t- dont take it personally okay. Like you can be upset about it but- but don’t hold it against me yeah? My parents- they said- they said you’d get it. You’d be upset but you’d- you’d get it because you- you get me right?”

Paige’s chest hammers as she watches the younger girl draw in a deep breath, “you’re scaring the shit out of me right now.”

“I’mcommittingtoUCLA” Azzi says all in one breath, the words blending together.

She’s sure she’s heard it wrong. There’s no way. After all this time, after all their conversations, all the pitches, how hard she had worked, there was no way this was going to be the end to all of Paige’s efforts.

“What?” she whispers, crossing her fingers that she has in fact misheard.

When Azzi averts her eyes, she knows she hasn’t, “I’m committing to UCLA.”

The first time Paige and Azzi met was somewhat awkward, what with Azzi’s shyness and Paige being slightly overeager to make a new friend. When they’d become bus buddies, they’d progressed to being casual acquaintances who could small talk and share smiles. And then the flight back to Minnesota happened and everything had changed. Every moment after was filled with conversation or laughs or a comfortable silence. Until this one, where the sudden silence between them foreshadows an ominous future.

“Say something,” Azzi says finally, her voice shaking.

Paige stares at her for a second before, “you named your dog Stewie.”

“What?”

“You named your dog Stewie. After Breanna Stewart who played at UConn. It’s not-” Paige wracks her brain, hands flying animatedly “it’s not Meyers or something, after someone who played at fucking UCLA. You named your dog after a UConn great. How are you going to take him to UCLA with you?”

Azzi stares at her, clearly not having expected that level of questioning of all things. Who could blame her when Paige herself feels a little insane.

“This is a joke right? You’re fucking with me? Ha ha ha very funny,” she claps deliriously, “hilarious prank seriously, like hats off you’ve outdone yourself but enough okay? Say sike right fucking now.”

Azzi makes a strangled noise, “it’s not a joke Paige. That’s- that’s my decision.”

“Then change it,” Paige yells, catapulting off the bed.

“Paige-”

“Have you told UCLA yet?”

“I wanted to tell my family and you first.”

“Oh wow, how kind of you. How fucking generous of you to do that Azzi,” Paige bites back sarcastically and Azzi flinches.

In a flash, Paige’s expression goes from angry to desperate, “you still have time to change your mind . Please just- just think about it again okay? You still have so much time and you know what, stay here for a couple more days. Spend time with the team, with the coaches, with me and you’ll see-. UCLA just sounds nice you know? California, the sun, I get it, of course it’s tempting. But just- just stay here okay? And you’ll see this is where you belong,” she leaves the, with me, unsaid.

“Paige,” Azzi’s voice cracks. She takes a step toward her and then pauses. It’s the first time in a long time that Azzi’s hesitated when it comes to Paige. It won’t be the last. And when she looks at Paige through her long eyelashes, tears threatening to fall from her dark brown eyes, Paige knows she’s lost.

“No,” she’s pacing now, chest heaving up and down in a combination of frustration, anger and misery, “this is not fucking happening. We’re not doing this. I made you a whole recruitment video. Did you watch it? Do you know how long it took me to make it? Has the last year been a fucking joke to you?”

“Of course not-”

“Don’t even. Because clearly- clearly it has. Must’ve been hilarious watching me beg and plead with you when you already fucking knew you were going to committ somewhere else.”

“That’s not fair,” Azzi’s voice rises at the accusation, “I had no idea where I was going until a couple of weeks ago. You can’t seriously think that low of me.”

“Not fair? You know what’s not fair, Azzi? We’ve been talking about playing together, about finally being on the same team, the same fucking state, for years. What’s not fair is you throwing all of that away on a whim.”

“I’m not committing to UCLA on a whim. This is my whole future we’re talking about. You don’t even know how much thought I’ve put into it. And I’m choosing what’s best for me. You can’t hold that against me Paige. You can’t.”

They stand on opposite sides of the room, taking in harsh staggered breaths and glaring at each other. The tension in the room is electric as the string connecting them frays. Paige and Azzi bicker, they don’t argue. Or at least, that’s how it used to be.

“Az?” their stare down is broken by a knock on the door as Katie Fudd lets herself in. Immediately, as she stares between her daughter and the girl who’d become just as important, Katie knows what has happened, “we’re going back to the air BnB, are you staying here?”

The answer should be obvious, like it used to be. Of course she would stay here. It was meant to be a no-brainer. But before Azzi can say that, Paige intervenes and the string snaps.

“She’s going with you,” the blonde says firmly, before turning her back. She won’t let Azzi see the tears, she won’t. For her part, the brunette stares at Paige’s back silently for a couple of seconds, before a mask of determination slips on.

“Fine. If that’s what you fucking want,” Azzi sneers before brushing past her mom, eager to get away and hide her own tears.

When Paige turns back around, Katie is already looking at her. The older woman walks the length of the room and pulls the younger girl into a hug that she readily melts into. Paige sniffles as Azzi’s mom soothingly rubs her back.

“We’re driving back tomorrow morning,” Katie whispers quietly into Paige’s hair, “I know you’re mad sweetheart but come say goodbye okay?”

And she does. She shows up with only half an hour or so remaining before Azzi leaves, but Paige shows up. They hug stiffly, exchanging maybe a sentence or two but in that moment it’s enough. They’ll call later when Azzi gets home and it’ll be awkward for a little bit but they’ll break through. They’ll figure out a way to go on without having to talk about the “big thing”. They’ll hold on as long as they can, until they can’t anymore.

***

September 2022

After the night Paige stays over at Azzi’s apartment, they're attached at the hip for the next few weeks, just like old times. They’ve fallen into a routine of sorts. Azzi shows up without fail every day after practice to pick Paige up from her rehab, and then the rest of the younger girl’s time is Paige’s. The first time she’d seen the brunette leaning casually against her car, Paige had had to stop herself from jumping into her arms. She’d played it as nonchalant as possible, joking about Azzi being stalker, but inside, she could feel it again, the dangerously familiar tap of this is all I’ll ever need.

On days Paige doesn’t have rehab, Azzi still shows up right on time on her doorstep with a board game or food or something. It’s gotten to the point where every time the doorbell rings, Paige opens it expecting Azzi. The couple times it’s not, she tries and fails to hide the disappointment on her face. It earns her an eye roll from the delivery guy but it’s worth it for the laugh it elicits from Azzi when she tells her the story. They fall back together as if they’d never fallen apart. And what’s more terrifying than finding out that she’d never truly gotten over old Azzi, is realising how easy it would be to fall in love with new Azzi.

When Caroline, Nika and Piath come to visit the weekend after, all three of them can immediately tell that something's changed. Their teammate seems lighter, as if she’s finally found a sense of calm. But their incessant prodding and raised eyebrows are only met with shrugs from a tight-lipped Paige. It isn’t until Azzi calls, and Nika snatches the phone out of Paige’s hands, gasping at the callerID, that they finally figure out why their point guard has a new kick in her step.

“You should invite her out with us tonight,” Caroline is the first to speak, giving Paige an encouraging smile.

“Carol,” Nika hisses, “we can’t just invite the enemy.”

“She’s not the enemy,” Paige defends immediately, “we don’t even have a rivalry with UCLA.”

Nika scoffs indignantly, “of course she is. She picked a different school over us. Over UConn! That’s weird. Who even does that?”

“Lots of people do,” Caroline, who occasionally texts Azzi (albeit she’s kept that somewhat of a secret), supplies helpfully, shrugging when the Croatian glares at her.

Piath nudges Paige when she notices the other girl has gone quiet, “ignore Nika. She doesn’t mean it, you know that. If you wanna invite her, invite her.”

And she does, she wants to so badly. It’s insane really because it hasn’t even been a full day since they’d last seen each other but Paige swears something inside her has been missing since. There’s something awfully terrifying about letting Azzi back into the UConn version of her world, the world that the younger girl had once rejected. Still, if they’re going to try this again, she supposes sooner or later, it’ll have to happen.

“Put her on speaker,” Nika orders when Paige grabs her phone back from her.

“Nika,” Caroline, younger only by age, warns, pulling the other girl away, “we’re supposed to be cheering her up, not making life harder.”

Azzi answers on the third ring, her voice teasing “miss me already?”

Yes, Paige thinks, sometimes I think I miss you even when you’re right here next to me, sometimes I think I’ll miss you forever. But she doesn’t say any of that.

“Not a chance,” she scoffs instead, “besides you called me first.”

“Butt dial.”

“Mmmhmm I’m sure.”

“Shut up,” Azzi laughs and Paige is glad her teammates aren’t here to see the goofy grin that appears on her face at the sound of it, “I just wanted to see if we were doing something tonight?”

