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gremlingottoosilly · 4 months

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Eat your Young (viking!Konig x fem!Reader)

You weren't afraid when the Vikings came. Your ruler pays them well, and they protect you from enemies far worse - there is nothing to worry about as you, an unmarried maiden, wander into the embrace of one of them. They are on your side. Right? Tags and CWs: Age gap, size difference, Konig is a bit obsessive and a huge perv, mentions of violence, Vikings Are Actually Kinda Nice No For Real, hand jobs, oral sex, naked man/clothed woman, slightly historically inaccurate, jokes about inbreeding Thanks to @angelbabysblog for the idea. I changed quite a lot because I was reading articled about how many of the Slavic cities were actually cool with Vikings and worked with them AO3

The Vikings are here. Your Father never allowed you to meet them before – as an unmarried girl, even if you’re already of age, it would be…scandalous. Not smart. Dumb, really – everyone knows that girls that are messing with the warrior from overseas often end up being taken away. And you couldn’t survive sea travel. The Vikings are here, but it’s not really a problem – you know that there are other countries over the sea, the countries that die and burn every time a ship is sailed in their harbors. You also know that you do not live in a country like that. That sound of Vikings approaching is a good one – that you’ll be protected from the other enemies your country has. You always stole glances, despite what your father has told you – you were a curious thing, always searching for trouble, always interested in everyone outside of your small village. You’re on the border – stuck between sea and great plains, open for any enemy if it weren’t for mercenaries who deemed this place as worthy of their camp. They live here, occupying the territory outside – even build themselves houses, despite every rumor calling them nothing more but overseas barbarians who would tear you down for a flick of a coin.

Well, you always thought you’d have nothing to worry about – you are not made of coins, after all. The Vikings had a leader, the one that stayed in the long house just outskirts of the village – the one that would always visit the elders, discussing the payments and the spoils of war. Father always punished you if any nosy neighbor would see you sneaking out to look at the warriors – but you couldn’t care less. If you are going to end up in a marriage with a fool, you could at least steal a few looks at the real men. Not the ones from your village – they felt more like brothers than anything else. Some of them were – second, third, fourth, just diluted enough to make the babies a bit less disfigured.

But, oh, nothing compared to the vikings. You see them when you run for the lake, far from the shore. They are clean – cleaner than sailors from Byzantine who sometimes stumbled upon the small village by the sea. You think you heard them talking about how cleanliness is a sin – and just how silly it sounded. You think you didn’t like people from this place very much – sailors were often drunk, always handsy and never spared a kind word without an insult…not that you knew their language – but you are smart enough to know that if a man is attempting to grasp your breasts while sneering something through his teeth, it won’t be a love poem.

— What are you doing here?

Ah.

You were spotted. Like a fox in a hunter’s trap – you are standing in the tall water grass, looking at the man through the weeping willow branches. Maybe, if you are lucky enough, he’d think you were a mavka, trying to drown him – some men were foolish enough to fall for the act, sparing you the consequences of your curiosity. You aren’t sure if the Vikings have legends of mavkas – if they even have lakes back where they are from. All travelers are mixed in your head – desserts, great plains, barbarians who would steal your sisters if you’d been blessed with some. Sea beasts who will take you on your ship, away from your father and…ah, it doesn’t sound too bad.

— Can’t you talk?

His voice is rough, and accented. Younger than you thought he would be with a body like this – a seasoned warrior, ginger hair covering his muscular chest and a small trail falling down his…

Viking knows your language. Shouldn’t be surprising – they are working for the elders and your ruler, after all. They get gold from your village, they get food from your village. They get sons – you heard about at least some of the women falling pregnant to the guests overseas. No one dares to say anything against it – but the rumors are still falling. You wonder if it’s as bad as it sounds. — I can talk.

This sounds dumb, but there is no use in hiding. Your intentions weren’t innocent – you are curious and curiosity is what leads to the devil. Or god of death. Or goddess – you are not well-versed in matters of spirit and while half of your village is still worshipping old gods while the other preaches about new, stronger ones, you wonder what kind of beliefs Vikings have. You heard their women can wield magic – and can count. And read. You would love to read, you think. — Gut. Thought I spotted a Margygr.

The word is weird. Rough. You don’t know what that is, but you certainly aren’t one. You take a step forward, not caring that your linen dress is getting drenched in water – not caring about what your father might say after. You would just tell him you wanted to go and drown since he was so adamant on marrying you off to some one-eyed half-wit quarter brother of yours. He wouldn’t be surprised – and you probably wouldn’t be missed. A whore to be, as some older women from your village would say.

— What is that?

He tilts his head to the side, his blue eyes looking at you. You notice a piece of cloth in his hands – something that must have been covering his face, you think. He is covered in scars and dirt, blood from some battle is getting washed away into the water of the lake. Gods, you say to yourself – you won’t even be drinking from it again. Although you promised it to yourself a few years ago already, when you spotted a dead deer lying in the water – and it’s not like you held to your promise. Better than seawater, after all. — A…drowned creature. Drowning creature. Your people are calling them… — Oh. Mavka. — Others call it mermaid. Selkie. Mermaid sounds harsh too. Rude. Other languages are rude – still, you would like to know more. Still, you would like to do anything to get out of your village. Learn to read. To write. Maybe hold a baby goat close to your chest and not have it ripped away for the nearest dinner.

— I’m not…that.

— I can see.

He laughs and you steal a peak at his manhood. You should be ashamed, really – if your dear mother was alive, she’d beat you up for being so immodest. If your dear mother was alive, you wouldn’t be allowed to sneak out like that – but she isn’t, so you stare at the man who can crush your skull in one hand. You stare at the trail of ginger hair going down his waist. The muscles flexing and the scars on his hips, glossy from cold lake water.

Hm.

Is it supposed to be this big?

He coughs and you peek to look at him again. Coughing isn’t good – he can be sick. Contangenous. There is a sickness coming around from sailor to sailor – you wonder if vikings have it too. You don’t want to get sick – but it would surely keep you out of marriage for a long while. Maybe, if you’re lucky enough, you could be buried like a pretty maiden. White dress and mourning relatives. That would teach them how to send you off to marry some dumb cousin you never knew before. Or knew too well. — You shouldn’t come here, Schatzen.

— Why?

— My men won’t be as nice as I am when they see a maiden in the lake.

You smile, tilting your head to the side. There are rumors – you can’t invite foreign mercenaries into your country without them taking their toll on the locals. Some people like them, some people are scared of them. Some are going out of the ordeal pregnant and some are not returning at all. But, you can run. But, this is your lake. You like it here – the quiet, the tranquility. You think that if your father proceed with calling you an old bride who should be married as soon as possible, you could just run away and live here. Fish is nice and there are berries when it’s not too cold. — Where are your men?

You never saw Vikings in battle. Never saw a group of them up close – you’d like to, of course. There are warriors in your village, but their best shot is wolves and deer. Not other men – you think you’d like to see war sometimes. Maybe, all the boys of age would die and you won’t have to worry about anything anymore. You would be nice as a local witch – or a local healer. Old hag sounds nice too. — Around. Waiting for the order. — What order?

You ask so many questions, König thinks. Pretty thing – smart, too. You aren’t afraid of him, even though you have to be. Most women would be screaming and crying if they saw someone like him in the lake next to them. Not Viking women of course – but people from around here are soft. Cherished. Coddled. You also seem soft, too soft, too gentle – a woman living in a small village on the shore without a husband shouldn’t be this careless. König knows you’re just lucky that the ruler of your country is kind enough to pay the overseas mercenaries instead of suffering the pillaging. Not all of people are this lucky.

If he won’t get a promised weight in gold this village won’t be lucky either.

König looks at your sweet face, at the way your eyes constantly dart to his crotch. Curious little thing you are – he isn’t sure if he is that happy that the payments have been consistent up to this point. That he can’t just screw this all over and demand a payment in other ways. That pillaging this village and taking all of its women isn’t really an option while they get their gold from here. Your long linen dress clings to your skin - you’re shaking, he notices. From cold, probably, dumb lady who is too curious for her own good. Hm. He has furs not far from here. He can…

— We’re protecting the shore. The border, too. You smile, nodding. And here he thought the locals knew why the foreigners were here – but he can’t expect too much, he guesses. At least it seems like you haven’t heard of most of his accomplishments. The rivers of blood would be enough to fill this whole lake three times. Or, maybe, you heard – and didn’t care, brave and fearless little thing. König likes the sound of that.

— Are you cold?

You ask him, to his surprise. Your gaze is switching from his face – he is open, cheeks flushed from the cold and a maiden right next to him, and he can’t even find it in himself to cover his scarred mug – to his cock. It’s standing proudly, heavy, balls hanging low as if asking to be held in your soft palms. König isn’t embarrassed – but he is surprised that your body, showing only a little bit in that dress of yours, is already enough to make him this bothered. This ready to give up the supposed protection of this village and take what’s his. — You can warm me.

You tilt your head to the side, mimicking his action from earlier. Curious bird – he could keep you at his ship. Tied up to the post, ready for anyone to use you. You’re strong, and resilient. Should survive the long way home – and he is getting quite ready to find someone at last. If the ruler of your little kingdom won’t be as stingy as the previous one, König can walk away with a sack of gold hanging on his shoulder. Enough for him and for him men. Surely enough to sway you. — How?

— Do you have a husband?

He knows, you probably don’t. A husband wouldn’t allow his wife to run around and flirt with other men – and if König was yours, he surely would keep you locked in like the treasure you are. There is too many men ready to take what doesn’t belong to them.

— No. And I won’t.

— Why? — Soon I will be too old to be a bride anyway. Not that I want it. He laughs at that. Surely, little bird, it wouldn’t be your choice. If the luck is on his side, it wouldn’t even be the choice of your father. — Touch me, Schatzen. You want it, ja?

He says this with more awkwardness than before. Swaying women by his side isn’t his strong suit – and even with his strength, not many of them would just throw themselves at him. Being a mercenary leader might bring him money but with the whole team consisting of equally strong and handsome men, the broody leader usually isn’t the first choice. He gets his fill eventually – but not the one that would make his heart flutter. With you, however… Your hands are traveling down his abs. Caressing every bit of skin you see – sending goosebumps down his navel and straight to his hard and leaking cock. He wonders if you’ve done this before – but your actions are the one of an explorer, not a professional. YOu grab his cock with both hands almost as if strangling him, and König lets go with a choked moan.

You retrieve your hands, nervous. Good girl. Eager, pretty. Such a shame this village usually pays its tolls. — Are you hurt?

— Nein, it’s…go on. You proceed to touch him, the softness of your touches is making him groan from pleasure. This is something else – you’re something else. Having the power to bring a seasoned warrior to his knees – god, how much he liked the way you looked at him. Eager and curious, always going down to touch his cock some more. You press your palm together, making s steady rhythm – using the pre-cum from his cockhead like a lube.

König relishes in the feeling – he might be one of the strongest soldiers, but it was the first time he felt victorious. With your hand pumping his cock up and down, the pleasure settling in his stomach and threatening to burst, he felt like a king. No, the king. Gods, you were beautiful. Worthy of throwing this village into the fire for. Worthy risking the payment. Your mouth is warm on his manhood – he didn’t expect you to be this active, to wrap your lips around the bulging head and bop your head just a bit. Up and down. Tongue swirling, as if tasting him. Making him sweat that you will decide to take a bite out of it, just to satisfy your curiosity. To his peace, you didn’t. He came shortly after you decided to put your mouth on him – when your tongue started to swirl around and collect the bitter taste of his pre-cum. When your curiosity about foreign warriors bathing in your lake finally made you do something about it – and he would feel bad about pressing a hand in your hair and forcing you to choke on his length, your nails digging small red paths in his pale thighs. You choke and squirm and cry and this is the sweetest sound he ever heard – so when he finally drags you away from his cock, smiling as you wipe your mouth and whimper. Squirm again, some more. The light in your faded a little as he pushed one calloused finger into his mouth and pushed your lips apart. Poor thing, he thinks. — You did good, little bird.

His seed tastes weird on the tongue. You wince, but swallow – it’s what good brides should do, you think. Somehow, looking at this warrior, you don’t feel so bad about being considered a bride. Maybe…no. You stalled here for long enough – you saw the Viking. You touched him. Tasted him. Father is probably looking for you.

You don’t even bother to say goodbye as you come out of the water – but König stops you right on the edge of the lake, firm hand on your shoulder. Squeezing. Touching. Feeling.

— I…I apologize, maiden. I lost control.

His voice is hesitant. You don’t like how unsure he sounds. It made you feel unsure too. Weird. Uncertain and meek.

— Are you going to leave soon?

He stops mumbling, looking into your eyes. This is settled – he is not leaving you here. You must return to your family, say your goodbyes. Maybe enjoy a few weeks of peace before his troupe finally gets a clearing on killing whatever enemies grouped at the border – and he will take you no matter the payment your ruler can give him. Nothing will be worth more than you.

— Yes. Yes, I will. You turn away, almost running. He didn’t stop you this time – you need to get as much freedom in your lungs as you can. He will take you eventually and, well…you best enjoy freedom as much as you could before this.

When your village will burn along with all the cousins, half-triple brothers, and elders, you’ll find out why most countries fear the Vikings. When you will be hauled to the wooden ship over a giant’s shoulder, with his hand sitting firmly on your ass and his other palm preventing you from screaming, you’d know why taking the attention of overseas mercenaries is a bad idea. When your ruler would refuse to pay the warriors for their service and force them to just take everything by force, you’d know why making payments on time is so important.

When König would finally make you his wife, you’d understand why you should have drowned in that lake instead.

#cod #konig x reader #konig #yandere konig #cod x reader #yandere cod #call of duty #cod x you #konig x you #konig cod #cod konig #yandere x you #yandere x reader

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hannieehaee · 1 month

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18+ / mdi

content: loser!wonwoo, nerdy!wonwoo, sub!wonwoo, subdom!reader, mentions of sfw pics being taken behind your back, corruption, wonwoo's first time, dry humping, handjob, penetrative sex, etc.

wc: 2599

a/n: thank u to anon who inspired this ur a real one

masterlist

in this day and age, you knew that a mere college degree would likely not be enough for you to find a job within your field.

you were a creative, hoping to one day work as a photographer or maybe get into the creative design field upon graduating. however, you'd heard the horror stories of fellow graduates entering the terrifying world that came after college, with many unable to land a solid gig after graduating.

that's how you landed yourself a spot in the yearbook committee, becoming both a photographer and editor throughout these past few months.

that was also how you came to meet jeon wonwoo, the enigmatic boy who had become your partner any time you'd be assigned to photograph at school events.

despite spending quite a bit of time with wonwoo, attending every school event with him, you were yet to really get to know him. wonwoo was likely the shyest guy you'd met in all the years you'd spent at college so far. it was extremely hard to get to know him, as he would be only mumble and shy away any time you tried to make conversation with him. so far, all you knew about him was that he was a photography major (an extremely talented one at that), he was part of the gaming club (information you got from your friend vernon), and that he was generally very into stereotypically nerdy stuff.

none of this information was too groundbreaking, which only made you even more curious about wonwoo. it seemed like he'd specifically go out of his way to avoid you, stuttering like crazy when you'd try and make conversation and attempting to work separately any time you were assigned to photograph at the same locations.

all this only made your current situation all the more interesting, as you now found yourself at wonwoo's door, pondering on whether to knock on the door or not.

for some backstory, it was finally the end of your junior year of college, meaning that most of the work necessary for the production of the yearbook had been completed. all that needed to be done now solely consisted of editorial stuff as you finessed the final product.

this meant that you'd have to meet up with wonwoo to collaborate on the overlay of the yearbook, with the two of you being assigned the duty due to having worked together for most of the past two semesters.

you had jumped at this opportunity, entirely too interested in the shy, glass-clad boy. as embarrassed as you were to admit it, you had developed a bit of a crush on wonwoo. his constant stuttering and nerves around you gave you a strange thrill you had never experienced before. maybe you had a thing for losers, who knew.

and so you decided that now that you had this opportunity to visit wonwoo, being able to get him alone, you'd have a little fun.

yeah, maybe you had put on the tiniest clothes you could get away with wearing out in public. and yes, maybe you had worn that lipgloss you had once seen wonwoo eyeing on you. but could you be blamed? the thought of breaking him excited you too badly, completely sure but now that he must've held a bit of a crush on you (at least based on his constant nerves around you).

finally knocking on the door, you waited a few moments before a messy-haired wonwoo opened the door, giving you a sheepish smile as he welcomed you in.

his apartment was clean, but you could still tell that this had been a rushed effort, being able to spot some clothing misplaced and a few bowls scattered on some pieces of furniture. other than that, it seemed like wonwoo was likely cleaner than the average male college student.

after quietly looking around, you finally turned to wonwoo, who had been watching you quietly as his hands anxiously played with the oversized sleeves of the cardigan he was wearing.

"do you wanna work in your room or on the couch?", you asked.

somehow, you had caught him off guard, making him stumble over his words before muttering that his bed would be better, as it was bigger.

entering his room, you couldn't help a silent giggle at how predictable it looked, filled with star wars and marvel posters on the wall, along with some figurines. the room also included a clearly expensive pc and a few gaming consoles, obviously accompanied by a gaming chair.

liberally taking a seat in the middle of his bed, you allowed your skirt to flow highly enough for your legs to become exposed. you grinned to yourself when wonwoo took a seat beside you, gulping at the sight before opening his macbook on his lap.

once again, without any invitation, you scoot closer to him to get a better view, enjoying the intake of breath you heard from the boy.

after that, you actually worked together for a while, quietly discussing what content you'd leave in and what you'd take out. it was quite enjoyable, actually. you had known wonwoo to have a great creative eye, having seen his photography before, but it surprised you that he was just as good at graphic design.

you voiced this praise to him, making him chuckle awkwardly as he shook his head in denial.

"no, i'm serious, wonwoo. you're so good at this," you repeated.

"ah, n-no, it's just- i'm not that good," he muttered, lowering his head a bit and keeping his eyes on the screen to avoid looking at you.

no, this just wouldn't do.

going on a leap, you scoot even closer, now with your side completely pressed up against his own. bringing your hand up to his chin, you made him face you, smiling at the clear panic in his face.

"wonwoo ... why can't you take my compliment? hmm? you don't believe me?", you murmured, keeping your distance far too small as you awaited his answer.

"i-it's not that, it's just that-"

cutting off his muttering, you continued, "want me to show you? show you that i mean it?", your eyes lowered to his lips before going back to his eyes, hoping that that was enough of a hint for him to know what you meant.

gulping again, his eyes looked to your lips too, looking back up before parting his lips, attempting to make some sort of sound but failing, simply whimpering pathetically.

his whimper was enough to ruin you, making you close the gap between you with a soft kiss.

pathetically, he whined against you as you did all the work, leaving soft kisses against his lips up until your tongue made use of the small gap of his lips, sneaking in and encouraging him to follow along in your movements.

you sighed softly against his lips, wanting nothing more than to encourage his kisses. when he finally began kissing back, you repositioned yourself on the bed, pushing off the laptop and kneeling in front of him without ever breaking the kiss. like a good boy, he followed you in your movements, allowing you to lay him down on the bed as you climbed over him.

pulling away, you chuckled against his lips as he pathetically followed your lips with a whine, hands uncharacteristically holding onto your hips as he held you against him.

"wonwoo," you breathed out against his lips, "is it okay if i take off my clothes, baby?"

"y-yes, fuck. please. i- i mean, you don't have to, but, fuck, i-"

"shhh. it's okay, baby. i'll take them off, yeah? then it's your turn," you reassured, throwing off your skimpy summer dress before snapping off your bra and struggling your way out of your panties before sitting back on him.

the sight of the nerdy boy under you as he salivated over every new inch of skin you exposed to as laughable. his eyebrows were furrowed in the a manner that made it look like he was in pain. his breathy gasps at the revelation of your breasts had given you a huge ego boost, making you play with them for a bit for his viewing satisfaction. after that you leaned down again, going back to what had first started all this.

"you're so pretty, wonwoo ... so talented and nice and pretty. my pretty nonu," you breathed into his lips, giving him no chance to respond.

he still did his best, shaking his head, insisting that you were the pretty one. that you were the prettiest girl he had ever seen.

"n-no, you ... you're so pretty fuck, i- i've always wanted you ... fuck, is that, is that okay? always thought you were the prettiest girl ... get so nervous around you," he confessed, sighing when your arms went under his shirt, toying at his nipples before helping him remove his cardigan and shirt.

now shirtless, you practically salivated over his body, feeling him up like you were entirely depraved of touch. he was far more buff and delicious than you had ever imagined. wonwoo seemed to enjoy it just as much, letting out desperate breaths as you felt him up. before long, his sounds became even higher and whinier, as your hands made their way to his pants, pushing them down as best as you could before getting a hold of his already hardened cock.

"a-ah, t-that's ... fuck, a-are you sure?", gasped wonwoo, squirming under you like the pretty little nerd you'd been wanting for so long.

"yes, nonu. is it okay? is it okay when i play with your pretty cock like this?", your hand wrapped tighter around him, bringing his member out of his boxers and jerking him faster as he nodded desperately in approval.

"it's so good, fuck ... feels so ... so nice. please ..."

he was already such a whimpering mess and you hadn't even started working on his pleasure. unknowingly, wonwoo was slowly corrupting your mind, making you feel a monstrous need to do every nasty thing imaginable to the pretty boy moaning under you.

with a groan, you repositioned yourself, leaning back a little so you could drag your pussy against his cock. the thought alone made your eyes roll back. and the execution? the execution had you whimpering at the sudden stimulation, falling in love with the hardness of wonwoo's cock.

in the meantime wonwoo had lost all ability to produce any sort of sound, letting out breathless whimpers at the feeling of your cunt dragging against him, glasses fogged up and hands digging into your hips to unknowingly try and guide you against his dick.

"y/n ... oh, fuck ... p-please ... need- need more, oh, please ..."

dry humping could only go so long, but you wanted to drag it as much as you could. the sight and sound of wonwoo begging for you had you on cloud nine. he was so handsome and well built that you couldn't help but become hypnotized to the sight under you as you humped him with no shame.

the pretty mess under you continued to beg, strong arms even coming to stop your movements when the pleasure got too much, pleading at you to please let him have your cunt.

"g-give it to me. please. need to feel it, i- i've never had it before. need t-to know. need it to be you, fuck, please ..."

oh? was the pretty boy a virgin? were you about to deflower the mess under you?

wonwoo should've never let you in on this information, as it immediately drove you crazy with desire. you needed to claim him, mark him as yours and keep him all to yourself forever.

without hesitating any longer, you lowered yourself on him, groaning out at the stretch while wonwoo let out the prettiest high-pitched moan you had ever heard. it was pathetic how his deep voice fell to mere whimpers at the simple touch of a woman. yet it made you tighten around him all the tighter.

your hips bounced on his thin thighs, hand dipping in so you could play with your clit. maybe one day you'd teach him how to give you pleasure in such a way, but for now you just wanted to ruin him.

"gonna cum ... i- fuck, im gonna cum. c-can i? please?", he pleaded, eyes shut closed in pleasure.

it took you a few moments to answer, not wanting to leave him waiting for too long during his first time, but needing to get yourself to the edge in order to cum with him. within a few seconds he repeated his pleas, this time even more pathetically than before. this was what broke you, making you nod and whimper in affirmation as your own orgasm took over.

"such a g-good boy for me, nonu," you leaned down to kiss him, wanting to give him as much intimacy as you could for his first time.

kissing you back, he wrapped his arms around you, consistently crying praises against your lips. he let you know how badly he loved your cunt, how much he'd fantasized about this. the rest got muddled in the endless whimpers he let out.

after riding your high, you laid against his him, ear against his chest as you caught your breaths. his skin was clammy and his heartbeat fast. you loved being the cause of both things.

"does ... does this mean you like me back?" he murmured.

nodding against his chest, you left a few kisses against the skin, "yes, wonwoo. i've liked you for a while."

he exhaled in relief, "fuck, thank god."

your let yourself roll over from on top of him and lay on his side, finding a more comfortable position to cuddle with him.

then you suddenly remembered.

