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twi-liight · 9 months

Note

Sooo. You just posted Petty Jealousy 20 mins ago and I just wanted to say that I loveeee itttt. Can we please have more? Like Astarion and the other companions subtly do somethings to the person they’re jealous of to turn them away from Tav.

Tav’s companions are just sooo cutee when they’re jealous. Wyll and perhaps, Halsin being the only sensible ones.

Thank you!

Red With Envy ❣

The YA love heptagon of the century: Tavrem. ❥ Astarion/Tav, Gale/Tav, Lae'zel/Tav, Companions/Tav. It's Gale/Astarion if you squint. ❥ They/them pronouns for Tav. ❥ Tav is the nickname for the reader/oc insert. Their real name is up to you! ❥ PREVIOUS CHAPTER

Astarion would never beseech himself to touch a member of the working class, but things change. People change. And here he is draping an arm around Gale’s shoulders to boldly declare his presence upon the rickety, wooden table.

“Oh.” Blink blink. Gale gawks with round eyes, then not-so-discreetly glances away from Astarion’s heavy gaze to the only present company at the table: salted bread with thick slices of white cheese, anchovies, and sop for the bread. This sorry excuse of a presentation must be breakfast, which begs the question- Is Gale’s blood so blue that he cannot skip a meal or is he trying to make a favorable impression?

Astarion would much prefer the former. It means he does not need to scrub his hands raw from the filth of peasants after this interaction.

“Uh, good morning, Astarion.”

“Mm?” He flashes his fangs to grin. “A good morning indeed, my friend. How lovely the dawn breaks over the horizon, but with no one to share the scenery with! I pitied you, and out of the kindness of my heart, opted to join you.”

Alright, enough touching. Astarion draws his arm back to poise a curled hand beneath his chin, glancing over Gale’s face in a vain attempt to study him. “Well-combed hair. Your posture,” he raises his hand to gesture at the wizard, “is much cleaner than yesterday. You’re practically glowing with morning dew, and…”

Here, he leans forward, just enough so that his nose lingers on the curve of Gale’s neck, just so his hot breath hits his skin as he murmurs, “You smell like Tav.”

This greedy bastard slept in their tent last night because he caught some sickness from meandering about gaseous spores, and Tav cannot ignore the needy. Would that Gale be some beggar on the road and not an accomplished wizard with a higher emotional maturity than he.

Astarion would be more comforted if he was a one night stand, a quick romp for the leader of their party to take the edge off. But anything beyond that is sabotage for his best-laid plans.

Astarion’s smirk curls as deep, roiling darkness tug at his mind. He leans back slowly, never breaking eye contact. “They let you sleep in their tent. What a darling.” While they slept by the fire, ash and dirt swirling in their hair, Gale was embraced in Tav’s blankets and scarves. The lingering scent of something floral sticks on his skin, and Astarion recognizes it as the oleander Shadowheart presented Tav a fortnight ago.

Gale smells something else: rusty and metallic, like the smell of a storm brewing. Has Astarion’s eyes deepened in color, like wine? His tongue feels heavy in his mouth all of a sudden. “Yes,” he agrees, thinking of Tav for some semblance of comfort. “I was sick, and they offered their tent for the night. More blankets, they said. Easier to be warm in - look, Astarion, do you have a problem with my friendship with Tav?”

The laugh that pushes its way forcibly out of his sneering lips is sharp and mocking. Something burns in his chest, and it feels like seething anger. “My, that’s a strong word. I would say acquaintance is more befitting of your,” Astarion gestures to Gale once more, fighting back a scowl, “station. You’ve known Tav for barely a few months - they’re not quick to brand just anyone as a friend.”

“Is that right?” Gale’s brown eyes spark with challenge. What a doll. Finally got his spine. “I ought to wonder how you befriended them, then. Anyone with half a mind knows your shenanigans are acts of desperation; you want them to like you so you can manipulate them. I know your type, Astarion.”

“And you… You, what, you are not? You’re using Tav just as much as I am, darling. Otherwise, what are you here for? Companionship? Ha!” Astarion does not know why, but his entire being is alight. As if the sun’s rays are scorching him. He can barely contain his temper, barking out between sharp teeth, “Get a grip.”

Gale is hardly fazed. “You’re delusional. Whatever threat you think I present to you?” He lifts his chin, eyes alight with power and rage. “Confront it. Dig your grave. Lie in it. While you’re busy lurking in the shadows, waiting for the opportune moment to dance them around your little games, guess where I will be?”

Silent, seething anger. It burns. Astarion’s eyes are blown wide with rage as he gazes into Gale’s eyes, digging his nails into his palm as his fingers wrap around the hilt of his dagger.

“There to catch them when they realize everything you’ve done is just an act.” Gale leans forward this time, a warning blazing in his brown eyes. “Think whatever you wish of me, Astarion, but never in your life think I would never fight for those I cherish.”

Cherish. Astarion almost sinks his teeth in his throat to shut him up. “Good,” he purrs, fighting every urge not to massacre Gale where he sits with his dingy little breakfast. “I would be sorely disappointed if you succumbed too easily to me.”

This would be so much easier if Astarion didn’t care about losing Gale, either. If he must concede, Astarion can admit to himself and the Devil alone that Gale is beyond useful in battle. Herald of the Weave, Mystra’s little boytoy? He would be endeared to watch Gale’s story end. Whether it be in smithereens or in the bosom of his former goddess, it will be fun to watch.

Something in the back of his mind gnaws at his anxiety that Gale will be the one to turn Tav against him. This pretty little fool never wanted him in the party, wary of him, which is the smart thing to do. Tav was not. Tav was too easy to trust him. To easy to ply around his fingers until he had them even offer up their blood.

He resents Gale for making space in their heart. It could have been his.

“The dawn rises as I do: strong, and watching over two bread boys exchanging heated words like knives.” Lae’zel’s voice, sleek and smooth, startles them. Gale visibly jolts away from his proximity to Astarion’s face, brown eyes widening as Lae’zel approaches the table. She takes one gander at the spread, grabs a fistful of anchovies, and shoves it down her mouth without care.

“You,” Gale stammers. “That was for–”

“Silence. Githyanki must feed well to prepare for the new day. I will not hear your incoherent mumbling, wizard.” Lae’zel at least has the decency to chew with her mouth closed. She gulps the food, grips her fingers around Gale’s mug of watered down wine, and downs it with a tilt of her head.

Astarion pouts. “We were having a moment, dearest Lae’zel. Now, I love to tease Gale as much as you, but it is my turn to press on Gale’s pretty little nerves until he explodes. He does not need to be,” he flares a hand out to Lae’zel, who is still downing the disgusting concoction with impressive concentration, “hounded.”

Gale looks confused. Astarion thinks that is not a state he often experiences. “Thank you?”

And now he’s grateful? Astarion regrets his string of words in the last five seconds. They should go back to fighting.

Lae’zel slams the mug down on the table, perishing the rest of Astarion’s train of thought. She wipes the drink from her lips with her arm, thinks for a second, then nods, resilience plain in her expression. “I must warn you: distractions outside of our goal will be our end. I will not fail to cut either of you down if you produce disappointing results. However.”

There’s a ‘however’? Gale and Astarion exchange a glance, the animosity between them gone, replaced with more confusion. “I think you may be misunderstanding,” Gale begins. “Astarion and I-”

“You two are lovers,” Lae’zel says with the confidence of a thousand burning suns. Astarion has never wished for that to be more true. He wants to be eviscerated where he sits right now because he cannot pick up his jaw from the ground.

Gale looks like he just swallowed a rat. Like he is seconds away from throwing up. He needs a moment, experiencing vicious whiplash from wanting to kill Astarion to now, wanting to kill Lae’zel. “You— huh.”

“I support this companionship,” nods the githyanki sagely.

“You are a bloody fool.”

“No. I am efficient. Two of my enemies have been wiped off the playing field, which means there is less competition.” Hands on her hips, Lae’zel looks at the campgrounds proudly. “Make love to each other loudly.” She jerks her head over her shoulder, a sneer twisting her sharp features as she looks at them. “Try to drown out my name from Tav’s lips tonight, for I will be taking their hand and heart.”

No fucking way. An oversight on his part. How could he have been so blind? Of course Tav is desired, not just by him or Gale, but by everyone else in the damn camp! This is much more troublesome than he realized. Fine, then. He should prioritize the rational thinkers like Wyll, Gale, Shadowheart and– oh, Karlach. Not darling Karlach. She would never turn Tav against him, would he?

Fine. Halsin and Lae’zel can go first.

“Momentary truce?” Gale offers.

“You read my mind, handsome. Lae’zel, darling! Come back over here - we just want to talk.”

❥ Additional links: kofi | ao3

#baldur's gate 3 #bg3 #astarion x reader #astarion x you #gale x reader #gale x you #lae'zel x reader #lae'zel x you #shadowheart #halsin #wyll #karlach #bg3 x reader #bg3 x you #badlur's gate 3 x reader #baldur's gate 3 x you

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glitter-epoch · 3 months

Note

Hiii, always love to see people obsessing over love and deepspace (bc I'm addicted too), can I please request zayne fic about his hands and fingers? Can be suggestive, can be pure smut, up to you lol, ok thanks byee

HIII yes i can!!! i can't believe my first request is a zayne's hands request this feels like a gift. thank you for requesting i hope you like!!!

[ there’s a part 2 now :) ] ☄. *. ⋆ gn! reader | 2.8k words | suggestive, not smut | zayne gives reader stitches but it's deliberately not described in detail/no mentions of needles/blood

“my lunch break ends in fifteen minutes,” zayne had said, staring past your head in thought. “it would be a waste of time to check you in.”

you stood there in the bustling lobby of akso hospital, one paper-towel-bound hand pressed to the sliced skin over your hipbone, and waited. surely he wasn’t telling you to just leave. you were only friends, so it’s not like he had an obligation to you; but he was your primary care doctor, and...

and. there was, is, an and. you’re not sure what exactly to call it, and zayne is so adonis-like you’re embarrassed to even suggest he might like you.

“i’m sorry,” you said in earnest, a little surprised by his usual coldness that you’d arrogantly assumed would thaw upon seeing your injury. “i didn’t mean for you to drop everything for me. i should have gone to an urgent care, or something, i just thought since you’re here...”

zayne looked down from the spot over your head, clearly removed from his pensive mood. his intention to argue with you was clear, but he held his tongue stonily until you finished your rambling.

“no,” he replied. “you should never go to another doctor. i was just thinking.”

you blushed like an idiot. “ever?” you mocked.

“mm,” he murmured, back to thinking again. he brought his forearm to circle the small of your back, not touching, and motioned you forward. “come with me.”

and now, here you are: sitting on the grey sofa in front of the wall-length window, early afternoon light bleeding white all over zayne’s office. for a few moments, he’s left you alone to gather materials, and you relish in what feels like a small victory.

i’ve been personally invited to the office.

not like it’s the first time, though.

zayne returns with a small kit swallowed by the size of his pale hands; the sleeves of his button-down pinned up to his elbows. you shift, balancing your weight unnaturally on one leg. His eyes snag on you as he grabs his glasses from his desk (far taller than the tabletop, he must lean down to grab those, too).

“lay down,” zayne commands.

you blink, glancing around to try to figure out the most convenient position to get into for him to work. by the time he’s come over and sat down on the glass table in front of you, you’re still sitting up.

“you can put your head on the armrest and your feet that way,” he nods, not a hint of impatience in his deep voice. “i can see you squirming. when you sit up like you are, you’re putting pressure on the wound. it must hurt.”

“i haven’t even shown you the wound,” you retort, not sure why you’re arguing so much- and swallowing a wince as you turn to prop your head up on the side of the sofa.

“i see your handywork,” zayne replies. he pulls on a pair of blue latex gloves and they snap quietly against his wrists. he’s clearly careful not to let the noise be too loud. “hm.”

you frown in place of a (shameful) gulp at the sight of the gloves hugging his hands.

“is this bad?” you ask. “i’m sorry. i tried not to mess with it too much.”

zayne pieces through the small kit on the table beside him. even his rummaging is succinct; long fingers deftly parsing through the stack of metal utensils inside. he comes up with two sets of narrow pliers and a cotton round.

he passes the pliers through his fingers like pencils, balancing them between his knuckles, and pours a solvent that looks like lens cleaner onto the cotton pad.

“not bad,” he says, eyes on the pliers as he polishes them. “the paper towel is fine. but you got it wet beforehand.”

“and that’s bad?”

“you’ll be alright,” he murmurs- or maybe he always sounds like that- and discards the cotton round. the corners of his lips just barely curl. “you won’t die, i suppose.”

“well, i’d hope not. it’s just a cut.”

“and what did you do this time?” zayne demands softly, fishing in the kit for what you now realize will be sutures.

“i had an assignment with xavier and failed to climb a fence.”

“you impaled yourself, then,” he remarks coldly. “and xavier.”

he sets a roll of sterile surgical threads on a wider cotton pad and turns his eyes to your midriff, which is still mostly covered by your shirt; wound hiding beneath it.

“xavier, yeah,” you inhale deeply, mentally preparing for the stitches. “my partner. i’ve mentioned him, i think.”

“yes, you have,” zayne says. his voice is strained. then he inhales, a whole breath through his nose, mouth closed in stoic secrecy; and nods to your hips. “lift your shirt, please.”

you’re grateful that he’s given you a task and you don’t have to look him in his eyes after that tiny display of disdain (for your partner? for your hips? hopefully the former?). But as you lift your shirt, the paper towel comes loose.

“ouch,” you hiss.

you realize you’re probably stressing him out.

“it’s not bad,” you add, uncharacteristically hoarse.

“it’s not,” zayne agrees softly, eyeing the wound with his usual cold stare. his eyes refuse to flicker above or below the cut, which rests just over the shallow ridge of your hipbone, right above the line of your trousers. “but it hurts, i'm sure.”

you nod. “sure.”

“sure,” he repeats, almost as if to mock you, almost as if he’s just making sure he heard you right.

zayne busies himself preparing a cotton round of saline, and in the middle of this, says,

“you’ll have to unbutton your pants. can you fold the waistband over?”

your neck is suddenly clammy. “oh. yeah, sure.”

“if you can’t fold them down far enough, you’ll have to take them off.”

your eyes blow out like glass.

zayne, whom you suspected might have been deliberately extending the length of his cotton-round-preparing, is surprisingly the one to smile first. almost wickedly. “i would get you a cover, of course.”

“oh, how nice of you.”

he laughs barely, an exhale from his nose. you unbutton your trousers, fabric shifting against metal.

he inhales at the sound.

the blue latex over his knuckles catches light from the windows. you watch moments later as he threads the sutures, fascinated by how efficient his hands are. they’re longer than they are wide, and slender, not bear-like; but big nonetheless. and yet his fingers move like knitting needles, never missing a beat, never shaking. “would you like to do it yourself?” zayne asks suddenly.

his voice is like a hum, always vibrating in his chest.

you bristle. “god, no.”

“then why are you staring?”

you’re hoping he won’t finish on that very word, but he does, and he looks at you with his usual resolve of steel. you decide that no answer is the only good answer, and instead say,

“okay. good luck. don’t mess up, please.”

he chuckles and leans over you, the breadth of his sharp shoulders blocking the sun. “i never mess up.”

the words ‘mess’ and ‘up,’ are foreign on his tongue, like he’d never refer to a mistake so casually, like he’s never made one in his life. he probably hasn’t, you think.

zayne lifts up the cotton round, which is practically the size of a pea in his hand. “i’m going to clean around it. the solution may sting, but not much. it will be over fast.”

you nod. “sure.”

he chuckles again. “sure,” he hums, and then, before he presses down, “here.”

he swipes the cotton round over your hipbone, startlingly light. goosebumps rise instantly on your flesh. his fingers are icy, even through the gloves; they radiate cold like a lamp radiates heat.

zayne is kind enough not to mention your instant squirming and moves quickly to start the sutures.

“this will be fast, too,” he says, looking unwaveringly into your eyes. like he’s trying to will the fear out of you. “not as fast as that, but faster than you’d imagine.”

you nod. “sure.”

“there it is again,” he smiles. “sure.”

you grin incredulously. “i don’t know what else to say. you’re about to stab me.”

his smile is thin and almost prideful as he grabs his glasses and slips them on. he leans over your hips, then looks up at you; pushing them up the bridge of his nose.

“aren’t you glad it’s me, at least, and not some stranger?”

you’re busy inhaling and exhaling like a horse, trying to calm down. “i am glad it’s you, yes.”

your desperation throws him and his jaw sets like a stone, adam’s-apple bobbing.

“alright,” zayne says, nearly whispering. “now.”

he begins the sutures. you gasp, instantly, at first through your nose and then through your mouth; which pops open unwittingly. it’s nearly a whine.

“i know,” zayne murmurs, leaning back a tiny bit as he works; so his face is visible to you. “i’m sorry.”��

“it’s okay.”

you bite down hard and screw your eyes shut, but all you do is flinch each time his fingers move. he stops almost instantaneously, like pulling the plug on a treadmill.

“look at me,” zayne says, deep voice rumbling against your thigh.

you peel one eye open and then the other.

“i know it hurts,” he says gently. “but you can’t move. i could seriously hurt you.”

“sorry, sorry,” you nod. “i know.”

the pools of his eyes are clear. he’s resolute in his instructions as he speaks, every word confident.

“breathe the entire time, through every suture. i can work while your stomach moves; i can’t work if you’re flinching away.”

“okay.”

his brows lift. “okay?”

again, you nod. “okay. i’m sorry.”

“no apologies,” zayne says.

he presses his hand flat to the side of your belly that’s unharmed, the tips of his long fingers just barely curling around the slope of your waist. you inhale slowly at that, blinking rapidly. his hand is cool as glass.

you panic, as if he can somehow feel the coil that winds up in your stomach; watching his fingers splayed across your navel.

“i’m going to try again,” he says. you can feel the words all the way down to his fingertips. then his thumb moves, caressing the skin just over your waistband. “breathe.”

well, i can’t now.

“got it,” you grind out.

“good,” zayne hums. “three, two, one...”

and it starts again. you bite down, tongue taut to the roof of your mouth.