“Yeah- umm- you remember I told you about the girls coming down this weekend. They- uh- they wanted to go out tonight and uh- you could come along?”

There’s a pause on the other end and Paige knows Azzi’s going through the same thought process as her.

“I don’t wanna intrude on your time with your team P-”

“You wouldn’t be intruding,” Paige cuts in immediately and although she figured her teammates were definitely eavesdropping, Nika cursing about her being “pussywhipped” followed by in-sync shushing from Piath and Caroline, gives them away.

On the other end of the line, Azzi’s quiet again, “it’s okay P, you go have fun with your friends. We don’t have to spend every night together. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

What she doesn’t say is that maybe they need to learn how to live like that again, how to live apart again. Paige is almost done with the LA part of her rehab, something both of them are still in denial about. It’s only a matter of time before they return back to their two separate worlds and neither of them are sure they’ve managed to repair their friendship enough to not slip back into their foolishness again.

“But I wanna see you tonight,” Paige whines, her tone teetering on the edge of sounding like a desperate girlfriend, “please.”

“Paige-”

“Pleaseeeeeee. I’m literally injured and begging Az, it’d be mean to say no.”

“What does your injury even have to do with any of this?” Azzi sighs exasperatedly, “but yeah okay fine calm down Bueckers. Send me an address, I’ll be there.”

“You don’t wanna come pregame here?”

“Dude, let's not push it, okay?”

“Yeah, yeah okay see you,” Paige pauses, “hey Az?”

“Hmm?”

“I’m really happy you’re coming tonight.”

“I’m really happy you’re happy P.”

***

Azzi Fudd is a menace. See, people often get fooled by her soft-spoken nature and shy demeanour, but Paige has been around her long enough to know the truth. In the beginning it was the witty quips the younger girl always had ready whenever they were having some ridiculous argument. After that, it was the direct pranks that wreaked havoc on Paige’s life. But tonight, in Paige’s opinion, tonight is Azzi’s worst offence. She had to have done it on purpose, had to have known the sheer effect it would have on Paige to see her dressed like that. The red criss-cross tank top fits her like a mould and the way her ripped jeans shorts cling to her hips leaves little to the imagination. Her diamond belly button piercing shines against her skin, taunting Paige. She wants to touch, she wants to feel, she wants to do all the unspeakable things in her mind but she’s forced to just watch.

What she hates most though, is that everybody else is watching too. Since Azzi’s walked into the club, Paige has had to fight the urge to strangle every stranger who had given her best friend an appraising once-over. Some of them let their eyes linger long enough to give her time to plot out the perfect murder strategy (it’s the only way she can stop herself from actually committing a crime tonight). And, as Azzi dances with Caroline, hips swaying to the beat and holding the other girl a little closely, Paige has the irrational urge to hit sweet, kind Caroline of all people.

The thing is, Azzi’s been a little too attached to Caroline since she got here in Paige’s opinion. And she gets it. Piath, bless her soul, is trying but has always been a little awkward around new people. Nika is definitely not trying, loyally holding onto a grudge on behalf of Paige. Which leaves Caroline, who’s already familiar territory and the younger girl has grasped onto her like a lifeline. But enough is enough Paige decides, as she slips out of her seat with a determined look. Smoothly, she cuts right in between Caroline and Azzi.

“Nika’s a little wasted and I don’t want to deal with,” it’s a blatant lie but Paige knows appealing to Caroline’s more motherly instincts will get her what she wants. She gets a raised eyebrow in return, her teammate clearly catching her ruse because Nika looks visibly fine. But it works anyway and Paige gets Azzi to herself. She reaches for the other girl’s hand, twirling her just so she can hear that stupid silly laugh, and then pulling her back so she’s facing Paige.

“You having fun?”

“Always have fun with you P,” Azzi replies. She’s clearly tipsy but there’s no hint of insincerity in her voice. It makes Paige’s breath hitch.

“Yeah?” she whispers, taking a step closer, “more than with Carol?”

Azzi giggles, “more than anyone.”

The song in the club changes and as the crowd adjusts to it, someone jostles Azzi and immediately Paige grabs at her hips to steady her. As she finds her balance, Azzi’s giggles subside, realising just how close she is to the blonde now. They’re stuck in slow motion as the world dances around them. The combination of adrenaline and alcohol pumping through her veins is what convinces Paige to test the limits. One hand still squeezing at Azzi’s bare waist, revelling in finally getting to touch, she brings up her thumb to trace around Azzi’s lips. The younger girl gulps, but when she doesn’t try to move away, confidence pulses through Paige. Her heart is beating frantically out of her chest, years and years of want and need that she’d shoved as far away as possible, desperately fighting to get to the surface.

Pushing herself closer, so their chests are now pressed to each other and Azzi’s hands have no choice but to latch onto her biceps, Paige places a delicate, teasing kiss to the corner of Azzi’s lips. She wishes she could record the whine it elicits and listen to it on loop for hours. Smirking, she moves to place another one on the other side, this time pressing her lips a little harder, a little longer. Azzi’s eyes are closed shut, hands gripping onto Paige so tightly, she knows there’ll be a mark on her biceps tomorrow. She cups Azzi’s face with both hands now, her own eyes shutting involuntarily, as she finally, finally brushes their lips together.

This time, the strangled noise that leaves Azzi’s throat, is one Paige wishes she could forget as the younger girl rips herself away from Paige, the force of it creating almost a foot of distance between them. It doesn’t take long for the familiar sting of rejection to make itself home in her heart. Azzi’s eyes are brimming with tears as she manically shakes her head. Without a word, she rushes through the crowd, making a beeline for the exit, leaving Paige confused and craving for another taste.

***

It takes Paige a second to gather her thoughts before following the brunette. She ignores the confused glances from her teammates, making some bullshit excuse about fresh air as she fights her way outside. When she gets there, Azzi’s leaning against the wall, eyes closed as she takes in long deep breaths.

“That’s not usually how girls react when I try to kiss them,” Paige says after a second, trying to make light of the situation, even if her heart is heavy with anxiety.

It’s the wrong thing to say because Azzi scoffs, “you kiss a lot of girls don’t you.”

“Yeah and most of them kiss me back,” Paige bites back.

She’s taken aback by the fire in the darker-skinned girl’s eyes as Azzi finally opens them, heaving herself off the wall.

“I won’t be one of your groupies Paige. I won’t be one of your desperate one night stands. I won’t be just some other hookup. I won’t!”

Frankly she’s a little offended Azzi would even think that of her. She’s aware of her reputation. In fact she’d probably fed into it a little bit, exaggerating her escapades to Azzi on the phone her freshman year, when they had been on the verge of combusing and she’d been desperate to get a rise out of the younger girl. Last year though, last year was different. But Azzi doesn’t know that.

“I don’t want you to be any of that,” she replies feebly.

“Then what, do you want me to be?” Azzi’s voice rises with each syllable.

Paige stutters, the words getting stuck in her throat. The truth is she wants Azzi to be everything. The truth is, Azzi already is everything. Except there’s too much between them and she just can’t say it. They stand in silence until Azzi finally breaks it.

“I think these last few weeks of summer might have been the best of my life,” she says miserably, “and that might be the worst thing ever you know? Because it’s not real. You’re gonna go back to your world and you’ll- you’ll stop replying to my texts and you’ll stop- you’ll stop calling me and I- I don’t know if I can do that again.”

“That’s an awful lot of assumptions you’re making about me,” Paige is on defensive mode now, feeling a fight brewing.

“Because that’s what happened. Go back through your fucking phone Paige. Look at all the times I tried. And all the times you never did. You just- you cut me out Paige.”

“That’s not fair. You chose fucking UCLA. Over me.”

“No,” Azzi corrects immediately, anger seeping into her tone, “I chose UCLA over UConn. You made it about yourself.”

Paige swallows back a bitter response in favour of trying to prevent a full-fledged argument, “okay, okay let’s not- let’s not do this okay. It’ll be better this time- I- I won’t ignore your calls or texts or you okay? Just- can we just go back inside please?”

“That’s the thing,” Azzi’s anger is gone, replaced by a sad wistful smile, “I don’t know if I believe that you will,” a single tear rolls down her cheek, “I- I don’t fully trust you and you haven’t fully forgiven me. So where do we go from here?”

It’s a lie what they say about the truth setting you free, Paige thinks as Azzi’s words squeeze at her heart, because all it’s done is unleash shackles of despair that holds them both hostage. It had been easy the last couple of weeks, to pretend the last year had never happened. It had been easy for Paige to pretend that she was over what happened, to ignore the part of her brain that still felt so utterly betrayed.

“Azzi, what are you saying? You don’t- you don’t wanna be friends?” Paige feels nauseous even saying it.