"shit, we gotta finish the yearbook."

it was his turn to chuckle, "let's nap for a while first. i'll wake up and get the final details later. promise."

you took his promise in the form of the union of pinkies, taking his advice of taking a nap as the surprisingly buff boy held you in his arms, falling into slumber quickly after.

ironically, you woke up before he did, approximately two hours after having fallen asleep in his arms. spotting the laptop on the floor, you decided to do him the favor of doing the final touches yourself, deciding that this would somehow be some form of aftercare as he regained his energy by sleeping.

shockingly enough, having the initiative to work on the unfinished yearbook spread as wonwoo continued to sleep next to you proved quite interesting as you finally got hold of the computer.

you hadn't meant to snoop, but a folder hidden on the corner immediately caught your attention. you hadn't noticed it earlier, as wonwoo had the computer on his own lap the entire time, but its title consisted of your initials, making you entirely too curious about it.

opening it, you had to hold in your gasp upon finding about twenty pictures of you out and about at each of the events you'd attended with wonwoo to photograph for the yearbook. for candids, they were quite beautiful.

in any other situation, you wouldve been rightfully freaked out. but the thought of shy little wonwoo fantasizing about you as he took pictures of you to look at later only made you want to claim him even more.

looking to the pretty boy softly snoring next to you, you were already planning all the ways in which you'd mock and berate him over it, all while you ruined him under you yet again.

#seventeen fanfic #seventeen x reader #svt fanfic #svt x reader #seventeen imagine #seventeen #svt #seventeen oneshot #seventeen smut #svt smut #wonwoo scenarios #wonwoo imagines #wonwoo x reader #wonwoo oneshot #wonwoo smut

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luveline · 7 months

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Helllloooo :) if at all possible, could I request a fic for when stripper!reader realizes that Spencer actually like-likes her? Maybe he finally makes a real move or plans a “fancy” date to show her how much she means to him? She definitely wouldn’t believe him at first/think she deserves it, but if it could be a happy ending, I’d appreciate it so much. 🥺🥺

🐈‍⬛ thank youuuu

ty for requesting <3 fem

He smells like coffee.

"Hi!" you say, bending under the weight of his hug.

"What are you," —he drags his face against your cheek— "doing here, I thought you were," —his hand cups your neck as he pulls away— "going to Moira's for the weekend?"

"You sound so happy," you say, nonplussed.

"Yeah I'm happy. Do you wanna stay over? We can go to the movies, or we can get takeout, we can do both." Spencer beams at you. "Sorry, I'm– I'm rushing. I'm just happy. Is everything okay? What happened to house sitting?"

"Oh, nothing, she missed her flight," you say. "Can I come in?"

Spencer ushers you inside. His apartment is cleaner than usual. He's actually had time to clean, it seems, the faint scent of disinfectant alive in the kitchen and fresh laundry folded on the table behind the couch. He follows your eyes. "I did the stuff you left, last time. But I ended up with like, three pairs of your socks? How did that happen?"

"You didn't have to."

"Why wouldn't I?" He goes to walk off but stops, twisting around to give you another hug from the side. "Tea?"

Your face feels hot. "Yes, please."

Spencer takes to the kitchen to make tea, one of your shared routines. He grabs the kettle from the cabinet, two mugs, and two teabags. You don't know why you stay in the living room as he fills the kettle. He's putting it on the stove when he says, "Oh, hey, I got you, uh– you liked my soap, right? The chamomile? So I got you some. It's in my room, and I got you some of your chocolates from Leaven."

"You did?"

You fail to hide your excitement. Spencer waves you away without looking. "They're with the soap."

You laugh to yourself, leaning down to pull your sneakers off of your heels. You leave them by the couch and slip over the hardwood into his room, where your promised soap and chocolate sit on one of his desks. He calls them your chocolates, but you only ever tried them because he saw you looking at them one time and bought them as a surprise. You've been hooked on them ever since.

You're thinking about what joke you can make to hear him laugh. Something on the nose about him ruining your future career aspirations or a flirty nothing, maybe. You just want me to fall out of shape so I can't work.

The suitcase on the bed distracts you. Open, half packed.

"Are you going somewhere?" you ask him, chocolates and soap held loosely to your stomach.

Spencer takes the kettle off of the heat, bringing it to the two mugs to top them one at a time. "What?"

"Your suitcase?"

His shoulders tighten just so. "Well, there's this convention happening but I hate driving in the dark, so I figured I'd stay up there."

"When, tonight?"

"Yeah." He picks up the mugs and shoots you a smile. "But obviously I'm not going now."

Obviously? Spencer rounds the side of the couch to sit down, murmuring for you to come and sit with him. You follow his order without question, setting yourself on the couch cushion beside him, and find there's little resistance in you to leave space between your thighs. He leans into you as soon as he's able and hands you your mug.

There's something in his eyes. A warmth. A real affection. "I'd definitely rather be with you here than without you there. Even if there's a guest speaker who's actually managed to split shared arteries between conjoined twins while they're still in the womb."

"You're interested in that stuff?"

"Just for fun." He doesn't drink his tea. He probably didn't want any, a coffee mug already on the table, but he always makes two cups. You think it might be so you don't feel like you're an imposition. He's that special brand of thoughtful.

"Can I ask you something?" you ask, your heartbeat a tangible thump under your skin. It's a silly question guided by a stupid thought, but you have to ask. You've always wanted to see other people's hands, so to speak, uncomfortable with the unknown.

"Anything."

You've exposed the most private parts of you and still it's hard to be vulnerable. It's easier knowing you're with Spencer, but not easy. "Do you like me?"

Spencer doesn't do either of you the disservice of pretending he doesn't know what you mean. His voice is measured but shyness creeps in, an almost questioning lilt to his words as he says, "Well, yeah. I thought you already knew that."

"I thought you… appreciated the aesthetic of me."

"I do." He looks at your forehead rather than your eyes. "You know you're pretty, and your dancing, it's– it's pretty too. I think you're beautiful, but that's really not the only thing about you. You've been remarkably easy to fall for."

His cheeks are suddenly red. A blotchy staining under his cheekbones and up over the bridge of his nose. He wouldn't lie, but the blush cements that he's telling the truth. Spencer really, truly likes you, enough to buy you the gifts that sit in your lap and to cancel trips. He'd rather stay home with you and drink tea on the couch than be anywhere else.

"Spence, if you think it was easy for you, you have no idea what it's been like for me," you say quietly. That draws his eyeline back to your face. You smile at him gently. "No idea."

He puts his mug down on the table to hug you. "Careful of your tea," he says, his smile audible.

You hug his arm to your chest with one hand. When he kisses the side of your head, you're pleasantly shocked.

"I didn't realise," you say. "Sorry, Spence, I never–" Never thought you'd like me like that. "I didn't know."

"I was just waiting for you to catch up."

#spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x you #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid x fem!reader #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid oneshot #spencer reid scenario #spencer reid drabble #spencer reid fic #spencer reid fanfiction #criminal minds fanfiction #criminal minds #criminal minds fic #criminal minds x reader

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sharkiethrts · 11 months

Text

[𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙜𝙚𝙣𝙚𝙧𝙖𝙡 𝙚𝙭𝙥𝙡𝙤𝙧𝙚𝙨 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙬𝙤𝙧𝙡𝙙 𝙤𝙛 𝙫𝙖𝙣𝙞𝙩𝙮]

𝘗𝘙𝘖𝘔𝘗𝘛: 𝘞𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘪𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘴𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘺 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘢𝘥𝘷𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘢𝘨𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘵𝘵𝘺 𝘱𝘳𝘪𝘷𝘪𝘭𝘦𝘨𝘦?

g/n reader

: jing yuan and reader are not in an established relationship, jing yuan is pining (ineffectively) at the reader

: 446 words

Qingzu did her best to not designate her attention to the elephant in the room today in the Divine Foresight but duty calls. It started when the general asks for a mirror, blathering about the apparent magnification in the front camera of phones. Even the most developed technologies have their flaws, as does all of nature, his laugh resounds across the hall with his talk.

She didn't understand his intentions with the mirror initially, but now that she does: "Jing Yuan, just in case you have forgotten, the documents piled up in front of you require your attention as well," when the man mentioned doesn't react, "And as for the concave of your facial features, please leave that interest at home."

Surprisingly, the man finally snaps out of his diligent distraction with a view that the Counselor has never seen before: red ears. However, the general's recovery is quick, much to Qingzu's amusement. But to her chagrin, it did not stop the General's shameless inquiry, "Am I handsome, Qingzu?"

"...Please understand that I am not a present figure in the fashion industry nor do I have any intention on recommending the General of Luofu Xianzhou to Xianzhou magazines any time soon."

The guards guarding at the gates of the Divine Foresight bite their tongues; it wasn't like they weren't used to the General's occasional remarkable behaviours, but vanity is certainly a new look. After all, the general doesn't even bother to brush his hair in the morning, letting birds build a temporary residency in his hair whenever he falls asleep. It's a miracle that there isn't an ecosystem building up in the general's hair, to say the least.

So, what's with the sudden change? Everyone in the Divine Foresight is in common agreement that the General is... in love.

And it makes sense: he has been caught outside the Divine Foresight more. Well, he's rarely in the Divine Foresight, really- but his frequent "breathers" are often at his own garden, where weeds pile up due to the General's negligence and how demanding his work can be (the general also claims to not need cleaners at home, that his title doesn't need to worry the lives of others). However, just recently, the General often strolls about at the market places and well known tourist sights of the Xianzhou Luofu, sometimes returning with an uncharacteristically large smile.

"...Is that a yes or a no, Qingzu?"

Qingzu ignores his further probing, "That reminds me (it really didn't, it's just a desperate attempt at deterring the general's awkward intentions), our friends from the Astral Express seems to be running a store- 'Express Eatery', was it?" She watches as the general's gaze light up, "promising foods from all around the universe, foreign to the native xianzhou's gaze. Cosmic Fried Rice is particularly famous for it's savoury mix of vegetables and-"

"- Where is it?" The general stands up abruptly, eyes shining more than ever.

"At the gate of the Central Starskiff Haven- you can't miss it," Qingzu answers with a steadfast response, just glad to have conducted Jing Yuan's attention away from her.

The general leaves almost immediately, taking his pouch of Strale with him. But it seems to Qingzu's celebration is short lived, because the general whom is about to leave turns to ask another difficult question, "Do I look satisfactory? How is my hair? It isn't too unruly, I hope?"

Qingzu clenches her fists behind her back, "Why don't you ask [name] that yourself once you reach the eatery?"

The ears of the general turns vibrant red again.

#jing yuan #honkai star rail #jing yuan hsr #jing yuan x reader #hsr #jingyuan x reader #jingyuan #jing yuan has a crush on reader #jing yuan headcanons #jing yuan scenarios #honkai jing yuan #honkai star rail x reader #jing yuan imagines #sharkie works ; jing yuan #sharkie works ; all honkai

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ncteez · 1 year

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The perks of being that guy (l.jh.)

Taking note of the strangers you see day to day isn’t something you’d normally do. The only reason today is different is because the guy who made small talk as he rang you up for your intimate items was the same guy who showed up catering for your family reunion.

or the one where jihoon is a dildo salesman, a caterer, a self-titled mechanic, and also your ride home. he is not an expert in any of his jobs, but he sure is an expert in wit and, well, other things.

ao3 | m.list | reblog to give woozi a lil kiss

minors dni!!

WORDCOUNT― 14k

PAIRING― jihoon x afab reader

CONTENT― strangers to lovers like immediately, long fluffy hair jihoon!!!!, you buy a monster sized dildo, blatant talking of masturbation and toys, smut, cliche blooming an attachment to someone after (1) fuckening.

NOTE― a present for u all because i hit a milestone of 5000 followers!! this was only supposed to be like 5k words but i guess i was in love with him this whole time. anyway, this is not proof read bc i think u guys know by now that im not about that life, so if you find a typo– don’t tell me i will delete everything out of embarrassment.

smut tags under cut::

smut tags― it’s kind of fluffy im so sorry i just have feelings for him, average cock size jihoon!!!! he is very much a service top, making out, hand holding, caressing, grinding, finger fucking, titty worship, unprotected sex (just wrap it guys, im too lazy to write a condom scene), sweet talking as a form of dirty talk, missionary bc i refuse to not write smut where he wants to look directly at you, back scratches (sexual) ~

Never have you been put in the position to make small talk about the sex toys you place on a counter to purchase. Then again, you guess it’s part of the job description that most people ignore or aren’t privy to actually doing.

Never have you been informed of the wide variety of lubricants, additional toy-cleaners, or the bigger and smaller alternatives to your chosen toy. You don’t show discomfort though, because it’s not uncomfortable. Sex is normal, masturbation is more normal, and the man in front of you appears to be normal too.

“There’s twelve different color variants if you prefer something less fleshy.” The man says, standing at the counter with some sort of a permanent pout on his lips.

“I’m fine with my choice, if you could just ring me up now I can get out of your hair.” You respond, glancing at the time on your phone and wondering how you got stuck with the only employee who actually does his job here.

“Are you sure you don’t want any lubricant…?” The man adds, gazing at the size of your toy and then looking you up and down as if you clearly wouldn’t be able to handle it without said lube purchase.

The man with no name tag appears to be blissfully unaware of his invasiveness with that question as you tilt your head with a raised brow. Shocked at the very question, it’s actually quite laughable that he’s so monotone with the offensive comment. You imagine he’s done this for so long, he must be a manager trying to get the day over with, going through the steps in a bored mood with little to no regard as to how he must sound to strangers buying their first or twentieth dildo.

With your assumption that he doesn’t exactly care about the level of wet your vagina is when you use this toy, you respond.

“I think I know what I can take and I already have lube, but thanks.”

He nods, not even sparing you much of a glance before giving you a total and bagging your item.

Now, despite Jihoon’s lack of interest toward the purchase of toys he finds it comical that he’s grown numb to the very fact that he knows everyone in this town’s kinks after they step out of the shop’s door. Someone’s gotta do this job and keep those secrets and he likes to think he fits the bill perfectly.

Lively as he may be outside of this shop, each job comes with a personality and this one calls for one of disinterest in your product but interest in the sale. He’s not one to lie to himself though, many times a pretty girl has marched in and bought toys far bigger than any man and he does tend to let his mind wander about it from time to time. When he first started this job, bright eyed and bushy-tailed, he found it hard to navigate a single sale without a flush of rosy tints crossing his cheeks and ears. Now, he’s become a veteran at keeping his dick locked in place if he were to feel some type of way about a purchase and the one purchasing.

Shy as he was when he started, it’s all lost now as he handles dicks and dongs, pocket pussies and anal plugs, even whips and chains.

Shy. That’s definitely a word and surprisingly one that can describe him when he’s not on schedule within these walls of alien dicks and lime flavored lube to match the grotesque green color. At his other job, because he works two, he takes the praise of being the charming yet, timid man who shows up with pans of food for events.

The guests seem to love him, and many times during weddings and company parties he has been offered phone numbers or asked for one simply because he appears to be that of a friendly face with a kind sense of being.

It’s a stark contrast of jobs, and somehow he’s managed to dodge knowing many of the people coming into his night job to shop for ways to fuck themselves. The rare time it had happened, he was thankful to have another person in the shop to ring them up. Keeping up with two jobs is hard, and keeping up with two personalities is even harder.

You hadn't thought of that guy from the sex shop even once until he showed his face at your family reunion.

He noticed you before you managed to realize it was him though. Stealing looks in your direction as you chat with little cousins and elder aunts and uncles, mostly to double check in his brain if you’re really the girl who showed up and nonchalantly bought the newest dildo in stock. The fleshy colored one with rotating beads and a g-spot stimulator button. Upon your eyes meeting his though, he could tell it was you simply by your furrowed brow as you recognized him.

Jihoon couldn’t help but smirk. He knew that eventually someone at an event would recognize him as their local sex-shop manager, he’s actually shocked it doesn’t happen more often. At least it’s you though, a woman who looks near his age and clearly has a very healthy relationship with her sexuality. So much so that you weren’t shy or nervous in buying the toy from him, because it’s very true that many people feel too vulnerable when buying those kinds of items.

His smirk doesn’t go unnoticed by you before you look away from him and focus your attention back to your family. And by the time he’s prepared the food and is standing aside to help explain or describe what ingredients the dishes have, you’re walking up with your empty plate and an awkward glance.

He follows you down the line, seemingly more interested in you than anyone else. You could argue it’s just an attempt to make you feel embarrassed though.

“Do I know you from somewhere?” You ask, a knowing look telling him that you’re already very aware of that ‘somewhere’ you know him from.

His pursed lips and snide hidden laugh at you is one thing, but the way he whispers to you over a pan of potato casserole is another.

“I think you know who I am.” He says, crossing his arms as he leans back again with a flicker of a grin.

You leave it at that, looking him in the eye curiously and for some reason, smiling back at the strange second encounter with a man who appears to have a name tag now.

“Thanks, Jihoon. See you around.”

You’re heading away from the table of food and now toward your saved spot at the table of family that you missed the most. Your same-age cousins, the ones you grew up with and made mud pies for your parents with during summer evenings.

“What was that about?” One of them leans over to ask, glancing to the man who is still overseeing the table of food and maintaining perfect temperatures.

“Huh? He was just telling me what was in the potatoes.”

She takes your answer as truth without issue, and the conversation falls away and into something else. College life, job life, family life.

Okay so you’re trying to hear yourself out here. Are you somehow curious and interested in speaking with Jihoon? Yeah. Do you know why? Also yes. For one, he just sold you a fucking interesting sex toy last weekend in the most uncomfortable way possible, and now he’s here at your family reunion to remind you of what you do in your apartment when you’re alone.

His personality seemed different this time too. He wasn’t monotone, he was snide with you about knowing who you are. He probably thinks it’s funny that he ended up at your family reunion over any other event.

So yeah, maybe you find yourself going up to the table for seconds even though you’re no longer hungry. Maybe you definitely wait until no one else is at the table and he appears to be tidying up the space and wiping up spills.

“How many jobs do you have?” You ask in a sarcastic tone when you reach him, the table between the two of you creating a comfortable distance to poke and prod.

He jumps only slightly at your presence because he didn’t notice you walking up. Then he’s smiling again, looking at you up and down.

“Plenty. How much lube do you have left?” He answers before shooting back his own question and getting right to the point.

You freeze in shock at his question, reminding yourself that his monotone voice from the late dildo purchase is no more and he now comes across as vibrant and charming to you. You check him out for a moment, taking mental notes of what may not be to like about him. Unfortunately, you’re not finding much to take note of.

“I can’t imagine you have much left, that thing was a fucking monster.” He pauses to cover his mouth, forgetting that he’s supposed to be timid and gentle during his day job. He’s not supposed to be himself.

You find yourself laughing at his panic though, leaning over the table and holding out your empty plate. Mostly just to get in closer to him.

“Why are you so interested in my ‘fucking monster”’ dildos anyway?” You narrow your eyes.

He pauses, his panic easing after taking note of your easy personality and banter towards him.

“I think anyone would be interested, with all things considered.” He checks you out again. “Correction, they should be worried.”

“You’re different from before,” you comment, both of you now blatantly staring down each other. “I like this version of you more.”

Something inside of him feels giddy at that. Not to be cliche but he wonders if this is what it’s like to instantly have a crush on someone. Again, he’s not one to lie to himself. You’re pretty and you appear to be confident. Confident enough to discuss this at your own family reunion at least.

“Maybe I’ll see you again sometime then.” He puts a hand forward, inviting you to shake it but you simply stare down at it.

“Yeah, maybe you will.” You smile, slapping his hand as if you’re low fiving him.

Honestly, he might actually see you within the next day or two because he was kind of right to ask about how much lube you have left, but it’s not like you’d answer that truthfully if at all. You might be running out after just two uses. He was right again about it being a fucking monster, because well, yeah. Maybe you’ll pop in and shop for bulk lube instead of rejecting his up-sale.

Unfortunately for you, upon the reunion coming to an end, you get into your car and of course it doesn’t start. Your head slamming into the steering wheel with a sigh that’s probably loud enough for the entire town to hear.

The last thing you need is your father driving you home, because he will lecture you about your car and how it’s got to be some fault of your own for it to not start. And you know, yeah maybe it was your fault. Why were your lights turned on during a sunny sunday afternoon? Fuck if you know. Why were they left on for the entire nine hours you spent at your parent’s house? You refuse to ask yourself questions.

Just as you prepare to head back inside, taking the walk of shame ten minutes after saying your goodbyes, a savior appears.

That savior is none other than Jihoon walking up with his stiff button down shirt partially unbuttoned, hair now disheveled as he must have ruffled it up after the day of work. He watched you from his catering van for just a few minutes before finally getting out to offer his expertise.

“The battery is dead.” He smiles, slapping both palms on your hood and leaning to look at you through the windshield.

“Smart man, can you un-dead my battery before my dad comes out?”

Jihoon shakes his head apologetically.

“I already checked the van for the cables, could be a write up on my part for not checking before leaving. We are supposed to have all sorts of shit to prevent breakdowns on a job. Not today though, apparently.” He scratches the back of his neck as he walks to your opened car door.

“If you can hang tight for like ten minutes I can swing by after dropping the van off.”

Your eyes plead with him. You’d prefer this, yes. If he’s willing to help, you’re willing to accept.

“You sure I’m too out of the way for you to do that?”

He shakes his head nonchalantly, waving you off as he leans into your car to pull your keys out of the ignition. He smells like food, obviously he does, but there’s a scent of something else on him that’s far more attractive. The dull scent of cologne that matches him all too well.

“Don’t try to turn it on anymore if you don’t want your dad coming out.” He laughs. “I’m sure he would help you but if you’d rather I help you, I am more than happy to do it.”

He’s teasing. His little crush pushes him to want to help you, but he’s gonna play it off as casually as possible.

“I’ll hang out here. My dad would lecture the fuck out of me.”

Jihoon nods, backing away and heading back to his van to fulfill his offer.

On another note, you’re shocked that your father didn’t hear the commotion, and even more shocked that he didn’t step outside once since the reunion ended. He must have been tired, and you know him, he sleeps like a rock even if he hits the sack at 7pm without even cleaning up the yard.

“Oh, it’s dead dead.” Jihoon looks at you apologetically, peeking his head out from the side of your hood and through your window.

“Define dead dead.” You comment, taking your keys out of the ignition with a huff.

“Like, you need a new battery. This one is done for.”

You sigh loudly, knowing that now you’ll have to go ask your parents for a ride home. Know that your dad is going to add more to his lectures with each day your car is sitting in their driveway. This is so fucking annoying. At least you work from home though, so it’s not like you’re gonna lose your job over this or anything.

Jihoon unhooks the cables and turns off his car, then stands there and watches you for a moment. You look frustrated and annoyed, and it’s very much like him to offer more help. Of course it is.

“Would it be too forward to ask if you need a ride home?”

You look at him confused, tilting your head and studying his body language much like before. You’re not one to decline someone making your life a little bit easier, and he is interesting to talk to. You nod slowly, then pause.

“You’ve worked all day, don’t waste your off-time helping me out.”

“I’m already wasting my off time on you though, might as well let me drive you home too?”

You stare at him.

“Okay.”

The awkward silence sets in shortly after you seat yourself in his car. You fill that silence with small sarcastic comments about his car though, and soon it becomes easy to be in the space with him.

“Where did this sticker come from?” You ask, poking your finger into a sticker with its edges rolled from the summer heat, probably.

“Ex girlfriend, i couldn’t get it off without it leaving a residue so I’m just letting the sun do its job and melt it off.”

“Oh, harsh.” You laugh, wanting to prod further. “Why’d you break up?”

Jihoon pauses, you can tell by the way his foot lets up from the gas momentarily that he wasn’t expecting you to ask that. Then again, he’s said some weird shit to you too, so you figure it’s not an end-all question.

“Was that too forward to ask?”

“Not at all, just wasn’t expecting it,” He shakes his head with a small smile, nearly reaching his hand from the wheel to pat your leg in reassurance. He holds back, wondering why the fuck that urge felt so normal for him to do. “It’s been like a year, so I’m over it and stuff. She just thought I worked too much and didn’t spend enough time with her.”