“don’t,” zayne warns, stern as ever, but his fingers keep working. “breathe. i can see whether you’re doing it.”

the coil in your stomach tightens. you peel your eyes open and watch him work, knuckles grazing over the soft, thin flesh that’s been revealed from behind the waistband of your trousers.

his eyes flash away from your navel as you start to watch. moments later, you’re stunned to see how laser-focused he is, pupils never moving from your cut.

“do you ever get nervous doing this?” you ask, apt to make the time pass faster by talking. like your mouth isn’t wet just watching him do his job. “are you nervous?”

“no.” his reply is instant. “i’ve done this hundreds of times.”

you’re stunned. “i would be nervous.”

“you are nervous,” zayne murmurs. “close your eyes.”

the ball of his wrist presses into the juncture of your hipbone.

“no,” you gasp. too fast.

zayne’s fingers slow, utensils suspended. he looks up at you, somehow feeling taller still. “no?”

you shake your head. “i-i don’t like not knowing what you’re going to do next.”

oh, sure.

he’s stopped working at this point, watching you like a hawk. “then i’ll tell you what i’m going to do before i do it.”

“that’s okay,” you exhale. i’m dying.

zayne’s eyes rove over yours, not unkind, but uncaring about how visible his assessment of you is. clinical, even still. the corners of his lips curl up.

you’re not sure how it’s possible for your stomach to drop while laying flat on your back, but it does; your ears hot as irons.

he goes back to work without another word. you’re so embarrassed, you finally shut your eyes and let your head weigh on the armrest until he’s done.

“alright,” zayne says. “that’s it. don’t move.”

you keep your eyes shut, nodding. “i really can’t thank you enough, i-”

“watch.”

for a moment, you lay there. then you open your eyes, peering down at him, too uncertain to be shocked yet. “what?”

zayne takes his small kit from the table and places it on your lap. you startle, blink, as he sifts through the contents of it. gloves still on.

“this is another cleanser,” he hums, his voice uncharacteristically musical. “i’m going to clean around the sutures.”

you stare incredulously at him. “...okay.”

he’s not fooled by your aloofness. zayne’s right hand works slow circles with a cotton round around your cut; the other comes down flat to keep the waistband of your trousers from getting in his way. both are cold to the touch; never quite warming.

your jaws come apart and you barely manage to stop your mouth from falling open as discards the cotton round and takes the corner of your waistband into his hand.

he buttons your trousers; pulls the zipper up.

you watch like a fool. then, when he’s done, and you think you’ll have to admit to what you’re thinking, he furrows his brows at your face.

“did you cut yourself here, too?” he murmurs.

“where?” you croak.

zayne shakes his head and slowly peels off the gloves; letting them slide slowly off his fingers. “mm. here.”

he reaches forward and spreads fingers to cup your temples. one thumb glides over your browbone, low enough that you can see it; four or five times before removing his kit from your hips and leaning back.

you exhale harshly and move to sit up, wondering if you’ll be able to somehow flee the office without another word.

“not yet,” zayne says. “lay back again. you don’t have to put your head back; just lean back.”

and you do it, instantly, because...well, because.

zayne pulls a rectangular gauze pad with an adhesive border from the small kit. then he leans forward- he'd be positioned between your legs, if you opened them- and pulls your shirt up once more.

as he presses the bandage over your sutured wound, it seems like even he can’t look at you. but his usually statuesque expression is lifted with amusement, plus something more sinister.

“you like to watch me work,” he hums.

his fingers dip under your waistband to smooth the bandage over.

“shut up,” you bite.

he leans back and watches you with no further offerings- words or otherwise medically dubious practices- and looks quite pleased. his breath is ragged, though; chest lifting and caving.

“thank you,” you exhale. your tongue darts out over your lips.

his pupils are swollen. “sure.”

you grin, caught off guard by the joke. it sounds ridiculous in his voice.

“my break will be ending,” zayne says, stony as ever once again as he walks to his desk.

you stand, smoothing your hair down like something far more scandalous just occurred than stitches.

“what do i owe you?” you ask. this earns a genuine, icy glare.

“nothing,” zayne replies, pulling on his white jacket and grabbing his things. “but go to the front desk before you leave. i’m going to call in a prescription ointment for you.”

you blink at him, thrice. a little dizzy. “oh, wow. thank you.”

as zayne strides to the door, you think he might genuinely leave you there without another word. but he takes the door handle, and, almost shy, turns over his shoulder and says,

“i’d like to stay with you, but i can’t. i’ll be working until dinner.”

“no, no,” you rush, stepping to meet him at the door. “i’m fine. thank you so much, for doing this. i was just thinking.”

he still can’t look at you, but at that; zayne grins.

“i’ll call you when i get home,” he says. then, “is that okay?”

you swallow. “of course.”

“i want to know how the sutures feel in a couple of hours,” he adds.

“oh, sure,” you tease.

his eyes darken, like darts. you’re almost afraid.

zayne opens the door for you and waits for you to pass by, eyes full of mirth as he looks down at you. “i’m glad i could be of service.”

he raps his fingers on a clipboard until you look away. you blush feverishly all the way down the hall at how he says ‘service.’

☄. *. ⋆

this is not how you do stitches nor how you sterilize utensils. anyways FIRST POST. lol. anon if you or anyone else wants a part 2 of this (nsfw) i wiiiiiill do it lmk

#love and deepspace #love and deepspace fic #love and deepspace fluff #love and deep space x reader #l&ds zayne #l&ds x reader #l&ds #l&ds zayne x reader #zayne x reader #zayne x mc #l&ds fic #l&ds smut

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mggsv · 7 months

Text

One of your Girls

f!reader x toji fushiguro (18+)

summary: There’s nothing like an old fashioned birthday celebration amongst friends going to the strip club, but it’s something when the Diamond herself is Toji’s treat for the night.

warnings: age gap (reader is 23 toji is 27), minor smoking, oral (m receiving), porn with plot, choking, creampie, squirting, spit kink, fingering, throat fucking, nipple piercing reader, tongue piercing toji

“Never been here before.” Toji grumbles, looking around the club. The music was loud, people going in and out of two separate doors. There was tight security and the area was clean, not your average strip club. Along with Gojo, Getou and Sukuna, the strip club was an ideal destination for celebrating Toji’s birthday. “It’s a cleaner spot, more expensive too. Might start comin here instead of the one we usually go to.” Sukuna pulls out a cigarette, quickly lighting it and giving it a puff. The quad shared a quick smoke session as they neared the door. Gojo taking the lead to the security guard that multitasked in reservations, “Fushiguro.” The white haired male leaning over the list to be nosey.

Toji scoffed while they took care of the business. He wasn’t one to really celebrate his birthday. To him it was another regular day of the year. However, his associates (his best friends he’s known for over ten years) always find some way to celebrate it (even without him). He took another look around the fancy place before chuckling. It reminded him of his college days, how wild he was before his family stepped in and sent him overseas. He stayed, and his friends came along. He caught his success here.

The inside of the club was even better. The floors a velvet red, private rooms lined the halls. Different stages each with a different group of girls dancing on poles. Men, hungry men, gawking at them with money ready to throw if it hasn’t been thrown yet.

“Shit….how much was this?” He laughs ex excitedly. Sukuna had already wondered off to a section the moment they stepped in. “Happy birthday.” Getou nodded with a wink afterwards. The trio kept walking down the hall until another door opened, and there was another stage ahead. Only one pole. The room was crowded but Toji found a seat close the front. Neither of the tables and chairs were placed too close to the stage. The men whistled. Gojo ended up separating from them once he sat eyes on the bar, his long haired friend right behind him.

There left the green eyed male, staring at the pole as the lights dimmed a seductive red. Music played from the speakers, good quality as well,

But that was when it happened. You- the diamond. The way your leg peeked from behind the velvet curtain, the way your body slowly made its way to the pole…how your hands wrapped around the cool metal. Your curls falling around your face, trailing behind your every move. Your curves emphasized by the black thong-like panties hugging your waist. Toji’s eyes rested on just how juicy your cunt looked hiding behind the material. His breath hitched. catching your brown eyes. Your hands snake around your neck, moaning softly while you rocked around the pole. Your eyes rolled, squeezing.

It felt like the whole world had stopped. Toji had seen many strippers, many..many strippers but you..you pulled him in. The room was quiet part from the music. No man spoke, no man made even a peep, other than the money being thrown at your body that moved like silk. You throw your head back, hands reaching for your bra. Toji scanned your face, your plump lips- the dimple he could see, all down to the beautifully detailed artwork on your face. If he knew you personally he wouldn’t even know.

The material slipped off your shoulders, you wrapping the straps around your fingers, holding the bra. Toji licked his lips, his tongue pausing on the scar for a second. His eyes trailing your pierced nipples, both hard.

“I heard..someone’s birthday is today.” Your voice sent shivers down his spine, straight to his cock that already shown its excitement. You glanced around the room until your eyes landed on his. You hum softly, heels clicking against the stage to the soft floor. On your knees, you crawled to him, back arching. Toji watched your every move, a smirk slowly rising to his lips. He heard Gojo’s snicker somewhere in the background, sneaky bastard. He’d have to thank him later.

You were between his thighs, hands on either side of his legs. Toji reached over to touch you- anything to be in control, but you shook your head. “Happy birthday..Toji.” You stood, your leg resting on the arm of his chair. So close…his heart was racing. It was only you in the room it seemed to Toji. He didn’t care for the men that whistled and still threw money. He didn’t acknowledge how rowdy they were when you sat on his lap and grinded over his hard cock. He sure as hell didn’t hear a damn thing when you leaned back, head on his shoulder, whispering softly into his ear: follow me.

“Happy fuckin birthday to me.” Toji looked over your body. The private room private to only you two. No one else. There was a small stage and pole but you didn’t use that, no, you didn’t have to. You leaned up, wrapping your bra around Toji’s broad frame and pulling him down. His lips crashed with yours. You moan into the kiss, his hands going down to grip your ass. You didn’t miss the cool material of his tongue piercing either. It made you moan. A good looking man at your job…perfect for you. “Been wanting this. Thought i was gonna have to wait.” He picked you up, causing you to squeal. “Toji-“

“You had yer turn princess. It’s my turn now.” He pushes you up against the wall, hand around your throat. You wrap your legs around his torso, his lips going to flick your pierced buds. “Mm..” you breathe. He sucked them. It almost seemed like he waited for your milk. The way he hungrily nawed at your breast..the grip on your neck. He squeezed and squeezed. “Want you on this dick.” He grumbles, other hand coming to squeeze the tit in his mouth. “So fuckin badly.”

Toji pulls back, mouth wet with his own saliva. He licked his lips as he pulled you from the wall. He carried you to the love seat. “You want that princess?” He asks, slapping your thigh to spread them. You whimper, opening your legs. He’s tugging at his belt to the button that couldn’t unbutton fast enough. You were so wet, nodding at his words… “Want you to fill me.” You lay back.

Toji’s fingers trail your inner thigh. He stops at your panties, the thing material being no help to how wet you were. “Look at that..” He groans, finger brushing over your clit through your panties. He licks his lips as he rubs it a bit faster. You kept your legs open wide as they twitched at the feeling. “all this for me. who else you spreadin your legs for huh?” He wasted no time smacking the soaked surface. You clench at the feeling.“hm?” Toji asks as he pulls your panties to the side. His fingers wet with your slick. You leaned right there for him. Your clit exposed, yearning for his touch. The tip of Toji’s fingers brush over the exposed skin, his eyes flicking up to your flushed face. How you stared at him while he teased your poor little pussy..the face you made while he made those slight brushes up against your sensitive clit. Your brows furrow when his finger slip inside of you with ease. Your lips forming a small ‘o’ at how his long fingers curled inside of you. “yes..yes-fuck.” your hips rock against the fingers that pressed and pressed inside of you.

“feels s’good toji..ah-“ you bite your lip,biting back the moans you wanted to scream out. Leaning forward, you run a hand over Toji’s clothes cock. The way you could see the veins pressed against the cotton material from how hard he was. “Need it..fuck i need it.” you whimper. “I know baby, I know.” Toji drunk on how wet you were for him. You pull at the band of his underwear until his cock springs free. You pull your hand back, licking a long, wet stripe on it. His tip was red and leaking. You wasted no time licking your land again, earning another finger from Toji. You take his cock in your hands, pumping him slow down base to tip.

Toji’s thumb presses against your clit, his fingers playing inside of you. “I could do this all day..yer warm princess.” He mumbled, his hips rocking forward. He fucked himself into your hand faster. “Right there..right there wait-“ you gasp, hips jerking. You squeezed around his fingers, that thumb still pressed against your clit. You whine feeling yourself gush over the fingers, his thumb circling your clit while you coated them. You lips fell agape while you stared up at him. Toji’s smirk only grew wider at that look in your eyes. His cock slipped right between your plump lips.

Legs shaking while Toji pumped your pussy full of his fingers, his thick cock touching the back of your throat. You stared up at him through teary eyes, smirk on his face while looking down at you. “Fuck baby- m’gonna cum soon if yer keep lookin at me like that.” He groans, other hand reaching down to tangle in your curls. He tugs softly, burring your face against the happy trail. His cock slipping all the way in your mouth. “I’ll give it to ya good if you don’t choke.” He laughs afterwards, throwing his head back at the warmth of your throat. You try your best, knowing just how needy you were in this moment.

“That’s it princess..fuck-“ Toji’s hips jerked. You choke slightly, the warm seed spilling down your throat. You gag just a bit, but still swallowing around his thick head. “fuck fuck fuck..” He groans, looking down at you through half lid eyes. “good fucking girl taking my cock.” He slips out, holding his cock against your mouth, slapping it against your lips. You lick every bit, Toji’s wet fingers slipping through his lips. “Taste good.”

You shudder and take a deep breath. Getting up you hold onto Toji’s arm. He takes your lips into his immediately. You taste yourself on his lips, and vise versa for him who only deepened the kiss. His spit trailed down your chin. His hand coming back to hold your neck. You pull back, “Shit-“ Out of breath. It only makes him laugh.

“This the part where I pay for yer college or somethin?” He takes a seat where you once were. You hum and straddle his lap. “Not yet.” You wink, “I said i wanted you in me, i meant that.”

He hums and rubs his hands over your hips, guiding you slowly on his cock. You hiss at the feeling, but the tip went in with ease thanks to Ojis fingers. You whimper, looking up at his slightly red face. Toji’s biting his lip, bottoming out once your heat surrounded him. “Perfect pussy for me hm?” He leans his head back on the soft cushion. You take his cock best you can. He lets you take all the time you need, which was nice. He worked you in perfectly. Once you settled down to base your body instinctively leaned into him. He was warm, his bare chest pulling your body into him. Toji bottoms out inside of you, shuddering.

He fucks into you nice and slow, every inch slipping into you perfectly. Toji filled every part of your hole. He moans into your ear, tongue lapping at your lobe. “M’gonna fill you up princess.” He groans. “Gonna give you all of this dick.”

“M..Myeah.” You groan into his chest. “cumming-“ you felt him hit your sweet spot. Your cunt tightening around him. “Shit..” He filled you with his seed. His grip on your hips tightened, the way he pushed you down further to make sure you took all of it..

“Happy birthday..” you slur, your eyes fluttering shut. He kisses your forehead chuckling softly.

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flowersandbigteeth · 1 year

Text

Your monster husband helps you out of a tight spot

General Plot: You find youself stuck and your tentacle monster husband helps you out, this is in no particular order to the overall Chase x reader story

Tentacle Monster (Chase) x bimbo female reader

masterpost

Word Count: 1.5K

W: bimboification monster smut, degrading names, anal and vaginal sex, tentacle sex

“Whew, there’s a lot of these down here,” you murmured as you shuffled through the books in the library basement.

“Just pull out the ones that look like they might sell,” your fellow volunteer said then looked at her watch, “oh, I’ve got to go pick up my kids. Will you be okay here alone?”

You glanced up from your work and smiled.

“Oh of course, Brenda,” you said, waving her away, “I’ll just do a little more and then I’ll lock up here. My husband is on his way to pick me up, anyway.”

She looked at you like she wasn’t convinced and then her phone rang and she glanced at it.

“Oh that’s the daycare, be safe (Y/N) I’ll see you at the book sale!” she shouted over her shoulder as she scrambled up the stairs.

You returned to looking through the titles. There was no rhyme or reason to it, the books that had made it to the basement were abandoned titles for one reason or another. Most of them were just too old to be relevant anymore.

You were looking for some to bring to the annual book sale, old picture books and cookbooks did well. You pushed a few paperbacks aside to find a strange looking book with a leather cover. It had a large metal eye in the center, but no title. You picked it up, fingering the emblem. It almost felt…warm…in your fingers. This was exactly the sort of niche thing someone would buy at the book sale!

You flipped open the pages and frowned. The paper was crisp but the pages were empty. You shrugged, maybe someone could use it as a goth journal. You went to close the book, jumping as you nicked your thumb on the sharp edge of a page.

“Ouch!” you muttered, sucking your thumb into your mouth.

The air in the basement cooled suddenly and the book started to shake in your hand as if it was trying to escape your grasp. You fell back as it flipped open, its covers becoming a mouth.

Shrieking, you crab walked back on your hands and feet trying to get away from the thing you’d awakened, but it sucked you in like a vaccumm cleaner picking up so much dust.

“Oomph!” you released a breath of air as it squeezed around you, drawing you into the now gaping mouth in front of you. It stuffed you down its throat, but it couldn’t seem to get you all the way down, leaving your back end dangling out of its mouth and your head stuck in the void beyond.

You wriggled and fought, hoping to make it one way or another, but no matter how you or the creature tugged and pulled you were completely jammed in. There was a deep chuckle behind you that you recognized as Chase’s. Thank goodness!

“Chase!” your screeched, “help! It’s eating me!”

You felt a heavy hand on your ass and heard more laughing.

“Did my dumb little wife get tricked by a book mimic?” he laughed and tears came to your eyes.

It was not funny! You were about to be digested in an endless void!

“Looks like you’re stuck,” he purred, caressing your bottom with his large hands.

“Do you want my help?” he asked, pinching the ripe flesh.

“Yes!” you squealed, “help me!”

“Okay, but it’s gonna cost ya,” you felt him sliding down the leggings you were wearing and giving your ass another firm squeeze before slapping it.

“Chase you’ve got to be kidding!” you wailed, but you couldn’t stop him if you wanted to. You were good and wedged in the book mimic’s maw, your arms pinned to your sides. It thrashed a bit trying to dislodge you or swallow you, but Chase held you steady while he pulled your panties down to your ankles.