“No I-” Azzi chews at her bottom lip, “I’m saying this- us- we’re too fragile to complicate even more. I barely- fuck- Paige, I barely survived losing my best friend. I don’t think I could survive losing something more.”

The worst thing about it all, is that it makes sense. And really, Paige doesn’t know what she’d expected to happen if Azzi hadn’t pulled away when she did. They’d kiss, maybe give in and do more and then what? Shake hands and walk away? Or make false promises that would ultimately lead to resentment? No, Years and years of something deserved better than either of those masochistic endings. It makes sense, it does but it doesn’t mean Paige has to like it.

In front of her, all the fight evaporates from Azzi’s body, as the younger girl leans back against the brick wall of the club, sliding down and pulling her knees to her chest. She looks every bit as miserable as Paige feels and all the blonde wants to do is wipe away the stress lines creasing against the younger girl’s beautiful phase. She moves to sit down next to her best friend, shuffling so their shoulders are pressed together and intertwines their fingers together. A sigh of relief escapes her when Azzi doesn’t immediately pull away. Instead, she squeezes their hands tighter, as if she’s scared that if she lets go, Paige will disappear.

“You didn’t lose me you know,” Paige says softly after a second, nudging Azzi’s shoulder when the other girl lets out a noise of protest, “I know, I know it feels like you did. It felt like that to me too except- every time something good or bad happened to me, I heard your voice or- or maybe I just really wanted too. We got lost a little bit but I didn’t- I didn’t lose you and you didn’t lose me. There’s a difference. I don’t think we could ever lose each other like that. Not really.”

When Azzi turns to look at her, the golden glow of the street lights illuminate the emotions in her eyes. She gives Paige a soft smile, “well Bueckers, if basketball doesn’t work out, maybe you have a future in poetry.”

“I could do whatever I wanted,” except what I want to do the most.

It doesn’t take long for the Uber Azzi’s already called to start pulling up and that familiar ache of longing creeps into Paige’s spine. She knows tonight isn’t their final goodbye; they still have a couple more days. But those days will be spent ignoring and pretending, unlike tonight and the firm grip they have on reality. They rise off of the cold pavement together, dusting themselves off. It takes a second of awkward glances before they’re surging into each other’s arms, squeezing each other so tightly that it’s hard to breathe. Paige wills herself not to cry, hiding her face in the crook of Azzi’s neck.

“We’ll be okay,” she whispers, unsure if it’s more for her benefit or Azzi’s.

The unwanted beep of a car is the only reason they reluctantly pull away, hurriedly wiping away unshed tears, they pretend the other can’t see. Azzi musters up a brave smile, before slowly moving away and it takes everything in Paige not to crumble and begs her to stay. Azzi’s halfway to the car when she turns back and it feels like Paige can breathe again. The brunette’s face is conflicted for a second before turning determined, as she starts walking back up.

“Az-”

Paige’s confusion is stifled as Azzi fists her shirt, pulling her into a searing kiss. It’s desperate and needy and it’s only a few seconds before the dark-haired girl is pulling away again, but it sets Paige’s entire world off balance.

“I just-” Azzi’s breathing is rapid and uneven, “I’ve wanted to do that since I was fifteen and- just- fuck- I just-,” she blinks up at Paige, “I hate- I hate leaving things unfinished and for fucks sake if you don’t call me back this time Bueckers- just- don’t be a stranger.”

Paige doesn’t get time to answer, she doesn’t think she could even if she did, because Azzi scurries away almost immediately. She stops when she gets to the car, turning back to give Paige one final look, a look that will haunt Paige forever, before getting into the backseat. As Paige watches the back of Azzi’s uber gets smaller and smaller, her tongue darts across her lips as she tries to memorise the faintest taste of Azzi’s strawberry-flavoured lipstick. And she knows, she’s so utterly and completely and terribly fucked.

#pazzi #paige bueckers #azzi fudd #wcbb

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inkykeiji · 7 months

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character: bonten!mikey x fem!reader notes: a day or two ago teddy and i were daydreaming about sucking on our Daddies’ fingers and i genuinely haven’t been able to stop thinking about it since!!!! warnings: 18+ minors do not interact, daddy kink, hair pulling, oral fixation (finger sucking), somnophilia + minimal prep, mention of drugs words: 1.3k

If he’s being truthful, Mikey doesn’t really mind when you suck on his fingers—kind of likes it, actually; likes feeling useful, likes the way your tongue pulses and jumps just a bit as you draw him in a little further, suck around him a little harder, likes to pacify you—provided that it’s feasible.

You know when to ask, know that if Daddy’s busy cleaning his guns or cutting his drugs that he needs both hands, that his pretty girl can’t be greedy, now, just because she needs something to suck on. No, on those days you can usually be patient enough, can usually wait until Daddy’s finished with whatever important business he has to take care of. But sometimes, if you’re really needy, and you’ve been extra good, you might get lucky—he might let you stick his cock down your throat, let it sit all heavy and hard on your tongue as you kneel sloppily between his spread thighs, chin on the edge of his chair, hands planted between your folded knees and palms pressed flat to the floor, all conscious and intentional, since Daddy has a rule against touching during times like these, claims it distracts him, and we can’t have that, now, can we, sweetheart?

No, Daddy. Of course not, Daddy.

Daddy has a rule against sucking at times like these as well—this isn’t about getting him off or making him feel good, after all, he had told you. This is just about giving his whiny little baby something to fill her mouth with, something to fill her mouth up, to keep her occupied and quiet while Daddy works. If he feels your tongue start to curl around his shaft, if he feels your lips begin to pucker and your cheeks begin to hollow, he’ll be yanking you off his cock in one harsh, swift motion, with his knuckles rooted at your scalp and a growled curse spit through his teeth—and then you’ll be in real trouble, and you definitely don’t want that!

But it’s when Daddy’s sifting through boring paperwork and poring over mind-numbing files and notes—full of gruesome photographs and disturbing details—that the perfect opportunity arises to lend you his hand, to let you wrap both palms around his slim wrist and take his fingers into your mouth.

He knows that’s exactly what you want when you curl up next to him on his plush office couch, gazing at him with glittering eyes and your bottom lip siphoned between your teeth, but he won’t give it to you; not until you say it, of course, not until you explicitly ask for it—because good girls ask for what they want, don't they?—keen stare veiled by feathery lashes and voice trembling with a desperate sort of humiliation.

But he’s sweet as syrup when he nods and allows you to suck two of his fingers into your eager, waiting mouth, silky praises falling from between smirking lips. Because you’re so good for him, swallow so well for him, take his index and ring finger all the way in for him, right to the third knuckle, the edges of your teeth gently scraping the sharp protruding bones.

The metal of his rings clacks against the back of your teeth, platinum and white gold warming in the heat of your mouth as your tongue coils and curves around the bony digits, laves over the bumps and ridges of each knuckle and joint. Foamy saliva pools in all of the dips and crevices of the jewellery, coats the surfaces all slick and slimy and leaves the gems encrusted in the metal gleaming.

The underside of the rings feel smooth on your tongue, tip tracing around the arc of each one, slow and studious, almost as if committing them to memory. The metal has a slight tang to it, smearing the zest of sweat across your tastebuds, bitter and salty with a hint of the rusted blood still caked beneath his nails and lining his cuticles.

The pads of his fingers stroke your tongue in slow, rhythmic motions, petting the slippery little muscle in a tender caress—mindless, soothing, habitual—as tired onyx eyes skim the pages crumpled in his free hand. Delicate fingers hook around the bangles encircling his wrist and tug, begging for more and whimpering nonsensically around his flesh—more, Daddy, more, more, gimme more, pretty please.

And he does, of course, his sweet, greedy little girl, permits you to draw him further down your throat, copious amounts of drool oozing from the corners of your mouth as your lips tighten and your tongue squeezes—so much so that it’s trickling down your chin and dripping off your jaw in heavy, viscous cords, drizzling all over your chest and clavicle.

It leaves behind the prettiest streaks of shimmering spit, and Mikey can’t help but press down on the back of your tongue, enraptured as another tiny torrent of saliva seeps past his fingers to spill down his hand and collect in the lines of his palms.

The action earns him a pitchy yelp, sound vibrating around the tips of his fingers, and he snorts a little, fingers rubbing your tongue in a crude sort of apology.

Sorry, baby, sorry, he’s murmuring in response, though that smug, sadistic little smirk toying with the corners of his lips tells you that he’s not sorry at all.

His fingertips are pruned by the time he’s finished shuffling through his documents, soaked and soggy with your saliva. Your mouth’s finally gone slack, a telltale indicator that you’ve fallen asleep, dribbles of drool rolling down the side of his hand and his wrist as you breathe, calm and even and soft, around the digits lodged down your throat.