“Ouch, even harsher.” You smile in reassurance to him, also feeling it normal to want to do that for some reason. “Her loss, I mean, discounted dildos and food? Huge loss.”

He laughs at your comments, briefly looking over at you once he stops at a red light. Your eyes are shining with life, with interest even. At that moment, he feels something between the two of you. Which is quite strange considering this is your first time officially meeting him outside of his working hours. He can’t help the way his face softens though, it happens against his will, honestly, it does.

“You’re kind of cute,” You blurt, breaking eye contact with him and shifting in your seat. “and fun to hang out with.”

“Hang out?” He laughs at you, eyes now adjusting back to the road and lowering his speed just to have a bit more time with you. “This is hardly a hang-out, but if you’re interested, I’m more than willing to check my schedule to see when I’m free next.”

You feel confidence raise up in your chest, bubbling to be free in the form of a question likely too bold to actually consider.

“You’re free right now…” You comment quietly, glancing at him.

“Hm?” He asks, tightening his grip on the steering wheel and feeling your eyes on him. He heard you, but he wouldn’t mind hearing you repeat it.

“I said, you’re free right now.” You repeat, this time with more confidence. “Would it be too forward to ask if –”

“Nothing is too forward to ask, I literally sold you a dildo.”

You pause in shock, all thoughts leaving your head.

“Damn, alright,” You laugh, feeling kind of warm inside at how his forwardness matches your own. “If you’re free right now, we could hang out right now.”

How lucky for both of you. He’s actually not catering tomorrow and only has to be at work at the good ol’ sex shop in the evening.

“Alright,” He nods, glancing over to you. “Kind of fucked up we are hanging out after I met your entire family and still haven’t gotten a name from you yet though, wouldn’t you think?”

Oh fuck, he’s right.

“I’m sure you heard the kids yelling it all day. Don’t be dramatic.”

He laughs, already in love with the idea of spending more time with you.

“Where to then, y/n?”

If your parents were to ask why you’re walking through your apartment building with the caterer following behind you, you’d have no excuse. Then again, as an adult, you don’t think you need one. It’s strange despite how open and casual you are with making friends though, because you never just invite strangers to your place for friendship. Not at least without hanging out a few times.

You guess it’s not super awkward because it’s true that he already knows things about you that your family doesn’t. Such as, the things you penetrate yourself with when you’re alone. It’s a major ice breaker, and something that makes the friendship with him come easy even after barely talking to the guy.

The few words you have shared have been easy and fun, so it’s only natural that if your instinct is to want to be around him a little longer, you’d invite him in right? You weren’t really expecting him to accept your answer to his question.

“Where to then?”

You thought for a moment when he asked that. You don’t go to clubs or bars anymore, most places would have been closing within the hour, and it’s not like you didn’t eat to peak fullness during the family reunion so having a late dinner with him was out of the question too. You answered him so easily, and he accepted in a way that seemed just as natural to him.

“We could just hang out at my place, I’ve got plenty of streaming services, a gaming system, and wine.”

“Sounds good.”

It was so easy to become friends with him, and now with him following you up to your apartment, the typical awkwardness that should come with this type of thing isn’t swarming your mind at all. He’s even making small talk about the building itself after parking in your parking spot.

“This building is way nicer than mine, you got a door code and everything just to get in.”

“Wasn’t always like this. Being a single woman in a city like this calls for safety measures though.”

A little box in his head checks out. He didn’t even have to ask if you’re single, because he already assumed you were with the way you so easily invited him over.

By the time you get to your door with him, he’s polite when he walks in and takes off his shoes. Polite in the way he looks around and studies your space, even polite in the way he walks into the living room and invites himself onto your couch and grabs your remote.

“I was going to say make yourself comfortable but–”

“Well, would you prefer I sit on your floor?” He shoots back with a sarcastic tone in his voice. “Would you prefer I start digging through your cabinets for snacks? Would you prefer–”

“You’re so much more talkative when I’m not trying to buy something from you.” You comment with a laugh, dipping into the kitchen for two glasses and that cheap bottle of wine.

“Speaking of, do you actually use that thing and like it? I mean, I see some weird purchases but that specific one is super popular with the fetish groups.”

For the first time, you feel heat rise to your cheeks. You should have known that the sex toy would be a point of conversation, considering the first time you ever met was buying it.

“Yes, I use it. I’m surprised you find it shocking considering it’s literally your job to know what people like in terms of getting off.”

He smiles at that, because you’re damn right he knows. Most of the time he would prefer not to know, but he always did wonder if, on the off chance, he ended up hooking up with a customer he’d have some prior knowledge of how they like it based on toys alone.

“You know, no one buys toys on a Monday at nine in the morning.”

“I buy toys at nine in the morning on a Monday,” You chuckle, carrying the two glasses and wine into the living room and plopping down next to him. “Why does that matter? I’m sure you make your quotas even on the slow days considering how hard you were trying to up-sell me.”

He shrugs as he watches you pour him a glass.

“It’s easy to up-sell when you know people’s kinks after a few purchases. I do that to everyone just to gauge what they need so if they come back I can make more offers.”

“A true salesman.” You laugh with a pitied voice. “What would you say my kink is?”

He studies you, looking you up and down without shame and thinking hard about your single purchase.

“Well, considering that specific item is, again, usually looked at by a specific type of person or couple, I’d say–”

“Wrong.” You interrupt before he even tries to make a guess. “I don’t have a kink, I just have a sex drive.”

You take a sip at his silence of being beaten to the punch, and then he takes his own thoughtful sip.

“Okay then, What do you think my kink is?” He asks slyly, cup still against his lips as he sips again.

“Wha–” You narrow your eyes. “Hell if I know, you probably don’t even have sex after being in a hyper-sexualized space like that for hours on end.”

“Wrong.” He pokes his tongue into his cheek and looks away from you with another casual chuckle.

“Are you telling me you have a pocket pussy or like, a buttplug or something?”

“Three pocket pussies, actually.”

You don’t know why you’re shocked. For some reason his sex toys becoming the focus makes you feel more shy than your own being the focus.

“I bet you named them.”

“Pocket 1, Butthole 1, and Jessica.”

“Jessca?!”

He nods in a matter-of-fact tone with a proud smile.

You feel comfortable around him, never having a friend who openly talks to you about these things without any type of awkwardness. It’s the fact that he’s a man too. Usually they think with their dicks and he seems to have no qualms in admitting that it’s something he may do from time to time too.

You imagine he needs this type of personality to work such a job though, being casual about sex can be so difficult for your average joe because for some reason, it is embarrassing. It’s hard to talk about even to sex-shop employees. You like to think he’s probably someone who makes others feel comfortable about their sexual habits though, because you feel comfortable.

“I’m lying by the way.” He cuts through your thoughts, “I only have two.”

You nod energetically.

“Jesse and James.”

“Oh my god, how did you know that?”

You narrow your eyes again. He’s gotta be a fucking nerd to get the reference, even if everyone knows what pokemon is.

“So the pussy is Jesse, and the asshole is James.”

He nods slowly, acting surprised before smirking yet again.

“Actually, I only have one but I’ve experimented with other things that come through the door. Might as well, right?”

“And yet, you’re shocked about my single dildo purchase without knowing of my other items of interest? I could have just been trying something new too, y’know.”

Another sip of wine, and another glance away from him.

“No one buys that as a first time experience.” He shoots back.

“Okay, enough about my dildo, I actually have a question about something you might have in stock but I’ve kind of been too embarrassed to ask until now.”

He nods, his personality shifting only slightly into that as the manager of the sex-shop.

“Shoot.”

“Do you guys have like,” you pause, unsure of why you’re even trying to ask. Again, it’s not like masturbation is embarrassing, nor is the purchasing of toys. Asking for a specific item is a bit too intimate to you though, so you usually just buy those things online. “Okay hear me out.”

“Tentacles? Furry buttplugs with tails attached? Bondage rope? Paddles?”

“No…” You pause at his spewing of different types of toys. “I know you have all of that.”

He pauses, unsure of what could be so embarrassing.

“Do you guys have sex dolls for women? You know, like, just a dude torso with a normal length and girth?”

Jihoon fucking snorts. How mundane. Unfortunately for you though, Nope.

“Nah, the owner tries to cater more towards men and fetish stuff. We’ve got women sex dolls but he’s never really even mentioned just like…a dildo attached to some sort of form that is shaped like a person.”

You shrug.

“Guess sticking it to the wall is all I can do for now then. But like,” You pause, realizing that you’re actually going into detail at this point, which might be a little uncomfortable for him? Maybe? “It’s really annoying to have it sticking to the floor, and you’re like, riding it and it just pops off and stabs your thigh slipping out mid-orgasm.”

He snorts again, this time unable to stop laughing at the image of whatever orgasm instilled the frustration in you to even mention that happening. He tries to stifle his laughter with the last sip of his wine before choking it down and pushing his glass at you for more.

“Noted,” He snorts, nodding his head and almost hiding his face from you. “I’ll tell the boss we need male sex dolls so the women don’t get thigh fucked mid-orgasm.”

You glare.

“Dude, no, because it actually hurt.”

“Maybe you should slow down next time so the full force of your…” he pauses, realizing how sexual the image in his head is of you right now.

“Okay, wait. I’m sorry, is this conversation too much right now?” You ask, looking him up and down and giving him a new glass of wine. “You’re blushing.”

He tries to play it off.

“As if you could make me blush.” He laughs at you, downing half of his glass in one go. “To make up for our lack of product though, and if you don’t tell anyone, I’ll give you a discount on your next purchase just for embarrassing yourself like that just now.”

“Oh, I was supposed to be embarrassed?” You counter, laughing along with him as you actually start to look at him.

You noticed that he was handsome before. Normally employees of shops like those are nonchalant normal people, or strange old men who try to impose their kinks onto you. Jihoon though. Jihoon. Hmm, how to explain him?

With his messy hair that covers his eyes every time he whips his head toward you in a laugh, with his wide smile and pretty eyes. He may not be the tallest man you’ve ever looked at like this but damn is he thick. Like his thighs. Damn, the thighs. Even him now compared to him when he was catering for your family, he’s so much more handsome.

His shoulders are broad, and he’s just… You don’t even know how to explain to yourself the attraction you have toward him at this moment. Handsome is one thing, and you would have continued calling him that if it weren’t for the fact that he’s laughing with you on your couch about a ruined orgasm.

“You know, Jihoon,” You start, looking into your glass and swirling the liquid inside, then you look up again and make eye contact. “I’m really not usually this forward but like,”

His brain stops for a moment at the serious tone in your voice, his expression softens and you can tell he’s listening.

“I know masturbation and stuff is normal, and like, you see and talk about these things all the time but I never really talk about it to other people, they always get weird about it.”

“Yeah, I guess that’s true. I can’t say this is the most normal hang out I've ever had. Usually we talk about our favorite movies or books or something.”

You wave him off.

“Yeah, that’s a good point. We could talk about our favorite movies but I find myself, um–” You stop for a second.

“Is talking about it making you realize that it’s uncomfortable?”

“No, the opposite actually.” You laugh, now actually feeling embarrassed. “I keep thinking about you mentioning the other things you’ve bought and experimented with.”

“Oh? You’re curious?” He laughs, now feeling a bit shy himself because he’s pretty sure that’s you asking him to put images in your head. “I mean I could go into detail but it actually might be too-telling right now.”

You nod, unsure of why you even suggested.

“Maybe next time?” You change the subject with a smile, one that does seem slightly disappointed.

“There’s a next time?” He smiles, setting his glass down on your table and shifting toward you.

“I don’t see why not? I’m having fun, plus you offered me a discount.”

He nods, looking around the room and checking the time.

“I should probably head out then? We’ve both had a long day.”

You nod back to him, feeling a bit sad.

“When are you free next?” You ask, grabbing your phone in a way that seems a bit too excited. “Can you give me your number?”

He obliges, exchanging phone numbers and promising to contact you with his next free day or night to hang out.

Just as he goes to leave though, for some reason both of you feel as though the satisfaction of this hang out wasn’t reaching full potential.

“Hey, um,” He stops before he puts his shoes back on. “Would it be too forward to say I’m not tired and wouldn’t mind–”

“Staying for a bit longer?” You finish his sentence for him, patting the couch as if that was also on your mind.

He doesn’t even respond, and instead makes his way back onto the couch where the cushion is still warm, unable to help that fluttering feeling in his chest.

It's almost midnight by the time he offers to leave again, and yet, he stays at your clear disappointment of the offer. Another hour later, the two of you are sitting contently and pretending to watch some shitty tv show in comfortable silence.

“We should say something.” He blurts, mid episode.

“What do you mean?”

He turns toward you.

“We should talk about this.” He motions at the space between the two of you.

You’re silent while you try to build up the confidence to meet him half-way again.

“You can correct me if you’re not interested but I actually really would like it if you kissed me or something.” He adds as you continue to process what he seems to be getting at.

You’re taken aback by his forwardness, and instantly you knew he didn’t communicate this earlier for your own sake. Thankfully, you’ve tried to make it easy for him to read you and he ate it up like his favorite book. The content feeling between the two of you was buzzing up to this point. Very loudly in your brain where you were thinking of how to kiss him before the night is up. Even as just a “thank you” if he were to turn away from it.

“Oh yeah?” You ask, tilting your head and seeing him scoot closer. “Kiss you, or something?”

He nods his head, looking at you without much issue and searching for a reaction.

“Are you interested in me like that, in any way?” He asks, looking for confirmation.

“Oh, most definitely.”

The smile that spreads across his face is one that you can argue will be unforgettable. It’s an expression you hope to bring to every person in your life, one that seems to express nothing but relief, excitement, and maybe even a hint of bashfulness.

“You thought I'd invite you inside without being interested?” You smile at him, feeling a little bit fuzzy in the head at the admittance.

“I thought you were just being nice, or like, just interested in friendship,” He rambles on, stopping himself short to give more context to that statement. “I mean, it would be fine if this was all for friendship and I'm happy with that too but I can admit to coming into your apartment with maybe, uh, a small crush.”

“I can admit to inviting you in with a small crush, maybe.”

“Maybe.”

“Are we being too forward?” You ask, emphasizing the repetitive way that word seems to appear. “Even though you’re in my apartment at one in the morning and both of us are giving any and every excuse to keep you here?”

He smiles this time in a way that appears to be self-soothing, and you can imagine you are too. It’s always nerve-wracking to walk on eggshells with another person, the threat of wondering if you'll fall alone or fall with them into a new version of partnership.

You don’t think about the lack of knowing him past a purchase, a quick conversation at a family reunion, or the past several hours he’s huddled up with you on this couch. You simply don’t think it’s strange at this point. After all, you’ve met people online and invited them over without much more than a name, age, and quick conversation about what they want sexually. How is this worse? How is this strange?

“You’re right. Maybe we should stop being so polite when the reality of it is that I’ve been imagining what you’ve done with that toy since the day you bought it.”

Okay, maybe that was too forward but all is lost now as your image of him changes drastically within the mere seconds it took him to say that, not in a bad way either. Again, of course he’s comfortable admitting it, the dude stares at dicks and holes all day. But now he’s staring at you, and talking directly to you.

Your silence makes him shift a bit, shaking his head apologetically.

“Found the boundary, got it.” He shames himself with a timid voice, looking away from you and back to the tv with a hint of embarrassment. “I’m not lying though.” He adds after a few more minutes of your silence.

“Not much of a boundary if I admit that I was blatantly asking you earlier what you’ve done to experiment with your toys.”

“Aha! So I was right in thinking you were straight up asking for mind-porn of me?!” He feels instantly comfortable again, turning his entire body toward you as he folds up one of his legs to sit on with a little bounce.

“Maybe, but what do you mean you’ve been imagining since I bought it? You barely made eye contact with me that day.”

“Oh, I was checking you out the whole time you shopped. Imagine my face when I knew exactly what toy you were reaching for.”

You shove him by the shoulder with a laugh, realizing that this is the first bodily contact you’ve ever had with him, but he actually leans into your shove rather than out of it. Meaning, he barely budges.

“If I looked you in the eye at the register, you would have thought I was some pervert.”

“You are a pervert. You said it had, what? Twelve other colors?”

He shrugs with a pained smile at how cringe he must have sounded to you.

“You seemed more like a sparkly pink girl rather than a normal flesh tone girl. Then again, this was before I knew you were looking for a literal male sex doll for probably super normal pretend-sex.”

You shove him again, your laugh coming out more forced now at the way he jokes with you. Once again, he doesn’t budge. In fact, he’s leaning in closer.

“Now hold on, you didn’t mention anything about one having glitter in it.” You joke, wiggling your brows.

“You trying to fuck a man or a magic unicorn?” He laughs yet again, all of it coming out more forced as the two of you drag out information just to hear the dirty words in a voice you’re only just realizing you like far too much.

“A man.” You respond, this time not laughing, looking him dead in the eye and trying to pretend you don’t notice how close the two of you have gotten. “Why else would I go for more human skin tones?”

“Fuck if I know, I haven’t met a single man who has vibration settings or rolling beads though.”

You snort.

“Shame…but also, why do you think I’m on the hunt for the most mundane sex toy a woman can buy now? The rolling beads almost had me passing out.”

“Was it too much?” He asks seriously, hoping to god it was.

“A little bit, yeah.”

“I can imagine you want something to feel real after that.”

For some reason, his words hit you straight in the gut. Your stomach drops as your attraction heightens, and suddenly you’re just staring at him as you respond.

“I can imagine so, yeah.”

He stares back, almost no space between the two of you as the banter only brought you both mentally and physically as close as possible without becoming twisted together.

“When was the last time you felt something real?” He asks against his better judgment, wondering if you’re on the same page with him. Wondering if all this banter was leading to somewhere or nowhere. Because he could have sworn admitting to wanting you to kiss him, and you’ve yet to do so.

“A month and a half.” You respond dryly, suddenly needing something to drink.

He glances down at your neck when you swallow around your words, then stares at your lips before breathing in a sigh. One that was supposed to relieve the tension in this moment, but only building it more because he knows you see him do it. He knows you see him wet his bottom lip too.

“Are you going to kiss me, or are you planning to wait another month and a half to get what you want?” He continues on his streak of boldness as if to distract you from noticing the sexual tension, feeling his heart skip beats at the intensity of the moment.

“It’s not like we have anything better to do.” You start, leaning in and still looking straight into his eyes.

“Are you suggesting that I’m boring?” He narrows his eyes as he feels your breath against his lips, still sweet from the wine that did close to nothing in terms of altering the brain. The two of you are totally planted into reality, if anything, a little drunk on the other.

“Not at all.” You adjust your words from earlier, there, just hovering over his lips. “I’m just saying that nothing is more interesting than kissing you right now.”

Oh, the fluttering in his belly is so fucking intense right now. No eighteen inch alien tentacle dildo on a shelf could scare him as much as you do at this moment. Intimidatingly outspoken and aware of your wants and needs. His eyelashes flutter just like his stomach does, closing them slowly until he can feel your lips on his.

Your stomach, on the other hand, has been doing flips since the first instance he admitted to wanting to stay. All of the tension, all of the comfortable silence, all of the glances, the smiles, the laughing, all of it was leading up to this. The moment your lips hit his, they feel much like you imagined they would.

Soft, plush, warm. The thin lipped grins he’s given you all fucking day now laying flat against your own lips, no longer grinning, now just wanting. And he’s gentle, so fucking gentle with it. Never has a man asked you to kiss him. Usually they close the gap to try and swoon you. It appears you’re both being swooned by each other at the moment though, and his soft kiss only pulls back momentarily before he leans forward, closer.

The third touch, save for you shoving him, his lips on yours, and now…his hand on your cheek. Caressing so gently as he deepens the kiss with ease. The heat rises up and through your skin at the simple touch. You think he must feel it with the way he chuckles into the kiss and starts peppering them against your lips over and over again. A split second between each lay of his lips, and then another solid kiss. One where you finally start moving yours too.

It’s slow and languid in the way he kisses you like this, barely even darting his tongue out but focusing more on your cheek against his palm. He can feel your jaw move as you kiss and can’t help but love what’s happening, and when you’re the one to lick against his lower lip, he falls in so easily.

That little movement from you, that little feeling of your tongue experimentally prodding his lips open releases the last bit of tension holding him back. He pulls back to look at you and you’re not backing down even slightly.

“Does this feel more real for you?” He asks in a snide way, swiping your bottom lip with his thumb of the glistening saliva before tilting his head with a smile.

You very nearly roll your eyes at him for that. And by very nearly, you do roll your eyes at him and can’t help but smile yet again.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” He says, palm still against your cheek, tips of his fingers toying with the baby hairs on your hair-line. “because I can imagine that the toy couldn’t ki-”

You shoot forward to kiss him again, only just realizing how awkward the positioning is considering neither of you were probably expecting more than a first kiss.

He laughs into it, knowing you were silencing him of something that could arguably be the most cringe-worthy thing he can say after kissing you. His laughs start to stifle though, as you press forward and somehow manage to have his back against the seat of the couch and you planting yourself on top of him.

“Can you shut up about the toy now? I thought we got past that,” You argue as you pull back, your cheek already missing the feeling of his palm against it. “You can’t just act like this and then say some dumb shit like that.”

You’re joking, he knows it. If anything, you’re complimenting him right now and he eats it the fuck up as he stares up at you.

“Was I wrong though? Can it do this for you?”

You take a moment to look at him, realizing that this is the man who you just kissed. With his hair a mess and fanned out onto the cushions, strands falling in front of his eyes, but mostly swept back and exposing the entirety of his forehead to you.

You reach forward and brush a strand from his eyes.

“Actually, say what you want.” You correct yourself and manage to ignore his question.

“Why the sudden change of heart?” He half-chuckles as he brings his hands up to set against your waist, hoping you don’t pull out of the intimate position the two of you are in.

“I don’t know, I was just looking at you and thought it was stupid for me to try to argue with you right now.”

“Why’s that?” He prods for more compliments, feeling himself twitch at the way you look hovering over him.

“Are you trying to argue right now?” You tilt your head, adjusting yourself now to sit directly on his thighs and lay forward, both hands cushioning your chin on his chest as you straddle him.

“Would it be so wrong to admit that you’re fun when you argue with me?”

You can feel him breathe under you, nearly rocking you further and further into whatever headspace Jihoon seems to put you in. It’s too comfortable, and it almost feels as though you’ve been with him for years now. You barely know him, yet you’re lying on him as if you got married two years ago. Insane how this works. How the heart works, or the brain, or whatever drives the arousal you’re feeling right now.

“Will you argue if I ask to show you my room?” You start, lifting back up and away from his chest, now scooting forward a bit. You don’t dare sit on it yet, but you very much would like to if he were to suggest not moving at all from this couch. “My bed.”

He stutters and quickly quiets his excited words, replacing his voice with a nod and a sharp inhale.

“Hah! Telling me to argue and instantly buckling the second I mention my bed.” You laugh, pulling yourself up and sauntering out of his view.

He stares at the ceiling for a moment, in a daze over just how much he likes you. He wonders, would you be shocked to know he hasn’t had sex in much longer compared to you? One and a half months for you? That’s nothing to him. He’s been besties with his right hand for at least six months by now. Trust him when he says that it truly was difficult to not turn into a hormonal idiot when he saw you in the shop that day.

Finally, he shakes himself out of the spaced out horny brain staring at your ceiling and stands to his feet. He’s quick to adjust the bulge in his jeans, uncomfortably shaking his leg before looking toward where you walked off to.

“Um.” He stops realizing you were watching him, looking directly at the spot he just adjusted. “I mean,” He tries to start again, adjusting again as he feels it slowly move out from its tucked place. “Listen,”

“No, I get it.” You say, snickering at his embarrassment as if he somehow doesn’t know you were suggesting at least some foreplay by moving to your room.

“Of course you do,” He drops his head, now blatantly shoving his hands down his pants to adjust before looking back up and taking a step forward. “You’re the one who sat on me like that.”

“Please, I didn’t even sit on it.”

“Didn’t need to.” He shrugs, now coming up to you and waiting for you to guide him through your space and into your room.

Once the two of you get there, him not even attempting to hide that he is very aroused at this moment, you’re very quick to turn to face him once he comes inside.