“This is why you shouldn’t be out alone, cupcake,” he said, parting your ass cheeks, “you get yourself into compromising situations.”

You felt his breath on your exposed slit before he licked you from your clit to your puckered hole. His tongue, which was long and wet, danced over your pussy, thrusting into you then playing with your clit, then thrusting into you again. Against your better judgment you moaned at the stimulation, panting into the darkness around you.

Pleased, Chase pressed two fingers inside of you, finding the perfect spot and thrusting into it until your juices poured down his hand. One of his tentacles latched onto your clit, forcing his name past your lips over and over again. The terror you were experiencing only made the orgasm you slammed into stronger, your heart racing and your pussy spasming around his fingers.

“That’s a good girl,” he said, drawing it out by giving you a couple of extra pumps. Then you heard his zipper and felt his thick cock pressing into you.

“Fuck cupcake, you’re always so tight,” he groaned as he thrust himself in deep.

“Chase please!” you screamed, not really sure what you were asking for.

“Eager little dumb slut,” he said, leaving a hot hand print on your ass with a sharp slap, “I’ll give you what you need.”

His cock still impaling you, his tentacles pried your ass cheeks apart, another wriggling in the tight hole. It pounded your asshole as if it were chasing its pleasure with a mind of its own. Two more held your legs stable by the ankle, squirming and writhing as you tried to thrash.

Your eyes crossed as you took him, your tongue hanging out of your mouth. It was a humiliating expression and you were glad only the void saw it.

“You know how good it feels on my tentacles to have them stuck in your tight little holes?” he grunted, drawing back and stuffing himself into you again.

The motions of his hips slamming into you sped up to match the pace of the tentacle in your ass until you were just a drooling, crying mess screaming into the darkness.

The tentacle latched onto your clit started lapping at you in circles, driving your muscles to stiffen around the phalluses fucking you senseless. Chase grunted at the sudden tightness and jerked you into his chest, freeing you, to your relief from the book that was eating you.

With two tentacles he carelessly held the gnashing thing away from you as another tentacle wormed its way into your mouth.

He didn’t stop for a moment, despite the creature only a few feet away from your bodies. Sharp teeth latched onto your shoulder, Chase’s way of telling you to pay attention. Tentacles teased your nipples, flicking them until they were stiff. The thick appendage in your mouth squirmed down your throat, pumping rhythmically with the others, until it lodged itself at the back. You gagged, trying to draw in breath but you couldn’t. Thrashing you tried to pull away. Tentacles held your head still as he whispered into your ear.

“Are you going to be more careful in the future my dumb little kitten?” he purred.

You nodded frantically and the tentacle jammed itself a little deeper before he pulled it back just enough for you to breathe. You inhaled deeply through your nose, your cunt trembling as you came around his limbs. Your eyes went glossy, brain broken with pleasure as your body wracked.

“Fuck!” he roared, the sudden pressure pushing him over the edge.

You choked on the explosion cum that shot down your throat before the tentacle in your mouth forced it down. It retreated with a string of cum and spit stuck to your tongue. Spent, you sagged in his arms, letting him wipe you clean with your pants. He curled you against him, his nose brushing your head.

“I’m glad you're safe, cupcake,” he whispered.

You hummed at him and sank into his chest.

A tentacle wrapped itself over your eyes, since he no longer trusted you to keep them closed at his command and there was a loud ripping sound.

“Let’s go home,” he said, wrapping you in his jacket and returning to his human self.

#monster fucker #monster smut #monster x girl #monster #monster romance #monster x human #monster lover #male yandere #yandere smut #dumbification #bimboification #tentacle monster #tentacles #eldrich horror

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cocogum · 24 days

Text

✨Quirky✨ labels that describes them in a nutshell 🤭🥰

Yugo: blue alien boy

Adamaï: puberty’s bitch

Az: stress relief mascot ball

Amalia: horny grass princess

Eva: hot elf with daddy issues

Dally: dumbass ginger “woops! I did it again! 🤭🤪”

Ruel: Mr. Krabs holding adoption papers

Elely: Ginger 2.0 charged with arson

Flopin: invisible Link

Pin: Jack-Jack

Rubilax: demonic bromance

Madagaskan: retired blind sniper

Cleophee: hot elf who can kick

Goultard: ginger who can think

Oakheart: best salad king

Armand: delulu cabbage head

Canar: drag queen number 1

Renar: drag queen number 2

Aurora: blue trophy wife cow

Osamodas King: blue cow king

Efrim: tiny cute monster feet

Nora: pink lesbian

Mina: your scarred unpaid therapist

Phaeris: arm chewer

Qilby: the original momma’s boy

Shinonome: the shit picker

Glip: dad noises

Balthazar: grandpa noises

Eliatrope Goddess: helicopter parent definition

Alibert: gets thrown babies at him

Chibi: loud ass inventor

Grougaloragran: third person user

Prince Adale: fabulous tea sipper

General Mofette: bondage and whips

Grany Smisse: Meowth’s cousin

Remington: Zorro compensating with swords

Grufon: arachnid map

Anathar: copycat daddy voice

Kerosho: Adamaï’s forgettable achievement

Rushu: god wannabe

Black Ink: sentient food

Elaine: had a shitty childhood

Galanthe: rip thick hips

Noximilien: loves taking his time

Igôle: does not want to die

Cabotine: baby mama

Justice Knight: sweaty himbo

Pandiego: smelly drunk panda

Kabrok: retired wanderlust

Miranda: corn’s victim…

Vampyro: spirit halloween reject

Xav the Baker: croissant addict

Kriss Krass: tongue’s always out

Maude: goth chick

Ogrest: professional whiner

Otomaï: stressed out alchemist

Joris: experienced father and uncle babysitter

Kerubim: white furry with life issues

Simone: cleaner for hire

Julie: the embodiment of gay furry

Atcham: bald

Lilotte: furry orphan by choice

Khan Karkass: oily misogynistic ginger

Bakara: teacher’s pet snitcher

Julith: mommy milker terrorist

Jahash: died for getting laid

Jiva: just wanted to get laid

Poo: Kung Fu Panda

Echo: half lizard

Sipho: ugly ass lizard

Toxine: evil deadpool with an ass

Harebourg: narcissistic obsessed stalker

Oropo: clam sucker

Coqueline: raccoon girl

Dathura: leaf hottie

Dark Vlad: rock metal enthusiast

Black Bump: panty sniffer

Kali: professional sadist

Ush: furry sore loser

Arpagone: not an actual enutrof

Barik: elvis gone wrong

Cendre Mystigrine: forgettable furry

Ramona: best enutrof grandma

Harcelo Estep: disowned cuz wtf-

Messer: talking skull

Lacrima: did not deserve this

Winmo Nodorh: Flopin did it better

Lupa: sadist sympathizer

Atone: laser beam vision

Bouillon: fighting boner

Ripulse: name stands for “disgusted”

Sidaire: little sonic twerp

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fenfyre · 2 months

Text

Forbidden Fruit - Part XII

Part I

It was actually rather nice. The intense, overwhelming feeling of being stuffed offset by the way Laios held him close. Strong arms so careful as they wrapped around his body. Grounding him without ever squeezing too tightly.

Then there was the scent that invaded his senses up close.

Hot sweat, salt and musk and something so Laios. Metal and leather, blood and spices. Rich, damp earth.

Home.

Chilchuck bit his tongue and squirmed, wrenching back that sliver of control he had let slip. He met the grind of Laios' hips with certainty, circling his own in tandem with the tallman's careful motions. Then he leaned back enough to regain his balance, strong arms giving him space to move as he pleased.

This was better, cleaner, cooler, with the extra inches of space between them. Chilchuck could work with more ease this way, take what he wanted. Though that scent did not leave his senses. Warm and beckoning. So intense at the delicate juncture between neck and shoulder. One of those soft spots he yearned to sink his teeth into and leave bitten and bruised. It was still perfectly pale right now, flushed, with a thin sheen of sweat, yes. Way too inviting to leave unmarred.

Chilchuck tore his eyes away from the tempting sight and chose to rest his gaze on something less dangerous. A dark grain in the wooden headboard just beside Laios' neck. At least like that he would be way less inclined to lean forward and sink his teeth where they did not belong.

He leaned back even further, prompting Laios to fan long fingers across his back and catch some of his weight.

"Ah, yes, that's good", he murmured as the angle inside him shifted and the pressure with it. The length was now pushing up against his lower stomach with more intensity and as Chilchuck tilted his hips back and forth, giving slow, experimental movements, he could feel it rub right along his prostate.

The feeling made him groan and he let go of Laios' neck to reach back with both arms and brace himself against strong thighs, allowing the angle to get just a bit more intense. Letting his movements grow just a bit bolder. Still slow and languid, but more certain, until he was riding Laios with smooth, controlled motions.

Each careful rise and fall of his hips made Laios' cock slide along his prostate, sending tingles of hot arousal all the way into his fingertips and toes. The incredible stretch made it all the more delicious, a challenge to take, a sweet victory to revel in.

Chilchuck had just found the right balance, the perfect angle and rhythm to get lost in, when the sound of Laios voice rasped against his mind and made his blood simmer with need.

"Chil ... oh, Chil just ... just look at you..."

At first the words did not even register. He pushed them away, filing them under senseless babbling that was better to remain uninvestigated. But then Chilchuck caught a shift in Laios' expression from the very edges of his gaze and his undisciplined eyes flicked over to the tallman's face.

Those golden eyes were large with wonder and desire as they stared down between them, flushed lips parted to pant out heavy, heated breaths.

"Look at you..."

Chilchuck did. Wandering down his eyes came to rest on his own body, hips moving slow and diligent. In time with the movement there was a shadow, wandering up and down along his lower abdomen. At first he could not make sense of the sight. Then, as he tilted his head to the side, something shifted and clicked into place. Chilchuck felt his stomach lurch and his muscles squeeze tight with a terrible blend of greed and arousal and utter mortification. He wanted to melt and burst and scream.

Instead he froze and whimpered.

There was a bulge on his lower stomach where Laios' cock pressed up against it from the inside. Not too large, but definitely there. Chilchuck had seen it wander with his own movements, up and down, in and out. The realisation left his head spinning with how wrong it looked, how obscene.

It was the hottest thing he had ever witnessed.

A large hand shifted from his back to his side, slowly coming forward to slide across his stomach. Covering the bump it found there.

"Chil...", Laios whispered, a heated secret between them. "Can you ... feel this?"

Before Chilchuck could stop him, or even consider if he wanted to, Laios pressed down.

White hot stars exploded before Chilchuck's eyes and his arms buckled behind him, leaving Laios to catch his weight with just one hand. He was not even sure whether it was the feeling of that intense pressure still rising or the very idea of Laios massaging and pressing down against his own length while it was buried inside Chilchuck that left him gasping. Maybe both. Probably both.

But he knew he needed to stop this before his brain melted out of his ears.

Part XIII

#chilaios #laichil #chilchuck tims #laios touden #dunmeshi #powerbottom chil #servicetop laios

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psychedelic-ink · 2 years

Text

— watch.

pairing: din djarin x fem!reader

genre: ex lovers reuniting, hurt/comfort , smut, minors dni

word count: 4.3k

summary: You're one the brink of dying. Your stomach restless with hunger as you come back to Nevarro after months to find a job but instead finding a warm meal, you have a run in with your ex: Din. Oh joy.

warnings: reader almost starving due to lack of credit, reader being insecure about whether or not din had feelings for her in the past, arguing about why they (din/reader) broke up, vaginal fingering, possessive din, fingers in mouth, rough s.ex, dirty talking, piv, creampie, oral (receiving), mentions of aftercare

a/n: first of all a special thanks to @inklore who beta-read this for me, thank you so much again loves! <33 also this takes place after the season 2 finale but in an au where nothing happened to the razor crest-- I loved that ship so much damn you gideon

The dust of Nevarro settles in your lungs. Grains of sand sticking to your throat and choking you out. You never would’ve thought of coming back here again. Too many memories. But as you began to live from hand to mouth, you had no other choice to seek out the guild and ask, or beg, for a bounty to hunt. Even now your stomach rumbles, body low on fuel. A sigh breaks away from your lips. A little bit more and you’ll be reaching the city. You shake your head, trying to remember the last time you’d been here. A familiar silhouette of a shiny helmet flashes in your mind. Mando. Din. Your heart sinks further in your chest, lips parting as the city grows closer.

Maybe coming back here isn’t the best idea after all but you’re certain that you’ll die of starvation if you didn’t pick up some kind of job.

As soon as you enter the city everything feels different but also the same. The air that circulated the grimy, yet bright, city feels…cleaner. You look around, eyes skimming across the buildings. The people seem happier, children of all species laughing and running about. You raise an eyebrow. This certainly isn’t the Nevarro you expected to come back to. By memory your legs head for the guild, still slightly in awe as you walk past the people.

Nothing could’ve prepared you to see a twenty-something number of children being taught by a droid when you slam the all too familiar door of the guild wide open.

Your mouth hangs wide when fearful, young eyes turn to you and you quickly slam the door back shut, heart pounding loudly in your chest. Where the hell is the guild? Panic courses through your veins and you take two steps back, normally you would’ve been happy but the fear of not being able to find work was all you can think about. You groan when your stomach rumbles again. You feel faint. Head starting to spin. Nevarro was your last hope. If the guild was gone–

A kid bumps into you and you stagger back, almost falling. The world spins. Stomach rumbles again. Death looms over you, you can feel it, taste it thick against your tongue. Perspiration coats your skin in a thin layer, you feel a tiny hand on your thigh and you look down. You’d forgotten about the kid.

“Are you okay?”

Such a simple question yet it makes you want to bawl your eyes out. Nodding, you move away from the kid and head further into the city, Karga had to be somewhere around here right? Dank farrik.

Ears ringing and eyes blind, you fail to see the person in front of you. This time you’re the kid as you bump into the taller figure. Hard metal clashes with your face, a pain filled groan echoing from your lips as you jump back. Your hands immediately cover the part that hurts the most, which is your nose. Between squinted eyes, you look up, shiny armor the only thing you can see. Your face falls, eyes going wide as a meek whine escapes your lips.

The Mandalorian.

You’re not sure he remembers you. He only looks at you and tilts his head, face unreadable thanks to his helmet. Shit, your nose really hurts.

He says your name, it’s silent, silent enough that it might’ve disappeared with a sturdy gust of wind but you manage to hear it. You perk up immediately. You try not to look too excited but fail miserably.

“Are you alright?”

“Yeah,”

“You sure?”

He doesn’t believe you. You know he doesn’t. Your nose still throbs within your palms, luckily you can’t feel any blood. He stands still, the prolonging silence uncomfortable between the two of you. Words attempt to make their way out of your lips but the words die on your tongue. You’ve really missed him these past couple of months. You missed his intimidating looks, his husky voice– Every part of him basically. You swallow and bite your bottom lip, you need to get yourself together.

“Well,” he breaks the silence, his tone uncertain of what he’s about to say. “I’ll see you around then,”

God, you didn’t want him to leave.

Just as his shoulder brushes against yours you turn and grab his wrist. You feel him tense at your touch, his instincts kicking in as he reminds himself that you’re not the enemy. He doesn’t turn to face you and you’re glad for it.

“Do you know where the guild is?” you ask, voice desperate. “I–I need a job,”

Your hand still holding his wrist, he turns to you. In that moment you realize this is the first time he’s actually looking at you since your run in. You imagine his eyes moving across your body; Observing your hollowed cheeks and parched lips. The thought alone makes you avert your eyes with shame, the hand that clutches his wrist slightly trembling.

“The guild is gone,”

You let go of him, fear of the future striking your heart as you stare at him wide-eyed. A short moment passes and the fear is replaced with anger.

“Great, just great,” you kick the ground, ignoring how you hurt yourself instead. “What am I supposed to do now?”

For a while you forget that Din is there, you continue to mutter curses and rub your palm across your face. This is the worst, the absolute worst.

“You can come with me if you want, I have a bit of food on the ship,”

Great charity from an ex lover, just what you need for your pride. You angrily shake your head.

Of course your stomach decides to be a dirty snitch and growls at the same time. You ignore the chuckle that echoes from within his helmet.

“Fine, let’s go.”

You accept the familiarity of the Razor Crest with open arms. It’s good to know that some things never change; the sound of machinery whirring away, the scent, the thick smell of fuel that lays heavy in the air. You take a seat and Din disappears for a while, you thought it would be awkward coming here again but you feel completely at ease, which might be a problem on its own. Din hadn’t said a word on your journey here, and you doubt he’ll say anything. You expect him to feed you and send you on your merry way.

The feelings of the past clutches at your heart, squeezing it softly as you look down to your hands. You have so much you want to say to him but you know you can’t. Maybe that was the problem. The constant bottling of emotions on both of your parts. Din was used to keeping everything inside, his beskar reminding you the coldest of weathers. And you…well you were a mess to begin with, emotionally hungry and in constant need to feast. He was bad at showing emotions, you had little self worth. A very bad combination indeed.

Soon, Din returns with a bowl of chowder. He places the luke-warm bowl onto your lap and sits across from you. Your hand trembles as you dig in, mouth watering at the smell of it. The thick meal coats your tongue, normally it doesn’t taste like much but to you, at this time, it tastes like a five course meal. Your hand stills after the first bite, your eyes go wide and you just bring the rim of the bowl to your lips, downing the rest in maniacal hunger. A bit of it slips from the corner of your lips but you’re too occupied to care. You finish the meal in five minutes at most, your eyes flutter closed as a sigh parts your lips.

“Thank you,” you manage to say, placing the bowl on the metal floor. “I appreciate it,”

“Your welcome,”

Leaning back, you open your eyes, staring at him. Embarrassment starts to settle in your now full gut. You don’t know whether to leave or say something, he just sits there, helmet on, unreadable. Averting your gaze, you wipe your mouth with the back of your hand. Maybe talking wouldn’t be so bad, it could provide some type of closure for the both of you. You aggressively start to chew on the inside of your cheek and take a breath.

“So…how have you been?”

“Good.”

Smooth.

“How’s the child?”

“I handed him over to his people, he should be happy now,”

Your lips tighten and form a thin line as you attempt a smile. He’s definitely not making this easy for you. The damn modulated voice not offering even a sliver of emotion.