Your teeth have left cute little indents in his knuckles and the underside of his fingers, but he doesn’t mind, running the tip of his own tongue over the jagged little craters carved into his skin and humming softly to himself.

It always has his cock twitching in his trousers, straining against the thin material, and on the nights where he really needs it—when the day has been abundantly challenging, excruciatingly exhausting, full of collecting debts and deaths—he’ll rearrange your pliant body, push your head down and hips up and panties aside and use his already sopping hand to wet you just enough to comfortably take his cock, burying himself to the fucking hilt in one swift, sharp thrust and revelling in the gorgeous little gasp of surprise that claws its way past your sleepy lips.

Stay sleeping, sweetheart, he always tells you, murmured into the skin behind your ear and punctuated with a chaste kiss. Just let Daddy take what he needs.

And so you do, every single time, ever his good girl, his best girl, nodding into the corduroy couch cushions and mumbling out some garbled sentiment of affirmation.

It’s never graceful, always shameful, lacking his usual skill and subtlety as he pathetically ruts into your sweet cunt, flush hips grinding into your thighs gone sticky and slippery with desperation, humping away unevenly at you until his cock is pulsing viciously and he’s breathing out a curse against the damp nape of your neck, filling you with thick cream.

He always takes a moment to admire you after, too; to admire the mess he’s made of you, the masterpiece he’s made of you, calloused thumbs spreading your fucked-raw lips and watching as his cum cascades out of you slow and sticky, using the hardened pad to smear it across your cunt—glazing your clit and your slit and your inner thighs; painting you in him, pressing into the splotches of navy and grey those sharp hipbones carved into soft flesh—before he hoists you up, collects your boneless body in a heap in his arms and decides it’s time for bed, finally, for the both of you.

#mikey x reader #mikey smut #bonten mikey smut #bonten mikey x reader #bonten mikey x you #sano manjiro x reader #sano manjiro smut #mikey sano x reader #mikey sano smut #mikey x you #tw:daddy kink #tw:drugs #tw:somnophilia #inky.mikey #inky.tr

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hutchersonsgurl · 5 months

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Mr. Jealous Mike Schmidt

☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆

This one has a smut warning it might suck but it's my first one ):

☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆

18+ under the cut smut warning

You get to work you walk into the bar with the bar uniform you are supposed to wear you know Mike wouldn't approve of this outfit but it's not like you want anyone else but him

The uniform consists of shorts and a tank top but you through Mike's hoodie on top of it because you see other girls having them on too

The shift goes by fast there are some rude customers here and mostly guys who would have thought right?

It's time for your 15-minute break you are on the way to the breakroom when you see mike standing there waiting for you.

Mike sees you and grabs you and takes you to the bathroom and locks the door

"Not that I don't love what you are wearing babe but why are you wearing that? The only person who should be seeing your skin is me " Mike says as he leans you up against the counter with a smirk

"I'm so happy to see you babe but what are you here who's watching Abby?" You ask

"Max is watching here till we get home I needed to see my girl Mike says looking at you with his hazel eyes lighting up "

He leans in and goes up to your ear "I'm gonna punish you for wearing that outfit baby girl "

Mike brushes your hair out of the way and kisses down your next slowly

You can already feel your center getting wet as he's doing this

Mike unbuttons your shorts and pull them off and throws them to the side

"Now you are gonna have to be a good girl and be quiet for Daddy," Mike says with a smirk

He plays with your underwear for a few seconds and he pushes his finger inside of your underwear playing with your folds

I can feel how wet you are for me baby girl Mike says as he continues to play with your folds and then he pushes his fingers inside of you pushing his fingers and in out

"Daddy please- just take me, " you say with a moan

He continues to finger fuck you for two more minutes and then he sits you up on the bathroom counter

You slowly pull him towards you and start to unbutton his jeans

pulling them down as you licked your lips. You eyed his length through his boxers and massaged him through the fabric.

He moaned from your touch, biting his lip as he looked down at your hand. You reached your hand in to stretch the waistband and pull his cock out. His chest rose and fell as you leaned down to lick his shaft before swallowing him. He bit back a whimper as you took him deep into your mouth. Your soft plush lips wrapped around his shaft like a ring that slid up and down his girthy length. Your doe eyes met his dark ones as your cheeks hollowed, making you moan around his cock.

"Fuck yn "Mike says as he grunts in between words

You pull his cock out of your mouth and Mike pulls down your underwear he puts his tip in front of your center that still has some precum from what you did

He slides himself into you hard and fast you wrap your arms and legs around him as he continues to thrust inside of you you lean into his shoulder to muffle your moans

Your stomach twisted and you found yourself throbbing around his length, close to cumming. "Mike I'm close," you whimpered out. "Fuck, cum for me baby," he grunted through his teeth, making you unravel all around his cock, your cum dripping like warm honey on his length. With one final thrust, he came too, shooting his load into your tight center He pulled out watching how your center is still dripping of his cum

You both clean up in the bathroom and you fix your clothes

This is your last shift here by the way Mike says as he walks out of the bathroom with you holding your hand

'Yes daddy" you say with a smile

Part 3

#mike schmidt #josh hutcherson #mike schmidt imagine #mike schmidt x you #mike schmidt x reader #five nights at freddy's #mike schmidt smut

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sexhaver · 1 year

Note

While it’s stupid that people are arguing that AI art has no “soul”, it’s troubling that you made no mention at all of the concern many have about feeding AI with stolen art when you were clowning that ask. Just because that person was an idiot about that one part of the ask doesn’t mean they were an idiot about the other part.

firstable, the art isn't stolen. it is still on the artist's hard drive/website/portfolio. complaining about digital files being "stolen" makes you sound like the RIAA.

secondly, before you start arguing semantics about how "well obviously i didn't mean they were LITERALLY stolen, just used without permission," that's not even true either. the current legal theory they're operating on (until it gets challenged in court) is that the AI's output qualifies as a "transformative work", meaning it doesn't violate the original artist's copyright. your kneejerk reaction to this might be to expand copyright law to make this kind of use illegal, but that would also necessarily outlaw a LOT of art forms/techniques, like fanart, fanfiction, collaging, sampling, etc.

at a base level, these AIs aren't doing anything humans weren't already doing - human artists have been taking inspiration from other artists since the first cave painting. anyone telling you the AI is "just mashing together parts of existing art" or whatever has 1. no idea how AIs work because that aint it and 2. no idea how copyright works since "collaging parts of existing art" (which, again, is not what they're doing) is already explicitly protected as transformative work. we don't know enough about how humans OR AIs think to conclusively say that the way one makes art is quantitavely different than the other, and trying to make ethical or God forbid LEGAL judgements based on this imaginary, unmeasurable difference is a losing proposition from the start. there are reasons to be wary of AI art, but "the way an AI views my art and uses it to generate output is fundamentally different than how a human would do it, and that difference means that i am being wronged somehow" rings a bit hollow to me.

to be clear, there are definitely valid reasons to be wary of/dislike AI art. the main one that inevitably comes up is the impact it will create with artists who work on commissions. why would someone pay $50 and wait a week to get a picture of their fursona/concept art for their video game world when they could just punch a few sentences into an AI and have dozens of pics for cheap basically instantly? setting aside the obvious answer of "because most AIs actually suck at drawing really specific things", i feel like this is akin to complaining that the invention of the camera/daguerreotype put professional portrait painters almost entirely out of business. yeah, it did, and that sucked for them, but nobody would ever suggest boycotting the camera for those painters' benefit because that's the nature of technological advancement baybee!

also not to be a communist on main but i NEED to point out the possibly insultingly obvious fact that this is an issue with capitalism, not the "integrity of art" or whatever. the main negative impact the technology has on artists is potential loss of income due to competition, which would stop being an issue if your ability to stay alive was decoupled from your ability to work/sell your labor.

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onboardsorasora · 3 months

Note

Sora, hear me out. What do you think about MobWife!Daniel AU?

Bestie... I feel like you knew I was trying to sidestep this and you put it in my path like a rock or a banana peel for me to trip over. I know you did! you know what? I saw it and I still tripped because I am clumsy!

So far I don't have many thots on mob wife Daniel, only like a visual vibe. I wish I could draw or do digital art because I think he would be breathtaking. either way, here is some of my vibe written down.

Mob wife Daniel would 1000% be Renault era Daniel. There’s just a level of cunt he served in 2019 that cannot be spoken about enough. Gucci all day, because he is a Gucci boy. He wears his fave rings and chains all the time. He’s always dressed so nicely– even if it's a big tshirt and shorts. He always looks put together and fuckable.

He’d be married to Christian, he got married young like a good Italian boy to someone who would take care of him. And Christian does take care of him, Daniel knows about the business but he doesn’t get his hands dirty. He’s an unknown secret keeper, he knows where the safehouses are and there are accounts in his name in case the feds try anything.