“We are on the same page, right?” You ask, looking at his lips and the way they still look so kissable.

“As far as I know, with all things considered.” He responds, looking down at himself and how pathetic he must seem in getting so aroused by nothing more than a kiss and a position change.

You smile, reaching for his hand and watching him tumble forward to you. Now standing mere inches in front of you.

“Do you want to see it?” You ask, a cheeky smirk on your face as you turn away from him and run to your bedside table.

He had no idea what the fuck you were referring to until he saw it. There, in all of its non-human glory. Jihoon tics his tongue, curiously straining his neck out to peek at what else is in your drawer as he walks closer.

You make no attempt to close the drawer and instead pull out another one, and another one, another one.

“If you keep pulling out toys I’ll start to think you were lying in saying you wanted to feel something more, um–”

“Real?” You say, turning from your presented line-up of toys to look at him.

He nods, gazing over the toys, four dildos all far bigger than he is.

“I can admit that men can’t vibrate, nor do they have those little rotating beats but,” You chuckle at the conversation, scooping the toys up quicker than you laid them out and tossing them back into the drawer. “They’re not warm, or attached to someone that can kiss me. They’re also not witty.”

You study his expression.

“They don’t make me laugh before getting me off.” You continue, wondering if you may actually be too forward about this now.

He’s rendered a bit speechless, which is rare for him in any given situation. He always has a quick response, not at this moment though as he looks at you. He wonders if you pity that obvious act of self-doubt upon seeing your toys.

“They’re not attached to you.” You add, this time stifling your chuckle, because it’s a pretty funny conversation if you look at it from the outside but you can imagine he must be feeling some type of way to be so quiet.

He thinks hard about it, knowing damn well where this was leading and pushing for it himself. Hearing you now though, so confidently say these things, all doubt erases from his mind.

“Before we do anything,” he starts, his shaky voice coming out more confident as he continues. “Is this just a hook-up to you or are you feeling the way I’m feeling right now?”

You look at him with a question in your eyes. He was kind of shocked that you didn’t finish for him this time, actually.

“Like, you know if we do this, I’m going to be calling to take you out to dinner at some point unless you say you don’t want me to, right?”

You hadn’t thought of anything past him since you’ve gotten here. You didn’t think about anything more than hanging out with him, and now, kissing him, and maybe you know, feeling him. For some reason though, despite the lack of sex you’ve had lately, him saying that only arouses you more. It’s been so long since you’ve intended to sleep with someone and have them want to stick around after. Some of the people you’ve been with didn’t even ask for your number. Is this what adult relationships are actually like?

“As in, you’d want to see where this goes in the–”

“Future, yes. I’m not just going to fuck you and pretend I didn’t when I see you again.”

Shockingly, that’s a first for you and you like the feeling it gives you. Plus, him implying that he’s about to, or very willing to, fuck you sends a wave of fondness through you.

“Alright. Let’s not call it a hook up then.” You say, the playful arousal from before stifling out at the idea of being intimate with someone who is making you aware that you’ll see him again, now being replaced with…feelings? Arousal with feelings?

“What should we call it?”

“A date?” You say back immediately, sitting on your bed and finally closing your bedside drawer.

“Oh, you fuck on the first date?”

You laugh at how quickly his wit comes back, especially with the way he crowds up and stands in front of you.

“With you? I guess I do.” You smile wide for him, feeling the tension bleed away and replace itself again with the arousal of him standing and looking down at you.

“How did we not meet earlier?” He asks, leaning down a bit as if to kiss you.

“Fuck if I know, I bought all of those toys at your shop.”

“Ah, right. Nine in the morning on a Monday. I don’t usually work mornings.”

“Guess I got lucky last time then.”

“I guess you did.” He adds like a period to a sentence, finally kissing you again and making no effort to hide the fact that he’s attempting to lay you down much like you did to him before.

You let him, falling back on your bed and feeling him nudge your legs to spread. Again, you let him, feeling your heart begin to race with excitement in the way he kisses you now versus how he did it earlier.

There is clear intent behind it this time, as he positions himself between your legs. Your heart only races faster when one of his hands slides down your shoulder and he tangles his fingers with yours. It’s all very intimate to be coming from a man you officially met today, but you really do feel lucky.

Lucky that he works two jobs, lucky that your family throws lame ass reunions every five years, lucky that you had your lights on during a sunny sunday afternoon, lucky that your battery died.

It’s so normal already to smile into the kiss and feel giddy inside. Never have you smiled into a kiss save for laughing when a leg cramp happens mid-fuck. You can’t believe how much you’ve smiled and laughed today, and you can’t believe he’s making you react this way just by holding your fucking hand and kissing you this way.

He laughs when you react though, probably feeling at ease on your bed with you under him, squeezing his fingers tightly each time he licks against your tongue. And when he pulls back to breathe, you just look at him and the way his fringe hangs. He looks so pretty at this angle, even when he’s moving slowly, even when his other hand remains planted beside your head to hold his weight from falling onto you.

It’s not been since highschool that you’ve laid with someone simply making out, fully clothed, giggling. You’re unsure of how he’s pulled this out of you, because usually when a man is on top of you, you’re already trying to get his clothes off. But this? This is something that you want to last. You want it to be slower than a usual fuck, because you like when he’s here with you. Whether on top of you or not, there was a reason he’s stayed this late already and you already know it wasn’t solely to fuck you.

“Did you expect to be on top of me someday?” You ask between kisses, and he takes that as an invitation to laugh against your neck and tickle your cheek with his messy hair.

“Expect it? No,” He starts, leaving a kiss just under your ear before lowering his lips to the collar of your shirt and kissing there too. “Hoped I could, though.”

Your heart swells up at that. You realized he must have meant it when he admitted to having a small crush on you. Only now do you realize that curiosity that brought you back up to the food-table during the reunion may have been the start of a crush on your end too.

You don’t say anything more after that and instead fall into the feeling of his lips kissing alone your collar. For some reason the sensation of his lips pushing the fabric out of the way so he can kiss new exposed skin makes you feel incredibly wanted. Maybe it’s the pace, or maybe it’s just because you really really like him, and want him to want you.

“Do you want to take it off?” You ask after a few more of his kisses, wanting to control yourself but also very much wanting to feel his lips everywhere else too.

You can feel him nod in the form of his hair tickling your cheek more. But he doesn’t move from that spot at first, continuing to kiss you the same way and in the same places. You let him, up until he finally sighs and pulls back.

Looking at him now, even compared to a few moments ago, he looks so fucking pretty. His eyes are now soft, you can almost see the lines from where he’s smiled for you all day at the creases of them. His lips, looking more kissable than they did the past two times you thought they looked as kissable as they ever could. His eyebrows, showing no signs of tension.

You’re staring and you’re not intending to hide it. Even as he lifts your shirt from your waist and starts to pull it up. You barely budge as you stare, and stare, until you can’t because he’s trying to pull your shirt over you head.

“If you’d stop staring for two seconds maybe I could get this off of you, yeah?” He laughs, finally pulling it off when you arch your back and then prop yourself up slightly with your hands. “There.”

He sighs when he says it, going silent and almost frozen at the image of your nearly-naked torso. You watch him stare now, a smirk forming all too quickly.

“Now look who’s staring.” You chuckle, noting that his eyes still don’t leave the newly exposed skin or the fabric of your bra.

“Yeah, I am.” He admits, wetting his lower lip again and then flicking his eyes to you. “Am I not supposed to?”

Suddenly, that eye contact makes you feel shy. You’re more naked than he is, despite mostly being dressed still.

“You know,” you start, avoiding his intense eye contact just to get the words out. “If we just take all of our clothes off now, it would probably be easier.”

He lets out a breathy chuckle at you but nods, already lifting his shirt off and going for his zipper and button.

“There’s no rush, but if you’d prefer we do,” He scoots back and away from you, standing to his feet to shove his jeans down his legs. “I don’t mind.”

You watch him undress and lose all ability to act on your own for a solid thirty seconds before you finally start panic-shimming the rest of your clothing off. Save for bra and panties, and he, now standing there clad in only a pair of form-fitting briefs.

You’re glad he isn’t as shy as you at this moment though, or rather, he appears to be entirely infatuated with your body and doesn’t look away from it for even a moment to feel embarrassed himself at standing on the side of your bed nearly nude.

“No rush?” You ask, when he finally trails his eyes up to you and takes his position between your legs from earlier. Except now, you can see his biceps and the way they flex, now, you can feel the immense amount of warmth radiating from him. Now, his hair is even more of a mess.

“I can try,” He says quietly, balancing on on hand and lowering his lips to yours once more, trying to ignore how dangerously close his length is to bumping against your pussy. “No promises now, though.”

You laugh, wondering where he lost his self control within that short span of time where you got undressed. He cuts your laugh off mid-way though, now kissing you again and moving his hand up and down your waist. It tickles and causes goosebumps to form all over you, to the point that you can’t help but sigh into his kiss.

He continues, still holding his hips back from grinding against you, kissing you as good as he can until trailing back to your neck again.

It’s not until you run your fingers through his hair that he sighs himself. That relief and heavenly feeling of your fingers scraping the back of his neck— Such a simple touch can literally send him straight to hell at this point and he wouldn’t care a single bit as long as it’s from you and your hands.

He lowers himself more, just to prevent his hips from intruding into this moment only to lock his lips onto the mound of your breast, other hand lowering so he can lay down and push your bra to the side a bit.

The cold air that hits your nipple is short-lived when you feel him immediately suck it into his mouth with a deep breath. You continue to scratch through his hair, now using your other hand to nearly hug his head in place as you feel the sensations shoot straight between your legs. Each flick of his tongue sends signals to your brain to go! go! go! But much like him, you hold back, even though your legs still manage to squeeze his body between yours in an attempt to find the friction he isn’t yet offering.

He continues this for a few minutes, and then works his fingers under the bra on the other side of your chest before switching his lips to that one. Perking them up so perfectly that he can graze his teeth against either nipple and feel your legs react to it. All of it is turning him on beyond belief, it’s dangerously attractive to him now too, to know that you have several toys that could have already gotten you off by now, but you choose this. You choose his lips playing with your tits, and your legs doing an amazing job of showing him your lack of control.

His lips continue their work, up until he’s trailing further and further down, making your sighs hitch higher and higher in pitch. He kisses your ribs, just above your belly button, then just below your belly button before leaning back.

There, he looks directly at the seat of your panties and smiles at the wet spot there. He plants a kiss right there before climbing back up and caressing your cheek again.

“You’re wet.” He comments in a huskier voice than he normally uses toward you, balancing yet again on his other arm.

Before you can actually respond, his hand on your cheek disappears and is instantly cupping your entire pussy.

You hitch out a sigh and look at him with a smile.

“Obviously.” You say back, rolling your eyes playfully before unintentionally bucking your hips into the pressure his palm offers against your clit.

“Cute too.” He adds, lifting his palm to run his fingers up the wet spot on your panties before pressing in slightly.

You can feel them stick to you uncomfortably, but it still feels so fucking good. Any amount of touching from him feels good though.

“And you’re teasing me.” You argue, looking away from his playful smirk as he plays with the wet fabric against his fingers.

“Just ask. I’m not teasing you if you're not telling me what you want.”

You shoot your eyes back to him, a mixture of curiosity and shock in your eyes. It’s true though, you are a little shocked. Most men really just do what they want, and so do you. Never have you been asked what you want.

Your eyes trail down as far as they can, what his hand is doing is mostly hidden between your legs but you focus entirely on the way his arms flex as his fingers travel up and down your panties.

“You want me to ask?” You question, hips bucking up again unintentionally.

“Not so much ask, but like, tell me what you want.”

He nods to himself as he says it, licking his bottom lip and pressing the fabric of your panties in yet again.

It’s not that he doesn’t want to do what he wants right now though, definitely not. He just figures you know your body far better than he does, and he’d rather not make assumptions and embarrass himself when you could just ask him or better, guide him. Who is he to assume you want his fingers right now anyway?

“I’ve never…” You start, swallowing your words as your brain goes back to focusing on his fingers momentarily. “I haven’t–”

He knows what you’re trying to say, so he attempts to make it a bit easier for you.

“Do you want me to pull your panties to the side?”

You sigh with a nod, looking at him and allowing him to guide you through telling him what you want.

“Do you want me to touch you?”

You nod again, pushing your head back against the mattress out of frustration that you, for some reason, can’t find the confidence to just tell him.

He listens to your body though, more than your weak nods and frustrated sighs. The way your legs shake when he asks, the way you react to the air hitting your folds when he does push your panties to the side. He can’t bare to look down yet though, because he knows for a fact that if he were to pull back and look at you in full, he’d no longer be asking you what you want. He’d be embarrassing for sure.

You can feel his fingers now sliding through your folds though, bare pussy out and on display but not yet being looked at, only being felt. And arguably, all you can do right now is feel too, as he leans forward to kiss you in this silent moment.

His fingers continue to explore as he kisses you, collecting all of your arousal and swirling it around your clit before sliding back down and prodding at your entrance. You make a sound at that, kissing his a little harder than before when he lets out a hum.

“Hm?” He hums against your lips, and you nod to him.

There, he dips a finger in only slightly. Your arms reach around his neck at the feeling and pull him closer to you. To the point that you can feel him struggle to angle his hands right to slide in deeper, but you pay no mind to it. At least not until you kiss the fucking daylights out of him.

That, you do. Kissing him with full-force and making a show of how turned on you are for him. He feels it though, with or without your kiss bruising him. The wetness on the tip of his finger only becomes wetter, and when you release your grip around his neck, he still doesn’t leave the kiss.

He goes back to gently kissing you, focusing more on your fingers than what his tongue is doing. He slides that same finger in all the way now, feeling your walls clench almost instantly and beg for more. Chuckling at the feeling, he fucks his finger into you experimentally before pulling them out and adjusting two fingers at your entrance.

“Hm?” He hums again, and you nod again.

So, two fingers slide in and you’re releasing a soft moan against his lips. Already out of breath from focusing so hard on how he feels when he touches you. Your lips fall slack just to catch that lost breath, and he doesn’t argue, going right back to that spot on your neck to kiss as he picks up rhythm with his fingers. Effectively fucking you open with them.

You hate to say you didn’t pay much attention to his hands until now. Having not noticed how deep just those two digits reach inside of you, and good fucking lord does he know how to use them too. Curling them up at just the right moment to have you legs shaking.

Never have your legs fucking shook for a man. This only happens with the g-spot stimulating toys. God, you open your eyes to look at the ceiling in thought, and it has you wondering if he even knows he’s doing it.

“Keep doing that–” you urge him, and he hums at you finally at least trying to tell him what you want.

He finally lifts from your neck to look at you, now placing his weight back on that one free arm that had been toying with the ends of your hair this entire time, and he’s fucking floored. Even if he pictured you before with those toys, none of those images came close to this. And it’s just his fingers? No where near the size of your toys, no where near as expensive, or warm…or alive.

Oh. You want to feel someone who wants you.

“I’ll do anything you want.” He says, doing exactly as you asked except a little faster now, still hitting that spot inside of you so perfectly that you’re moaning out now.

He tunes in entirely to the sounds you’re making, the faces you’re making, and the way your pussy clenches around just those two fingers. He is aching at this point, pulling back from hovering over you to sit now between your legs, fingers still keeping pace, and sliding his other hand down his briefs.

You don’t notice at first, too enthralled by the feeling of his curling fingers inside of you, but when you do–

“God,” You moan, rolling your eyes at the image of him out of breath, both hands working to pleasure both of you. “Come here.”

He listens, already pulling his hand away from himself but keeping his fingers in you, in a daze as he takes his original position of hovering over you.

“No, I mean, come here.” You say, looking at him as you reach between your bodies and pull his fingers out of you, then reach to grab between his legs.

He immediately moans at the feeling, his hips pressing harshly into your grip with a whine as he takes a deep breath and closes his eyes just to feel it.

“Take it out?” You continue, slowly becoming more and more comfortable telling him what you want.

Just watching him do what you ask is insanely hot. The way he pulls his cock out seems so natural to him, you suddenly imagine what he must look like all alone while getting himself off. Thankfully though, he’s not all alone right now, he’s with you, and you intend to be getting him off.

You look at him, between his legs, and then back at him once more before grabbing it again and practically pulling his hips to you by the cock. He groans all the same at it though, and only holds his breath when he feels your legs spread further and essentially press his cock between your folds and hold it there from the head.

“Grind.” You say, still holding your hand in place to keep the pressure against him, which also puts pressure against your clit when he does grind up.

You both shiver at it, and he still looks down at you, fucking smiling through his sighs of relief regarding the new sensations you’re offering.

“You’re actually fucking perfect.” He compliments, fucking his hips up and coating his cock with the dripping of your core.

Out of everything he’s ever said to you up to this point, out of everything he’s fucking done to you, that’s the one thing that has you spiralling into a world of fucking fire. It makes you feel so warm, especially with the head of his cock bumping your clit. He has barely gotten any friction and he is still calling you perfect? Sign you the fuck up, forever, actually.

“Don’t be stupid,” You start, waving him off between moans and gripping his shoulders.

He grinds up harder at your words though, now propping himself up on his elbows and grabbing your face on both sides.

“You, don’t be stupid.” He says clearly, pointing his thrusts directly at your clit and moaning only slightly as he looks at you.

You swear, at that moment he could see your entire life. Everything about you. Everything you love and hate. The way he doesn’t look through you but at you?

“You’re actually insane.” You laugh, crumbling to his pointed gaze and thrusts, your legs automatically shooting up to wrap around his waist.

He seems proud of being called insane right now. Mostly because he can come up with at least fifty reasons as to why this is anything but insanity, but he remains quiet at the feeling of your legs squeezing around him.

Such a girl was looking for mundane sex toys to have normal sex with? Lucky you, this is his fucking favorite. Plain ‘ol missionary? Check. Legs squeezing around him, almost pulling him in? Check. Looking directly at the face of the person he wants to make feel good? Check.

You barely notice his lack of control by this point, the closeness alone feels like you’re already having sex but you realize you’re entirely empty still. This is fine though, until it’s not.

When does it not become fine? When his confident moans turn to soft sighs, and you notice his arms shaking a bit to hold his weight above you, and when his eyes go dead staring at you. You can tell he’s focused entirely on the feeling between the two of you, doing nothing more than aggressive yet…weak grinds?

“Jihoon,” You say, slightly out of breath.

“Hm?” He responds half-heartedly, releasing his weight from one elbow and dropping his head between your neck and shoulder.

“Fuck me.”

It’s like you can feel the switch in his head go from losing sanity to gaining it back in an instant at those words. He felt like he was pleasuring himself against you for so long, with so much friction between your hand and his abdomen consistently pressing into it. He could have come from this, if you wanted him to anyway. It would have been an intense orgasm after working up for so long, but now?

He doesn’t even say anything, he doesn’t even move his head from between your neck and shoulder. Instead, you feel him expertly adjust his hips and press in without much trouble. He finds exactly where he belongs so fucking fast that is has you spinning and clenching immediately.

“Fuck,” He drones out with a long sigh, slowly sinking his cock into you. “You’re throbbing.”

You chuckle, because yeah. You definitely are, but so is he. You can feel his thick length spreading you open inch by inch, until he’s fully planted into and twitching. Then he doesn’t move again.

“This alone could do me in,” He chuckles against your neck, breathing in a deep sigh and attaching his teeth to your lower ear lobe. “Honestly, I can't believe I didn’t already come just from having my fingers in you.”

You’re both flattered and shocked by this comment, before you can even think to respond he’s talking again.

“You’re so tight, so wet.” He soothes himself through the feeling of your walls clenching around him, not yet wanting to move and just wanting to feel what your body does to him on its own. “It’s so hard not to move right now.

“Please,” You manage to get out, struggling to focus on just one thing with the way he’s talking and the way he sits so perfectly inside of you. “Please, move.”

And he does, instantly. Pulling out and sliding back in so easily that the slapping sound is muted entirely by the matching moan you both release. You can feel his voice vibrating against your neck, and you can imagine he might be able to feel yours through your literal pussy, because it feels like every sound, touch, and sensation is sent straight there for him to enjoy.

It doesn’t stop either. Both of you shamelessly moaning at the feeling of him snapping his hips into you at perfect speed, with a perfect voice, and a perfect hand moving up to grip your chest.

He’s practically blanketing you with his body, your legs holding him in this spot, his hair still finding a way to tickle your cheek with each thrust in. It’s so fucking much. It’s so good, and so…comfortable.

You’re comfortable. So comfortable you don’t even feel the need to rub your clit, you don’t want to chase the orgasm, you just want to feel him. And apparently, so does he.

When he lifts his head, kissing the bottom of your chin and then your lower lip, still the two of you are groaning at each deep thrust in, but he manages to talk through it, somehow.

“Don’t stop,” he says, despite you barely doing anything. “Keep doing that.” He continues as his thrusts pick up pace.

Only now do you realize that you were doing something. Without noticing, your hands were nearly tearing his back apart. Not literally, but your nails may have dug in a few times. Normally, once you notice doing that, you would stop because normally men don’t want the trace of another woman on him. Jihoon though, he’s in love with seeing remnants of you tomorrow.

Obsessed with the sting of it, loving the idea of going to his night-job tomorrow and staring at all of the toys that don’t offer you a back to hold onto like this.

You do as he asks much like he does for you, gripping him so tightly that your nails have no choice but to leave half-moon shapes on his skin. Each thrust drags your fingers up, down, up down, and with each thrust it somehow feels deeper, harder, hotter.

When he releases your chest from his other hand and puts it back to your cheek, caressing much like he has each time he’s focused on kissing you, you think you’re a fucking goner.

As expected, he kisses you at that moment and thrusts once, hard, before holding himself there.

“I’m really close,” He whispers apologetically between kisses, “tell me how to get you there with me.”

You smile when he kisses you again instead of letting you answer, but you fall into it much like he does and you opt to grab that hand on your cheek and guide it to your clit.

Instantly, he’s rubbing harsh and sloppy circles around it, and you reward him for the perfect work of his fingers yet again with your fingernails digging into his back. He softly moans at that, and you swallow it up all too easily.

Tensing your muscles, his fingers on your clit work you up so quickly that you go barely warn him of your oncoming orgasm, even as his cock sits leaking and heavy inside of you. You don’t even know how to tell him, all you can do is frantically moan out shortly.

“I’m–”

Instantly his hips are back at work, barely even thrusting but instead remaining buried into you for the most part. He pulls out an inch and slams back in, wanting your orgasm to get him off more than his own movements. And fuck, it does.

The way you clench when you reach your high, slack lips against his own, he releases at what he could argue is the best possible time. Your tenses muscles work him up perfectly, gently massaging his cock as he releases in full without too much overstimulation.

And you. You have never gotten off with a man staying mostly still inside of you. Actually, you’ve only gotten off that way with toys because nothing beats getting off while completely filly. Jihoon really is something, or, someone.

The two of you released together, and his lips fell slack just like yours did. The kissing turned to that of desperate, orgasm-fogged moans into the other’s mouth. For some reason, it was incredibly hot to you that you both reacted that way. So insanely drunk on the other that nothing felt embarrassing.

Even the way his fingers moved on your clit through your orgasm, he somehow knew when to go and when to stop.

Even now, as your orgasm tapers off, you are so blissfully aware that you want to immediately fall asleep even with him inside of you. Jihoon is polite though, and gently pulls out with a small apology of the mess.

When he looks at you, looking so sleepy under him, maybe it translates to him too and he instantly yawns but tries to be strong for both of you.

“We should clean up.”

There wasn’t even a question in your head when he slept over that night. He didn’t even hint at leaving. Nor did he hint the morning after as you groggily opened your computer for your daily work.

He did hint that he would miss you when he eventually had to go to his own house and get ready for a day at the sex-shop.

He also hinted a few times at feeling like, when he looked at you, you weren’t a brand new person in his life. Part of you wonders if that’s because maybe you want to be permanent in his life from now on.

Later that night, he came back. Bright eyes and a stinging back.

For some reason, you feel it’s safe to say that neither of you can stand being apart for too long. So yeah, maybe this is what a normal relationship is like. If, you know, you were in a relationship with him.