“That’s good. I…” the questions you want to ask die on your tongue. With a broken sigh, you bring your hand to your face and pinch the bridge of your nose. “Why do you always have to make everything so difficult Din?”

You fail to see how he jolts upon hearing his name, he tilts his head to the side.

“I’m not doing anything?”

“Yeah that’s the problem,” you snap, hand falling back to your lap. “You find me at the brink of starvation after months and say nothing, did…did I mean that little to you? I know we weren’t the best together but I just assumed you cared, even a little– I guess I was wrong,”

“That’s not–”

You cut him off by getting up, your foot accidentally hits the bowl and makes it tumble to the side, the voice echoes.

“Thank you for feeding me, I’ll be on my way now,”

As soon as you turn you feel his iron grip clasping around your wrist. Pain shoots out from where he holds, a hiss leaving your lips as you turn, eyes furious.

“Let me go!”

“No,”

Your eyes widen, he actually sounds angry. A shiver climbs up your spine, it feels like nails raking across your skin: Unsettling.

“You don’t get to accuse me of not feeling and just leave without waiting for me to rebuttal. If you’re so scared to hear the answer then don’t say anything at all,”

His grip tightens around your wrist, your gaze follows, eyes glued to his gloved hand. A forceful puff of hair leaves your lips, heart thudding madly in your chest.

“Fine,” you try to convey annoyance in your voice but you fear it sounds more meek rather than angry. “What are you going to say then? Come on, spit it out.”

“I–” his anger seems to fade, now sounding more lost than ever. “I do care for you. I’ve never stopped since you left, but why would I try to stop you when you’ve already made up your mind back then? Was I supposed to lock you up?”

“You were supposed to ask me to stay,”

“So what was that? A test? You’re telling me you sacrificed what we had because of your ego? It seems like I was the one who meant little to you,” he raises his voice. “You act like you have everything figured out but you’re the one who ran off as soon as things got tough,”

“That’s…” you whimper, averting your eyes. “That’s not true,”

Your breathing quickens, chest raising up and down similar to a sick child’s. You do want to run. You want to run as far as you can from this conversation. It wasn’t a question of ego, you just wanted affirmation. You wanted to know that he would burn the world for you just so you would stay and when he didn’t…you left. You begin to shake your head, you didn’t want to think about it. You didn’t want to feel the same pain. You try to pry your wrist away but his grip is the same material of the armor he always wears. When he doesn’t let go your emotions collide like thunder clouds, lightning striking your core in the form of anger, hurt and desperation.

“I just needed some proof that you wanted me around,” you hiss, voice dripping with venom. “You made me feel like I was just around because you were stuck with me rather than it being a choice. I wasn’t trying to flatter my ego, I was trying to see if you cared!”

Shit you’re crying–

“Just let go of me please,” you try to blink them away but it only speeds up the process of the salty tears streaming down your face. “I get it alright, it was all my fault, you made your point.”

Suddenly your world spins and you find your back flushed against his chest, strong beskar covered arms wrapped around your waist. He breathes heavily, you can hear it. Your head falls against his shoulder, sniffling as you close your eyes and let the tears flow down the apples of your cheeks. His one hand slides up your chest, gripping your chin in a firm yet gentle way.

“Seeing you today was about the best and worst thing. You could’ve died if you hadn’t bumped into me. Do you realize how terrifying that was? To see you again after so long only to find you about to faint from hunger, I didn’t mean to blame you for anything. I’m not angry with you. I’m angry with myself.”

“You should be angry at me,” you take a sharp breath. “You’re right, I’m the one who let this spiral. I accuse you of not talking about emotions but I did the same, I should’ve opened up– I should’ve–”

“And I should’ve stopped you from leaving,”

The other hand that lays on your stomach snakes down, palm resting right above your pelvis. His thumb starts to draw slow, languid circles around your clothed skin, your breath hitches.

“We both made mistakes. I’m just glad I found you when I did instead of later,”

His fingers begin to rub between your clothed folds, you press further against him, your head spinning from the mere touch. Legs trembling, your hand slides down his arm and covers his hand. You feel the way his fingers tense under the gloves whenever he strokes you, a moan vibrates in your throat, you’ve missed him. Din presses his helmet against the side of your face, the coolness of metal providing the perfect contrast with your burning skin. He swallows.

“Can I?”

You nod and with one swift motion he tugs your pants down, the fabric pooling at your feet right before you kick them away. You shiver when you feel the coolness of beskar against the back of your thighs, he gives you little time to think about it as his fingers dip under the thin fabric of your underwear. Gloved fingers immediately finding your clit, you sigh happily, parting your legs further without even noticing. His fingers gather the moisture and you’re positive your slick seeps through the fabric.

“You’re already so wet,” he purrs, you can almost hear the smugness in his voice. “I barely touched you, did the argument turn you on?”

“N–No,” Lie. But you would rather die than admit your impure thoughts about your heated debate. “It’s just been a while,”

“How long?”

His covered fingers continue to stroke you, more slick dripping down your thighs as you begin to slowly rock your hips into his touch. The heel of his palm presses against your aching clit, a moan ripping from your throat in the form of a gasp. Your thoughts are scattered.

“Tell me when was the last time you’ve been touched,” he growls. “Tell me who it is so I can rip their hands off,”

Shit. Fuck. You think you’re about to cum from his words alone. His grip on your chin becomes tighter, his fingers now moving slower as they begin to trace the rim of your entrance. Your breathing is heavy. Your entire body trembling as images of what brutality Din could possess against another overtakes you. Swallowing, you move your hips faster, whines falling from your lips when his fingers stop moving completely. You don’t want to tell him that the only person who’s been touching you was yourself. You want him to simmer in his jealousy, in his rage. But you also can’t afford him to stop, especially not after being reminded of how good he feels.

“No one,” you blurt out, a bit more desperately than you anticipated. “I couldn’t bare the idea of someone else touching me so if you’re adamant on breaking hands I guess you’ll have to break mine,”

Din takes in a sharp breath, his chest heaving as he pulls his fingers away. He takes a hold of your hand, fingers sticky. Meanwhile the fingers that were grasping your chin slides up, pushing two fingers between your already parted lips. You moan around the digits, tasting the leather as he presses them against your tongue.

“Maybe I should,” he keens, squeezing your hand enough to send a mild jolt of pain. “You should know better than to touch things that belong to me,”

A rush of happiness surges through you. Despite wanting to be his once more, you want to fight it. You want to be snarky and say that you belong to no one. But instead your body trembles, pussy clenching around nothing as you hump the air. He takes notice of this. A chuckle rumbling throughout his chest, his hand slides around yours and gently pushes your hand down beneath your underwear. You gasp when he moves your fingers as he pleases. Like a puppeteer, he makes you touch yourself. The tip of your fingers slowly rubbing your clit with his guide, a moan echoes from your throat. When you push your ass back against him you feel the outline of his cock, your mouth waters. He pulls his fingers away from your mouth, a bit of saliva trailing after the digits.

“Din…”

“Did you think of me?” he breathes out. “Did you imagine me fucking you as you cum around your fingers?”

Since when did he have such a filthy mouth?

“Did you?” you ask back with a moment of clarity.

“Nearly everyday,” his breath stutters. “I imagined the way your pussy used to tighten around my cock when you came, the little desperate whimpers of my name falling from your lips. I bet you imagined the same. My cock– Stretching you out– or maybe you thought about my tongue buried deep inside? Which one is it?”

Your brain is completely numb, skin tingling. Devoid of any kind of thought. You just nod, mouth hanging loose.

“That doesn’t answer my question,”

He presses your fingers between your folds and you cry out, upper body lunging forward as you start to grind against both yours and Din’s hands.

“I imagined it all,” you moan out. “I’ll do anything you ask for– Just please– I’m– I want to cum!”

“And do you think you deserve that?”

“Yes,” you’re not even thinking at this point. “Yes, I deserve it. Please, please– I’ve missed you so much. I can’t take it,”

You feel joy radiating off of him but you’re not sure why he’s so happy about your admission. His hands leave your body, you feel cold without his presence and whimper. But instead of leaving you, he takes your hand and leads you to his sleep chamber.

“Get on your hands and knees,”

Without missing a beat you do as you’re told, pressing your face into the pillows, you groan at his scent overflowing your nostrils. He gets behind you, hands kneading the flesh of your ass. You wait with anticipation for his cock and nearly faint when you feel a pair of chapped lips, facial hair tickles your skin as he drags them across your backside.

The feeling is such a shock to you that you almost get up, face hovering only an inch above the pillows before a firm hand pushes you back down.

“Don’t look,” he groans, nibbling your flesh. “Be a good girl and stay just like that,”

His mouth presses greedily against you as his tongue slides between your folds, the sweet taste of your slick coating his tongue. His strong hands parts your cheeks, burying the soft muscle further inside so that the tip reaches your throbbing clit. You shudder, his tongue feels like velvet across your tender heat. Mouth agape, you breathe heavily, a trail of spit dribbling down your chin and wetting the pillow. He eats you out like a delicate cuisine; Slow and savoring every bite. He groans into your cunt, the vibrations making you see stars. You’re whimpering his name over and over again just like he said, his tongue delves in deeper.

“What’s wrong baby? Tell me what you need,”

His tone is mocking but you’re too far gone to actually care, you just moan out his name, begging him for release. Din flattens his tongue against your folds, giving you one last lick before pulling back. A string of saliva follows his lips, his eyes are glued to your quivering body and suddenly you just look so small to him, so afraid, his cock throbs with excitement. His, now bare, hands slides against your back, nails raking across your skin as his cock pressed against the curve of your ass.

“Tell me, come on now. What do you need from me?”

Every nerve is electrified by his mere presence, tears prick the corners of your eyes, you just can’t take it anymore.

“I want to kiss you– I want you to hold me while you fuck me– I want to feel you everywhere,”

Your sudden reply takes you both by surprise, his eyes widening. Your cheeks heat up with embarrassment as you begin to shift uncomfortably, the bed creaking under your weight, despite not seeing him you can feel his gaze burning your skin. You bite your tongue, you shouldn’t have said anything. The silence is deafening and it lasts until he shuffles behind you, you expect him to tell you to leave but instead a click echoes. The doors close and all you can see is pitch black.

He turns you over so you’re laying on your back and crashes his lips against yours. He tastes exactly as you remember, sweet with your essence on his tongue. Din licks the inside of your mouth, tongues moving alongside each other as he grinds his cock against your dripping cunt. Moaning into his mouth, your hips shudder, your skin tingling as he cups your breast.

He grinds his hips, “You just keep saying all the right things, you’re making it hard to be upset with you,”

“You can be upset with me later,” you moan, pussy dripping. “Right now all I need is you,”

Din’s lips find yours once more, drowning out your whimpers as he fills you up inch by inch, the amount of slickness makes it easy. You froan into his mouth, cunt fluttering around his length. His tongue explores every inch of your mouth as he starts to move his hips, his pacing slow yet fierce. Every time he languidly moves out and pushes back in, your eyes roll back. He makes you feel every curve and crevice of his cock, making you moan into his mouth.

Din’s hand slides up your torso, gripping your chin and keeping it wide open as he breaks the kiss. He’s only an inch away, mouth agape, your breaths mingle with one another. You can feel the ghost of his lips, yearning for his tongue to be pressed against yours once more. Waves of pleasure wash over you as heat builds between your legs. His pace becomes quicker, harder. Every snap of his hips makes you cry out his name. Din’s head falls into the crook of your neck, nipping the sensitive skin as his hips move relentlessly.

“Can I cum inside?” he groans, hips beginning to stutter. “Please, please say yes– Fuck,”

You pull at his hair, legs pressing against his hips as a silent affirmation. He shakes his head, lips still pressed against your damp skin.

“No– I need to hear you say it– Say you want me to cum inside– Say. It.”

“Cum inside–” you finally cave. “I-I want you to,”

Before he does, however, his hand slides between your writhing bodies, his fingers find your clit and start to play with it. Your eyes go wide but all you see is his darkness, your mouth parts wide, inaudible groans ripping from your throat as he twirls the sensitive nub between his fingers. The coil that’s been tightening in your stomach for a good while finally snaps, body going still and then shaking furiously while you cum, cunt gushing around his cock. He moans at the way your insides squeeze around him, tongue lapping your skin when he thrusts once– twice–

Din bites into your skin as he comes, thick ropes of cum filing you to the brim as his hips twitch uncontrollably. Your body echoes with pleasure, mind completely incapable of thinking anything else except for the fact Din is above you, continuing to fuck his cum deeper inside by grinding his hips. He peels his face away from your neck and plants a soft kiss against your lips, when he moves away you chase after him into the darkness.

“Needy,” he hums, “How are you feeling?”

“I’m…” you let out a deep breath, still unable to form a thought. His cock begins to soften inside you and he pulls out, you whimper when cum drips down your thighs. “I’m a bit dazed to say the least,”

“You should rest,” the bed creaks as he moves away. You hear the familiar sound of a helmet being placed back upon his head, a soft hiss echoing in the tiny room. “I’ll bring you water and some more food,” then he adds. “And a washcloth,”

“Don’t we need to talk about this?” you call out, a slight tremble in your voice.

“We have all the time now that you’re here,” the doors slide open and he hops out. “And this time, no matter what you do, I’m going to tell you to stay.”

A/N: to be notified of future work follow @burnthoneymintsathenaeum and turn on notifications✨

#din djarin x you #din djarin x reader #din djarin #din djarin x f!reader #din djarin x female reader #din djarin x y/n #mando x you #mando fanfic #din djarin/reader #mando x f!reader #mando x female reader #mando x y/n #mando x reader #the mandalorian x f!reader #the mandalorian fic #the mandalorian x you #the mandalorian x y/n #din djarin fanfic

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deepaliprakasini · 1 year

Link

Regular tongue scraping has wonderful effect on your overall well-being. Researchers discovered that, compared to a soft-bristled toothbrush, tongue cleaners removed 30% more volatile sulphur compounds from the tongue.

#metal tongue cleaners #tongue cleaners

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kingkatsuki · 1 month

Note

Enjin in the most recent chapter getting serious… he’s so 😮‍💨😮‍💨

Anyway thought of some Enjin thirst… can you imagine giving him a blowjob while he’s driving??? Him gripping the wheel so hard and getting close to crashing? Ugh he’d definitely have to pull over to finish the job correctly…

I’m not even certain he could handle a blowjob whilst driving. He’s way too fucking sensitive for that.😭 I think he’d definitely end up crashing if we even as much as kissed the tip. So he’d be pulling over instantly, even in a danger zone— and he’d be telling us how irresponsible we are while simultaneously pushing our head deeper on his cock😭😭

But also I present to you!!!

Warnings: 18+, exhibitionism, public setting.

Enjin loves when you’re passenger princess when he’s driving. Ostracising all the other cleaners to the backseats, even when Riyou tries to explain to him the rules of “shotgun”. He just sticks his tongue out at her while he opens the door for you like a real gentleman— something that has his fellow janitors laughing as Follo points out that “he never does that for me”.

You already know how much Enjin hates being out in the contaminated zone this late, when the darkness covers the trash sand that covers the land and the real beasts come out to play. His hand tight on your thigh as you rest yours above it, turning to notice that your friends are all drifting off in the backseats. Besides Riyou who’s laying down with her booted feet against the window, an old Walkman plugged in and over the top of her ears as you can faintly hear the death metal vibrating through the old headphones over the slow jazz Enjin set the radio to when he noticed his friends falling asleep.

There’s something about the way he looks when he drives— so focused and intent as his jaw locks and his legs spread invitingly. Causing a slew of debauched thoughts to run through your mind as you picture slotting yourself between them, hands splayed against his thighs to unbuckle his worn leather belt. It has you reaching over to reciprocate his touch, your palm flat against the top of his thigh as Enjin welcomes the warmth. Reaching down to hold your hand in his as he raises it to his lips, pressing a kiss to your loveline before dropping it back where it rest.

This is your final indication that everyone’s asleep, a simple action that would’ve pulled retching noises from your comrades as you decide to indulge yourself. If only for a bit—

Flexing your fingers before raising your hand higher, settled at the curve of his pelvis as you feel where his pants begin to bulge from the mass of his chub. Sliding your hand forward to slip between his parted thighs as your pinky brushes his soft bulge, enough to have the van swerving as Enjin shoots you a look. His tattooed hand back to yours as he squeezes in warning, “Behave.”

But you have no intention of doing so, not when you notice the way his throat bobs and his knuckles whiten as he clutches the wheel. Shifting in your seat to give yourself more room as you continue on, bolder now as your fingers brush his crotch. Feeling his soft cock beginning to jump to life from the attention as he hardens beneath your grip, squeezing as Enjin can’t help but let out a low groan.

“You can’t wait an hour?” He shoots you a look, and honestly you could— but riling him up is far more fun. Especially when you know he can’t take it.

You shake your head, biting down on your bottom lip as you squeeze him again. Certain you can feel his cock pulse beneath the thick fabric as he leans forward, his chin rests on the wheel as he tries to steady his driving (and his breathing). Eyes focused on the road as you continue to stroke him, fingers pressing down on where you know the drooling tip is as he shifts in his seat.

“Let me suck you off—“ You start.

“Don’t you dare,” Enjin groans, but his cock betrays his words as it kicks between his thighs and the van swerves too far right, “Do you wanna kill us all, woman?”

“No; just you.” You tease, massaging his balls as he keeps himself hunched over. Terrified to even glance in your direction from fear of coming in his pants, his teeth gnaw at his inner gum as he tries to remember to breathe.

“Everyone’s here.”

“Not everyone,” You smile, “And they’re sleepin’.”

“So?”

“So.” You retort childishly.

He doesn’t reply, but you can feel the van begin to speed up. His relaxed pace replaced with one of urgency as he moves to get you back to the compound as quickly as possible. The hazard lights barely enough to map a path in front of you, any sudden trash beast encounters would tip the whole vehicle but this is your doing.

“Fu-uck,” Enjin vibrates deep in his chest as he moves back to an upright position, his head knocking against the headrest as he sucks in a sharp breath through gritted teeth.

He really is too fucking easy.

You give him the sweetest smile when you pull away, and the shocked look on Enjin’s face is a mixture of lust and incredulation as his cock rests against his pelvis leaking and unsatisfied. His balls hot and heavy, desperate for relief as you turn back to face the road as though nothing happened.