He’s also fucking Max, his new bodyguard.

Christian takes care of all of his needs and Max takes care of the ones Christian forgets about.

Christian knows about Max– he has eyes everywhere– but Christian wants Daniel to be happy, and if this makes him happy then so be it. Besides, Max is a ruthless killer so he also wants to keep him happy.

They’d probably argue about dumb shit, and Daniel isn’t afraid to get loud because he knows Christian won’t hurt him. Because Max won’t let him. It’s a fucked up polycule where Daniel gets everything he wants– as he should.

I imagine one of the arguments is like at dinner time and Christian is complaining about how someone never did a good job with keeping a hit quiet and Daniel is annoyed because he didn’t want to hear about it because they had better things to talk about– like going on a trip.

“Christian please! All day I watched Marta slave over this dinner and all you can talk about his fuckin Jev. Look, we made your favourite! Did you even like notice that? No! Jeepers!” Daniel throws his napkin down and gets up, his chains glint in the soft light. Christian stares at the long line of his throat and the small hollow of his clavicle. Christian leans back in his chair and rests an elbow on the arm.

“Are you finished?”

“No! Because you promised– just like you promised me a vacation but here we fuckin’ are.” Daniel puts his hands on his hips. Max continues eating his meal between them.

“Where do you want to go?” Christian asks, because it was easier to give Daniel what he truly wanted.

“You said we’d go to Seychelles. I even bought new swimsuits.” Daniel doesn’t exactly whine, but he does pout and bat his eyelashes. Max bites back his snort, Christian catches it of course.

“How’d they look?” Christian asks Max, nodding over to him.

“You’d like them.” Max confirms. He doesn’t need to tell Christian that Daniel sucked his dick while trying them on.

“Put them on for me tonight, if I like em we can go to Seychelles.” Christian bargains, he watches the slow grin that takes over Daniel’s beautiful face. Daniel saunters over and kisses Christian filthily before walking away. Christian, of course, swats his ass as he goes.

Of course Daniel gets what he wants and Christian’s assistant books the trip. Christian might be always busy, but he makes time for Daniel. They don’t always fuck, but when they do, Daniel is a docile dove afterward. Because Christian knows how Daniel likes to be fucked, he knows what makes his wife happy.

part 2?

#thats all I have to say #(for now? who knows with me)#but this wasn't at all where I thought about going with this until I got here lol #actually considered having Daniel be married to Lewis..#anyway mob wife dan #maxiel #max/daniel #christian/daniel #hornciardo? what is their ship name?#almost fic #ficlet #mobwife daniel #answered #anonymous

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my-soupy-brain · 3 months

Note

need Ted to take care of me, feeling so low :(

Boy, do I feel this one. I'm with you, friend. This request might be a tad older now - I hope you're feeling better. And if you're not, I hope you do. And if this helps, I'm glad to offer the service. I'm writing this for both of us, all of us, who need some help.

---

Relationship: Ted Lasso x reader

Warnings: Mental health (depression), comfort, care

---

Depression feels like a fucking storm cloud. Just hogging up every corner of your mind with rain. A thick, heavy humidity that just brings sheets of rain.

It matched the London skies, a bit. Which delighted you in a sense. It was easier to stay in bed, on the couch, under blankets, when the sun wasn't shining.

Your eyes were puffy and red from crying. Over what? You're not sure. it doesn't matter. Because that's not how depression works.

Hills and valleys, right? That's life. This was a dark, cloudy valley. So be it.

You hadn't eaten in... well, you don't really remember. A handful of crisps here and there, a piece of bread. Enough to sustain you.

Shower? What the hell is a shower?

You'd spent the weekend like this and then called into work on Monday. It's Tuesday morning, and you just sent an email to Keeley to let her know you still weren't feeling well.

"You sure you're okay, babe?" Keeley texted back worriedly.

"I'll be fine," you answered, throwing your phone on the couch and stumbling back into your bed.

...

At Nelson Road, Ted's big, brown eyes were bunched in worry.

"Keeley? You seen y/n around?"

Keeley shook her head. "She took today off again."

"She okay?"

Keeley shrugged her shoulders gently. "She said she was, but something feels off."

Ted nodded and headed down the hallway, hands in his pockets, head down, thinking, as he walked into his office. Beard was talking to Roy about something, and Ted stared at his phone.

"Ted?"

Ted looked up and tried to listen.

"She's not here again, huh?" Beard said, practically reading his best friend's mind, as always. Ted shook his head.

"No, took today off again. She's been out since Friday. I'm worried."

Ted had enough on his plate to worry about. Your being out of the office shouldn't be one of them. But he missed your chats, your coffee, your bright laugh, your smile.

You're one of the few people around here who really get him. And he likes that about you. Along with your kindness. Your quick wit. How you've listened to his anxieties and been a friend in need.

...

It was mid-afternoon when your phone chimed on the couch. Too far to get it. Who cares.

It chimed again. And again.

Still too far away. No way in hell were you leaving this little cocoon you'd created for yourself.

Ding-dong.

The fucking doorbell? Make 'em ring again. Maybe they'll go away.

Ding-dong. Ding-dong!

Two in a row sounds...aggressive. You pull yourself off your bed, wrapped in your blanket, and shuffle to the door.

The handle turns, and on the other side is a slightly damp Ted Lasso under the pouring London rain with an umbrella.

"Hey, Ted, c'mon in," you say, moving away from the door, leaving it open for him to step through.

Ordinarily, your stomach would be fluttering with him in your space. His woodsy cologne, his soft smile, the way he tucks that one loose tendril of hair back into his mane.

You'd be more embarrassed by the dishes piled in the sink, the records on the floor in disarray, the clothes on the floor strewn from the living room to your bedroom, the piles of papers and books laid haphazardly on the coffee table.

But you don't much care. Not right now.

"Y/N?" Ted asked, stepping into the living room of your flat, his eyes still big and worried.

"Yeah."

"You okay?"

"Nah."

You shuffled toward the couch and sat down. Your messy, unwashed hair in a messy updo, half-up and half-down from not caring. Your tshirt hung off your shoulders, your cheeks a bit hollow and pale from not eating, not seeing the sun.

You stared at the TV, the Netflix banner rotating in front of you, like it's done for hours.

Ted nervously sat on the other end of the couch, afraid to approach you. Not sure what to...

His eyes shot over to you when he heard you gasp. Heavy sobs leaving your chest, your lungs. Almost a hiccup of tears pouring out of you. Your cheeks turned red, the tears fell in hot, heavy, salty drops down your cheeks.

Without a second breath, his arms were around you, tucking you against him, his voice soothing a soft "Shhh" - not to get you to stop crying but to help you calm your breathing.

"Breathe, shh, breathe, darlin'," Ted said quietly, the words rattling in your brain like a loose ping-pong ball.

You let yourself cry, cry, cry. And cry.

Ted's arms wrapped around you. He could feel your wet eyes against his neck, and he closed his eyes and let himself melt against you.

"Darlin'...you wanna talk about it?" he asked gently. "You don't have to, but I'll listen."

You cried some more, and Ted hugged you tighter. If he could squeeze the sadness out of you, he'd try.

He felt your body shake in his arms, under his hands.

His warmth became...a balm.

As you started to quiet, his hands rubbed down your back, tucked your hair behind your ear, his lips against your forehead, not kissing it - though he was tempted.

"It's okay, I'm here. I'll listen, if that's what would help," he offers in his low voice and drawl.

When you pull away, he sees the puffy, red, tired eyes. Despite all the sleep, you still look like you've not rested well in days.

Your lip quivers, you look down. Ted holds your hand.

And it all pours out.

How you feel like a failure at work. How lonely you've been. How sleep never seems to rest you. How incredibly insecure you feel about yourself.

Ted couldn't believe it. He heard the words, and couldn't understand.

Wonderful you.

The way your smile lit up his day. Your playful laugh. How witty you were. How damn generous you were with your time, care, and attention.

He squeezes you tighter to his chest.

As your litany of self-flagellation starts to quiet, he lets you both breathe. His heartbeat against your ear steadies your breath.

"I'mma tell you somethin'," Ted says with a soft voice, his thick drawl evident.

"You're damn good at what you do, at work. You make my job a heckuva lot easier with the press with those releases you put out, and the fires you put out," he adds, his large hand running down your back.

"And I'm sorry you're lonely. But I want to remind ya, you ain't really alone. Not with the family at the club, anyway. We're all here for ya, even if we aren't blood family..."

You nod and sigh.

"And I care about you in more ways than I can express, but we don't gotta talk about that right now..."

Your heart flips a bit at this.

"But you do need to know that your kindness, your gentleness, the way you treat the people around you..."

Ted clears his throat.

"You're one of the best people I've ever met."