Ironically enough, only a few days later that relationship is established in the form of a new car battery and a bottle of lube that he bought for you.

Not that you need it. (The lube.)

#woozi smut #svt smut #seventeen smut #jihoon smut #lee jihoon smut #lee woozi smut

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lordofdestructionm · 1 year

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The not so subtle sentimentality of Mordecai Heller

With the Lackadaisy Short Film teaser trailer hitting over 800K views one line from Serafine got me thinking about a side of Mordecai that is not often discussed but is crucial to his character and may play a key part in the comics story before the end

Though it is easy for both other characters in the story and readers to see Mordecai as just a cold killer that cares more about stains on his shirt than ending multiple lives in grizzly ways (and that is true for anyone who makes the mistake of getting in the way of him completing his work) a closer look reveals that, while reserved for a short list of people, there is a strong streak of sentimentality hidden behind the buttoned down aloof professional persona he tries so hard to maintain

His Mother and Sisters

Mordecai was dealt a very bad starting hand in life. With his father dying when he and his sisters were still very young, despite his loving and hard working mother doing her best to provide for them, the family lived in poverty in the slums of New York

As a result Mordecai has to start working at a very early age and being naturally gifted with numbers he becomes a book keeper and soon enough gets drawn into running the numbers for gambling and loan sharking gangs.

All of this was done to try and make life better for his mother and his sisters. In a flashback to when he was on the run from the criminals he had been working for after being caught embezzling funds from them, his life is in danger and he needs to get out of town in a hurry and so jumps on a train in either 1920 or 1921.

Despite this he fixates on writing a letter to send to his mother in which he explains the location of his ill gotten savings and urges her to move with his sisters to cleaner better ventilated housing.

Because the money wasn’t primarily for his benefit

Mordecai clearly loved his sisters very much and they could break him out of his reserved bookish demeanor. We can see even as an adult Modecai holds the memory of his childhood with his sisters, impoverished and hard though it clearly was, very close. Close enough that thinking about them are enough to bring out his very small but very genuine smile that could not be further away from his “ice pick look”.

Atlas

The next imporant relationship in his life is with Atlas May. When on that getaway train he soon realized that cut throats from his former employers are already in the carriage waiting for their moment to pounce

Mordecai is 100% certain that he is about to get a bullet to the head and the tunnel will provide the hitmen with the perfect cover as the darkness and noise descends.

Only for a ray of light to suddenly appear

Atlas gave Mordecai the means to survive, not just by literally giving him what he needed to escape his would be murderers, but by employing him and providing a new purpose when he had nowhere else to go and no idea what to do.

Atlas being dead by the time of the main story, by design we know very little about his personality and relationships with others except for what the people who knew him have to say.

But is is very clear that Mordecai felt a deep loyalty to Atlas. It may even be speculated that he became a surrogate father figure for him, having lost his own father so young and having been moulded while working for him from the scared youth in shabby second hand clothes to a dapper professional bookkeeping bootlegger

This loyalty has not ended with Atlas’s death. He is determined to get to the bottom of the mystery of his murder. This is despite the fact it would be a much smarter move by far for the sake of both professionalism and survival to let dead former employers lie and simply carry out his new role with the Marigold gang no questions asked

Instead it is clear the entire reason he has abandoned The Lackadaisy is not, as Mitzi and the rest think, cold self interest but so he can investigate if the rival gang had any role in his mentors death

Even discussing the topic causes his cold passive exterior to crack and makes him look broken and overwhelmed

Viktor (You knew this was coming)

As anyone who has followed this account will know this is one of my (and many other fans) favourite dynamics in the series

At fist it seems there is little reason for these two to have any kind of bond. Mordecai is pretty much obsessed with good grooming, high quality tailoring, correct grammar, and tends to go on one-sided rambles when perturbed.

This clashes hard with the surly Slovak who is often unshaven, relatively casual in his attire, speaks a broken English, and hates people chattering or “noise, noise, noise” as he calls it. Indeed the two often bicker and act as if they can’t stand the other

However for whatever reason, in spite of these big differences, the big bruiser mechanic and the fussy nerdy sharp shooter are able to work very well together and soon become key weapons in Atlas’s arsenal

And in spite of their differences there is evidence, that over the course of the roughly six years they were working together before their bosses death, that these two extremely anti-social personalities actually began to form an unlikely rapport

On the one known occasion when Mordecai actually drank strong alcohol, and predictably got hilariously drunk, one of his chosen topics of conversation is his “friend” Viktor and how “great” he is (including a possibly telling comment about his large physique *cough*)

Mordecai also, despite being the type of person who you would assume would just radiate Scrooge energy, makes a point of buying Viktor a Christmas/hanukka present. Though he keeps up appearances by presenting it as another criticism of Viktor’s fashion sense

Tellingly Viktor voluntarily wears the tie for the rest of the day, something only Ivy (someone Viktor treats as a surrogate daughter) is able to get away with as well.

The two also not only work well together in a professional capacity, but seem to truly look out for each others welfare when on the job. Not only does Mordecai save Viktor from being shot while distracted, Viktor then goes out of his way to retrieve Mordecai’s pince-nez from the staircase of a burning building

While a hilarious moment as Mordecai fails to react in the “correct” way to having just survived a bloody shoot out, it also sums up his entire attitude to people, that he separates the world into those who count and those who don’t. The former are a short list

Viktor, along with the others on here, counts for Mordecai

This is made clear at his chat with Mitzi at the lunch meeting.

Mordecai may have kneecapped Viktor when he left the Lackadaisy gang, but from what we know now this was clearly an attempt to get Viktor out of harms way by forcing him to retire from bootlegging, and quite possibly to avoid Marigold putting him in a position where he would have to fight Viktor if he was told to finish off the failing speakeasy. Something he could hardly refuse if he wanted to keep investigating Atlas’s death

Mitzi seems to know Viktor is a chink in Mordecai’s armour, and of course exploits that to the fullest. When she informs him that his theft of the Lackadaisy arsenal put Viktors life in danger Mordecai’s face makes less than neutral expression

As Mitzi keeps twisting that screw Mordecai knows he is in danger of giving something away and with Asa right next to him he needs to restore his barriers.

In this case quite literally using a menu to cover his face to ensure he doesn’t slip up again

It seem to work as Asa laughs of the idea of Mordecai having a heart beneath the cold exterior (something we know is a big mistake)

Even when the attention is off him and the topic of conversation moves on his gaze remains firmly fixed down at the table.

Until Atlas lets slip some crucial information about Atlas’s last days. So much for there being “no heartstrings to tug on”

I am sure the Lackadaisy Animated Movie is going to be amazing and hopefully will only lead to ever more popularity and attention for this amazing world and its characters

#lackadaisy #lackadaisycats #tracy j butler #mordecai heller #viktor vasko #vikdecai #viktor x mordecai #asa sweet #zippy heller #rose heller #esther heller #atlas may #mitzi may #1920s #cats #calvin mcmurray #rocky rickaby #ivy pepper

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couldnt-think-of-a-funny-name · 1 year

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I love jack so so much he's perfect but tbh I do think it would've worked much more with the show if he was a destiel baby instead of lucifer's. and I'm not just saying that as a shipper or whatever I mean narratively it would've been a lot cleaner- and actually, I think it would've been super funny to no-homo them creating a baby together, like, literally all they would have to do is say "oh, when cas rebuilt dean after hell he accidentally left some grace tangled in his soul, and every time he's healed him since then it's been growing stronger until a nephilim was born". like yes the studio is homophibic etc etc but all the jokes they'd make about dean being spiritually pregnant would be very funny for me personally.

but ANYWAY, jack's story gets messy and convoluted and I think this would've been like...a simple fix. them worrying about him going dark side could be because they're worried how demon!dean and lucifer!cas affected him in development, the show LOVES bloodline drama, chuck's wanting abraham and issac 2.0 would've worked better this way, dean's storyline with him would be improved, bc rather than 'oh no I slowly but surely emotionally adopted the antichrist' like I think he would've had an easier time clocking his john-behavoir if it wasn't a question whether he was jack's dad or not. plus last time dean actively raised a kid he went to great lengths to keep the supernatural away from him, so it'd be interesting to see how he handles a kid he CANT possibly hide from this part of his life. it would make more sense why michael wanted jack as a vessel- yes obviously he wanted the nephilim power boost but also having him as part of the winchester bloodline, making him a PERFECT vessel he doesn't have to worry about burning up would add a lot. we could also use this argument for why lucifer is so interested in him if anyone actually liked that plotline in season 14 lmao. we know chuck hated cas and dean's relationship, could you imagine if he checked in and found out they made an unauthorized baby together💀 like that really would've given better context for why he hates jack so much. cas wouldn't need that whole weird brainwashing arc to wanna protect unborn jack, PLUS it could've been an interesting source of angst for him- he feels like he's failed once again, creating an abomination and putting dean in danger, but also still loves jack immensely. it'd be so good! also imagine how fucking stressed out heaven would be to find out a mini castiel is on the way. they wouldn't even wanna exploit that kid for power they'd be preemptively treating the headaches they know they're gonna get lmfao.

also. the casting directors literally put jensen and misha into a face morph app and cast the first actor they could find that matched the results. which would've made more sense if,,,,he was just Theirs. the comedy of dean and cas making a baby before either of them managed to admit their feelings to each other would be more fun then the "dude adopted a kid and pawns him off on his unwilling roommate's all the time and they eventually warm up to the kid" storyline we actually got. we also could've replaced some of the jack-dean angst from the show with "dean wants to connect more with jack but he feels shut out whenever cas is around bc he can't relate to any angel stuff so obviously jack's going to cas for help more!", which I think would be interesting!! how AWFUL dean and cas would feel that jack didn't feel safe enough to be a baby. dad!sam is still in full swing but he cares for jack right off the bat instead of trying to use him for his powers at first. lily sunder talking about how cas killed her kid bc he thought it was a nephilim and dean, who's already fully aware he's (spiritually) knocked up by cas is like 👹 inch resting cas-tee-elle tell me more. mary having a 'my baby has a baby' crisis. cas insisting jack looks nothing like him is a running joke but then at some point he explains its bc jack's 'true form' looks just like dean's soul....

ALSO- in a show where, canonically, the very first act of free will was cas falling in love with dean...the physical manifestation of that defeating chuck and taking his place as god? come ON.

#jack kline #destiel #spn #supernatural #deancas #molly mumbles

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bella-goths-wife · 1 month

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How would Pet reader and Alastor interact after he returned from his 7 year long absence?

How would Alastor and pet interact after his absence

I assume you mean in the canon au and not the alastor makes a deal with you au but if I’m wrong feel free to request again :)

I’m sorry it’s not much interacting but they don’t really meet much at this point in the story

Warnings: abuse mentioned, obsessive behaviour

After his seven year absence, alastor did try to subtly seek you out

He lingered around where he met you and expected to find you in the same position you were in seven years ago, a starving little fawn on the street who was desperate enough for shelter that you’d be willing to make a deal

But he didn’t find you, not a trace of the little doe eyed fool he had felt such a familiarity with

So he cut his losses for the meantime and decided that he would trouble one of the many souls he owned to stalk you down

So imagine his surprise when on a random afternoon he passed by angel and heard your voice from angels annoying little gadget

He asked for a closer look and there you were, the person who had been on his mind for the seven years was stood with the Vs surrounding them

You looked different though

You were cleaner and more well fed, meaning you had been able to escape the cold streets and found food

But there was a difference in your eyes as you posed with the Vs, there was a lack of something

Your eyes didn’t hold the same curiosity or passion that he knew of the girl he met several years ago who was so eager to learn more about her abilities

You looked like a candle lit flame that was running at the bottom of wick and was being drowned out and smothered by candle wax, your fire was slowly dying inside you

He demanded angel showed him everything out there that pertained to you, and angel gladly did with the small hope that maybe alastor would take enough interest in you to help you

Alastor absorbed every piece of media you were in and every sound you had created, anything that the internet held of you alastor would consume

He observed how the passion slowly died from your face and the years went on, he heard how your music which was once so alive and inventive turn into something generic and easily forgotten

In many ways he prepared himself to mourn the person he had met, he doubted that there was any of you left to mourn considering the Vs had drained your presence of its spark

Alastor felt something he hadn’t felt in a while, he felt pity for you

He heard of the horrifying things your were subjected to on a daily basis and he just couldn’t stop the sympathy from bubbling to to the service

He was no good soul owner himself, he was fairly abusive but that’s only when he had to correct behaviour

He felt overwhelming jealousy and anger at Vox over how Vox had claimed your soul before him and ruined you

Alastor could have made you into something great, something more than a pet to the rich for when they felt cruel or bored

Alastor was almost ready to give up on you and see you as a failed project, but something stopped him

angel had mentioned your acts of kindness towards him and alastor had to hear of your very intriguing presence from Charlie, so he decided to test you before giving up to see if you were worth more effort

He followed you for weeks on end with his shadows, and he saw many things

He saw how your cunning side could slip out when you saw an opportunity to escape a punishment and how manipulative you could be

He also saw how your anger had gotten the best of you on many occasions and watched as your powers manifested into something dangerous, something lethal

He fantasied about making you into a powerful being, someone who could one day be on a level close to his

He wanted to sculpt you like a sculpture and make you into something bigger than the pentagram had ever seen, he wanted to protect you from the past and make you strong enough to protect yourself from the present

He had angel dust sneak into your room and slip a radio under your bed so he could listen in to your surroundings

He heard you be your authentic self without having to water yourself down

He heard your moments of brief happiness and he heard the many overwhelmingly cruel acts committed to you

He heard your sobs and swear for a minute he felt himself grow caring enough to want to comfort you

So he played a soothing song from the radio once you were too distracted by your sobbing, so it could calm you to sleep and at least offer you the minimal comfort he could offer to you

He felt himself growing attached to the idea of bringing you back to the hotel and surrounding you in his arms like a child to make sure you wouldn’t have to see the faces of your abusers again

He began concocting plans to help you escape, and he was determined to one day own your soul so he could sculpt you in his image like he intended to do several years ago

He had never felt himself caring about anyone this much, he had a need to know where you were at all times and even felt himself grow antsy to see you in person and talk with you like you once did

Parts of him even felt a paternal sense of worry and concern over you in a way he’s never experience before

And he was determined to save you from Vox and bring you home

@lilyalone @repostingmyfavs @the-faceless-bride @idontreallyexistyet @hazbinhotelxreader @corvid007 @fandomaddict505 @buttercupfangirl @ivebeenthearchersstuff @sparkleyfishies @perkypeony @rerarlo

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rel124c41 · 4 months

Text

CHILDREN OF THE O.D.D. alastor

In his seven years of absence, Alastor calls on you and collects you.

tags: radio, literary references, developing relationship, temporary amnesia, mental torture, alastor love you but can’t resist causing a little emotional damage, wendigo, dark magic, hurt/comfort

word count: 10,716

It was not your intention to make any sort of detour after work. Always the string of home pulled you back in like a faithful dog returning to the outstretched hand. You trudge, like a ghost shackled by unfinished business, to the space underneath your shower head. To watch ebony red and wood brown slip into the drain; the filth of blood under fingernails and the sleeves of dirt upon your arms ebbing away.

This detour is unexpected and odd. Breaking a cycle that you had never strayed from, it is undernerving to you. Still –You put your fingers over your lips and frown. You are looking for something; that is as much as you are able to deduct.

The homemade yard-sale sign is crumbled and ruined. A slab of cardboard folding in on itself because of the rain from yesterday. In streaks, the markers bleed like branching veins across the surface. You actually took a wrong turn because one of the arrows was so wet that you could not decipher if you were meant to walk right or forward. The skies still remain a blanket of nebulous gray and black, thick with potential rain.

Really, you should head home and ignore this detour, you judge just as you step into the backyard sale. Logic tries as it might, you are grappled by this ardor. Entering the mouth, you realize you are here, looking for something. Something that has leashed you subconsciously.

Yard-sales hold a wild assortment of things: dusty books, a splintering wooden bow with arrows included, outgrown clothes, etcetera. An evil secret here or there? You chuckle at the ridiculous thought.

Rummaging around in dirt was your past-time, rummaging around in strangers’ belongings felt unusual. Mindful of your unclean hands, you simply float around the tables and piles of things. When someone lingers behind you, you move quickly because you are browsing while others are hunting. Truly, you do not yet know what you are planning to sink your teeth into. Your little routine continues, floating around and bouncing out of the way when it looks like someone is interested in the pile you stand in front of. Deeper and deeper, you wander into the labyrinth of unwanted things.

Perhaps you could pick up something for Alastor. That harrowing need to find something was starting to dim inside you.

Just as you start browsing for him, that feeling returns tenfold. The peach pit of your stomach feels like a mixture of drain cleaner and bleach. It burns you. Whatever that something is, it is upset to be ignored and hooks itself into your abdomen pulling.

“Turn left then straight.”

You jump at the sudden voice. And a shudder runs down your spine because they were close enough that their breath tickled your neck. In the labyrinth’s heart, you glance around for the individual that was talking to you. Hm? No one is looking at you. Everyone is nose down in their own business, browsing tables.

Tentatively, you rest an ice cold hand on the spot where you definitely felt someone’s breath. Odd. You take a step to the right.

“Left then straight.” You stumble in your walk as if you were a newborn in heels.

What? You shake your ankle as you restabilize yourself. It felt as if someone had snatched onto your ankle when you moved. Another shudder joins your first. This time you decide to heed that voice. If your subconscious pulled you into the yard-sale, it can definitely direct you. Different from your previous lazy tumble, you move with purpose to that ‘left then straight’ direction.

But as you take that left turn, you feel an uneasy cocoon itself over your previous headstrong annoyance. You slow your pace. Those previous sensations had been very odd. Someone’s breath on your neck. Someone’s hands around your ankle. You shudder one last time and move straight, searching.

A slumbering nest of snakes starts to squirm in your stomach. The real snake though – the ouroboros ring on your ring finger – is scorching instead of slittering. Like red hot iron to a horse flank. Knowing it is impossible to take it off, you rub cold fingers over it. Worrying hands joined at your chest, you look left and right for the item that has ensnared you. Long ago, the ouroboros ring had ensnared you in the same way, pulling and tugging at your intestines and bones like a magnet grabbing at its opposite pole. Remembering that, you grow even more uneasy.

What are you looking for?

You realize it as soon as your eyes fall on it.

The spiritual itch is finally scratched. The last piece is thumbed into the puzzle. The starved man has finally been given food. Before your mind catches up, you have already reached the plastic folding table and are touching your something. Heat from the ouroboros ring ebbs softly.

The woodwork is beautiful like a stained catholic mural. The single diamond eye of brown bakelite and wood blinks at you, surprised to be touched. Gilded brass is tickled by your experimenting hands as you turn its knobs. Wires spread over the speakers like a spider-made ribcage start to beat flustered at your presence. When you run your fingers over the ridges and arches, it leans into your touch. Though it is an entirely inanimate piece, it has so much character. An authentic radio, probably dated 1910 or 1920s. Worrying a bit about its fragility, you do not dare to pick it up no matter how it pleads and flirts with you to do just that. It is certainly a bewitching beauty. So, this is your something; this is what you were looking for.

But – a delicate frown moves your lips. You have no use for a radio like this in your home. Heavens know you have enough radios at home. Can this really be what your heart wants? When you move your hands off the woodwork, it feels as if your ring grows a circle of spikes that sink into your skin and collide at your fingerbone. You yelp and quickly put your hands back on the yard-sale item. Your heart does want this … apparently …

“Okay,” you whisper as if that will appease your heart, your subconscious, and your ring – all three holy spirits of your body. “Okay.” Gingerly, you lift up the hulking mass and start back towards the entrance. Well, Alastor can simply deal with another radio. And you are slightly elevated to bring it back home. Elevated enough that when you reach home –

You kick off your shoes by the entrance and sing out, “Alastor, I’m home.”

Radio cradled to your chest, you listen intentionally to the suspicious silence. You wonder how he will greet you this time. Sometimes, there are bumps of furniture or he simply slips in front of you. You can never truly predict Alastor’s moods. He is something volatile; he can either be as sweet as a dream or dangerous as a nightmare. For a few moments, you wait for the other shoe to drop. And when he arrives in your sight, you wear your best smile to greet him.

“Hi honey,” you say and kneel down. You balance the heavy radio on one of your knees. Reaching out one dirty hand, your faithful cat Alastor nuzzles into the skin, ignoring the dirt and blood. You scratch behind his ears as his purring starts up.

You named him after King Alastor from the game Painkiller: Battle out of Hell. When he was just a kitten, you wrestled with two names Alastor or Asura from another video game. Why did the name of a final boss win over a hero’s name? You had no idea but your heart guided your decision and four years later, it fits your mischievous bengal cat perfectly.

“I know, I know,” you medicate when he starts meowing for food. “I’m twenty minutes late coming home and that means two hours to you. But look Alastor! Another radio! This one is too heavy for you to knock down so it’s perfect.” Your enthusiasm is met by louder caterwauling.

Wilting at Alastor’s lackluster reaction, you gently set the radio on the long dining room table. It was lined with six chairs that no one besides yourself used. On the wooden surface is a Christmas rug-runner and stacks upon stacks of mail asking you to open a new credit card. A few unwashed plates stand in a stack of six, grease of meals shining luminous off them. May’s sun pours in to brighten all of the radios that you have collected on your table.

Your new radio nestles itself snuggly into your little home. Though you were not able to bargain the price you exactly wanted, you were glad to have it at all. The condition is remarkable for something coming from a yard-sale. Annoyed at your admiration, your bengal cat lays himself over your socks and bites your toes.

“Alastor,” you scold, scooping up your noisy cat. “Be nice to your parents. Where are your manners?”

With a boop on the nose and a kiss on the cheek, you bring Alastor into the kitchen so you can serve him Purina kitten chow and ruffle his fur when he nuzzles into you. Then you will wash away all your filth and sleep.

It has been seven days since you bought the radio.

For something you were so enraptured over, you had no urge to try working with it. The owner remarked that it only works for AM radio broadcasting. After a century, those channels never changed and were opertable during power outages. Their frequency could be picked up anytime, connecting themselves to the skin of your radio like a lovely little kiss. Since no natural disasters were happening, the most entertainment you could get from AM radio was the morning’s traffic. Enthusiasm washed out of you after a week of showers, you found yourself kicking yourself for giving in so easily to temptation.

“And my more-having would be as a sauce to make me hunger more,” you mutter Macbeth as you lace up your boots.

Today, your boss has scheduled you and your groundskeeping company to plant a dozen trees outside of a mail office. You enjoyed the small business as a landscaper; being the leader of a whole team had some perks too.

Louisiana was always pleasantly warm. Never did you have to gripe over blizzards causing traffic nor bringing an extra coat to weather the weather. Most days you manage to just walk to and from the sight your boss assigned. Life was good and life was simple.

You finished with the final knot on your Timberlands. Hesitantly, you cast a look towards your new radio, standing out among the rest because of its antiquity. Hearing a bit of the weather might be the perfect test to see if the radio worked, if all vacuum tubes and components were clean. Stomping through the kitchen into the adjacent dining room, you quickly turn the gilded knob and wait.

A mimicking hiss of a vexed Alastor and a sizzle of eggs poured into a pan is the first sound your new radio blesses you with. Resolutely, you flicker with the knob. The sound of a million pieces of hail falling on your roof. The singing of a mixed bowl of frequencies. The caterwauling of – oh! You finally found a coherent station.

“With highs reaching ninety, we can expect a beautiful Thursday ahead of us. Now, we do have some cumulonimbus clouds making their way down from the north-east. That thunderstorm from Mississippi should be reaching us in –” Satisfied, you click off the radio and head out the door.

“NO! NOOO!” When you are pulled up by the waist, you only scream louder. “NOOOOO!” You scream like a deer with its leg snapped and broken in the jaws of a bear trap, desperate and tormented.

“(Name)! (Name), stop this! (Name), calm down,” your mother pleads.

The woman who baked you under her pie crust skin for nine months is devastated to see you so upset. Her own flesh and blood, curled tightly in her arms, wailing like a hunted deer. You cry loudly as if you have broken a bone or been stabbed. “I know, baby. I know,” she tries to console and move your crying face into her neck. A piercing yell in her ear causes her to wilt and shudder.