“Are you kidding me?” He grunts, shifting in his seat to try and readjust his pants, “Just like that?”

“I think you’re right,” You hum with a smile, taking his hand back in yours as you rest it back on your thigh. Pressing his fingers dangerously close to your molten, clothed cunt, “It is better to wait until we’re home.”

“You’re such a tease.” Enjin groans with a rough squeeze to your thigh, still dangerously close to his release, “What am I supposed to do with this?”

“I mean, I offered to help fix it and you said no.”

“Fix the problem you caused,” He groans, his hand quick to catch your wrist when you reached back to touch him again. His touch far rougher this time as he cupped your clothed cunt, causing you to gasp in surprise as your hand shot up to your mouth to silence yourself.

“Let’s see how you like it, huh?”

#Enjin smut #Enjin thirst #thirst posts #jo thirsts

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fictional-addiction · 1 year

Text

I'm Not Really Here. (Pt.1)

Relationship: Anthony Lockwood x Fem!Reader

Genre: hurt/comfort, angst, reader whump

Requested: no

Word count: 1.6k

Part: 1/2

Summary: A mission goes terribly wrong. You and Anthony are left to face the consequences. !! PART 1 OF 2 !!

Warnings: swearing, blood, angst, creeps

_________________________________________

It’s cold.

That’s the first thing to come to your mind as your vision swirls and flickers before you.

Something is cold.

Blood rushes to your ears as you try to lift your head, pounding headache pressing against your temples.

A very specific something on you is cold.

You try to lift your arms to support your head as the wail of your thoughts echo too loudly to focus.

Your wrists are cold.

And then, there’s a new thing that you become aware of. A sound.

Clink. Clink.

Where is it coming from?

Dazily, you’re finally able to pull your head up. Eyes closed as you try and still the intense roar grating through your mind.

God, why can't you move? And what the hell is that sound?

You shift.

Clink. Clink.

You shift again.

Clink. Clink.

It’s now when you realise that you’re not alone. At least, you can’t be.

Because you can’t be the one who handcuffed your wrists to the back of a chair.

Clink. Clink.

___________________

"..think we should start the process of extracting immediat…"

A voice faded into the room, trailing off as you twisted your head slightly to catch a glimpse of who had walked into the room.

The voice belonged to a rather… imposing man, whose stature simply towered over yours as he leant down, acrid breath mingling close to yours. Eyes, darker than a raven's feathers, gleamed cruelly under the flickering lights.

You wrinkled your nose distastefully as his scent overwhelmed you.

His mouth stretched into a wicked grin, revealing a mouthful of surprisingly brilliantly white teeth.

Odd.

He pulled back, and you're finally able to breathe the somewhat cleaner air as he turned to his accomplice.

"Bring in the other one."

The feeble, puny accomplice scuttled towards the door, squeaking out a tiny, "yes sir!" as he backed away and disappeared behind the rotting wood.

Your eyes followed him out, before returning to the large, unpleasant figure before you.

Your head continued to pound.

At least you could see better.

You weren't sure if that was necessarily a good thing.

A familiar voice echoed from the passage.

"...et go! Once my fellow agents realise I'm gone, you'll really have it the.."

Suddenly it was no longer just your wrists that were cold. Deep fear began to settle itself in every limb.

The voice was right by the door now.

"..y're top notch agents! Best in their field, you won't stand a chance-"

Your skin prickled with nerves. Please, no, don't let it be-

The door swung open to reveal the voice.

"-at all! Especially Y/n, you'll never be able to capture her a-"

The voice broke off.

You stared at the shoes of the voice, dread pooling in your stomach.

"Y/n," the voice breathed.

You dragged your eyes from the floor to meet the voice's, praying that by some miracle, it just happened to be someone who sounded just like him, and somehow also wore the exact same scuffed business shoes with the little jam stain on the laces.

Your hopes were immediately dashed.

Lockwood's face seemed to be stuck in an expression of shock as he took in your appearance. You weren't really sure what you looked like, but the taste of something dirty; something metallic, on your tongue told you that something must look... wrong.

You could barely look him in the eyes. Would he be upset? Afraid? Disappointed?

Instead you swept your gaze over his own appearance - he didn't look too bad. Some bruises on his wrist from being gripped by the man's accomplice, and a split lip seemed to be the only injuries.

You visibly relaxed. The man caught on to that.

He stalked closer.

"Bring him here." he commanded.

The weasel of an accomplice squeaked, jerking his prisoner forwards. Lockwood stumbled on the uneven floor as he was pushed towards the man.

He slowly turned to look at the young man.

You knew Lockwood was too proud to back down from confrontation. But still, you prayed that he wouldn't make eye contact with him.

"And now who may you be, sir? I would expect you know who Y/n and I are, what business do you have with us?"

Briefly closing your eyes, you let out a small groan.

Lockwood stared boldly into the man's eyes. Not a flicker of expression, besides defiance, could be found on his features.

The man sneered down at him.

"Eh, here's Anthony Lockwood in th' flesh, yeah? Big ego, smart aleck, naive fucker of an agent."

Lockwood's eyes flickered dangerously.

"I wouldn't say naive; more so subtle in the art of deflecting blame and avoiding situations like these." he replied.

The man guffawed. "Couldn't avoid this one, eh?"

"Well, if you would just enlighten me on why you have Y/n and I in this dingy basement, we could resolve this a lot faster. It'll be like we were never here."

At the sound of your name, your head snapped up from where it had been lolling as your headache worsened.

A laugh.

"Ah, she's proper 'wake now, hey? Shall we get started then?"

Your vision pulled in and out of focus as you struggled to follow what was being said.

"I…" you rasped.

Thwack.

"Answer the goddamn question."

Lockwood bit his lip to prevent from asking you if you were okay. He knew that if he showed his worry, they would capitalise on that.

Your face stayed stoic as you spat on the floor next to you, cheek flaming from the contact.

Raising your eyes to the man, you glared.

"Yes." you grated out.

With a curt nod, the man grabbed Lockwood's arm and motioned for his accomplice to bring him a chair, which he then shoved the young agent onto. He then turned to you, dragging your chair across the cobblestone floor to face Lockwood's, the screeching of wood on stone echoing throughout the dank room.

Once he let go of your chair, he beckoned his accomplice towards a long wooden table at the back, where they began to murmur under their breath.

Metal clinked and scraped.

You hesitantly brought your eyes to meet Lockwood's.

'I'm so sorry,' you mouthed. 'The mission didn't go as planned. They caught me as I was leaving their office.'

He nodded, mouth twisting in dismay. You knew he was hiding his disappointment in his failed plan. Anthony Lockwood was nothing short of a perfectionist, and took immense pride in his mission plans. You knew this was a setback he'd take upon himself as his fault - something you would constantly try to convince him not to.

But now was no time for regrets. Not when the man had strided back over to them with a hand behind his back.

He stopped with a rather loud thud of his boot against the stone.

"Well. Two- no, one agent who owes me," he squinted at Lockwood, "and one agent who got in my way."

"He," the man gestured towards Lockwood, "is in serious debt with me, you see. And you.." he leaned over your chair, lips ghosting over your cheek, "you, little lady, you're just for fun…"

You flinched away, and his mouth stretched into a terrifying grin.

Lockwood strained to keep his hands to himself. You flashed your eyes warningly at him, but to no avail. He sprung up and forcefully shoved the man away from you.

"Get away!" he ground out.

The man stumbled backwards, the remains of his smile ghosting his face.

"Ah.. the little man is protective of this one. Cliff!" he barked. "Get that sheet and tear off a piece. Lockie here seems to have issues keeping his goddamn hands to himself."

The accomplice, who now had a name, scurried towards the man, clutching a strip of material which he swiftly bound around Lockwood's wrists, securing them to the back of the chair - despite the young man's struggles.

Once Cliff ensured there was little chance of the material knot slipping apart, he backed away to the corner of the room by the wooden table, head bowed.

The man, who had easily recovered from Lockwood's forcible shove, advanced towards him with a rather dangerous glint in his eye. The clink of metal behind his back sent a chill down your spine, pulling you from your hazy state once again.

Struggling against the bonds, Lockwood glared fiercely up at the man.

"No matter what you do," he grinded out. "I can take it. I don't care what the hell you do to me. I. Don't. Owe. You. Bloody. Anything," he cursed, his voice laced with threats.

The man's lips curled into an unforgiving smirk.

"Oh, I know," he said, leering closer to Lockwood's face. "That's why I'm doing it to her."

___________________

Your blood ran cold.

To… you? What was he planning to do?

Lockwood's eyes widened ever so slightly. "No. No, she's of no worth to you, she has nothing to do with thi-"

He was abruptly cut off by the man. "Ah, but Lockie, you said so y'self - Y/n is your best agent. Now, wouldn't it be a fine day if I could get my money, and a pretty, pretty girl mess a'ound with?"

His voice dripped with sleaze, and you cringed away from it on instinct.

Lockwood saw your eyes close, and he knew what you were trying to do. You always did this when you were afraid, or fearful; close your eyes and try to convince yourself that you weren't really there.

I'm not really here. I'm not really here. I am NOT really here. You chanted in your mind.

The man's putrid breath grazed over your face, and you cracked one eye open to find him staring face to face with you.

It didn't work.

"Ooh, the princess is fin'lly awake again. Ready to start, princess?" he taunted.

Your eyes flicked open, full of hatred and discontent.

"Good."

The metal clinked behind his back once again, but this time, he brought it out to show you and Lockwood what it was.

"Well. Two li' agents who owe me. Now, which one wants to go first?"

___________________

also P.S apologies if there's grammer/writing errors😭

omg heyy my little raviolis and various pasta noodles,

how are you?! it's been so long and im SO SORRY. life is such a crazy deck of cards with wild twists and turns and unexpected trips to supermarkets at 12am cause you're craving ice cream. so valid tbh

anyhoozals

I MISSED YOU!! and I've seen the requests and I promise that I will be answering those. xoxo

i hope this will tide you over till then though😌

have a good day/night,

- fictional_addiction (yes this is hufflepuff-haze still, changed my acc name!) 💛

🕺

#anthony bloody lockwood #anthony lockwood #anthony lockwood x reader #anthony lockwood is a hazard #angst #imagines #hurt/comfort #anthony lockwood x you #anthony lockwood x fem!reader #blood #chaos rambles #lockwood and co #lockwood x reader #lockwood and co x reader #lockwoodandco #love you <3

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dsgirl2024 · 3 months

Text

The World You See | Prologue | Yoongi | BTS OT7 x Reader Fanfiction

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CONTENT WARNING

This story has explicit descriptions of death, drug use, alcohol use, addiction, sex, language, mental illness, suicide, and other possibly triggering content.

If this will effect your well being in ANY WAY, PLEASE DO NOT READ!

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

ABOUT

Genre ☆ Fantasy / Romance (Fanfiction)

Rating ☆ Mature (18+ Minors DNI)

Pairing ☆ BTS OT7 x Reader

Story Type ☆ Angel BTS (AU)

SUMMARY

You've always seen the world a bit differently than others. It was like your magic power. And maybe that was why only you could see the lights that night. The big, astronomical explosion of lights that rained down to earth in colors you had never known to have existed until now. Little did you know about a divine destiny beyond your wildest dreams, and seven angelic beings brought down from heaven to guide you.

Apparently, the world is ending, and they're convinced that you're the one to save it. All you have to do, is figure out how.

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Blackness.

Interrupted by the opening of a door. Light seeped through the cracks, casting a fluorescent trail that stretched long on the floor as a lanky figure burst inside; disheveled and angry, an aura of gloom stalked behind him. The entrance fell closed with a gentle clack, any light from outside eclipsed by the room's darkness.

A hooded man in a raincoat stumbled through obscurity, falling into things loudly as he searched amidst the darkness. His hands scaled the wall--desperate, slapping its cold, stony surface in search of a certain place.

Not long had passed when his fingers brushed a smooth steel handle, the metal cold to the touch. Without any hesitation, the man yanked it forward, launching himself over the threshold and into his empty bathroom.

A dismal atmosphere, the smell of bleach and toilet cleaner wafted through the air.

It's been a rough night--Min Yoongi'd wager the worst night, and a suppressed sickness had built up in his gut.

Throwing on the lights, Yoongi practically threw himself at the toilet, keeling over and retching into the water below. Veins popped from his arms as he steadied above the bowl, emptying his stomach contents. Praying for a hasty finish.

He hated puking by the sheer inconvenience of it, the way it felt, how it left a foul flavor on the tongue, bitter and tart. The vulnerable, clamminess as acid burned his throat. Oh, and the smell--Yoongi despised that most of all; the sickly, vile aroma that hung around like an unwanted guest. Arguably the grossest bodily function.

Lucky for him though, it was over in minutes. His body graciously prioritizing relief, a blessing compared to the times he was forced to suffer instead. At least, he was grateful for that.

Yoongi hovered there for a moment, allowing his body time to catch up. He spat a couple times, cleaning his mouth of any chunks, then wiped the extra drool with his hands. When the circulation returned to his brain, Yoongi straightened his stance--a bit dizzy at first, and looked in the mirror above the bathroom sink.

The reflected clock behind him read 11:55 p.m.

Hood now fallen away, the face that had been shielded now stared back at him hauntingly.

Yoongi's skin was pasty and a cold layer of sweat shimmered damp on his brow. Shadows cradled the underside of his eyelids and his long, jet black hair clung to his face like glue. Even he was shocked by his own visage, so gaunt and hollow...

...and bloody?

"Oh shhhit.." Three large smears of red ran down Yoongi's lower lip, catching his attention. The marks looked like vertical slashes, as if claws had torn his flesh, though faded and dull in color.

Quickly, he looked at his hands, eyes widening, pulse rocketing. Heart hammering against his ribcage.

Badum, badum.

In a panic, the man removed his raincoat and tossed it to the corner, the snout of a dragon tattoo exposed on his neck. Eyes locked with his reflection, Yoongi swallowed thickly, nervously. Then, he dropped his gaze to his arms, mostly bare in the black t-shirt he wore underneath. A shallow gasp puffed from his chest.

There was so much blood.

Spreading up his wrists and all the way to his bicep, Yoongi was a vision of horror, like something straight out of the movies.

The blood smeared in a unique way, resembling hand-prints and human scratch marks. The man groaned, flipping his hands forward and back as his eyes scanned the extent of the gore.

"Oh fuck."

Yoongi bowed his head and frantically turned the faucet, shoving his hands under icy-cold water. He splashed the rest of his arms and face in hurried, wasteful motions, not caring that half the water missed, and flooded the floor instead.

He just wanted to be clean.

Clean of him.

Gazing back at his reflection, it were as if the mirror Yoongi was judging his him. Questioning the validity of his actions and waiting, impatient for an explanation.

"I thought you were a professional, how could you be so stupid, Min Yoongi?" It begged to him."You don't makemistakes like this, Min Yoongi. Just because it was him, doesn't give you permission to be sloppy. They didn't train you to be sloppy, Min Yoongi. You're completely fucked, Min Yoongi!"

A lump lodged deep in his throat, impossible to swallow, and the feeling of sickness returned.

It took Yoongi a minute to realize that he'd started to hyperventilate. Short, shallow breaths heaved from his lungs, making him light-headed as the rapid intake of oxygen gave him tunnel vision.

Thoughts proved difficult to form, though the man was aware of the trouble he was in. A panic attack was the last thing he needed to deal with right now.

Yoongi gripped the cold, porcelain sides of the bathroom sink tightly, grounding himself. Trying to snap out of it.

"Get a hold of yourself, idiot." He thought."Now's not the time." There were more important things to attend to.

Like making a fallback plan... and a fallback plan for the fallback plan.

But first he needed a clear head, a little... creative intensive. Something to ease his mind from the anxiety, because in no way did that offer him clarity or focus. Focus.

He had to focus.

Grabbing for the mirror, Yoongi tugged it off the wall to reveal a large, hidden divot. A secret hole, for his secret things. Things that had to stay secret, else he'd suffer the wrath of his country. Careful to not drop anything, he gently placed each item in the sink, eyelashes casting a somber shade beneath his lids.

An elastic band, a spoon, a box of matches, a bag of brown colored powder, and a syringe. The items looked innocent enough by themselves, however, when mixed just right, they possessed the exceptional ability to seduce the mind in deliciously, toxic ways.

And right now, he craved to be seduced.

Cooking the ingredients together was second nature to Yoongi, his pink tongue poked out in concentration as he effortlessly enacted each step.

Powder goes in the spoon, spoon goes over the fire, fire melts the powder into liquid, and the liquid gets sucked up by the syringe-- a murky, ugly brown liquid. And just a little more than before.

All done.

Everything will be okay now.

It'll all work out.

"It'll all work out"

Yoongi repeated that phrase like a mantra, soothing himself, before tying the elastic around his bicep and plunging the needle deep into his vein.

Stepping back towards the wall, the black haired man slid into a seated position, one knee bent and eyes fluttering shut. He exhaled serenely, reveling as his heart rate slowed and the dopamine came crashing in. The cool bathroom tile felt pleasant on his skin, a balance of cold to hot that brought about a sense of calm.

With his head resting comfortably against the wall, Yoongi arched his neck to stare at the ceiling, onyx eyes dilating just as a black hole expands against the universe. There was nothing he could compare to a sensation like this. The utter ecstasy of it proved inexplicable but, suddenly current situations didn't seem so crucial.

He could just drift, existing, yet free of human conditions. Sallow lips lifted at the corners, clearly enjoying the euphoric rush.

It was bliss.

Or...

He thought it was, but...

Hold on.

"Ugh.." The man flinched, features contorting to one of discomfort as he wrapped an arm around his abdomen.

It took a second but, Yoongi's system quickly began to register the presence of something foreign, threatening. There was an unusual fatigue settling, one that made him woozy, and his head had begun to spin at an abnormal speed. And then his muscles fell heavy, sluggish--a numbness overtaking all perception of feeling.

When the man attempted to move, it was like a magnet held him in place."The hell.. is... happening..."

He couldn't give reason to his symptoms, knowing inside and out what an overdose felt like. This wasn't it. This was something else. Something malicious, as if intentionally placed, a predetermined means of killing him off, but for what?

Then, it dawned on him. However, much too late by now. "Shit."

They did this.