Your mouth opens to speak, but he continues.

"My day ain't complete until I see that smile of yours. To know you're smilin' when you're hurtin' like this, well... you're just damn courageous. Add that to the list of amazin' things about ya."

Your lips quirk up slightly.

"You make me laugh. But most importantly, you make people - and me - feel seen. Understood. I ain't never have anyone be so good to me when I'm goin' through my stuff as you have."

You hold Ted a little tighter as his voice breaks. Ted squeezes back.

"I care about ya. And I'm not gonna let you sink with this, ya hear me? I'm here, and I'm gonna help ya like you've helped me."

When he feels you nod he looks down at you and smiles. Your eyes are tired, bleary, and your body feels like it ran a marathon.

"Why don't we get you to bed?"

You nod weakly as he helps you up to your room. Once you're stretched out on the mattress, your eyes practically fall shut with lead weights. Sleep. Finally.

...

In the morning, your eyes blink open. Your depression hasn't vanished but your heart admittedly feels lighter. And you can breathe a little easier.

As you come awake, you notice the clothes in your room put away, or folded on your chair.

The bathroom is tidied.

When you step into the living room, you can see the kitchen has been cleaned, and the dishes done. Your records are put away. Everything orderly. Tidy.

And a sleeping, soft-haired Ted Lasso on your couch, in an undershirt and his sweatpants, snoozing away with the remote in his hand.

He stayed. He stayed on all night. Taking care of you.

You decide to shower - finally. Another thing put off too long. And it feels good to wash away the sadness down the drain a bit more. When you change back into cozy clothes, you see Ted is still snoring softly.

A neatly folded throw blanket gets unfolded.

You slide in front of Ted on the couch, who doesn't wake, but instinctively moves his arm over you to pull you to him. You know he can't hear you, but you whisper anyway.

"Thank you, Teddy."

Behind you, Ted's lips tilt up in a soft smile.

---

Well, I'm crying. How about y'all? I've been in a not great place lately and sometimes I wonder if writing these little stories of comfort are good for me or bad for me because I lack it in my own life? But I decided it was comfortable. Something calming to read when our brains feel like thunderstorms. Thanks for the prompt, friend. And hope you're feeling better. xoxo

#ted lasso x reader #ted lasso fanfic #ted lasso fanfiction #ted lasso fluff #ted lasso x you #ted lasso comfort

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baraadmirer · 4 months

Text

Content warning: contains an instance of felching and incestuous undertones.

"So, Nico, you can't even handle taking money from old man Smith? Pathetic." I look up and can't move. I've been tied to a wooden chair as the boss' son glares down at me, his barrel chest almost blocking out the only lamp hanging from the basement ceiling.

"Daniel, please, I—" I start, but he interrupts me.

"You're making me look bad, Nico. I don't like disappointing my father." He raises his leg and puts his shoe on the chair, just above my shoulder before pushing it, sending it and me crashing to the ground. He walks around to me. "I might as well get something out of this." My mouth opens but no words come out as I watch Daniel unfasten his belt and his jeans fall to the ground. He slips off his briefs and slaps his dick on my cheek. I look at it for a moment before I open my mouth and let it slip in.

"Yeah, that's it, slobber on my knob," he grunts as he forces his thick 8-inch cock further down my throat. I can feel a few drops of pre trickling down my esophagus. "This is all you're good for, isn't it?" he snarls as he repeatedly stabs the back of my throat with his meat. He thrusts in deep and I look up, tears forming in my eyes. He's panting lightly, his eyes scrunched in concentration, and his blue shirt is starting to get stained around his pits.

"That's what you should do from now on: make me feel good," spits Daniel. "Take it, take it all!" he roars as he goes all the way in, and I can feel the rhythmic pulsing from the underside of his cock pressing against my tongue as he deposits his cum down my throat. Not wanting to upset him any further I suppress my urge to gag and do my best to swallow it all. He moans in pleasure as he feels my throat grip on him before he withdraws his dick. He spends a minute panting before he sets the chair upright and unties me.

Daniel crouches down to my eye level and gets into my face. I can feel the warm air from his nostrils brush down across my cheeks. "Get out, bitch," he says menacingly. "I don't want to see your face for a week, understand?" He flings open the door and leaves. I wearily get up on my feet and leave the estate. I find a nearby phone booth and call a friend to crash at. As I walk down the street, I can't get the image of his stern, hard brown eyes out of my mind. It was a sheer display of power and intimidation that caused my heart to flutter in excitement.

Three days later, I'm walking down the street when a sleek black Rolls-Royce passes by me before stopping a few meters ahead. One of the rear windows rolls down and as I walk by a deep voice calls out. "You are Nico Rossi, yes?" I glance back and involuntarily jump a little.

Sitting in the back is a rugged man nearing his mid-50s. Broad-shouldered, solid chest, and a glance that said to everyone he meant business. However, what sticks out to me is his striking resemblance to someone I know very well. "Don Angelo!" I blurt out.

"It is getting very cold," he says to me in accented English. "Please, come in." He gestures to the door. I pull on it and it opens effortlessly. "Come, sit next to me," he commands in a gentle tone. I obey without a second thought as the door closes behind me. The crisp evening air gives way to a still warmth. "Andiamo," he calls out to the driver. The car begins to move.

"Thank you very much for letting me in, sir," I say haltingly. I've never met the man in person.

"Do not mention it," he replies. "Your mother, bless her soul, had asked me to look over you if anything happened to her. You are alright?"

"I am okay, uh, sir. I was just headed back to my friend's place for the night." He raises an eyebrow.

"Oh? I thought you were living under my son's roof as you are one of his men." A statement; not a question.

"I wa– I am! He just didn't want to see me for a while because I'm a disappointment." The last word rings hollow in the confines of the car. "I couldn't get money from someone so he threw me out for a bit."

"I see. I will need to have a talk with my son soon. I thought coming to this country would give him opportunities..." Don Angelo's eyebrows furrow and he looks frustrated.

"Oh, there is no need!" I say, flustered. "He just has high standards for his men. I... I just don't meet them."

"My son is showing that he does not know who his men are," he says coldly. He raises his arm and pats my head. "You are a kind soul, Nico. I expected you to do something like helping my son manage documents and such. If you would like, I can release you from his service."

"That is kind of you, sir, but I want to make him happy. He really looks up to you." My cheeks grow warm and I turn away from him.

"Is something the matter?" he asks me.

"No, not at all, sir," I reply, a little too hastily. "Daniel, er, your son really looks like you is all." His hand drifts from the top of my head to around my shoulder.

"Ever since his mother died he has been looking for me to guidance. He chuckles before lowering his voice. "You are very devoted to him, are you not?"

"Oh, yes! Er, not as much as to you, of course," I hastily correct myself.

"Oh?" He presses his fingers to my chin and forces me to look at him again as he breaks into a playful smile. "Then perhaps you will have to demonstrate it to me." He looks out the window. "We have arrived. Nico, open the door, would you?"

I open the car door to a large building. Not quite a mansion, but a building almost the size of a Broadway theater that is somewhat secluded from the rest of the city. Out of the corner of my eye I catch Don Angelo speaking with one of the guards, but what he's saying is beyond me.

"Come, Nico," he calls out without turning to me. He leads me up a flight of stairs to his office. It's well-furnished, with a large leather armchair placed behind a mahogany desk. He sinks into the chair and places an elbow on an armrest, watching me with a cocked head as he places his other hand on his knee. "So, show me your devotion," he says to me. I walk in front of him and get onto one knee.

"Yes, sir," I say. I take his hand and kiss the back of it. He continues to watch me as he raises one of his feet and slowly presses it into my crotch.

"Is that as far as your devotion goes?" he teases. "For tonight, you may touch me as you like. There's no need to be afraid, Nico." I swallow nervously and nod as I stand up. I lower my head and kiss him on the cheek once before planting my lips on his. As I explore his mouth I can taste the lingering tobacco on his breath. After I take my shirt off I go to take his off, struggling to get both pieces off as they were clinging tightly to his physique. There's a moment where I take in his lightly-hirsute torso before I use my tongue to explore each crevice. He lets out a low rumble of pleasure as I work my way down.

As I start to undo Don Angelo's belt, he rises from the chair and leans against the edge of the table. I continue to disrobe him as I pull his pants down, revealing a large bulge straining to break free of the boxers it's trapped in. As I pull the boxers down, his cock springs out, 10 inches long and thick. A bead of precum is already forming from his cockslit. I lick it off and slowly lower my jaw to accommodate its entry. "Take it easy, Nico," he tells me. "Not many have been able to take all of it at once." I slowly cram the first 3 inches down my throat and begin to suck.