“(Name) please.” Your mother has already passed the point of angrily yelling back at you. The crescent shape of her acrylic nails still present on your tiny wrist. Given up that fight, she tries desperately to figure out why you refuse to leave the pawn shop.

Gore cakes your tiny, wailing face. A scream so loud had one of the vessels in your vocal folds erupting open; a vocal cord hemorrhage which will cost your mother a month of bills for vocal therapy for her four year old child. Red oil glides out and down to vinyl floors. Around the mouthful of blood, you still scream no no no as your mother tries to walk you out.

There are no words to explain what you are experiencing. Even if you were not so young, you doubt that you could relate to anyone what you felt. As the distance between you and entrance grew smaller, a stabbing pain in your gut emerged. A simple tummy-ache. Then it grew. Tummy-ache evolving into a fever; fever blossoming into a stab wound; stab wound maturing into a pain that felt like some invisible hands were trying to tear your soul from your body. When you toed your foot on the entrance, everything exploded in one culmination of white pain and you lost yourself to the possession of something otherworldly.

Defiant, your limbs move in a hurricaning, thrashing windmill. You squirm like a fly blindly trying to escape out a window as bang bangs of a person’s shoe follow its erratic track. A strong kick into your mother’s pancreas has her stumbling. Relenting, she drops your mercurial body.

Your mother falls to her own knees with you. She considers telephoning your father, telephoning her own parents, telephoning a medical professional. Anyone who can come and save her: a scared, new mother who has never seen her child act out this.

Hundreds of eyes are staring at the volatile display. Guests who want to enter and buyers who want to leave, all stare at her hunched form as you caterwaul. “I don’t know what’s wrong. I just don’t know what’s wrong,” your mother mutters helplessly. By now she is starting to suspect that you might be seriously injured in a place she cannot see. Something beyond the blood in your mouth. “God please.”

Finally, someone heavensent steps off the background and taps your mother on the shoulder. Her desperation causes her to turn at a neck-breaking speed.

She never remembers the face or gender of this person when recalling the story. She recalls only a shudder of terror. Spindly and crawling terror, pianoing itself in a rapid flight up her body like a bumblebee. A symphony of fear, she recalls. Gently, the person takes one of the hands she had put around you protectively. In it, a ring is dropped.

An ouroboros ring – the image of a snake eating its own tail.

Fumbling with disbelief, your mother glances around to see that the person is gone. She sets her sight back on you, worried you might have disappeared along with the person. There you are – all forty inches of you, shivering, water and blood falling down your face in rivulets. She glances helplessly at the ring and then –

When she drops it into your hand, the pain goes away. Yet, stricken by such an endeavor, your eyes roll back in your head. Past the billowing tears and red veins, up and up. Like a puppet cut from strings, you promptly pass out. Squeezed tightly in a rigor mortis grip, the ouroboros ring stays with you. And when you feel that thousand feet plummet into oblivion course through you, your body in the waking world springs up, face stained with warm tears.

That memory again.

How many times have you dreamed about it?

How many more times will it be in your dreams?

Chilled fingers run across your damp face, drying it. The head of the iron snake kisses a stroke from eyelid to eyelid. You suppose the ring will always remain with you, in dreams and in reality. Tired eyes glance at your bedside alarm clock: 1:11. Trust your intuition and listen to your heart. You climb out of bed, mindful of Alastor even with limited vision.

Often, your body moves disconnected from the kingdom of your mind. Without even being aware of it, you will pull yourself back from danger (a falling tool at the job site, a misplaced nail, etcetera) and chalk it up as extreme good luck. Leaving words unsaid, you laugh at all the random occasions of self-saving, pointing your thanks towards God.

You are not slow though. After a while, anyone would start to suspect it. You know it is something else other than luck. Something that has shadowed you since birth.

Pulled towards it like a magnet, you sit on the dining table chair. Everything in your house is shrouded in nebulous dark. Silver light shines down from the moon, past a window’s filter, onto the radio. An evangelical interruption? Like slippery fish-oil, silver glides over the rich brown of a ribcage and heart and skin. The scene looks disrupted like fragments of reflection in a dirty mirror. Sleeping moonlight brushes over your fingers, nuzzling into your ring.

Timidly, you extend a hand and flick on the dial. A short buzzing hum greets you. “Hello?” You turn the knob some more, searching. Your face is still damp from previous tears. “Hello?” And though there should be more than a dozen A.M. frequencies that your radio can tune into, all that you hear is everlasting static.

None of your strawberries tasted like fruit this morning. Where they should be rich with juice flowing in your mouth when you bite, they are dry. It is the entire quart of strawberries that you bought had been replaced with foam copies, a facsimile of themselves.

Everything that has been feeling imitation of itself. Yesterday, you swore there was someone standing behind you while digging a tunnel for a septic tank and distribution box. Yet at each wild turn, no figure was hovering off you. This morning, you woke up dreaming that dream again. You carefully spit your strawberry into a napkin. Ugh, what was happening to you?

When you discard them into the trash-can, Alastor stirs and gives you a look before returning to his food. You nudge him with your foot and move across the kitchen. Leaning down into the fridge, you search for the carton of milk. In the recess of your mind, you halfheartedly listen to your radio.

Your new family member plays something vintage this morning. You had no idea A.M. frequencies did old radio series like this anymore – you had only heard about The War of the Worlds radio drama due to a parody and its natural popularity. In today’s modern age, you thought podcasts were the only echo of radio dramas, a cheap imitation. You luckily caught this radio drama at the very beginning, perhaps only two or three minutes in.

The radio drama was about a husband and wife. Aboard With the Lockharts was the name. The wife, Kathleen Lockhart, had finally persuaded her husband that they would take a cruise to Europe, after some womanly envy, and her husband conceded to come. It is the end of the first episode:

“There we are, dear.”

“You’re the nicest husband a woman ever managed!”

“Well, I-uh I guess every husband would be nice if he had a wife like you. Now, let me study that circular a bit and see what we’re going to get. And, uh, turn on the radio, dear.” A flow of music follows.

The cheapest you can get a gallon of milk in New Orleans is at Aldi’s for only three dollars. You had heard almond-milk was statistically better for your health. As a groundskeeper, you knew maintaining that was entirely important for your job but double the price for a quart rather than a gallon. Well, you knew your –

“Tour Europe with us! Seven glorious countries! Why, you have just started to go aboard with the Lockharts … We thank you for tuning in listeners. The day is May 10th, 1931. The weather forecaster is sunny with –”

As Alastor stops hissing, angered at how rapidly you run from kitchen to dining room, you hold the knob in your hand tense. Challenging, the eyeball of your radio stares back at you. 1931? 1931, ha. You sigh at your panic. It was probably prerecorded. Even if the day and month were the same, there is no reason to get so out of sorts. Ugh, what was happening to you?

As you towel off yourself, the radio program you had turned on plays. You were so ashamed that you had gotten worked up over nothing. After listening to a few more radio dramas, it turned out that they were cut and played from previous tapes. Of course the dates and times would remain.

Though why when you used your car, (Name), did you not find that station? Did any other A.M. frequencies play returns of old 1920s and 1930s radio drama, hm? Not a single one.

You scrub your towel harder into skin, ignoring yourself. There was no intelligent reason to be worked up over a station that played love stories. Love was the least malice part of life after all. Not that you would ever know, you mourned. You got ghosted more than you would like to admit.

The program on the radio almost seems to mock you:

“Because I love you myself I suppose.”

“You do, Jeanie?” The woman murmurs a yes. “How long has this been going on?”

“Ever since I helped you with that tire.”

“You know maybe that was why I was kind of relieved when Roberta told me we were all washed up.”

“Frank!”

“It’s true. I’ve been kind of dreading marching down that aisle with Roberta for some time now. You know, someone else seemed to fit better into that picture.”

“Who?”

“A hitchhiking blonde I picked up once. She was bound for New York. Funny if she ended up in London on our honeyman.”

“Oh Frank.”

“Oh (Name) darling.”

The towel falls to the ground, heavy with the weight of water it has absorbed off your skin. Nude, you stand with a breath locked and keyed away in your lung. Alastor sleeps soundly on your comforter, ignorant to your distress. You push a hand to your chest, steel band cold on your skin. Yes. It is beating as fast as a hummingbird’s wings.

“Go to bed, (Name),” you instruct yourself.

When all the lights in your house are flicked off, you make sure to put the radio into the kitchen. Your bedroom is right adjacent to the dining room. At least with some distance between you and it, without true separation, you might get some sleep.

You stare at your ring as you pet up and down Alastor’s spine. Some distance but never fully separated.

You rush into your home as if someone is chasing you, snapping and swiping at your ankles. “Shit, double shit,” you curse, throwing your closed umbrella down to the ground. Loudly, the door is banged shut to the point where the tiny window on it rattles. Water has soaked you down to the bone marrow.

“Fucking shit,” you gripe as you take off boots filled with miniature ponds. If only the rain was not coupled with sparks of lightning, you would have been able to use your umbrella.

Ugh, what a goddamn mess. You strip off the soaked bomber jacket. That depth of rain was so bad for the fabric. Defeated, you hang the Clavin Klein jacket on the nearby hook and go to venture deeper into your home when you pause.

You had forgotten you left the radio on your kitchen table. The presence of it startles for a quick moment. Surely, the need to strip off the wet clothes you are in wins over. Truthfully, besides a few odd glitches of words, it has been harmless. Falling back into your typical dismissal cope, you move to go into the dining room.

The power in your house goes out.

“Double fucking shit.”

A power outage would have been a minor inconvenience if you were not blind. The entirety of your house is cloaked in a nebulous black, not even a flicker of the microwave clock. You pause in your footfall, still as a tree. Hands clenched by your side, you rationalize it all. Lightning must have caused a fallen wire. One of your hand pats around to find a wall. Get to your hung jacket then you can use your phone to navigate in a much clearer fashion.

You just hoped Alastor would not be causing a fit in the deep sea darkness. “Alastor, honey?” Thankfully, your hand falls on the circular kitchen table. “Alastor?” Slowly, you round the table and start to finger the walls. Just ten or so steps forward and you will be standing right by the entrance.

Though, Alastor being this quiet was unnerving. You move towards the door – Huh?

The table rattles unsteady as you are pushed into it. “Ugh, what the –.” The breath is punched out. The scream that comes out of you is inhuman and animalistic, full of fear. Groaning muscles wilt as you are thrown into one of your kitchen chairs, seated forcefully.

You barely recover your mind, barely recover yourself to worry about your safety, when something chills you to the bone.

Up, the scream of an injured cat pierces the formless black innards of this haunted house. It almost sounds fake like a horror movie sound recording. Then the clattering rain of a handful of objects hitting the ground pierces your ears next. Those coupling sounds … the horrible thought that someone has thrown Alastor into something. The horrid, bone-chilling thought that someone is hurting him.

“Alastor!” You jump off the chair, guided by instinct. Swiftly, you are back down in the chair. “Alastor!”

A mimicking hiss of a vexed Alastor stabs the air … except it is not your cat. You know because it sounds like the sizzle of eggs in a pan too. Your bottom lip trembles wildly. Luminous white from a flash of lightning splats onto the kitchen then shrinks away in seconds. You refuse to look at it though. Calm down. AM frequency works during power outages, this radio is unlike your others, you rationalize, but you never turned the knob for it to reach any sort of frequency.

“...Alastor,” you try again, voice trembling. Oh you stupid cat, just come when called. You sit mournful and yearning that Alastor will come to prove he is safe at the very least.

Not stuck with silence for long, the radio sings out. The words and instruments broken up by flaking static like kintsugi pottery, a second melody backdropping the noise: Hey, hobo man; hey, Dapper Dan; you've both got your style but brother – then an anguished scream breaks the voice of Donald Craig and the musical number. You shrink into the chair, face aghast and jaw slack. No. No. NO!

You stay silent the entire broadcast, horrified.

A woman’s voice: “– he gives me the glad news that I have a growth in the back of my eye and he wants to cut it out. Only it’s too close to the brain, and he says if it isn’t cut out, this growth might cut off my sight, and leave me up on the high wiRE –”

A plea: “GOD HELP ME! HELP ME! HELP ME! GOOOOD!”

The wail of a pipe organ piano follows this demonic symphony. Rustic and deep, it billows out. Echoes of the sound flicker and decay across your walls; the reverbs are rich and dark like shadows; the start of Bach’s Toccata.

A man’s voice: “lying on the floor, two feet away, with a broken neck. With a broken neck, and his left hand – Well, he put the golden ring on his little finger of his left hand – the way his arms were spread out –”

The chugging grind of a car that would not start – stubborn coughs and wheezes – assaults your ears. You cradle your head tighter, praying that hardwood will morph into quicksand.

A cry: “MERCY PLEASE! MERCY! AAAAA!”

Three separate voices overlapping all at once: “Help me! Help me! We belong dead!” — “Oh well, I am just not appreciated around here. Dirt under the feet. That’s all I am.” — “Please, kill me! KillmeKillmeKillme! I just want to die! I can’t — anymore —“ Then the shriek of a deer who has its foot caught in a bear trap. It is your voice as a child, crying out. A masculine voice in a fatherly rhetoric shouts over your infant wails, “You should have never been born, Alastor!” Then, as if lightning had torn down the broadcasting tower, all the cacophony on the radio fell silent, lingering on that horrible name.

The Earth holds its breath in anticipatory silence.

A merry tone starts up – the melody of a saxophone, clarinet, and trumpet all hugging into one another. It moves amatory in humid air. Jazz. Your favorite genre despite the fact you were born in the year 1998. Swing and blue notes fill your heart like honey on the tongue, familiar and comforting. From the warmth of continuing jazz, a woman’s voice pops out like a flower bud emerging on a spring morning.

“666 A.M.” No that is wrong – the station was 833.3 A.M. (how do you know that?) “-- the Voice of the South; radiophone broadcasting station of the New Ear, New Oreleans, Louisiana, announcing the one who needs no introduction, our one and our only Alastor Melsar.”

Somewhere far away, deep below, a hostaged crowd rises, pulled by the hooks in their napes to start a thundering, happy applause. Someone’s lips are even voodoo-ed to move into an adoring wolf whistle.

“Hello, hello, is this thing on?”

Your stomach falls to your feet like a rock dropped from a bridge. It explodes, breaking every ice-layered bone in your body. Jazz withers away but the familiarity stays. Because you know that voice, intimately beyond what New Orleans knew about it beyond the ribcage of a radio. You had been ribcage to ribcage, heart to heart with that odious man before. Only you had forgotten. Until now.

You remove your hands from your ears, listening in rapture.

“Now, I know the broadcast you want to hear comes from Center Theater studio, but today we are coming at you straight from Hell’s very own Pride Ring. But I will bring back our favorite broadcast, for my dear listener. (Name). My love, this one's for you.”

i. Papa nou ki nan syèl la, [Our heavenly Father,]

Alastor hates his father.

This is as established as the hues of flora or as the physics of energy. It is a sentence that will never change under any variables or phenomena. If emotions could become fact, this is one instant of such a time. It is a sentence that you sympathize with as you hated your father too. Oddly enough, you two meet on Father’s Day. Both of you illegally drunk in the height of prohibition, escaping to an abandoned bayou. A shared sentiment connecting your wayward souls: there was no better day of the year to get wasted besides Father’s Day.

“Oedipus was such an unlucky bastard.”

“How so?”

“He gets to kill his father and doesn’t even know it. The man who left him stranded on a hill to be eaten by wolves. And how does Oedipus repay this? His revenge is killing him in a duel like he is another thug, a nameless person.” You gulp down a sizable sip of your bathroom-made gin. “Just no satisfaction in it.”

“Yes, but wouldn’t you suppose it’s better than not getting to commit patricide? Poor Hamlet. His father harks him about vengeance. And he cannot even get that annoying parasite off his shoulder as Claudius had already killed the King.” Alastor takes a much more measured sip from his whiskey.

“A dead father is better than a ghost father … I suppose.”

You give a mischievous smile to the stranger sitting with you. He is quite handsome, bronze brown skin flawless without a drop of sweat. If this were any other day, you would try flirting a bit but today is June sixteen so …

“How’d you kill yours?”

“A shotgun. Then I cut him up and ate him.”

“Serve him to your mother?”

“Oh, I would never taint her darling palette with such horrid meat.”

You start laughing as the stranger asks you the same question, you in jest and him in sincerity, “How’d you kill yours?”

Smiling, you reveal, “I drowned him in this very bayou.”

“This very one?”

“This very one.”

The stranger smiles at that. His smiles are nice. Wide winks of yellowing teeth that seem to engulf his entire face. There is something charming about smiles that show all your vulnerable enamels.

“I suppose that we drink from the same bottle.”

“We do … I suppose,” he copies your earlier pattern of speech.

You smile back as you two clink your glasses together. It sucks that after today you two will never see each other again. You have never felt so kindred to another person. New Orleans is so vast. Both a blessing and a curse, certain that your paths will only cross this once.

ii. Nou mande pou yo toujou respekte non ou. [We ask that they always respect your name.]

Names are so significant. It is the equivalent of slicing off a cut of your soul and sharing it. It is the word used to beckon one in a call. And, reconnecting, Alastor and you give your names to each other easily, smitten in a butcher shop.

iii. Vin tabli gouvènman ou, [Come and establish your government,]

The company Alastor kept was odd. Men who wore sunglasses at night and women who laughed like rusty doors. Human beings that seemed more like monsters with human skin pulled over them like an ill-fitting nightgown. Demons and witches, a cruel part of you speculated.

You had underestimated the vileness of them. They were beyond witches and demons.

You cannot even settle into the place you are sitting. Instead, you collapse into it like a body thrown off a ledge. Vocal cords pinch and tighten under your skin. Awful wheezes plume out of your throat. Amidst this destructive hyperventilation, tears pour down the curvature of your face in steady beads. Your trembling hands gather them up as you curl into the brick wall outside of The Dog House. Ugh, what is happening to you?

The door to the jazz club’s back-alley opens tentatively as you wallow. It is only a sliver of space, not even enough to poke a head through much less an arm or leg. From the slit eye of a shy door, your boyfriend says, “Should I come back at a later time?”

The care of his question only makes you sob harder. Respecting previously set boundaries, the timid door does not fling open and Alastor does not move an inch to step outside – though, the doorknob does wilt and ache under the mounting strength of his grip. He relaxes when the sound of your voice (strained and trembling but no less beautiful) asks, “Do you think I’m silly?”

“Why, dear, you are the unfunniest person I have ever been acquainted with,” Alastor smiles. “Unhumorous and beautiful, like always.” A hazel eye peaks out through the space. It is a talent how much emotion he can translate into each facet of his body. A simple upward crinkle of his eyes, a tiny gleam, and you know his aim is to make you laugh.

Instead, you are compelled with the urge to smack him on the shoulder.

Taking that angered energy, you grip the bottom half of the door (you still stay seated on infectious, wet pavement). As you push it open, Alastor slinks out into the back-alley. One hand, one foot, a shoulder and chest, until he finally joins you. He sits shoulder to shoulder with you in your hiding spot behind The Dog House.

“Now, can I ask what made you so out of sorts, dear?”

“You would find it silly. This is all so silly.” You harshly scrub your tearful face, wishing it would restore itself to the dry skin you were accustomed to. “I’m sorry.”

“Now, (Name), we just established that you are unfunny.” With him so close, you do whack him. Nursing his shoulder with a laugh, Alastor continues, “So whatever needs to come off your chest, be out with it. Climb off it.” He looks upon you patiently.

“Mimzy.” His face makes no change in expression, imploring you to continue. “And Harlord. And Lawrence and Evelyn. Oh, Alastor, all of your friends are just so cruel.” Shameful of your confession, you hide back into your knees. The geyser of tears that you had capped with your thumb is starting to billow and leak. “I just cannot see how someone like you can keep such horrid company.”

It was almost like someone had prematurely told them every single insecurity you had.

The left side of your abdomen still aches from where Mimzy took her nails and dug into you. Lawrence had hooked a finger under your necklace and pulled a bright, suicidal mark on your nape. After repeated use, those insectual insults crawled under your skin, a horde of ticks. Weak defense laughs eventually stopped coming from you altogether when you realized this was not a hazing mechanism. Hate bled from every millisecond of their actions – such a quick switch, all because Alastor left to use the washroom.

“Oh, dear, what happened?” Alastor wraps an arm around your shoulder, pulling you in close.

“I don’t know. Perhaps, I did something to offend them. What they said was so true, so spot on. They just –”

“No, you’re perfect. Hey. Look at me. You are perfect.”

“Alastor, maybe, I don’t belong here. I just cannot fit in with them and I–”

“Dear,” here he takes both your hands and squeezes them tight. “I have felt that sentiment of yours my entire life. I have been so ostracized for so long before I met you. Never knowing someone who could relate to what I have been subjected to. If they cannot see how perfect you are, then that is sincerely their loss.”

“But Alastor, they’re your friends. I want them to like me!”

“Dear, we need no one but each other.”

iv. pou yo fè volonte ou sou latè, tankou yo fè li nan syèl la. [to do your will on earth, as it is done in heaven.]

Your nighttime routine is a bit strange. To be truthful, your entire life was wandering a little bit out of the quotidian fences on the roaring 20s.

The most startling difference was your romantic courting compared to the entire United States. You and Alastor had lived together before marriage. His house was empty – mother and father dead – and you wanted out of that odious prison called home.

Yet, by now, the two of you had established a nighttime routine like one which a married couple would have.

Before Alastor stepped into the shower, you checked the expanse and plain of his skin for any ticks that might have made their home there. After, you brewed Alastor coffee instead of tea as a nighttime drink as the shower ran. Then, you freshened yourself and Alastor penned down his next broadcast before you two joined in the dining room, stomach already full of dinner.

He takes the photograph of Papa Gede out of his study after locking away his papers. On the dining table, his golden eyes cut through you. You always felt nude under that gaze. Parallel to what a dog must experience before being hit. Gazes locked, you hear the repetitive motions of Alastor as he collects all he needs for the ritual.

Papa Gede’s, the corpse of the first man who ever died, painted form stares at you. Alastor was very keen on this man who represented the powers of fertility and death. A psychopomp believed to wait at crossroads to take souls into the afterlife. You had no idea what Alastor spoke in Creole to him when you two did this before bed. All you knew is those gleaming, almost alive eyes unnerved you to the point where you wanted to turn tail and flee, doe-like.

“Dearest.”

You shudder, disrupted like a still lake attacked by a falling rock, and finally tear your eyes away. The comfort of his arm across your back is warm. You lean into him as he quotes Hamlet to you, “There is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so.”

“Sorry.” You place a kiss on his cheek. “Sorry. I know, I overthink too much.”

This is the part you hate the most.

“I quite adore your mind.”

“Thank you, Al.”

He kisses you on the lips. “No, thank you.” And before you can comprehend, like a child getting his tooth pulled on two instead of the promised count of three, Alastor has already run the blade over your palm.

Alastor goes back in for a deeper kiss as you wince and wilt. Pressing himself hard against you as an outlet to your pain. And then, after a good enough amount of your blood has fallen into the vial, Alastor, in his native tongue, starts to pray that when Papa Gede sees you at the crossroads, he will send you back into the living world.

v. Pen nou bezwen an, ban nou li jòdi a. [The bread we need, give us today.]

The geography of hearts are all the same.

When Alastor brings home a dead deer, you can tell what his gullitoning Shibazi cleaver is striking down on. Yet — when it all cleaned up — fur and hooves off the table. You can almost pretend you have any species on the table.

As mammals, we all have four chambered hearts.

Silver light from an oil lamp folds itself over Alastor and where the silver is not, shadows snuggle into Alastor. He is an autopsy photo, too gruesome yet necessary to examine. From his hands, the slick pulse of meat being cut talks to him. Unforgiving, his hands move like headstrong lightning, slicing and dicing.

He opens the whole heart like a scroll or a book.

You had been apprehensive about consuming deer hearts. The heart was the zenith of evangelical symbolism in literature. Were you or Alastor worthy to consume such a part of the body? It was if you were dissecting an angel and feasting on their piety.