Eyes wide, he began to convulse. The drug sedating him to the extent that, even as he seized, the movements lacked violence. Just little spastic jolts as his nerves were attacked. Helpless to do anything really, Yoongi's face almost looked... amused. A minute smirk tugged at his lips as he considered the humor of it all.

"Those bastards..." He managed with a despondent laugh. He should have predicted it, though never in a million years did he anticipate such a fast retaliation.

He thought he could just leave, put the past behind him and throw away the key.

As if they'd let him.

How foolish he was.

How truly foolish.

The man glanced up, black hair falling around his eyes, the bathroom clock now right above his head. Tick, tock, tick, tock. The ticking of the second hand provided him a sense of company as he waited for... well whatever was next. 11:58 p.m.

In an odd way, Yoongi felt relief. Not from the idea of death, no. He didn't want to die, but then again, no one truly does. There was merely something... freeing in the fact that he no longer owed the world anything. No longer owed them anything. Although it had been naive of him to assume a different way out.

Tick, tock, tick, tock. 11:59 p.m.

Yoongi had regrets, of course. The things he'd done, the people he'd hurt. People he'd killed. A killer. A junkie. He was a killer and a junkie.

A shell of a human.

A weapon.

Even though he'd deluded that his hand had been forced, most of Yoongi knew that lie stank of shit. There had been choices he made, paths he walked down, and every single one chosen by his own volition. He alone held that gun, and he alone pulled the trigger.

But at least he tried to get out. At least he felt remorse.

Min Yoongi was not a good person. However maybe, if life had dealt him different cards, he'd have been a decent one. Tick, tock, tick, tock.

0:00 a.m.

Without warning, a room once incredibly bleak burst with a colorful, magic light, radiating in shades beyond imagination. Perfect, other worldly light, that soaked the darkness up like a sponge, leaving behind nothing but the sensation of warmth.

Yoongi's lips parted in awe. Perhaps it was a hallucination, some narcotic, in-flight entertainment as his brain deteriorated, shutting down forever.

Not that he minded--real or not, it was a pretty way to leave this earth. Better than what he deserved, anyway. The marvelous colors refracted his irises, spinning the black orbs in brilliant streaks of pigment--an intentional design.

As if shaping a galaxy.

Motionless, the man listened as gentle whispers encompassed his ears, barely audible, hushed and many, overlapping each other in tongues. Sentences beyond gibberish were impossible to discern. Even so, by some fate, Yoongi understood exactly what was being said, or rather he felt it.

Then, one very distinguished voice presented above the rest, offering him a trade. Yoongi, hardly conscious by now, tried to explain that he had very little to give. Nothing of eminent value. No riches, no possessions, perhaps not even a soul. There was just himself, and everything that he is.

Apparently, that was enough.

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withoneheadlight · 2 years

Text

One hundred and seventy five.

That’s how long he’s been here. Tubes and needles and metal stitches and beeping machines. The emergency light above the door of his room endlessly flickering. One hundred and seventy five and stiff, nuclear-white bedspread and freshly pasted wallpaper and the piercing stink of disinfectant and bleach.

One hundred and seventy five days and Billy feels like he’s become aseptic by now, sterile, in this arctic-pristine space. Gloved hands constantly touching him in plasticized intimacy. The most pure detachment of touch.

One hundred and seventy five days and, when it happens, it pierces through Billy like lightning in a glacial storm. Bright. Bright. Bright. Thundering.

Hot.

Steve Harrington touches him: the most pure delirium of touch.

The most well-intended. The most innocent. Steve just happens to be there and Billy’s back hurts and it’s like,

“Can you. Please help me to―?”

And like―

“Yeahyeah. Sure”

And like,

Steve’s hands feel warm against the paper-thin fabric of his hospital gown. Tender. On his side on his belly on his hip. Billy’s skin’s bristling under his touch and he― he moans. It sounds like a sob. He gets so hard so fast his cock throbs throbs throbs and―

Steve. Dark. Round eyes. He notices. Of course he does. Doesn’t stop touching Billy, tho. Acts as if not. Pity, Billy realizes.It stinks in harmony with the sanitized purity of the room. Creeps like bile up his throat.

One hundred and seventy five. Billy thought he’d be used to shame by now. But this time is the worst. He bites his tongue. Metallic. Pushes Steve back. Shows teeth,

“It’s not about you, Harrington. Don’t get your hopes up”

But Steve fucking Harrington just snorts a laugh. Steve fucking Harrington shrugs it off with a smirk and the kind of half-lidded gaze that’d have gotten a less sedated, less undead Billy Hargrove’s heart to beat up his throat.

Asks,

“You sure?”

This Billy’s chest, instead, feels so thin it’d shatter.

Nausea hits him. It’s been one hundred and seventy five days and he ain’t told anyone but he wretches it up now like it’s a sickness.

“It’s brain-dead, ok? It can― Piss and, hang and sometimes it. It does. That. But. That’s all about it, alright?”

Steve sits back. Looks him in the eye. Takes his thumb to his mouth, teeth on his nail but. Doesn’t bite.

One hundred and seventy five days and one, two, three—fifteen seconds, and then he says,

“I could help” and his eyes wander. Down. For just a slice of a second. He sets them back up, lashes cutting “With that. If you wanna”

Billy swallows. His stomach hollows. He squeezes his thighs close. Feels the ghost of that dripping feeling. How sweet it was. And he wants it. Sticky. Nasty. Hot.

God, he wants it back.

“With what”

Steve just keeps staring at him. His eyes talk, one brow cocking up. They say You know what so he just gotta add,

“Maybe if. If. You know. Somebody else― did it. Maybe then it’d―”

Pity. That’s the one thing all these high-purified cleaners can never seem to mop off the tiles. It’s like acid on the top of Billy’s throat, like it’s just been scrubbed with the sharp edge of ammonia. He pulls up the blankets to cover himself. To cover it. As it starts to deflate. Chubb. Then go flatline. His hands clenched into fists. Tight. Knuckles white, dry, stinging.

He takes the pain. Spits it out. Rage’s always tasted red on his mouth. Between his legs.

And God, he misses it. God he wants it.

“Are you a fucking weirdo or what, Harrington?”

Steve doesn't flinch. His eyes talk, still, those amazing, expressive eyes he’s got, but this time Billy can't really get what they’re saying as Steve just– stays there. On that chair. Picks up the book on the nightstand and reads from Max’s last dog-ear as if nothing’s happened. Stays until nightfall. Until Billy’s been fed and changed and gotten his vitals checked.

He looks like he’s completely forgotten about it.

But,

It’s an infection: despite how millimetrically sterilized his new cage is, what just happened worms its way through Billy’s mind like a parasite.

He can’t now stop thinking about it.

He’s still awake, when the clock on the wall ticks its way up from one hundred and seventy five to one hundred and seventy six, days going by like seconds on the clock, just as simply irrelevant.

He breathes in, breathes out in sync, still wide-eyed at one, two in the morning. He’s usually out by nine, ‘such a well-behaved boy’ as his nurses tell him, but not tonight, sleeping pill sneaked into the stuffing of his pillow, nerves knotted tight down his stomach with the twisted anticipation of what he’s about to do. And he's alone. Truly, overwhelmingly alone. For the first time since they took him into the arctic of this nuclear kingdom.

And night― night’s always been the only place he’s ever really felt safe. Just him and his thoughts. His truths. His desires. Just him and that stupid bulb agonizing above the door, now.

At night it’s just him and―

His hand. Cold. Always so cold, now. Riding his hospital gown up. Thinking about lips and the harsh pressure of fingertips and that way Steve’s eyebrows burrow when Billy gets him thoroughly pissed. That way he tried not to dig his nails into the sharp bone of his hip but―

Couldn’t really help it and,

Down there, Billy’s become the land of the fucking dead. Romero at his finest. His dick barely reacts. Wakes up then fills then gets almost limp. Useless. The spark of Steve’s touch an undercurrent of need pulsing at the base of his balls, goosebumps up his belly. Billy fucking tries. Closes his eyes. Pumps it. Can’t make it fucking work. He feels ashamed and desperate and unsatisfied and nasty. Wants to call the nurse and ask her to drown him in disinfectant. He squeezes his dick until it hurts. At least pain feels like something.

Three. Four in the morning. He doesn’t cry and the bulb above the door doesn’t blow and he’s broken beyond repair and―

Somewhere around dawn sleep finally takes him over.

One hundred and seventy nine. Days. Nights. And Billy― Billy asks for it.

Tentative.

“The other day―”

Fragile.

“You said―”

His skin so thin it barely covers him.

“Would you― actually. Do it? Just so I know if―”

Steve hasn't come in three days. They all take turns at staying with him. PityPityPity. Harrington. Max. Joyce Byers. Will. El. Even the fucking chief. They all know Billy has no-one. Sit in that stiff hospital chair between the bed and the window and Billy feels too empty not to pretend they’re here for him when they all act like it.

Today’s Steve’s turn again and he’s more laid down than seated. Headphones purring around his neck and one foot tapping against the metal frame of the bed. His eyes cut up to Billy’s, eyelashes sharp, soft. And Billy’s trying to breathe steady but the air inside his lungs comes out broken and arrhythmic.

Out. Out.

Out. Out. In.

Steve says fucking nothing. He just― moves. Slow. Fluid. Drags the chair with a metallic rasp along the cold-tiled floor. Limbs light. Dark hair like a waterfall. He leans in just so. Fingers long and careful. They brush Billy’s forearm. A quick touch. Featherlike. His skin goose bumps like in a paper cut.

And Billy’s body feels heavy. Numb. Anesthetized. He smells that warmth of Steve’s skin that’s always out of reach. That feeling of a dream blowing away like breeze between your fingers. A blink of sunbathe and sweet in the middle of all this barren purity.

And Billy’s drained. Of feeling like a flaccid shredded skin of what he used to be. Of bleach and surgical steel and the dry taste of antibiotics.

He fucking pleads for it,

“Please?”

Steve nods. Licks his lips. His fingers hook into the hem of the blanket. Draws it down, the motion an eternity, and Billy’s―

Shaking. Toes curling against the bleached fabric of his sheets. His cock pulsing. Starvation wet at the tip. Can’t look but he can feel how it’s dripping down, spotting the sheets and,

Steve's voice breaks. He gasps “Billy―” swallows “Shh. It’s ok, Billy”

Blood rushesrushesrushes, stings like sunburn all along his chest. His stupid thighs are trembling. The worn out fabric of his hospital gown feels raw. Perfect. Against the hypersensitive skin of his cock. His hips buckle up. Like a convulsion.

Steve’s fingers brush his knee. Billy’s legs spread wide apart, eager. He feels bare. Exposed. Stupid. He needs this more than he’s ever needed anything in his fucking useless life and–

Steve’s fingers dare up. Dip under the hem of his gown. Run all along the inside of his thigh. Billy feels like fucking crying.

“Harrington. Steve―” his chest is heaving. Hollowing. He’s got no fucking idea what he’s trying to say “I. I―”

But Steve’s eyes slide up. His hand. Billy’s open thighs. Billy’s shame. His torso. Up. Up. To his eyes. And he gets off the chair to sit right by his side. Hips touching. Leans closer, then. Speaks so close words brush his open mouth.

“Hey. It’s alright. I got you. C’mon, s’ alright”

His fingers wander up sensitive skin and need and lust. Like Billy barely remembers it. Famelic. Blind. And―

“FuckFuckFuuuck”

It’s a seizure. His body winds up tight, back arching up when Steve runs the back of his fingers all along the underside of his cock. The barest expression of touch. They slide at the tip, brush against that tender spot just right there where it feels so good it almost hurts. And Billy’s cock jerks. Pleasure like a cutting edge. Sharp. Silver-bright. His cock weeping precome and the sweet, heady tone of Steve’s ragged laugh burning hot, melting like sugar down his mouth.

“God, Hargrove, you ain’t gonna last shit ain’t ya?”

And Billy wants to lick it, taste it. Wants to cum all over it and then kiss the dirtiest mess out of that prettypretty mouth. Instead, he bites down a sob and a,

“Go fuck yourself”

But then Steve fists his cock. Heat so tender it’s unbearable. Pumps it like it’s a point he’s gotta make, milk the truth out of him. The head of Billy’s cock squeezing in and out the wrap of his fingers. Sliding. Each time delirium. Billy fucks into his hold, hips thrusting, and it’s osbcene, nasty. It feels like bone-deep intimacy and hysteria and magic and―

Billy chokes out a breath. Hips spasming. Steve groans a ragged “C’mon,” lips blood-red and full and pretty. Billy grabs his arm. His nails dig into the tender meat. It’s involuntary.

He feels so close. So close. So close but―

“I don’t’ know if I. Can. I. Ah―Steveah―”

“You can” He slows down the rhythm. A sweet, honey-coated drag. “For me. Billy, for me. I wanna see ya. Billy I―”

Billy cums so hard he feels ripped apart. Hot. White. Wet. Messy. Cums like a fist in the mouth, like the first lick at candy.

And Steve looks at him like it’s hurting him too. Between his legs. Where nobody’s touching him. Grins to the side. Mutters,

“Guess you’re not that broken, uh?” and his voice sounds like Billy feels. Shaken apart. Dangerously unsteady.

Billy can’t speak. Can barely move. Can’t stop looking at him. His mind white noise. Limbs weary. Not broken, maybe. But maybe something even worse.

Scarier.

Steve has to clean him off, after they both regain some composure. After― everything. Damp towel. Warm. Tender.

It’s pathetic.

It’s the softest thing he’s felt in days that too count in hundreds.

And Steve stays, afterwards. Sun setting. Gold melting in that fractured space where earth meets sky. Helps him lean up against the pillow when one of the nurses brings him the dinner tray. Sits there, with him, till he finishes.

Winks at him goodbye.

“Sleep tight, weirdo”

Billy stays awake all night.

One hundred and eighty.

What Billy does know now: it was the sleeping pills what were doing the trick. He can’t fall sleep by himself for fucks.

What Billy doesn’t: if his little stupid useless dick is actually cured, now. Brought back to life by the works and miracles of Hawkings King himself. If he’s been uncorked now, somehow. Emptied back to life.

His dick still feels sore and hypersensitive and wide awake and perfect one whole day after. The ghost of Steve’s hand an ever-present feeling, like it’s been imprinted into the ends of Billy’s nerves. He takes a deep breath. Thinks about Steve and cum spilling hot all over his belly like melting caramel, the kind of feeling that sticks to the tip of your tongue.

He wraps his hand around that thought and he―

He doesn’t dare.

He was sure that would be it but,

It happens a second time.

The bathroom tiles are pure, pure, pure, the purest shade of white.

It’s shower time. Saturdays, Mondays, Wednesdays, Fridays. The shower heating up next to him in a heavy stream. And Billy’s still too weak. To walk. To exist. To fucking shower on his own. And usually there’s a nurse by his side but in one hundred and eighty six days you earn privileges. More so if you got that hair, those eyes, that smile. Not Billy of course. Steve. He gotta use them. Pale February light filtering in from the ceiling-high windows, casting shadows from his lashes, teeth movie-star perfect, eyes like starting a wildfire in this barren, glacial land.

The smile he puts to good use is one of those lopsided ones, the most dangerous kind he’s got. He’s leaning on his shoulder against the wall. Irresistible. Billy’s nurse sneaking glances at him like she really wishes she could, but knowing it’s pointless.

Because who can resist Steve Harrington?

“I can do it, if that’s alright?” Eyes round. Impeccable high-class education “Really. I promise I’ll call if we need anything”

He doesn’t even have to insist. The rightful heir to the throne Hawkins. The million dollar baby-boy.

So she leaves them alone with a timid smile and a bat of lashes and Billy’s heart feels like trapped in the very eye of the storm.

It beats, beats, beats, beats. Steve pushes off the wall. Gets closer and―

Traces down the curve of his shoulder, the touch feather-like, monstrous in the bare intimacy it carries. His breath on his skin the most real thing Billy’s felt in one hundred and eighty six. Days. Eighteen. Years. Forever.

Steve asks. “What do you need?” and Billy’s―

Naked. Exposed. Stripped out bare. He’s got a skin that barely covers him. It feels washed out. Frayed.

There’s no way he can hide himself from Steve.

No way he can hide how bad he wants those hands all over him and to never again feel this cold. No way he can hide how bad he wants the hard spray of the shower to cover them like a shelter, like so many times in those dreams he shouldn’t dream.

No way he can hide how bad he wants Steve. Always Steve.

The bathroom’s been getting warm and warm and warmer. Feels dream-like and intoxicating, dense with desire and shame and the tangible wetness of the steam, sweet like cotton-candy. Billy’s breathing in short, sharp inhales. It feels like drowning. Steve’s hand trails downwards― Billy’s waist and Billy’s hip, the curve of his belly. Steve’s eyes following the path his own hand trails across the clear drops of Billy’s perspiration.

“Billy you are―”And, for a second, they’re surviving on the same breath of air. And it’s not enough. It’s not enough. Because his head’s spinning and his lungs are hurting but― “God, Billy you are―”

“Yeah” Burning. Dying. Pulsing. Needing. Billy is― “Yeah”

So hard he’s dizzy. Knees weak. Heart a machine gun.

Except it’s Steve who shoots him. Bullets for words.

“Ask me, Billy” he fucking riddles him “Tell me you want me to touch you”

One hundred and eighty six. Seven days, since Steve― And Billy’s got withdrawal syndrome. From feeling like this. From just feeling.

It comes out shattered into tiny little pieces.

“I want you to touch me”

Steve smiles that same smile. Soft. Loopsided. It’s a killer. He guides Billy’s arms around his neck, wraps one of his around Billy’s waist. Presses them flush, the dampness running down Billy’s skin seeping through his clothes and into his own body and―that smile, it feels even softer when Steve brushes it against his ear, makes blood rush hot to his cheeks when he hushes, tone low, rasp, fucking teasing,

“Ok, pretty boy” bordering on obscene, “Hold on fast”

And then he sneaks his hand in between Billy’s thighs, drawing up his fingertips and the blunt edges of his knuckles up the fine skin in there and then higher and higher up, cupping Billy’s balls in the palm of his hand, squeezing lightly and― Billy fucking shivers, teeth clenching hard, nails finding grip in the meat of Steve’s back. He feels dizzy and deadweight. Feels raw and out of his body, when Steve’s hand curls around his cock, his touch such a fucking relief, Billy’s knees almost giving out.

He holds onto Steve. Fast.