I gradually swallow more of his cock down my throat and pick up speed. The accents of salt become more pronounced on my tongue as I wrap it around the shaft. My jaw starts to ache, and I release it, slightly panting for air. "Relax," Don Angelo says to me. "Let's try this instead." He stands me up and gently pushes me onto the table faceup. He picks up my legs and rests them on his shoulders before grabbing his cock and rubbing it over my hole. "I'll go slow," he reassures me as he pushes lightly against my ass. I try and relax as much as I can, but as his head makes its way in I fail to hold back tears and a whimper of pain.

"Shh, shh, it's okay," Don Angelo consoles me. He caresses my cheek as he inches further into me. He's about two-thirds of the way in when he stops. "I'm going to start moving now." He slowly withdraws his cock until only the head remains in me before plunging it back in. Gradually picking up speed, my whimpers graduate into moans as he eventually goes balls-deep into me, rubbing my prostate. "That's it, you're doing so well," he says between grunts. "Do you like it?"

"I feel so... good!" The last word comes out in a strained falsetto as one of his thrusts sends shivers of pleasure up my spine and causes my eyes to roll back in ecstasy.

"Come here," Don Angelo says as he wedges his hands between my back and the desk. Taking his cue I reach up and wrap my hands around the back of his neck as he lifts me up. He palms my ass cheeks as he slides me down on his dick before lifting me back up with imperceptible effort, save for the sweat on both of our bodies.

After two minutes of nonstop fucking his breathing grows laboured. "Ah, Nico! I'm—" Before he can finish his sentence, he lets out a long, drawn-out moan as I feel his cock twitch inside me. His legs, as sturdy as tree trunks, begin to quiver and buckle as he falls back into the chair. As my body's weight slams onto his pelvis, his head jerks to look at me with a surprised look before it melts into fulfilled pleasure and lolls backwards, mouth slightly agape. His dick hasn't finished pulsing. Finally getting a break from all the sensations my body was experiencing, I let myself fall onto him, my cheek resting against his clavicle as I try to breathe normally.

A knock on the door brings me back to my senses, and as I try to get off Don Angelo's cock, I hear him say "Enter".

The door opens and I hear a familiar voice say "What the fuck?!" I turn to look and see Daniel, horrified at what he just witnessed. "Nico! You're fucking my father?!" I hurriedly scramble off and cover my semi-hardon.

"It's not what it looks like!" I say, despite fully knowing well that it is exactly what it looks like. Daniel angrily saunters in my direction, clearly with the intent to throttle me.

"Daniel!" barks Don Angelo. "That's enough!"

"You asked for me to come!" he yells, albeit a little more subdued. He turns his attention back on me. "Getting out of my sight wasn't enough?"

"Daniele!" Don Angelo's voice reverberates throughout the room. "Basta." He's gesturing somewhere between my legs. I look down and feel a tiny trickle of the boss' cum running down the inside of my left thigh. "È un regalo per te." Daniel drops his jaw. "Bevi," the boss commands. "Nico, turn around." As I comply, something strikes me as odd about Daniel: did his pants get tighter? Don Angelo has a wry smile on his face. "You don't need to worry about getting cleaned up just yet."

Puzzled, I ask, "What do you mean by—" my question goes unfinished as I feel something crawl up my leg. The sensation it produces is like a feather slowly and lighting going up my spine. Looking down I see the top of Daniel's head under my crotch. "Daniel, oh my—" I gasp as he spreads my cheeks and starts flicking my hole with his tongue.

"Let it out, Nico," Don Angelo tells me. "Slowly." I relax my sphincter. Daniel becomes more ravenous as he starts slurping up his father's cum. His mustache tickles me and I can feel my cock reaching full mast.

"Oh, I'm so close," I moan with a strained voice. The boss stands up and gently grabs my dick before stroking it.

"Do it," he whispers in my ear as I feel my impending orgasm reach the point of no return. My eyes roll back as I give in and surrender my body to total pleasure. I am vaguely aware that Don Angelo has one arm propped on my shoulder and Daniel continues lapping at whatever's left in me.

As I return to my senses I realise that I shot my load into Don Angelo's other hand. He raises it to my face. "Keep it in your mouth," he instructs as he empties the contents. "Now give it to Daniel." I turn to look at the boss' son, who's now on his knees, panting with flushed cheeks. There is a large stain on his crotch. I hover over his face and let my cum slide out of my mouth into his. He remains unresponsive. "Escort him to his room and get him in the shower, Nico," Don Angelo commands.

"Of course, sir," I reply. As I get one of Daniel's arms around my shoulder, I pause and say out loud to myself, "Did all that really just happen? Maybe I'm just dreaming."

"You do not need to worry about that, Nico," Don Angelo responds. "It was all on my orders." He walks over to a closet and pulls out a bathrobe. "After all...

"That's how mafia works"

#stable diffusion #ai hunk #ai generated #ai muscle #ai male #ai art #gay smut #gay mafia

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wh0refornikolailantsov · 11 months

Note

Prompt: “You’ve been strong your whole life, it's okay to feel weak for a moment.”

Song: Carry You - Ruelle

For Tolya x Reader pls!!

Almosts - Tolya Yul Bataar

Trigger Warning on this one folks, I wanted something that felt closer to book content, so I leaned into the Kanej scenes that lead to Kaz plucking out a dudes eyeball, so given that context, strap yourselves in okay?

Grisha Reader, Order Unspecified.

Trigger Warning On This One Pals.

Content Warnings: Kidnapping. Torture. Ideas Of Self Sacrifice. Plans/Thoughts/Ideation's Of Suicide In Context Of Mercy In The Face Of Captivity, Exploration Of The "Better To Fall On Your Own Blade, Than Be Held Prisoner," Mentality. Not Beta/Proof Read.

Part 2

Wherever you are is dark, but it's not cold, if anything it is a little too warm and at times you wonder if they're trying to sweat you out, slowly bring up the heat until you're delirious. There would definitely be more efficient ways to get to you, but you don't know who is holding you, or the extend of their motivations, so their tactics are beyond your comprehension.

You have no doubt what they are after, information you will not willingly give them. You had been trained for these kind of situations, but they were behind you, your days of playing spy for a country that barely noticed if you lived or died were over. You were working for your heart now, and your heart alone, it just so happens that your heart is so closely attached to the Ravkan royalty. A fact which is likely the culprit in your containment.

They think they know something, things they could use, and you might, you probably do, being as close as you are to the Kings Guard. Being as close as you are to Tolya, you know a lot more than you would want anyone to be aware of you knowing.

The visit you get is shortly after you hear the ringing of bells, you think you count three, but in the space you are in you have no way of telling if it day or night. You cannot see the face of the man asking you questions but his accent is easy to place, clearly Fjerdan. You don't like that knowledge, it makes you aware of a pit in your stomach that your heart threatens to fall into.

You are asked questions and you reply in long silent stares, the threats pass you by, and you do not react to them. It never really matters how long ago you stopped being a solider, Baghra had once told you, because the training sticks with you. You doubted her, hoping that having severed yourself from your duties and with enough time passing you could become something more, something outside of the spy you were trained to be, the deceiver and the devoted. But you were grateful for the truth of her words now. All the old teachings bubbling up like they were fresh lessons you'd taken only yesterday, allowing you to not as much as flinch in the presence of your captor. Though you know the threats are not empty, not hollow persuasions and there was no pleasant time to be spent in this prison of their making. They wanted answers, and if you did not give them the answers they wanted, they would extract them from you by whatever means they deemed necessary. You weren't considered human to them after all. You being grisha made you nothing more than an abomination to them. The man talks low, in Fjerdan, and you never were the most apt at language but you recognise one of the words as clearly as in your own tongue, drüsje.

You don't appreciate the man talking words you couldn't understand, and you appreciate less the way he was talking about you. So you sit up, trying to remember anything you could about the language he is using. After all, nothing is more likely to rile up a Drüskelle like hearing their own language in the mouth of a grisha. "Wanden olstrum end kendesorum," you say, and you're sure you're butchering the translation, but you don't have it in you to care, you can barely even remember what the saying means, something about ice not being merciful. "Isen ne bejstrum."

That gets a rise from the man in the shadow. "Tig!" He yells at you. "You have no right to our words, in our tongue."

"Like you have no right to hold me, or is that simply because I am what you consider to be wrong?" you ask.

"I will return soon," he warns you, "and next time I will not be so kind, so consider your options, witch."

"My options," you lean back against the hard wall, "die slowly or die quick?"

"Exactly," he says and closes the door. You hadn't expected him to be so forward, but you knew that was what the situation was. No Fjerdan was going to let a grisha captive go just because they cooperated. There was no making this out alive if the Fjerdan's could help it. Your only real chance was escaping which given every angle you have considered seems nigh on impossible, or to be rescued. You didn't doubt Tolya, or the others for that matter, you know he would try, nothing could stop him trying, but you're not sure that will be enough. You're not sure exactly how much time you can buy yourself to allow him to get to you.