The geography of hearts are all the same.

As mammals we all have four chambered hearts.

He opens the whole human heart like a scroll or a book.

vi. Padonnen tou sa nou fè ki mal, [Forgive all that we have done wrong,]

Alastor was not an active participant in his own religion. When he did, it was often out of your sight and always out of the public’s eyes. He kept religious scriptures and paintings locked in a safe then additionally locked in a study room. A scandal such as performing in the Haitian religion would pinch out the fire that was rising up his radio broadcasting fame like a hot-air balloon.

Today, you are positively giddy and positively ready to puke when Alastor invites you to join him to celebrate St. John’s Eve. A holiday in June he rarely went to.

Ditching your shared car, Alastor makes you walk hand in hand with him to the celebration after pink twilight skies drift into charcoal black hues. You have no idea how he can navigate so clearly in such darkness. Trusting him, you follow over moss and soil. Both of your white attire was probably stained from the journey. None of that mattered. You could not stop yourself from smiling.

The night is wondrous. You will never understand such a beautiful celebration could be so abhorred. Reaching impressive heights, the humongous bonfire casts warm hues of amber over the white attire of all who attain. Your body spins and leaps with positive energy – everyone is so friendly – no one wears glasses at night and they all laugh like humans, humans! You and Alastor dance, painted in the bonfire’s warmth and laughing in addition to all the other people. At one point in the night, Alastor says to you, “They say bathing in the gorge is supposed to preserve the health of your body and the good condition of your skin. Not that you need anything to add to your beauty. However, I would be grateful if you —”

“Yes! Yes, I’ll join you.” You have been that way all night, eager and absent of your usual anxiety. You strive to enjoy this – enjoy the world he lives in spiritually due to the stinging rejection of his friends. Something to keep you two close and tethered together.

He takes your hand and brings you waist deep in the water. All the while, you cling to him, arms around his neck, smiling and kissing his cheek repeatedly. He preens under the attention.

“So, is it like a baptism of sorts?”

“I’ll dip you under the water briefly, yes.”

“Ok,” you are still giggling, not even having a sip of anything. “Ok. Can I go first?”

Adoring Alastor brings his hands up to the sides of your face, running his thumb over your cheek. What a shame that you will not be smiling so wide soon. The flame of you has to be extinguished same as the roaring bonfire on the shore. He pecks you on the lips. “If you want to go first, I have no gripe over that, dear.”

Don’t worry, Alastor thinks as he dips you down into the murky, nebulous water, he will relight you.

You hold your breath as you go under. The water chills the back of your ears, sliding itself through your hair, then covers over your eyes. Alastor’s hands rest in a triangle of your upper back, steadying you so you do not fall back. One involuntary shiver moves you then you fall still. You take your breath and cup it in your chest like a pearl.

Weightlessness is a rare sensation. There is something tranquil about being enshrouded in water and able to feel like you are slipping away somewhere. Like the ribbon pulling on your heart at all times has eased and unraveled itself so instead of a bundle it has become a slippery eel.

You are so grateful that Alastor is sharing this with you. You felt bad for not making a connection with his friends. You hoped nothing ever breaks your connection with Alastor.

After half a minute or so, you lean a bit up to signal to Alastor that you want up. Oddly, there is no pressure on your back from Alastor pushing you up. You lean yourself up a bit more, then with the speed of a cobra striking, a pressure pushes you down. Fingers on your throat. The pearl in your chest slips out. With a muted, submerged shout, you push your hands up hoping to break the water surface, feel dry air. Nothing, all your panicked hands slide through is water.

AlastorAlastorAlastor – the pearl grows spikes like a urchin and pierces you, a debilitating pain in the chest as water floods through. You hack up what you swallow and yet swallow some more. Previous cold water feels as intensely hot as the bonfire you were dancing in front of before.

Everything is dark.

Everything is burning.

Everything – you gasp as Alastor pulls you out. You cough like you are trying to expel a hairball or demon out of you. Your body shakes and pounds with each forceful push. And in the midst of that, Alastor holds you by your waist and worrying over you, your hands around his neck, you start to sob.

“A-Ah, Alastor.” Your smile is gone.

vii. menm jan nou padonnen moun ki fè nou mal. [as we forgive those who hurt us.]

“Promise me you will not leave me.”

“I promise.”

“No, be serious.”

“I am being serious, haha. I promise. Hey. Hey? … Hey, I promise to never leave you, Alastor Melsar. No need for tears, love.”

viii. Pa kite nou nan pozisyon pou nou tonbe nan tantasyon, [Do not leave us in a position to fall into temptation]

Injuring Alastor is no easy task. He takes impeccable care to never be on the receiving end of any harm, but this amorous injury is different.

In the back of a drunk mind, Alastor senses the trail of warm blood running down his lats to his spine. Three evanescent droplets riding down and down. Sweat is outshone by the iron beads. He focuses his mind gently on where you scratched him, the injury it caused, and the blood curling around the brown curvature of his abdomen muscles. How he wishes you two drew each other’s blood more beyond this and rituals to Papa Gede — at a later time, he will ask you if you want to engage in anything more with blood.

“Oh fuck, Alastor. Oh fuck!”

Yes, at a later time would be more appropriate. He cannot properly engage in conversation which he is grunting so heavily.

Gently, Alastor rubs a thumb into your skin, studying the harsh bone of your pelvis. You tremble when his palm goes down and pushes up your left leg. Knobby knee touching your breast, you shriek at how more palpable you are to his efforts.

Alastor does not particularly like sex. He shared no interest in it like his acquaintances and rather seemed repulsed by it. He performed and acted on this sweaty stage because it made you happy. Yet, now that you have drawn his blood —

The speed at which his head pounds into your spongy inside gradually starts to pick up. You two are clashing your hips into one another like vengeful knights crossing claymores. Instead of the racket of piercing metal sparks, the noise of wet skin slapping and patting against one another billows up and up in volume. He fucks you hard, an executioner stealing the last drops of your life away.

“De-Dearest,” he pants, hoping to grab your attention.

All you do is dig your nails into his shoulder blade deeper, anchoring yourself feebly to a ship caught up in a storm. Alastor has never been so rough before. His force punches the words out of you, mouth hanging open in involuntary cries.

He pushes your knee down harsher into the globe of your breast. Your nails dig in deeper. Cut more skin, please, Alastor wants to beg but his own voice is withering from him now too.

“Fu-Fuck! Fuck!” You shred another part of his skin like a cat slicing up curtains into decorative ribbons. He feels it. The waterline of blood bubbling before it spills over like tears of a face.

“Oh Hell, (Name),” Alastor moans.

He often had problems coming to his release. Now, he worries that he will come before you are satisfied. Your previous cut has trailed down, colliding at the spot where the two of you are joined together. His worries are meaningless. At the sound of his voice, trembling and wanton, the violin strings of your consciousness are slit down the middle. Mind plucked out of your body, you cannot control your voice and groan a loud “Mmmmmpfh!” as you throw your head back and orgasm.

Your warmth squeezes around him and he loses that hold on your leg. Collapsing down, he moans and keeps thrusting in. Greedily, you roll your hips up. Slick, wet suctioning noises lose their space between one another fast like counting lightning that is rapidly approaching.

Into raw bloody flesh, your nails burrow. Alastor comes with a grunt of your name.

ix. men, delivre nou anba Satan. [but deliver us from Satan.]

It is an inconvenience of an illness that has befell the Meslar house. Really, you should be resting your body and he should be resting his voice. You stumble in your chores, body humming with a furnace warmth that rivals New Orleans summer heat. Alastor stumbles in his broadcasting, throat expelling out body-jerking coughs like plumes of brimstone smoke. He jokes that it would be more fortunate if you two swapped illness before curling into himself, hacking. You nod your agreement before curling into yourself, brain sitting in your head like a popsicle on a summer’s sidewalk.

Eventually, you two have to concede that you cannot keep on like this. Your shared stubbornness to push through a lingering illness will do you no good. Alastor calls out of work, you dismiss yourself from your household duties. Finally, you two rest.

Alastor loves having windows open. He pulls the woven horsehair screens away from their pins. Let spiders and flies enter your humble abode, meet their two caring hosts. Refreshing air snakes a tranquil pattern through the kitchen and dining room. Sunlight warms wood of a dining table and back of chairs. In the forty second breaks Alastor gets before his throat punches him, he nestles close to an open window and breathes in rich Earth.

You are resting in the open living room, passed out on the uncomfortable sofa. He had taken care to wait on you as you had taken care to read Hemingway aloud for him. Yet, soon syllables started to slur into a rainbow of ums, mhms, mmms, until you fell into a cavernous sleep.

Content, Alastor drinks his coffee (absent of the sedative, amobarbital, and the awful taste of tea) and gazes out on nature. Drugging you is not so gentlemanly of him. However, who can truly blame him, watching his beloved drag themselves to get the one last load of laundry folded or scrub a stove that would be fine with a day of neglect.

“Such a stubborn donkey, that one,” Alastor chuckles, taking a gracious sip.

His sleeves are rolled up and cool air breezes over the mark drawn on his inner forearm. Cornmeal and wood ash grounded up into a pallid gray. The symbol sticks to his skin fairly well. The symbol is an open diamond with a long line running through it, elbow crevice to wrist, with a tapered end like that of a ½ beat note. The voodoo symbol of good health. You have one drawn on your comatose arm too, sleeves rolled up.

He did not see the need to call upon Damballah for healing properties. A simple incantation and a longer than natural sleep should get you back to your natural self. Alastor always promised himself that he would care for you. He would keep you away from dangers always, even a mischievous viral infection swimming in your body.

Maybe he should tell you, maybe open up just a bit about his –

No. He had labored a fine scheme to make you afraid of what his religion and his friends had to offer and that fear would be a coin to cash in later. If everything else around you was horrific, he would be a certain tunnel to run towards – leap into his open arms so he may protect you from Death, the Devil, and beyond.

All you need, all you would see, all of it: him, him, him.

x. Paske, se pou ou tout otorite, tout pouvwa ak tout louwanj, depi tout tan ak pou tout tan. [For to you be all authority, all prayer, and all praise, forever and ever]

“Honey, I just don’t think he is right for you.”

“That Al, he is a bit eccentric. A little birdie tells me that Edward thinks you’re butter upon bacon! And Ed’s quite cute!”

“Is there a leak in your attic, (Name)? Alastor, really?”

He’s absolutely perfect for you. His eccentricities had bewitched you. And if there was a leak in your attic, you hoped it showered over you forever. In your rose-tinted eyes, no one could hold a candle to your Alastor. He was it for you, until death and perhaps even beyond. You know this to be a universal truth – if emotions could become fact, this is one instant of such a time – especially true as he proposes to you.

“Yes, of – of course, I will,” you tumble over your words. A showman until the end, the long, heartfelt speech that Alastor had voiced in that honey intonation had you quite speechless. He knew exactly where to praise and where to kill your insecurities. “O-of course.”

He has to pinch the center of your hand, thumb on bone and index on palm, so he can slide the ring on your shaking hand. You truly are a mess in his presence, so in love.

It takes a few moments to find your voice. Alastor kisses you in front of the crowded restaurant, people clapping. You two sit back, still having untouched desert waiting for you. As the waiter shakes the hand of the most famous radioman in New Orleans, you sit wide-eyed, glancing between tiramisu and champagne, waiting to fall out of this daydream.

“An ouroboros,” you murmur after the waiter leaves. Giddy smile on his face, Alastor raises an eyebrow at you. “It is an ouroboros.”

“Yes, I figured a literary master like you would love the symbolism. Does it please you? I was apprehensive of choosing something that did not have a diamond.”

“The self-eating snake.” Smitten, you rotate around your left hand to greet all the angles of the creature with enraptured eyes. “The eternal cycle of destruction and rebirth. Transmigration of souls.”

“The eternal cycle of our love.”

You flush and smile. “You’re being too charming tonight, Alastor.”

xi. Amèn. [Amen]

“Alastor,” you whisper into the dark after he finishes saying your wedding vows. The name is much heavier on your tongue. It no longer belongs solely to your sweet bengal cat. The name you sing out to grab a cat’s attention or scold him for swatting something off the counter – “Alastor.” – the name is now shared with your dead husband.

Bone-deep shivers run through you. Dead husband. Your dead husband who is broadcasting out to you, voice rich and recognizable. The most chesired prayer you had ever heard in your past life, bleeding off into radio-waves. “Alastor.”

“Yes, dearest?” His intonation holds the patience of an enraptured man. He is smitten and at the ready to lend you his ear in a much more tangible Van Gogh way than in the literary sense. “Would you care to share your vows too? I always did love hearing French-creole roll off your fumbling tongue.”

“No, I –”

You feel dreadfully faint. All of it rushing back to you; it is a miracle that you have not faint or turned into a vegetable. You stare at the brown husk of a radio where you should be looking at the brown skin of your late husband’s face. A miracle is too angelic. A curse. This is a curse.

Something boils unpleasantly in your gut. This house. It was Alastor’s. Even after being born in a different square of New Orleans, you found your way back to the house.

Found your way to the ring. Found your way back to the radio.

“Why?” It is the only word that you can manage to form.

“Unable are the loved to die, for love is immortality”

“Death is a supple suitor, that wins at last.”

“Love is anterior to life, posterior to death”

“Behavior is what a man does, not what he thinks, feels, or believes.”

“A wounded deer leaps the highest.”

You two cannot keep quoting Emily Dickinson at each other. Burying your head in your hands, you sigh deeply with the strife and age of an entire already lived life. You miss the flash of lightning that illuminates your kitchen, the shadow of a wendigo stamped on the floor where the kitchen table’s circular imprint should be.

As the light leaps back out the window and you raise your head, Alastor hums at you lovingly. “Now dear, you know I hate to see you so despondent. It breaks my heart … well it would if I still had a beating one.”

Laughter follows and you startle in your chair. It sounds so intimately real that you almost thought the crowd of a comedy show was dropped and placed in your kitchen. Your shield falls as the noises wither away.

“Why now?”

“Dear, this interrogation is so harsh. I thought you would be overjoyed to be reunited. You said yourself that you never wanted to live without me. Aren’t you even going to say it?”

“Alastor. I love you.” Those words come as easy as the last puzzle piece. “Why now,” you press stubbornly.

The dark space around the radio almost echoes with the deep sigh Alastor gives you. There is the sound of some tinkering, a few knocks of wood and clanks of metal. “Why now, dear?” The noises grow in volume and rich jubilation breathes itself through Alastor’s voice. “Why now indeed! Well, dear, I have just happened to secure your place in Hell! Right alongside me! Please, please, hold the applause.”

There is no applause besides the one he is controlling and manipulating to move to his whims.

Why would he think that was pleasing news? Vexed, you straighten up your posture and go to ask, “Alastor, why —“ and then your words get caught in a spiderweb. “Alastor!”

Uncaring of your blindness from the power outage, you jump up and rush towards your bedroom, in search of Alastor.

You make it about halfway into the dining room when the bengal cat is suddenly deposited in your arms. Alastor is shaking up a storm. Protectively, you wrap your arms around him, wary of whatever nebulous thing held him in their clutches. Your empty glare falls off your face as you are suddenly roller-coastered back into the kitchen.

“That was quite rude of you.”

“You’ve been quite rude this entire month.”

“Well, I simply cannot pop out of nowhere. I do still have my affliction for showmanship. Something that was a trait loved by my dear spouse.”

“Showmanship, he says,” you grumble, petting Alastor gently. His tremors are still so extreme. “Ouroboros. Transmigration of a soul.”

“Well if I tether you to me, there is this little political game called Extermination that would have been a threat to you. If you were to die of natural causes, you would have gone to Heaven. Keeping you human was the best choice until I came to collect you.”

“You’re collecting me to bring me to Hell?”

“Quite correct. Yes, I am.”

“And if I don’t want to be collected?”

“HAHAHA, and do you not want that? Truly?”

“No … if anything … I’m more pissed you didn’t arrive sooner.”

A flash throws itself into the open space of a kitchen. This time you are able to see it. Up the wall, between the space where you keep an ancient television set and the place on the wall where a rotary phone rests is a shadow. Ignoring its definition, the shadow is built from no imposing object or body sitting in your kitchen. Instead of a physical presence, the stamp of long antlers and a sharp angular body are its own body. Gone as soon as the lightning flash flees.

You miss it barely but you saw the shadow of a hand reaching out to you. The something you had been searching for, finally here to call and collect you. Come home, dear, it calls out in gravel static. And you answer.

#alastor x reader #hazbin hotel x reader #hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel alastor #hazbin alastor

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mysteryshoptls · 3 months

Text

SSR Jamil Viper - Applepom Voice Lines

Apple Boa Jamil does not have a vignette

When Summoned: A snow-covered land, huh... I'm sure the scenery and culture would be completely different from my homeland. I'd like to stop by when I start my travels.

Summon Line: This attire is well-made in both design and its ability to protect against the cold. I suppose this is made from the culmination of years of wisdom from living in a snowy region...

Groooovy!!: Lying down in a snow field and watching the snowflakes fall... That doesn't sound bad at all.

Home: I'd love to take a walk in the snow wearing this attire.

Home Idle 1: If it were up to me, I'd choose a snake as my stuffed animal for the sled race. They can move swiftly in any sort of environment.

Home Idle 2: This outfit was a gift from Jade. I didn't like him not having a reason to give it to me, so I refused it, but he was insistent...

Home Idle 3: I'd like to try all the different apple dishes in Harveston. I'm sure it'll be a great way to study how to make various dishes out of one main ingredient.

Home Idle - Login: I'd heard that the air in snow-covered countries are cleaner and the night sky is beautiful. I hope to be able to see it with my own eyes one day.

Home Idle - Groovy: You bought me some dried apples from Harveston? Thanks. I'll try them when I get hungry.

Home Tap 1: When I heard that perpetually indoor Idia-senpai participated in the sled race... I absolutely couldn't believe it.

Home Tap 2: I've ridden a sled across sand before, so I'm curious if the sensation is different across snow. I hope to experience it some day.

Home Tap 3: I think at the next banquet I'll serve the Harveston specialty sandwich cake that Epel told me about. It looks bright and colorful enough to be a good addition.

Home Tap 4: Apparently, this was a spare outfit, made just in case. So, what could he have possibly said to have been able to take it with him?

Home Tap 5: You've been looking at my gloves for a little while now. Are you that interested in the embroidery? I'd have lent it do you if you just said something.... Here.

Home Tap - Groovy: I'm sure I'd get a better insight on Harveston if I just chat with someone who's actually gone there in person. So go on and tell me all about it.

Duo: [JAMIL]: There's no time to kid around, Jade. [JADE]: Of course, Jamil-san.

Requested by Anonymous.

#twisted wonderland #twst #jamil viper #twst jamil #twst translation #mention: jade #mention: idia #mention: epel

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harleehazbinfics · 4 months

Text

Home is where my Heart is.

Chapter 1: A New Home Table of Contents | Profile

Word Count: 1395 A/N: aaaa im so happy i can finally post it. pls enjoy~ it's hazbin hotel guys, that's a warning in itself

(edited as of Feb 20)

I hopped off the bus clutching my hat in one hand and my bag in the other. Lifting my hand off the hat, I reached inside my coat for a piece of paper.

“Angel Suites, 123 Bullard Avenue,” I muttered reading the paper then looking at the tall building in front of me. I sighed and went inside and was then greeted with a stench of tobacco from the clerk in the front smoking reading a magazine.

I grimaced and knocked on the wooden desk to gain his attention, from the lack of a bell. He lifted his eyes from the paper and narrowed his gaze to glare at me, causing me to break in nervous sweat.

“Hi, I-I’m Miledy Calliope. I called you yesterday for an apartment room?” I tried to say out cursing at myself from my stutters.

He rolled his eyes, folded his newspaper to the side and opened a small drawer to his right, muttering curses as he looked for my keys. When he finally found them, he threw them at me to which I hastily caught, causing me to drop my belongings.

“The stairs are to the left,” he groaned in annoyance, opening his newspaper again and turning on the radio on his left increasing the volume, seemingly to drown me out if I had any more questions and then taking a drag from his tobacco.

I huffed and drudged to my now apartment room, it was cold and damp inside. It has a somewhat worn-out couch and bed, an empty kitchen. To save myself from a migraine, I plopped down on the bare bed and collected my thoughts to stay calm.

“This is better than nothing at all. Better than staying at that damned place for sure,” I complained quietly looking through the glass window in melancholy. I sat up and rummaged through my bag to find a little rabbit stuffed toy, squeezing it for comfort for being in a new environment and an entirely new life.

For a while, I did as much I could do to make the place cleaner than I found it and homier for me. As the sun went down, cleaned up myself. I wore a glittery loose dress, the length all the way to my ankles, accompanied by bright earrings and a fur coat.

After locking up the door, I headed towards my first gig. I breathed out a sigh as I tried to shake off my nerves, I stood at the half-filled club. I turned my head when I heard a shrill call for my name.

“Miledy!” I see a short woman theatrically calling my name.

“Miss Mimzy!” I replied excitedly, “Thank you so much for having me!”

“Of course, no problem! Just bring in some bills, yeah?” she joked with her thumb and pointer together to sign for money while winking.

“I’ll try!” I shrugged with a smile.

After a while of talking someone gave me a cue to get on stage. “Good luck, honey!” Mimzy cheered.

As soon as I got on stage and sang in front of the mic with a sudden boost in confidence, I didn’t notice a fine gentleman sitting next to Mimzy greeting her and talking with each other.

“Mimzy! Good evening, my dear,” the brunette greeted tipping down his hat. “A newcomer I see.”

“Hi, Al!” she replied enthusiastically, “Yeah, I scouted her from the city down during my trip. Lovely, isn’t she?”

Alastor merely hummed amused and answered, “A pleasing voice indeed. Would you mind introducing me after the show? I'd love to get to know this new talent of yours.”

Mimzy raised her eyebrow a bit skeptical, “Sure, no problem.”

The further the songs went on the more Alastor was enchanted, barely able to take his eyes off her. However, he noticed that he wasn’t the only one to take interest in her, his face contorted into a sneer when he lustful stares the men had in his peripherals, as they enjoyed their liquor.

When I finished my stage, the place erupted in cheers, whistles and applause making me feel overwhelmed with the attention. I smiled and waved my hand at them, thanking them for enjoying the show. I bounded to Mimzy and her company, where she counted her money.

“That was fantastic, darlin’! Look how much money you raked in!” Mimzy cheered.

“Given how clear and beautiful her voice was, I'd say it's quite deserved!” the gentleman with a glasses complimented. I blushed and replied with a small thank you which he smiled at.

“Miledy, this is my friend Alastor, he works as a radio host right here in New Orleans.”

“Miledy, Miledy Calliope. I just arrived in town today actually,” introducing myself to him and shaking his hand, his grin subtly growing deeper.

“Well, I have to go check the schedules and see when I can squeeze you on stage again. Toodles!” Mimzy smiled with an obsessive glint in her eyes.

Alaster faces me once again, “Can I offer you a drink?”

My smile froze a bit, thinking about it. He analyzes me a bit before adding with a laugh in his tone, “Don’t worry. I won’t do anything to harm you! I’m a frequent patron here and a very well-known voice and face here, you know? I neither don’t want to put my reputation to be at risk nor do I want you to have a bad time around here. Just think of it as a welcome gift as friends.”

I thought over what he said and smiled as he went on. I conceded to him, “Alright, why not? Sorry about being so skeptical.”

“No worries at all! It’s great that you’re on your guard. Not a lot of people are like me,” he teased bringing us to the bar.

“What? Tall and charming?” I retorted getting more comfortable around him.

He chuckled charmingly making me blush again, he then joked “Well, I was going for a kind respectable gentleman. I guess that can work too.”

I laughed at his not-so-subtle attempt to improve his self-image while his smile seemed a bit more genuine as he finally heard this woman laugh. He seemed to be enthralled with the image of me laughing and giggling at his remarks that he fished for more reactions out of me while we enjoyed a bunch of drinks.

The night grew colder, we started to gather ourselves and got out of the establishment.

“You sure can hold your liquor, darlin’,” Alastor remarked, he himself flushed red.