“Fuck, I―”

“Shhh, I told you. Told you I got you, didn’t I?”

Steve's hand moves like torture and balm and Billy― Billy can’t help himself. Buries his nose into the curve of his neck, hides himself in there, takes this safeness that Steve’s offering, that Steve’s giving to him. This pleasure and this warmth and this smell of him, sweet with sweat and life, like scented soap and sunlight. And Billy feels high, light-headed with how gut-wrenching real it all is.

He moans “Steve” breathless “Steve” lips on his pulse, on this unrestrained life of him, “Steve” because his mind is empty of any other word, only SteveSteveSteve, but Steve gets it and―

“You’re close. You’re so close. Fuck, Billy. C’mon―”

Billy’s cock is weeping thick, long beads of precum. He can feel himself pulsing them out, drenching Steve’s hand. It’s lewd. Pornographic. Steve’s fingers sliding on his length. His fist squeezing the mess, shifting oh so slightly, oh so sweetly at the top, thumb rubbing that tender spot just below the head. And Billy’s holding so tight he might be drawing blood, making it soak out Steve’s neatly pressed blue shirt. He wouldn’t ever, ever scratch it from under his nails. Keep it as a reminder on this cold white still life painting. Of this feeling. This moment. Of Steve―

Running his teeth along Billy’s pulse. Harmless. In spite of how bad Billy wants him to bite.

“Cum for me, baby. I want you to cum for me again”

Babybabybaby. Billy’s heart can’t take it. It’s gonna burst out of his ribcage. Steve kisses his neck. A soft, loving thing. It’s what draws blood out of Billy like no bite would ever do. He cums so hard it’s blinding. In shocks. In thick, long ropes. Steve’s lips trail to his cheek, kisses it the sweetest “Baby”. It’s anything but harmless.

He leaves one last kiss on the corner of Billy’s mouth, thumb stroking his cheek, says,

“I’ll clean you up, ok? Just don’t let go yet”

Billy couldn’t even if he wanted to, his legs won’t hold him on.

And Steve does. Cleans him off under the forgotten stream of the shower. Gets himself all wet but doesn’t seem to care. Takes him to bed. Arranges the covers all around him and gives him that smile again. Then one that’s different. One Billy’s never seen before. One he’d give anything to see again.

“Are you ok?”

He nods the tiniest yes. He’s lying. And he’s not. Steve uses his privileges to stay way after past visiting hours. As he always does.

That night, Billy takes his sleeping pills. The water washes away most of the sourness of their flavor but not the acid coming up his throat with the burn of pity and the helplessness of how this is something he’s not meant to keep. Steve Harrington is not a weirdo, not the same way Billy is. This was the second time. There won’t be a third.

One hundred years pass until he finally falls asleep.

―and eighty seven. Eighty eight. Eighty nine.

Sometimes, he thinks the emergency light over his door is trying to hypnotize him. He’s forgotten how it was not hurting. They won’t give him stronger sleeping pills.

So he finally surrenders and does. Try. Again.

Hips grinding against the rasp fabric of his pillow. Sweat running down his spine both from terror and need. His mind full of Steve. SteveSteveSteve. Full of that kiss right by his lips and baby. His mouth full of the how would it be, to let his knees give as they want to, get on them for him. Take him inside his mouth till he’s so full he’ll be barely breathing. He fucks hard into the matted stuffing. A wet finger down his ass doing what it shouldn’t and―

Two. Three in the morning. He tries. God he tries. But can’t finish it.

He falls sleep to the magnetic feel of the veins of his cock pulsing back into emptiness and the drying stickiness of precum and sweat. The unsatisfied stink of sex fading out in his pillow.

He feels broken beyond repair. Tries, but doesn’t remember ever feeling different.

If the nurses notice anything in the morning they just zip it, and Billy buries his face in the familiar smell of bleach of his new sheets and wishes it would strip out all this shame, and all this starved desire too.

Steve’s comes back on the one hundred and ninety, one hundred and ninety two. He doesn’t touch him again. Billy doesn’t ask him to.

And they might have been doing the trick before but― his sleeping pills do absolutely nothing.

On the two hundred and two, he loses it.

Or, at least, he thinks he does. It’s white tiles and then it’s blood running down the wall, dripping on the floor. His knuckles look violet and black and broken. On the big, round clock on the wall, twenty four minutes are missing. They’re wiped out of Billy’s memory too.

It’s three o’clock in the morning.

This time, they increase the dose.

“Do they hurt?”

Two hundred and five. Steve answers himself before Billy can even look up at him, exhausted as he is from lying on this bed, from antibiotics and wearing-off sedatives. Avoids his eyes when Billy does, shaking his head towards nothing.

“Forget it I― of course they do”

But it’s already been three days of cures and anesthesia and they―

“No. They― they’re numb. I can barely feel them”

Steve’s eyes trail off to the window. They stay in there.

“That’s good. I guess I―” His teeth catch his lower lip. Sink in. Release it. Do it all again. Looks like some tiny, peripheral punishment. It’s bright red when he finally stops “That’s good”

“Steve wh―”

“Listen” He says. Then says nothing at all and―

Right there. On that chair. In the middle of Billy’s recurrent nightmare, sun melting around the wild crown of his hair, framed like a masterpiece by the peeling window pane, Steve looks like everything Billy’s ever wanted, like everything he can’t reach out for with his damaged hands.

He treasures him, commits him to memory, golden and beautiful, right then and there, because when Steve does finally speak, he sounds like everything’s about to change.

“I’m sorry I― did what I did. I didn’t want to hurt you”

Steve― Billy could hear him talk, those first weeks. Heard him in between dreams. Heard him call him an asshole, a piece of shit. Could hear him whispering next to his bed, hours and hours sat down in that chair while Billy hadn’t still woken up, not really. ‘Max needs you to come back, so fucking do’ and ‘If you don’t and don’t give me the rematch, you’ll be a fucking chicken, Hargrove’ and ‘I swear I’ll piss on your goddam grave if you don’t’.

Steve’s spent with him all the two hundred and forty-two days that have passed since they took him to this cold, lonely, creepy hospital wing in the colder, lonelier, creepier Hawkins Laboratory, one way or another. On that chair, on his mind, on his heart. Everywhere. King of every single corner of Billy’s mind so―

Billy doesn’t get what the fuck he’s talking about.

He frowns, too weak still, too groggy, to do anything more than that and rasp out a,

“I don’t like, enjoy seeing your stupid face almost every frikin’ day, Harrington, but it ain’t like, it’s actually hurting me I―”

“I. Touched you. And you―” Steve’s tone hitches up, teeth back on his lip and he shouldn’t, shouldn’t be the one biting it “Maybe you didn’t want me to. Not really, because you’re―here and you’re probably― And I. I wanted to. But maybe you didn’t and I― I was the one who. Started it and I―”

“What? No. Don’t―no” suddenly, Billy feels fully awake. Shook out of lethargy. Because Steve can’t think― can’t really think “It wasn’t you. Doesn’t have to do anything with you at least no― not because you. Touched me” he takes a deep breath. Looks Steve in the eye, hard as it is, he does it “I hurt myself, pretty boy, not you”

And it might work because those eyes of his, they always, always speak, once you learn to understand their language. His smile deepens at the corner, dimples blooming like the first of May. Billy wants to get up and soothe the red out that bitten mouth of his.

Steve nods. Once, twice.

“Then why?” he asks, voice hushed and hesitant.

Billy’s heart ignites, pumps shame and fear and adrenaline. The whiteness of the room feeds on the warm golden of the day, it latches on it, devours it. Billy feels both shaken and numb.

“’Cause I thought” he starts. Pauses. He’s got to tear the truth out of him. Open and infected as it feels, the worst of his wounds. Raw and bleeding “I thought they’d fix me. I hoped they’d fix me but― It’s been two hundred and five fucking days and I can barely― do anything I can’t even― I―”

It’s the quietest thing. Slow motion. Steve gets up from that chair, sun blinding. Pulls down Billy’s sheets and his weight dips the mattress, as he lays right next to him and it’s suddenly― mind-blowing, intoxicating, all this life radiating out of him. His warmth, his smell, the heaviness of his presence, that heart-stopping way their foreheads are brushing when he gets real, real close.

Steve pulls the sheets back up.

Brings them over their heads. Reduces the whole universe to this: their breaths mingling, just millimeters apart, the light bump of their knees, his voice the kind of caress that’s water under the desert sun, his face lit up in velvet-like white through the thin fabric.

“What. You can’t even what, Billy”

“I can’t. I still can’t even―” shame. Washes over him. Like a wave, like a starving ocean “Make it work. Not if you don’t touch me”

Steve smiles, fingertips ghosting over his temple, trailing up to his hairline.

“So? Does it really matter? If I wanna do it again? If I want to touch you?”

On him, this alien, unnatural white, looks like the warmest of colors.

“Steve―”

Steve’s hand, it trails down now. Over his paper-thin chest, over millions of invisible scars. It finds its way under the hem of Billy’s gown and into that place between his legs where Billy’s starting to feel wet and hot and heavy.

“Uhm?”

He sighs, full body and shaking, when Steve wraps his hand around him. It feels like relief. Like his skin’s been wantingwantingwanting. Missing. When Steve stars stroking him. Coaxing pleasure out of him but―

Billy grabs his wrist. Makes him stop. Didn't even realize his eyes had closed when he blinks them open and Steve’s looking back at him with that same worry from before back on his face.

“You don’t have to. If you’re doing this for pity you don’t have to―”

“Hargrove” Steve cuts him off. Smiles at him. Presses closer. Makes his heart run so fast it trips on its own beat. “You ain’t been fucking listening, uh?. I said I wanted to” but he― he stops touching him. Makes him moan at the loss when he lets go. “’C’mon, lemme show you” and Billy― his fingers feel barb-wired around Steve’s wrists but he. Lets go. Fingers brushing as Steve switches sides. His finger drawing a light caress upon the pulse on Billy’s wrist, right above the bandage, then curling back around it. He guides Billy’s hand like this, still clutching at him, to in between his own legs and then he―

“Touch me” says, breath hitching up, carrying Billy’s with it “’C’mon. Touch me” and Billy inhales. Deep. Fights the fear circling in his gut and―

“Steve”

Steve’s hard. So hard Billy can feel the way heat throbs, under the thick fabric of his jeans. Pre seeping through with the sweet wetness of it. And he doesn’t but he wants to, touch him. Move his hand and make Steve feel so good as he’s made him feel. His hand feels like crying with the raw desperation of it.

“Does it feel like I don’t want to? Does it feel like pity to you?”

Billy swallows.

“No”

“Say it again”

“No”

“Now what you ain’t saying”

And Billy. Billy says it. Says it with a moan that splits him in two, when Steve rolls his hips into the palm of his hand. Says it with the way his breath breaks out of control when Steve’s lips brush against his. Says it with the way wetness weeps down the inside of his thighs. The way his whole body aches for sliding his finger back where it shouldn’t, open himself up to make space for Steve.

Asks, for it.

“I wanna touch you”

“Ok” Steve nods against his lips and Billy bites his own not to bite him. But it’s Steve who catches his mouth. Who sinks his teeth into him. Who licks at his tongue like he’s the one who’s spent his whole life this hungry and―

Eighteen years. One hundred and forty-two days. He’s survived them. But it’s Steve who destroys him, somehow, right in this moment.

“Ok, baby. Ok. I want you to. I want you to, too”

Somehow, it’s Steve who stitches him back together again.

He unbuttons his jeans. Pulls them to his knees. Lets Billy touch him. And Billy―

Billy never thought it’d feel like this.

Touching another boy. Touching Steve.

He’s as hard as Billy is. Soft like silk against his palm. And it’s electric, when Steve reacts to it. When his voice bleeds into a cry. When he begs his name “Billy, please. Fuck, Billy, please”. When he sucks his tongue and grinds into his hand. Uncoordinated. Almost erratic. Like he’s so hungry for it. Like he’s so desperate.

“Fuck. Come ‘ere” Steve pants, and his palm feels soft and so big, curving along the small of Billy’s back. And Billy can’t even―breathe. When their cocks bump together and then slide. Skin on skin. A burn between their bodies Billy wants to forever grind himself against. And then, for a long, long moment, it’s like he’s been narrowed to this and only this: their heated bodies sticking to the white sheets, breaths becoming shallow, lips and hot spit and tongues and Billy’s teeth catching Steve’s lips until―

“Tell me. How much of a weirdo can I be?” Steve pants, sweat hot and sticky on their foreheads, and under the minuscule igloo of his hospital sheets, Billy feels like he’s suddenly breathing fire.

“All you want” he says, feels his own heartbeat in his throat, loud and heavy.

Steve brings his fingers to his mouth. Waits till Billy opens it. Sinks two of them into it. Three. When Billy opens wider. “Get them all nice and wet for me, baby” Steve whispers, babybabybaby eyes fixed on him, cock dragging against his. And it’s a famelic kind of need, this one Billy feels. The pull to get filledfilledfilled. He swallows around Steve’s fingers, trying to get them deeper, his eyes watering with how stuffed they feel inside his mouth. Chokes out a cry when Steve takes them out, shhs him, kissing him brief before offering the palm of his hand for him to lick. And he tastes like salt and anticipation and like Billy, like the way they’re both aching between their legs.

Steve brings his hand down. Wraps it around the head of their two cocks. Strokes them together and it’s― fuck. It’s like nothing, nothing Billy’s ever felt. Because he knew, the moment he laid eyes on Steve. That it would forever haunt him: the possibility of Steve’s touch. The absence of it. This recurrent dream about how his name would taste on Steve’s lips and he’s got it. Right here and now. Everything. Everything.

Steve arches his neck backwards, moans at that same touch. Cries out at the feel of Billy’s teeth on his throat.

Everything.

Says:

“Billy I― Billy I want―”

“Yeah?”

Steve’s hand works them faster and the feeling cuts through him, the exhilaration of being on knife’s edge, so close he can taste it. He tangles his bandaged hand in Steve’s hair, brings his mouth back. Wants to never stop kissing him. And Steve laughs, gasps. Feeds on Billy’s breath.

“I want to get you out of this fucking place. I want―” Hips thrusting, rhythm crooked. His hand slick and perfect, slippery with saliva and precum “Want us to make the biggest mess out of my bed. And I want you to stay, Billy. With me. ‘Cause I can’t stay with you in here and I― I wanna―”

Billy kisses and kisses and kisses him. Because in Steve’s words there’s no pity. There’s no shame.

“I wanna touch you. Like this like― everything, Billy. Every way I can”

And then he kisses him back, and kisses him back, and kisses him back. Keeps on touching him like nobody else’s ever before. In all those ways nobody’s ever before. And his body, his wasted, broken body, feels like it’s blooming under Steve’s touch, feels as if life is something you can caress into somebody's skin, kiss into somebody’s lips. Steve breathes life into his lungs and Billy’s there, right there. Alive inside his own body since longer than he can remember and then. Steve says it again, Baby, like a spell, “Baby. ‘Cmon, baby, I know you’re right there” licks it into Billy’s mouth. “I want to feel you. Billy, baby” Makes him shiver with it. Draws him closer to the edge “I want you to cum all over me, please, baby, please” and Billy’s moaning, fucking into Steve’s fist, cumming with his nails dug deep into Steve’s back and sobbing into his mouth and Steve’s cumming too, hot and thick and filthy and fucking perfect, making a mess of Billy’s impeccably pure bedding, of all the stupid shit plaguing Billy’s head, making him feel like it really doesn’t fucking matter, how broken he might be, how beyond repair, if he’s got Steve’s hands to hold him like this, whisper sweet nothings into his ear, just like this. Call him baby. Keep all his pieces close together with all the care in the world, like they’re more than enough, for him.

“I wanna be with you, too” he whispers, his palm spread down the back of his neck, lips on his. Right at this moment, Billy feels like he ain’t ever gonna be able to let go of him “Steve. Fuck—you. You got no idea―”

“But I do. God, Billy I do” Steve breathes out a tiny laugh, it tastes like sunlight on his lips “I’ve been counting the days. Till you woke up and then. Till maybe one day I could. Kiss you. I could. Touch you like this” he reaches out to trace the shape of Billy’s mouth with his fingertips “I’ll count them to that day you’ll come with me, now”

Billy kisses him and kisses him and kisses him. There’s nothing else he can do. Nothing else he wants to ever do. Somewhere outside the daylight-white of their little fortress of sheets, the emergency light above the door of his room flickers, the clock on the wall ticks its way to two hundred and six. When the night nurse comes to check on him, Steve earns himself a pass to stay way, way beyond visiting hours.

“He fell asleep on me. Don’t wanna wake him up” he whispers, and Billy knows it was that smile that did the trick when the door clicks close one second later.

“I’m not” Billy mumbles into his chest, his voice dense and drowsy. Can't remember ever feeling so warm.

“But you’re about to, baby” Steve laughs softly into his ear and―

Billy burrows against him and sighs, not giving him the satisfaction to hear what Billy already knows: he’s gonna be the best sleeping pill Billy’s ever had.

Two hundred and six days after Billy woke up, he falls asleep in Steve’s arms.

#harringrove #xharringrove

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sprout-fics · 2 years

Note

Thursday thots? Ghost taken care of reader after she had a little to much to drink after a mission

Oh to have a caring boyfriend take care of me in this situation 🥺

TW: Vomit, drinking, excessive use of alcohol

Bile coats the top of your tongue as you hunch forwards, forehead braced on the seat of the toilet. You thank whatever god has kept you alive so far that you remembered to clean it earlier, and the lingering scent of lemon scented bowl cleaner filters through the haze.

"That's it." He coaxes above you, one hand sweeping the hair clear from your face. The other lingers on your back, smoothing slowly up and down your spine. Even here, in this tiny space, in your bathroom the size of a closet, he seemed to occupy every inch, every atom with his massive frame.

You groan, shoulders heaving as you struggle for the handle, hands shaking as they grasp at metal. He follows you, guides you to it, and after a moment the worst of it whooshes away, leaving only you and your horrific nausea that churns low in your stomach.

"There we go." He speaks again, and his voice is the only thing that grounds you, like chalk on asphalt as the rain tries to wash it away- reminiscent, aching.

He tips you backwards, away from the bowl, balancing you in one arm, tucking you against him as you both sit on the cold tile of the bathroom floor. When he wipes your face you turn to him, groaning and burying your nose into the soft fabric of his hoodie. It's the scent of him that makes the world stop spinning, woodsmoke, birch, a musk that smells distinctively of Simon.