When you're sure you are alone again you shake your arm against your restraints and hear the gentle sound you were hoping to find.

The blade concealed in the fabric of your sleeve, so thin that they wouldn't notice it if they didn't know what they were looking for. An old habit from the work you did for Ravka before, an old habit that your generals used to call 'insurance.'

The blade is durast made, and needle sharp. It's not a blade for fighting, it's a blade for when you're out of options, backed into a corner and have nowhere left to go. It's a blade designed for mercy over the torture you might endure at the hands of your captives, mercy before you can betray what is close to you, and then die for the privilege.

The weight of the blade in your hand is almost non-existent, light as a feather, or a hope. You let your mind run away from you, thinking about home, thinking about card games with Tamar, and arguing over the colour choices with Genya, watching the way David scribbles additions to the list he has that helps him with reminders of ways to bring his wife joy, because she deserves it more than almost anyone you've ever known. You let your mind think of Nikolai looking for any excuse to be less official, leaning over balconies and smiling at the distance, like a boy who's heart is still somewhere out on the ocean. You let yourself think of Zoya and the way she rolls her eyes in a filled room, but somehow never lets you make it through a meeting without a warm drink in your hand, you'd never once asked her, and she had never once asked how you took it, she just knew, she noticed you guess. For all her cold exterior, Zoya had an unintentional tendency to love, even if she couldn't recognise that was what it is. The hardest part is when you let your mind wander to Tolya, you can see him in your mind as clearly as if he was beside you, the version of him you hold close to you, in your memories is kissed by the morning sun, smiling in the morning light, looking far too large to be sitting in the window, but he is doing it anyway, legs against the outer wall, like he could jump down if he wanted, disappear into some adventure, like some hero you'd framed him as in your mind. Your hero. Tolya Yul Bataar, the best part of your history, the thing you'd always be the most grateful for.

You feel the blades weight now as you let yourself think of him, and you force yourself to think of what it means for him if you decide to use it. Losing him, the idea of it alone is the cruelest thing you could experience, and you know that he would not feel dissimilar. But what they wanted from you, the blood they were going to spill in the search for answers, answers you could not give without giving up everyone you cared for, Tolya most of all.

You stare at the blade, wondering, what choice would be more painful, to betray or to leave them alone to preserve what you know. You would rather die than turn on Tolya, you know that as surely as you know anything, you would take his promises to the grave and nothing would stop you from doing that. Even if it means falling on an old insurance policy created by a loyalty you were sworn to without choice, to protect the only thing you would always be loyal to without even asking.

You slip the blade back to where you had found it, not ready to make that choice yet, not ready to give up on the idea that Tolya might just be the hero from all the stories and get here just in time.

You lose track of all sense of time as it passes, creeping by. The third time the Fjerdan visits you're left with a threat you cannot ignore, and the resounding copper taste in your mouth.

You move your arm the best you are able, between your injuries and the tightened restraints and you feel the blade slip out of its holding once again and fall into your hand.

You press a finger to it's tip, and you don't feel it cut into you, you're only sure it has when the blood wells up in a bright red bud on the end of your finger. So thin, so sharp a blade that it might as well slip between nerves at it's finest point. After all, the blade was designed for mercy, designed for moments when you know you're going to die but want to do it on your terms, not theirs.

You try not to think of Tolya. Knowing there is no kindness for him in this. If they kill you, or if you fall on your own blade his loss is the same, and they're matching wounds that only heal slightly differently. You'd hope he would know why you'd choose this option, but lingering on the thoughts of all the things he might feel when he finds you, if he finds you, only makes a pain worse than any torture bleed into your system. Thinking of him makes you want to live more than anything else, but that is becoming less and less of an option.

You hear the movement outside, and your instincts kick in. He shouldn't have been returning so quickly, time may not be real to you but you can still follow the sounds of routine. It doesn't make any sense, but you cannot risk him finding the blade without a chance to use it, losing your only merciful out is not an option. You grip the blade tighter in your hand, which is unsteady, so unsteady and you point the blade towards yourself, pointed end resting against your chest above your heart. You take in a deep breath, eyes on the door. If he wants to come early, you can let him watch his failure.

The door opens and you ready your pressure on the blade, but the eyes you meet in the darkness are not those of your captor, but familiar golden eyes of home.

"Tolya?" you ask and drop the blade, it clatters on the hard floor and he doesn't have time to process it before he is beside you, checking you over, assessing your injuries. "Tolya," you smile, "you came."

"Did you not think I'd come for you?" Tolya asks, gesturing for someone else in the doorway to come in and help with the bindings.

"I didn't know if I was strong enough," you say. This is when he lets his awareness come back in, at first he was too overwhelmed by the sight of you, by the knowledge he had found you, that you were alive, that he could keep you safe, and get you home. That he hadn't had a moment to process what he had been seeing when he opened the door. Zoya steps from the darkness and picks up the blade without saying a word, she recognises it instantaneously, and the look on her face causes you a type of pain you cannot describe.

"You devoted idiot," Zoya whispers to herself, giving you a glare before she storms back out.

"Did you not think I'd come for you?" He repeats. His eyes searching yours. He helps you to your feet, and you can hear Tamar down the hallway, in some fight, cursing in more languages than you know.

"I knew you'd come for me," you say honestly, "but I did not want to betray you before you had the chance. Tolya I would rather die than betray you. They wanted me to betray you-"

"Then betray me," he says, your heart stills in your chest, "if it keeps you safe, it keeps you from harm, betray me, always betray me. I can forgive betrayal, but I cannot forgive the loss of you. I could overcome betrayal, but I can not overcome the loss of you."

"Tolya..." you cannot find words, you're exhausted and in pain and you had been coming to terms with the idea you were not making it out, and yet he found you, and so many different feelings are surging through your body you feel fit to fall down. But he holds you, not letting you fall.

"I," Tolya ever the man of words, the poet, cannot find the right thing to say.

"Tolya, get your sister, make sure we can get out of here, I will take them back to safer ground," Zoya says, more of a command than a suggestion.

Tolya's eyes are blazing, like the idea of letting you out of his sight is the biggest insult Zoya could have said. "If you think I am leaving-,"

"Tolya, take that rage, make it useful," Zoya says, "do you think anyone in this place is capable of stopping me?" She moves her hands together and everyone in the room can feel the static, we all know what she is capable of, Zoya Nazyalensky the grisha who learned to control lightening. "No, so you be useful and I will handle this, we got this far do you think I would allow things to go wrong now?"

Tolya's eyes are on you, the idea of leaving you seems so far from right to him, but you manage to give him a nod, against what you want, against your instincts. You want nothing more than to stay at Tolya's side, at his side you feel stronger, you feel safe, you feel like nothing could happen. But you know Zoya is right, you cannot recall a time she was wrong... the one glaringly obvious one aside.

"It's okay Tolya," you tell him.

"We are not done talking about this," he says. You give him a knowing nod, and he pulls you in for a hug, his grip is so tight you're convinced your bones might snap if he wasn't careful, but he is careful, he is always so very careful with you. "I am so glad to see your face again."

"Not as glad as I am to see yours," you tell him before he disappears down the hallway to find Tamar.

Zoya wastes no time, in the hand she isn't using to support you she holds out the blade. "I am not returning this to you," she says. "This was from a time when Kirigan was in charge, and for all his talk about loving the grisha he used us just like the rest of them. This is a relic from a time where we were worth more dead than as hostages, why do you still have this?"

"You say relic like it much longer ago than it was Zoya," you say, "you don't forget that training so easily."

"You sound like Baghra," Zoya scoffs.

"I know," you admit. Zoya looks at you, and for all the sternness in her face you see a concern behind those eyes.

"I am not giving you this back," she says, "but I understand." She places it back into her pocket and puts her attention on keeping you up, and getting you out. “You’ve been strong your whole life, it's okay to feel weak for a moment.”

"I thought it was strength it took to be a soldier," you say, repeating Zoya's own words back at her.

"I've said many things," Zoya admits, "and although I have meant all of them, there are a few on occasion, that I regret." She looks at you, and you look back at her and for a moment you see past the beauty and the fierceness, you see past the Zoya she always shows, the one you've always known and you see something else, you see a Zoya you suspected was always there but doubted you'd ever see. "You're perfectly strong, but your strength comes from your love more than anything. I've not known you as strong as you've become since you've known him. And as much as I would like to say there are stronger motivators for the fight inside you, I saw the way he fought for you, and I see how badly you fought to make it long enough for him to get to you, and I doubt you could get a stronger fight than that."

#shadow and bone #grishaverse #tolya yul bataar #tolya #tolya x reader #tolya my darling i adore you

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