"Drink up." He tells you, and the cold rim of a glass lifts to your lips. You suck down the water greedily, taking a moment to rise your mouth before returning. When you do, you settle further into Simon's arms, feel a remnant of water trickle down your throat.

" 'M sorry." You slur at him, twisting to look up into his eyes. Blonde lashes frame the darkness of them, and without his makeup they seem brighter, somehow, lovely.

You pause at that, lips parting and eyelashes fluttering as you drink him in, the glint off his irises and the darkness of his pupils. There's a softness there reserved only for you, something he keeps secret inside, in a place where only you and he can touch. When you reach up, hand grazing against the edge of his jaw under the mask, you feel it connect there, warm and leaking at the seams.

"You're...hic...really pretty."

Simon blinks at you slowly, taking a moment to understand before he huffs, the sound colored with amusement.

"And you are very drunk, pet." He returns, turning to deposit the glass on the closed lid.

"No I mean it!" You try, and your other hand is grasping at the front of his hoodie, drawing his attention back to you. "You're...really really pretty, Simon."

He pauses then, one of his arms wrapped around you, your face tucked against his shoulders, bodies splayed awkwardly on the floor. You see it again in his eyes, see that softness return, lush and velvet. It cushions you, softens the ache of the world around you into warm, renaissance hues.

He murmurs your name, and when he does it quenches that ache inside you, summons you deeper into him.

"You're lovely too." He murmurs, and tucks his head down towards your forehead, laying upon you a gentle, beloved kiss. When he does, that crack expands outwards, and you see his inner light shine through.

---

"I might be sick again."

"I told you. Never try to out-drink a Scot."

#simon ghost riley #simon ghost riley x reader #cod #mw2 #cod mw2 #reader insert #drabbles #thursday night thots #my writing

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superblysubpar · 6 months

Note

Ooh I have to ask about Wave!

Love you, have the best day! 💕

Ask Me About My WIPs

Have the best day too, my love!

Hmm, "Wave" she's had quite a few different names. This is a one shot I started back in April, and I just haven't quite ever finished it or gotten the exact vibe I want down? It's a 90's -ish kind of AU? One where Steve is cut-off from his parents finally. So here's a bunch of info on it, cause I have no set date, and inspiration is far and fleeting lately 💛

summary: He's just a sad, rich boy, who doesn't know how to do his laundry - but he certainly knows what he's doing with his tongue.

the tune: Waves by Miguel, feat. Kacey Musgraves

and here, what the heck, have the beginning of the fic haha:

The familiar clink and ting of zippers and buttons against the metal spinning drum harmonize with the rush of water as machines start their rinse cycles. The buzz of the flickering, overhead fluorescents on their last legs strain to be a part of the melody too. Shouts of joy, flashing lights accompanied by obnoxious buzzers and the clicking wheel of The Price Is Right drift out of the TV in the corner. All of it almost in tune with the rhythmic blink of the red neon sign announcing the hours of Surfin' Suds.

The noises of your every day routine fade in and out, and if someone gets close enough they'll hear soft lyrics spilling from your cheap headphones. Britney sings of being afraid of love as you fold your laundry, your brain a happy blank canvas as your hands move through the motions without thought.

Despite the stinging of your nose from the owner's new 'not-quite-lemon' lemon floor cleaner, Saturday night shifts are your favorite. Usually, you get the entire place to yourself, allowing you to catch up on your own laundry needs. Everyone else is always too busy having a life on a weekend evening.

That is, everyone except for Mr. Clueless it seems.

This is the third Saturday in a row he's ventured to your little oasis. The neon reds and blues on the glass windows highlight the lines of his jaw and sharp nose. They add a warmth to his caramel hair that has to be as soft as it looks - though it seems to get more disheveled each time he comes in.

The first time Mr. Clueless arrived, he was empty handed and looked very lost and confused. When you glanced up from your magazine, and asked if he needed help, he gave a quiet and curt, "Nope, thanks," turned on his heel and left.

The second, you weren't quite sure if it even counted, because he never actually made it inside. He had a bag this time, and as you watched through the glass windows, he walked up to the door and turned around three times, before he got in his car and left.

Today, the annoying chime of the door rattles, and you look up to find him dragging a bulging, black garbage bag and a bottle of what appeared to be fabric softener. He has a plain white shirt on that reflects the neon softly, rumpled, though still nice light blue Levi's that you glance away from as he bends at the waist.

His Nike blazers that have seen far better days squeak against the linoleum floor, coming to an abrupt stop in front of the dryers. The heat on your cheeks receding as you bite your cheek, holding back a smile. When you glance up, he runs a hand through his hair, messing it up further, before he meets your eye. His head dips in a small nod, hand raising in a short wave, before he places both on his hips. He stares at the dryer in front of him like it was the hardest puzzle he's ever encountered.

His mouth moves and you slip a head phone off in curiosity, catching the end of his annoyed and frustrated, "...what the fuck is permanent press?"

Your mouth opens, ready to explain that, number one, that's a dryer and he should probably start with a washing machine, and number two permanent press is-

"Oh, jesus, Harrington. Wash your clothes first before drying them." He spins, dragging his bag across to the washers.

Mr. Clueless taps the top of the machine with two fingers, eyes narrowing as he takes in the dials and buttons. His face starts to twist, hand reaching up and rubbing at the back of his neck, fingers catching a silver chain and hair that's just a tad too long.

"Quarters? Fuck."

Your snort has his head whipping up to face you. His eyes narrow but his cheeks turn pink and you slide your headphones down to your neck as you clear your throat.

"Sorry, I..." you wrack your brain for a polite way to tell him his cluelessness was actually more endearing rather than pathetic.

"I'm laughing with you, not at you?" Your shoulders raise in a wince, shaking your head, "I mean...I...first time?"

His shoulders fall, but he laughs, dragging his hands down his face as he mumbles behind them, "That obvious?"

#taylor's asks 💋#wip game #pastel 💞#steve harrington #steve harrington oneshot #steve harrington x you #steve harrington x reader

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plscallmeeren · 6 months

Text

YOU REMEMBER

(Aged Up) Michelle 'MJ' Jones x Reader

Request: yeah

Summary: ok so (y/n) is basically Peter (Tom Holland) and Peter is just like Ned 2.0

It's after No Way Home so no one remembers him and MJ, Ned and Peter are off to college (you've also lost all your humour and happiness in case u were wondering)

Anyways things happen and memories are triggered.... Enjoy I have edited nothing as usual (it's so late I'm so tired wtf)

Warnings: Swearing; sad MJ; yelling/fighting

Word Count: 2.6K+

You watched from a rooftop as New York teemed with activity even in the dead of night - not that that was anything unusual. Crowds of party-goers cheered with joints in hand. Mini-supermarket clerks filled out expert crosswords while casual thieves slipped candy into their pockets. Burnt-out child hackers typed ferociously in the hopes of pirating a new online game.

Those were your lesser worries. Those weren't the things you dared worry about. Not that you worried much these days. None of it mattered much, anyway. No one was there to care if you failed at what you had tasked yourself with for eternity.

You brushed down your dirtied red and black skintight suit, to no avail. That didn't matter, either.

This was peace. Peace was leaning back against the cold concrete. Peace was pressing »play« on your playlist and hearing Sweet Gene Vincent ramble around the murky night air like a newer, cleaner mist with a Cockney accent and punk ideals. Peace was pulling out your phone and looking at old photos of you and your former girlfriend and friends even though you knew you couldn't afford the emotional exhaustion. Peace was finally letting all those tears slide from beneath folds of harsh ignorance. That was peace now.

It wasn't always like that. It used to be lying around the living room, spread out on couches, with Peter and Ned telling you about the new Lego Death Star with an electronic component and MJ lying across your lap with a smile that suggested they were being stupid as she stared lovingly up at you as you ran your fingers through her curled hair.

But that sort of peace wasn't possible anymore, so there was no point seeking or missing it.

A picture of Ned and Peter grinning like idiots as they stood in front of the cinema to watch a rerun of Alien slid across the screen.

It was replaced by an image of MJ smiling back at you, mockingly signing 'metal' with one hand as her foreshortened feet lay closer to you and the camera.

You turned your phone off. A police siren wailed pathetically in the distance like a droning call for help.

Peace was over.

•••

Massachusetts

The Hercules cafe bustled with customers overflowing the nine-person chair budget.

MJ, Peter and Ned were positioned fortunately in the best corner beside the window. It was about lunch time - peak hour at that particular instalment - but the three had arrived hours earlier already.

"Mrs. Zeis is killing me," Ned was complaining, only stopping to sip at his strawberry milkshake. "Two protocols, one theory essay and an experiment setup? Does she not remember we have other subjects, too?"

The snarky waitress who never wore a name tag - the counterpart to exaggeratedly sweet Mr. Lang - strode up to them, snarling. "Will you be here much longer? We have other customers, y'know."

"Yeah, we'll have another chocolate milkshake, thanks," MJ dismissed her smoothly, turning back to her friends.

"Yeah, she's pretty bad," Peter continued for Ned. "I wrote an essay once I knew was bad but I hadn't had time to do it properly and she literally just ripped it apart."

"That's cruel," MJ conceded, smiling as Mr. Lang brought her her order. "Any chance you'll be rid of her for the last semester?"

"Not really," Ned sighed in exasperation.

"I will," Peter added cheerily, stealing Ned's straw and slurping a great deal of milkshake away from him. Ned stared on in horror.

The waitress came up to them again, but before she could dart out that poised tongue Ned was reminding her they weren't finished. She walked away with such impotence as if they had greatly insulted her.

"I can't believe we're graduating so soon... I'm looking forward to Manhattan. It's not really a great place looking back but it'll always be home," MJ said thoughtfully, chewing on her straw.

"Yeah. We had some great times," Peter smiled, handing Ned his latte in attempted reconciliation.

"Yeah," Ned added dreamily.

MJ nodded. Then: "Hey, I'm getting major Deja vu right now. Either of you?"

"Nah, not really," Ned admitted sheepishly as Peter simply shook his head.

"Huh."

They were all silent for a moment, all in their own worlds, when Peter spoke up again: "I know this sounds totally out there and weird, but do you sometimes feel like someone's missing? I mean, like there should be a fourth of us? I don't know, maybe I'm just-"

"No, you're not wrong," MJ interrupted, peering around the cafe as if something might be written on the walls in reply.

"Hey, MJ," Ned said slowly, some eerie disturbance creeping up on his usual voice. "Where did you actually get your necklace? I mean, you wear it every day, so I just... I don't know why I thought of it..."

She looked down at where her black dahlia necklace rested on her collarbone.

She stared. There was something familiar about it, and yet it was like she no longer knew it or why it was there. But she did, didn't she? She had been wearing it every day for years since...

(Y/n).

"Are you okay? You look a bit pale," Peter commented, casting a sidelong glance at Ned, who looked similarly anxious about the look on their friend's face.

It was all coming back to her. Rushing, roaring memories like tidal waves washing up to a shore that had been awaiting them for a decade too long.

"It's (y/n). He's missing," she murmured, standing up straight in seconds and rushing right past the returning waitress, almost making her fall over.

"Children! That's what you are!" she yelled after her, but MJ could hardly hear anything beyond her beating heart and gaping lungs.

•••

You lazily pressed the »play« buttons on the remote, refocusing your attention on your Chinese takeaway as He's Just Not That Into You started. It was going to be stupid. You knew that. Scarlet Johansson was in it, though, so you didn't particularly care. Stupid was good once in a while, anyway.

Your mobile buzzed, making you groan as you set your food back down to get it from the faraway table.

+339 873 5386

Probably another scam, you thought in slight disappointment, but not much surprise. You hung up. There was no one to call you, anyway.

You sat back down on your bed which acted as a couch at times like these and pulled the Chinese food back into your lap. The credits rolled.

Your phone buzzed again. Unfortunately for your innocent food, you almost completely spilled it slamming it back down on the table to reach your phone again.

+339 873 5386

You hung up again, muttering to yourself about stupid people and their stupid money scams. You wondered if you could pay not to get scammed and then realised you were in the same issue all over again. Except maybe they wouldn't interrupt takeaway night as much.

Far away one truly stubborn woman decided she was not having your bullshit and booked the next flight to New York she could find.

•••

MJ had travelled once across Manhattan and still she hadn't found even half a lead on your whereabouts.

She was close to despairing after finding your old apartment empty, countless people who should have known you to render your name foreign and only Delmar who knew of an old boyfriend of hers at all - though even he thought he hadn't seen you in more than a couple of years.

Until she saw you.

You were walking harmlessly along in your favourite black hoodie - one thing that you wouldn't let change - when you saw her, too. Or, someone who looked like her. It couldn't be. What was she doing here? She was supposed to be in Massachusetts. Far away from all of this.

You quickly turned a corner, hoping whatever psychotic trauma you were reliving at that moment would quickly pass.

She couldn't be there. You had made sure of that. Dr. Strange had made sure of that. She was safe. Ned was safe. So was Peter. She's safe.

Your inner voice repeated it like a mantra, following you the entire rushed way to your apartment building and up its concrete wasteland stairs. You stood before your door, shaking, trembling, scrunching your eyes closed to reassure yourself her familiar gaze wasn't on your back.

You were right. You had lost her. Both now and then.

You fought a losing battle with the rusty lock on your door until it finally gave in out of pity, its swinging whine stolen and replaced by your own breathless sigh.

You kicked it shut, not bothering to lock it, considering there was hardly anyone who'd be much trouble to you in Manhattan - and if they were, no lock would stop them, most likely.

Collapsing on the mattress, the bare room's singular comforting component, your head landed in your hands as heavily as lead weight. It hurt so much. It didn't matter if it had been her or not. She would never be yours again.

You looked around your place. Nothing felt like yours anymore. This fridge with a spoon, fork and plate next to it, this iPhone charger and mattress, microwave and a closet with so few clothes the spider suit almost stood out - none of it held any identity you could associate with yourself. None.

The door creaked again, and this time there was no heaving breath to hide it.

"(Y/n)?"

Please no. Please not now, not here, not unprepared... She can't be here. She was safe. I kept it that way.

She repeated your name, but your fingers only tightened their deadly grip around the sheet. Silence. Finally, you looked up, because you were almost convinced, almost hopeful that familiar voice had been a fragment of your imagination or she had decided you a lost cause and left after all.

She was still there. Your body sagged in upset.

"Do you even eat?" she snapped, and you wondered whether she had meant it to be so harsh. More words followed, each cracking like a whip also. You plead mercy with your emotional masochism. "You haven't brushed your hair in days - don't deny it, I know how it looks. You practically have bruises under your eyes. You're like a bag of bones; no exercise, no good food, right?"

You didn't answer, simply staring at her. She was so beautiful.

"God, (y/n)," she whispered, voice so soft it hurt more; the way it cradled you while it lasted and dropped you from its billowing clouds far higher up than anything else. Her pain crawled as ugly tendrils across the floor and through the very soles of your feet to the weight in your lungs.

Silence, again.

"You remember," you stated deftly, but nothing in you wanted to accept it. It couldn't be. It just couldn't.

And yet... she had remembered. Your relationship had been so strong, she had remembered. How? Curiosity danced groggily on the sidelines of your train of thought.

"Yeah. Remember this?" MJ lifted the dahlia necklace from her chest, holding it up for you to see. You did. An array of yellowing memories about your trip to France all those years ago flashed before your eyes, reminding you of every reason you had to buy it for her and every reason you should have been bursting with happiness at the fact she was standing before you.

"How did you find me?" you asked instead, earning a deserved scoff.

"I told you I'd track you down." She clenched her jaw, as if remembering how angry she was. "You promised." It was a quiet reminder, but stone in its sureness.

Your muscles tightened as you looked away. You couldn't bare it. You were certain you had done the right thing, and yet...

"You promised you would find us," she repeated, a little louder.

Still, you didn't answer.

"Look at me!" she finally yelled, making you jump, staring at her with wide eyes. She never used to be so loud. She never shouted, even when you fought. She had changed... or maybe you had given her reason to.

Tears threatened to escape her, but her expression remained firm, impossible.

"I did. I was there, just like I promised," you admitted slowly, enunciating every word so that you may never have to say any again. "I saw you, MJ. With Peter and Ned. And it was just... it was so clear you were better off without me. Without this huge Spider-Man burden on your back. You were safe not knowing me."

"So, let me get this straight," she started, in a way that unlike before was similar to the way she usually talked. Casual-sounding, light. "Not only did you assume what was best for us and ignored what we wanted, but you also - for even a second - thought I could survive seeing you like this? You really weren't planning on finding us? Ever?"

Your stood, leaning clumsily against the mattress as you watched her. You didn't need to reply.

"No. No. I won't have this. You need to apologise. You need to- to- I don't know. Make it up to us. You think this is okay? You think this way of living works? Well, it doesn't. The Bell Jar isn't this fucking depressing."

You winced. She always referenced that book when she was calling something fucked up. She began crying properly now.

"I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry. I'll do anything. There's nothing like this feeling that you could be responsible for the death of someone you love, MJ. That's not an excuse, but it's a pretty damn good reason. I understand you're angry, but you've gotta understand, too. You were everything. You are. I can watch from afar, but I can't watch everything end. If you're worried about me, worry about that. Your end would be my end. My fucking end, okay?"

Her chest heaved in wet sobs. You had only seen her cry three times before in all this time. You hated it. You pressed a finger to your cheek and realised you were crying, too.

"It's not fair. It's not fair," she sobbed, gesturing wildly in the air, her curls pushed to one side.

"I know. I know. Nothing's bloody fair," you sniffed, approaching her slowly, as if she were a shy animal, a stranger, perhaps.

It didn't take much. She slumped into your opening arms with all of her force behind her. Tears of yours mingled with hers on your shoulders and in each other's hair. Everything seemed tinged with the distant taste of salt.

She looked up at you, and suddenly your lips were connected once more, though it was sloppy and damp and certainly not your best kiss. But it was something. It gave your dingy kitchenette character and your mattress the air of a childhood sleepover in the living room.

"I won't leave you alone. Ever. You need to understand that. Whether you like it or not. You get it?" she murmured beside your ear.

You wanted to answer something romantic, something impressive, something to look back on - but all you could manage was a string of shaky "you remember"s.

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