“I can say the same to you for a lanky figure like yours, sir,” I teased, “This was fun. Thanks for tonight, Alastor.”

His gaze softened and reached out pat my head which I indulged, finding his touch comforting. Oh, dear was I drunk.

“No problem. It was a fantastic night for me too. Do you have any plans anytime soon?” he asked keeping his hand on the top of my head.

“Mmm. I think I have to buy a few things for my apartment, why do you ask?” I answered, somewhat hopeful raising my eyes at him doe-ishly.

He breathed out a chuckle from my actions and replied, “Allow me to accompany you then. I’ll show you a fantastic store, one where your money’s worth spending to. I’ll free some time in a few days to show you around.”

“I’d like that. Thank you,” I smiled.

“Great! Now come, I’ll escort you back home. These streets are crawling with criminals at these hours,” he explained offering his arm out to me which I latched onto, growing creeped out as we strolled down to my place.

When we were half-way there, I heard a blood curdling scream as clear as day. It seemed so close to me, as if they were screaming in my ears, causing me to freeze and hold onto Alastor tighter. His perked up in alert as he circled his arm around me protectively, unbeknownst to me of the sadistic smile he had in the sick pleasure of the sound of suffering.

Reminding himself of the damsel in his arms, he rubbed had over my back and led me faster. “Don’t worry, doll. It’s nothing, just some pesky crows,” he lied.

I didn’t question further and walked briskly right next to him, blocking my ears as the screams slowly quieted down leaving it to my imagination.

#hazbin hotel x reader #hazbin charlie #hazbin angel dust #hazbin alastor #hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel fanfic #alastor x reader #hazbin husk #hazbin nifty #hazbin vaggie #alastor x oc #hazbin hotel alastor #alastor hazbin hotel #alastor

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toxicanonymity · 10 months

Text

Shooting Practice

1600 words, raider!Joel x f!reader

mood board by @milla-frenchy

A/N: FLASHBACK TO BEFORE YOU ESCAPE.. This isn't what I was working on 🚬🤡. WARNINGS: I8+ inner conflict, dubcon p in V (captivity), angst. plz suspend disbelief about shooting, etc. Raider Joel Master List, His trailer

FLASHBACK / IMAGINE

Between "Stash House" and "Failed Escape. "

Joel leaves you in his trailer sometimes if he isn't taking you on a raid. His trailer is nice compared to the stash house. Especially because his men aren't there, but it's also a little cleaner. You sense he’s a practical man. He doesn’t have things he doesn't need, aside from whiskey. He could sleep on the ground with nothing. The fact that his bed has sheets and a blanket–no, the fact that he even has a bed and lets you sleep in it–feels like a luxury. He doesn't just let you sleep in it. He holds you. It feels more protective than affectionate but you feel safe.

Joel only uses the bedroom, bathroom, and kitchen. When you come in the front door, you enter into the eating area, and turn left for the bathroom and bedroom. But if you turn to the right, there’s more. It’s a small galley kitchen. There’s a pantry full of ammunition and cabinets to your right, a utility closet, a closet, and then a room you’ve never seen Joel use.

In the living room, the carpet is scratched through in some places. It’s dusty. There’s an old forlorn sofa. The roof leaks on that end of the trailer. There’s a giant spot on the thin, blue, speckled carpet.The carpet is full of stains with various items scattered around. A dust buster. Two empty pet bowls in the corner, covered in cobwebs. There’s a TV/VCR combo and a radio. There are shelves with warped and faded books.

The first time you notice the children’s books, it makes your stomach turn. You ask Joel who used to live there. Hell if he knows, it was empty, the whole trailer park was. Most of the trailers are gutted, their insides destroyed by a fire. This one had been far enough away. You try not to think too much about who used to live there. You try spending time in the living room and it feels like your own space, but it's also spooky.

Joel has one of his men keeping an eye on you from down the hill, but it's for protection--to stop any of his men from going up there. You're allowed to go outside. When you have an opportunity, you explore the immediate area around the trailer– the top of the hill, and the woods. There isn’t much to see, and you don’t go far, afraid he’ll come back and think you’re trying to escape.

When you're hungry one afternoon, you try to forage for mushrooms in the woods. You find a collapsed, faded tent with a lump under it. Your gut tells you it’s a body. The next day, it’s in the same spot. You’re probably right. Joel always says it’s too dangerous, you shouldn’t go in the woods, and now you know why.

----------

One day, you’re feeling particularly restless, but you stay inside. When Joel gets home, he grabs ammunition from the pantry and is about to do target practice outside. You overhear him shooting when he does it.

“Can I watch,” you ask.

He glances at you skeptically, then mutters “yeah okay.”

You walk around back with him, the opposite side of the stash house, to the opposite ridge of the hill, facing the trailer park, with the woods on your left. There are shells of abandoned cars scattered behind the trailers.

The two trailers you’re looking at are marked up with spray paint, x’s, o’s, stick figures. One of the stick figures has a gaping hole in the head and smaller holes around it.

Joel sets up his rifle and gets down on his stomach, which gives you butterflies to watch. His triceps flex as he gets into position and his shapely lower body holds an interesting pose as he peers into the sight of his gun. He takes a shot and you don’t see where it goes.

“What’d you hit?”

Joel glances at you. “Trailer”

“Where?”

“See that guy with the hole in his head? went through that.”

You settle in to watch, legs folded to the side, fingers exploring a clover patch while he shoots. You pluck the little white flowers and consider making a crown out of them, but you would feel silly in front of Joel. You tear them to pieces instead with a lump in your throat.

Joel takes a few more shots, then asks, “wanna see?”

He scoots over and you swallow your emotions. You get on your stomach next to him. When you peer through the sight, you can see right through the trailer to the next one where he’s shot a large hole in the middle of an X. “wow,” you marvel. “all the way through?”

“yep”

“you’re really good at that.”

He cocks an eyebrow at you. “Wouldn’t keep ya if I wasn’t. Someone’s gotta keep ya safe, sweet pea.”

You nod and give a small smile.At this point, you’re still unsure where you’re better off.

You get out of his way. He takes a couple more shots while you pensively look for four-leaf clovers.

There’s nothing waiting for you back home, but sometimes, the way Joel plucked you out of your life doesn’t sit right. You didn't get to choose.

—------

Joel lets you watch him most days when he does target practice, and one day he asks if you wanna try.

"Look, uh, you don't need to be usin' a gun like this okay?"

"yeah, I know."

"but if ya wanna try it, right here with me. . .I can show ya."

"really?" He showed you his pistol before but didn't offer you could shoot it.

Joel nods for you to come over. You've shot a pistol before, in your old life, but never a long gun. You lay on your stomach, trying to emulate his stance. He moves your legs into position for you and you can feel the air on your inner thighs as your dress bunches up near your hip on your right side.

Joel cages you to the ground with his body, laying his chest flat against your back. He puts your hands on the gun and keeps his hands over yours. “You’re gonna wanna look right here.” He points at the sight then returns the hand to yours. “And hold the gun real steady. It’s gonna jump back at ya.”

“Okay.”

“Ready? I'll squeeze it the first time”

“Yeah.”

He squeezes the trigger and his arm muscles flex against you as he fires. It goes straight through the hole to the x. With Joel holding it steady, it doesn't jump back. The next time, he lets you pull the trigger while he holds the gun steady. When he shifts his weight in between shots, you can feel him getting hard. Each time, he puts less and less of his strength into it until he thinks you’re ready to do it on your own. He gets up off you and watches.

You line up the shot and take it. The recoil startles you even though you knew it was coming. The bullet pings a blank spot on the trailer next to the stick figure’s neck. You’re disappointed but Joel says “Good girl, look at that.”

-------

He takes the gun from you and puts it aside. Then he cages you to the ground again. He lowers his hips and you feel the shape of his stiff cock through his thin jeans. “my gun looks good on ya,” he murmurs.

You’re still up on your elbows. He put his weight on one of his forearms and reaches his other hand under your arm to cup your breast. He rolls his hips into you and gropes you. You’re getting wet. He does it once more, and you sigh.

"Not here," he says. "too exposed."

He begins to push himself off, and you feel the cool air against your damp panties as he sits back on his knees between your legs. He mutters, “fuck" and defies himself by reaching between your legs. He slips a finger under the cotton and when he feels how wet you are, he inhales sharply then mumbles, “gotta be quick.” When you hear his zipper, a wave of arousal hits you.

He hovers over you resting on his forearm again. "relax, sweet pea." You put your arms down and rest your head on top of them. "want it here, right?" He presses on the damp spot.

"Yeah"

He pushes your panties to the side and nudges his tip into place. You're wet but not quite wet enough. He spits on his hand and adds saliva to his tip before returning it between your legs.

He lines himself up and shoves into you, his girth splitting you in two. Your body rushes to catch up but he doesn't allow much time to adjust. He slowly brings his cock back, then slams in with a grunt. Then he goes at a jackhammer pace, breathing vocally and railing into you until he moans "ohh, ah–" and slows his hips.

He plunges to the hilt and sighs in relief as he fills you with his cum. You whimper on the edge, almost there yourself, but you don't know how he'll react if you touch yourself, so you don't.

------

Maybe you'll have a moment to yourself later. Or maybe--you catch yourself wondering--maybe, he'll fuck you later and take his time. You shame yourself for the thought.

There's no mistaking what your body wants. It's always wanted him, but there's something that scares you now. You're beginning to fear it's not just your body anymore.

-----

Thank you for reading

she's afraid her desire/acceptance isn't just physical anymore

Next would be Failed Escape

the last line:

she's afraid her body belongs to him and not just herself

#joel miller x reader #dark!joel miller #tw dubcon #cw dubcon #joel miller smut #toxicanonymity ☠️

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honeybcj · 4 months

Text

after getting asked about my domestic rosekiller hc, i couldn’t stop thinking about it, so i’ve compiled a list. i could add so many more, so if anyone is actually interested in this maybe i’ll make another heheheh

- evan actually really enjoys cooking meals for the two of them, even if barty is an absolute nuisance in the kitchen. always stealing kisses and slapping his ass. stirring whatever is in the pot and pretending like he knows exactly what he’s doing (secretly he does know what he’s doing, but he loves when evan cooks for him, and evan is more than happy to indulge him <3)

-barty is a stress cleaner! he’s not always tidy, actually rather frequently he outright refuses to make the bed or will forget to wash his dishes, but then he goes and has one minor inconvenience and evan will come home to the couch on the other side of the room and the pantry reorganized by the color of each item.

-save water, shower together. there’s not a single chance you’ll find either of them showering on their own. they say it��s for the environment, but truthfully they are just severely connected at the hip, and barty wants any excuse to see evan naked

-evan will (and does) steal the same hoodie of barty’s anytime he is cold. might as well be part of his closet at this point. and before they actually started dating, barty would go out of his way to make sure it was clean every time evan came over even if it meant forking over four extra dollars worth of quarters and dealing with the bitchy lady at the laundromat (i did, in fact, include this hc in like smoke behind glass)

-i have it on good authority that for valentine’s day barty tried to bake evan a heart shaped cake (vanilla with raspberry jam and vanilla bean frosting), but he fucked it up real bad and forgot the LITERAL SUGAR but evan still plastered on the fakest damn smile and told him he was proud of barty

-evan is the early riser out of the two of them. that’s not to say he doesn’t enjoy sleeping in. but he likes to get up early, even on his slow days, so he can make breakfast just for barty (this goes hand in hand with the cooking one). breakfast is his favorite part of the day, and he likes to make sure barty does eat in the mornings instead of claiming that an energy drink is sustainable enough to start the entire day.

-barty is the night owl!!! again, not to say that evan won’t stay up late, but there’s more of a chance for barty to stay up literally all night long because he gets distracted by everything around him. in that case, more often than not, he can be found scrolling aimlessly on his phone in bed with one hand while the other strokes lazily at evan’s hair

-on more than one occasion barty has gotten so fucking high that he gets on his knees and begs evan to take him through the mcdonald’s drive thru because he will die if he doesn’t consume a ten piece nugget and a large sprite. evan just laughs at him and always, always, always takes barty through the drive thru. somehow they always end up with more than what they came for, and barty always shares his fries with evan even when he’s cranky.

-evan is a stickler for following plans. time management is his thing even if it means literally pulling barty by the ear to get the fuck up or hurry because he doesn’t have time to wait around or play with barty’s antics. barty teases him relentlessly, but it’s all in the name of love because he secretly loves seeing evan all riled up like that man WILL get hard over the smallest of fucking things he’s that far gone for evan.

-even though barty tries, he can never steal anything from evan’s closet because his stupid waist is TINY and no pants fit over his hips and all the shirts in his closet look like fucking crop tops on barty which he thinks is hilarious and LOVES to point out to evan anytime he tries to weasel his way into one of evan’s shirts

-evan is weirdly into teeth like he WILL go through a whole process with barty every morning and every evening to make sure they brush and floss. on more than once occasion, evan has even convinced barty to let him floss his teeth for him because he just wants to get his hands on barty’s precious teeth.

-both of them are actually super sentimental even though neither of them will admit it out loud. barty still has the ticket stub from the first film they went to see together. keeps it inside his wallet for memories and what have you. and the one time barty showed up with a bouquet of godforsaken roses trying to impress evan, evan kept one of the flowers, pressing it between his big ass books until it was preserved and dried. he still keeps it safe between the pages of the book, opening it on occasion to just smile at the silly little gesture.

#rosekiller #barty crouch jr #evan rosier #rosekiller headcanon #barty x evan #marauders

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usedtobecooler · 2 years

Note

Oh my fuck if you used your writerly powers for Billy Knight *chews on pillow*

How about making Billy come twice, he'd be so desperate to be good for you but overstimulated and a mess. Can be from riding him until he's hard again, sucking him off, idk my eyeballs are gonna explode if I think about it too much 😱

Pairing | Billy Knight x fem!reader

Warnings | sexual content (18+ minors dni), handjobs (not really, it's over his pants lol), oral m receiving, piv sex, unprotected sex (wrap it kids), dubious content (possibly? it's very much wanted but billy doesn't voice his consent), premature ejaculation, overstimulation, mentions of poor mental health, mentions of medication, mention of physical ticks, health facility setting, fluff, angst, billy is incredibly touch starved.

Word Count | 3k

A/N | this was purely self-indulgent because i love billy so much, i've not proofread it so if you see any mistakes no you didn't

"Bill, how longs it been since a girl touched you?" You ask quietly, leaning out to rest your hand on his knee. You don't miss the way his leg jerks a little under the touch, like you'd burned him with a match.

"I don't - I don't know. Not since I was in school, a while ago." Billy's voice is thick, wet, accent shining through with every word he speaks. You can tell he's mortified by your question, the way his tick kicks up a little after being stagnant the whole of your visit so far, the constant swiping of his nose turning it red raw.

You wince a little at his confession, can't help but screw your face up - it's obvious that you look sad for him. He hadn't had it easy his whole adulthood, really, being constantly in and out of hospital for various mental health disorders meant that he was starved in the affection department, too busy trying to get better before he could focus on a girl.

He looks like he's getting better, that you can tell. He was finally allowed visitors in his room, not in the mess hall, which meant he was being trusted alone without constant supervision. He also just looked cleaner cut; the black Henley adorning his toned torso suited him so much better than the baggy grey hoodie he always wore. His hair was neat, combed back, though his stubbly beard still remained.

He looked nicer with it, you thought. Not so much like a scared schoolboy, it made him look older in a more masculine way. He'd told you the medication was helping, too, that he was sleep schedule was improving and he wasn't so anxiety ridden all the time, scared that somebody was coming to get him.

This private place had been better than anywhere the NHS had sent him, clearly having money was the big factor in whether mental health sufferers really ever got the help they needed. You didn't pry him on where the money came from to pay for the treatment, sometimes it was better to stay out of the Knights' business.

"Where were you, uh, going with this?" Billy's shaky voice snaps you out of your trance, and you realise you'd been staring back and forth between his face, chest and crotch unabashedly this entire time. Your cheeks heat up, and you glance away to look at the clock ticking behind his head, suddenly becoming so interesting.

"You'll think I'm being so silly," You sputter, subtly fanning your face with your hand that wasn't still slapped on Billy's knee, in a bid to cool down a little, embarrassment taking over your whole body, "I just thought that, maybe, it'd help you relax a little if you, or if I helped you... take the edge off."

Billy cocks his head to the side, confusion etching onto his features before it dawns on him exactly what you meant. He flushes a deep red, "Oh, um. The prescription pills they have me on s-sort of... stop me from being able to f-finish, uh, lot of the time."

You're the reason he's stuttering, you know that and it's making you want to lunge at him and wrap him up in a big hug to calm him down. You've clearly mortified him with your question, too forward and full on for somebody who may as well still have been a virgin with the amount of time that'd gone by since he'd last been in any sexual encounter that wasn't with his own right hand.

"I can... well I can try?" You say it like it's a question, eyes flitting back to look at him once more, the heat on his face making him look even more endearing, his long dark lashes fanning across the tips of his cheeks as he closes his eyes and sucks in a sharp breath.

Your hand had inched further up his thigh without you even realizing, and you gasp when the back of your hand brushes against his obvious erection through his dark jogging bottoms. You question now if it's not actually embarrassment that's making him flush so dark - but arousal instead.

"You'll tell me if I'm reading this wrong, yeah?" You ask him gently, voice barely above a whisper as you slide your palm over his cock through the thick material of his pants, clear outline making it obvious he had no underwear on underneath. Your breath hitches as you go to curl your hand around his length, so thick that your fingers can't wrap around it fully.

You're watching in awe as a wet patch starts to form on the soft cotton, dampening it until it's stained darker, whilst you go between ghosting your hand up and down gently and squeezing softly. Billy can't rip his eyes away from you, drifting back and forth between your shocked face and your hand grasping at him.

"I'm gonna cum, darlin'. Sorry, shit," Billy's hand claws onto the leather arm of his chair and he's hunching in on himself, coming with a low, gruff moan, painting the inside of his sweatpants with his release.

Your eyes widen in shock, a gasp escaping your lips as you sit back and take in what just happened. Your thighs clench, a wave of heat overcoming your body at the thought of him coming undone so easily under your touch.

"M'sorry, this is so embarrassing." Billy's whiny little voice breaks the silence, he throws his head back and rubs at his face with his hands. They're big enough that they completely engulf his features, making his head seem small in comparison. In that split second, you decide you want - no, need to have his hands all over you. You needed to show him what it was like to touch a girl, feel her go pliant under his touch.

"It's not." You say it all too quick, hand tearing away from his crotch to grab at his arm and pull his hands away from his face so he could look at you properly. His eyes are watering, big brown orbs clearly showing his distress and it makes your heart ache, "It's not embarrassing, Bill. It's normal, you've not been touched by another person in, what, seven years? Maybe longer? Don't feel like you should be better at this."

You slip out of your own chair across from Billy, sliding onto your knees in front of him with a dull thud, shuffling between his spread legs, "Can I touch you again? Proper this time?" Your voice is barely above a whisper, batting your lashes at him prettily, "I promise I'll make it good for you."

Billy shakes out a stuttered sigh, cock already kicking up again in interest at the thought of your bare flesh connecting with his own. You're so gorgeous, he's thought about you in this way for so long, but he always thought you'd do better than him. That you could do better than him.

He thought you were only still friendly with him out of pity, at the end of the day you had been Jimmy's friend first. You hadn't had any dealings with Jimmy in years, yet you always still checked in with Billy, visited often. Maybe it was because you knew he didn't really have any other friends, nobody to look out for him but you.

Billy hazards a glance down at you when he feels your fingers brush over the waistband of his soiled sweats, helps you by lifting his hips up when you tug at them to pull them down. You leave them to pool at his ankles, no patience to take them off completely.

He's fully hard again just at the sight of you on your knees in front of him, leaky tip slapping against his belly, his previous load still glistening down his shaft, perfect for using to lube him up.

"Can I put my mouth on you?" You ask tentatively, fingers ghosting over his balls, up his shaft to wrap deftly around the tip. You pull his foreskin down a little to reveal the mushroom shaped head, another blurt of precum shooting out of his slit and coating your thumb.

Billy never does reply to you, too entranced with the look of your hand on his bare skin, your own flesh feeling so hot it almost burns, searing through his sensitive spots.

You shuffle forward a bit more, mouth hovering over the head of his cock so you can spit a glob of saliva onto it for extra lubricant. Billy hisses, big doe eyes staring at you, unblinking, in awe of you and what you're doing for him.

When your lips finally wrap around the tip, you can't help the moan that leaves you. He tastes salty but clean as you suck and lick at him, heady in such a delicious way it intoxicates you, clouds your senses. You move your hand a bit lower so you can take more of him in, having to bring up your other hand to wrap with it so you can cover his shaft properly.

He's so thick, stretching your mouth wide and cracking your lips. You sink down a bit further, taking more of his cock in until you're gagging, throat closing up around him.

You can hear Billy's fingernails scratching at the leather of the chair, his hips stuttering up into your mouth in a telltale sign that he's close to coming already. His belly is shaking, moans escaping him in quick presession like he can't contain them.

You can't let him come like this; you had to have his cock in you before your visit was over, your core ached for it, your panties feeling damp just from touching him. Billy consumed your entire being, had you feeling needy and desperate.

When you release his dick with a 'pop' he sputters out a little whine, a clear sign that he was so close to the edge before you finished what you were doing.

You look up at him through wet lashes, his face burning a deep purple and the veins on his neck popping from the strain of him struggling not to come. You get up off your knees, pulling your tights down your legs along with your panties so that you're bare from the bottom down, sliding your shirt up over your head to just leave you in a bra on top.

"What're you, shit," Billy struggles to get his words out, ticking and wiping his nose with the backs of his fingers, "what're you doing?"

"Can I ride you?" You ask gently, edging closer to him and kicking his feet until his legs are a bit closer together. Billy nods, and you take that as permission to mount him, spread legs bracketing his hairy thighs.

You flip your skirt up a little, reaching behind you to grab at the base of Billy's cock. You rub the tip in between your folds, all whilst watching him and you don't miss the way his eyes roll back, head tipping so his stubbly neck is bared to you.

You take it slowly, sliding down inch by inch until your cunt is nestled against his groin, thatch of dark pubes tickling your delicate skin. You feel so full it's delicious, his thick cock feeling like it was made to be nestled deep in you.

Billy instinctively reaches out to grab at your hips, stilling you from moving until he got used to the feeling of your soaking wet cunt enveloping him. He breathes in and out deeply, not even baring to look at you, worried he'd blow his load immediately if he did.

You bring your hands out to gently brush over his cheeks, silently forcing him to look at you, which he does eventually. He's just so pretty, his big brown orbs watery and bloodshot, his plump red lips bitten, his cute nose darkened from the constant rubbing as he ticked.

He was so perfect you couldn't fucking stand it. You let your knees do some work for you, finally lifting up a few inches and sinking back down to the hilt. Billy's eyes flutter shut, a high-pitched moan leaving him, the feeling of your sopping, gummy cunt tightening around him feeling fucking heavenly.

You pick up a steady pace quickly, letting yourself be consumed by Billy completely. His big hands running up and down from your waist to your hips and back again, his moans and whimpers clouding your head, his thick cock nudging at your insides so deliciously it made you ache.

You remove your hands from his face, reaching to unclasp your bra and let it fall, baring your tits to him. You shake him gently to make him open his eyes, so he can get a good eyeful. What you don't expect is for him to lean forward immediately and latch onto your left nipple, suckling gently.

"Oh, Billy," You're a moaning mess above him, your cunt feeling so full, whole body on fire with the feeling of his body hard pressed against yours. He's mouthing at your breasts, sucking on your nipples as if his life depended on it.

He's whining, hips stuttering up against yours to meet your bounces. There's no real rhythm to it, his inexperience clear as day, but you're struggling to care with how good he's making you feel. The catch and drag of the head of his cock brushing your spongey spot, making your pussy slicker than before.

"God, darling, I'm so sorry," Billy groans, letting go of your nipple and kissing along the swell of your tit instead, whining out as you speed up a little, helping him chase his orgasm, "I'm gonna cum, fuck."

"Do it, babe, s'okay," You moan, tugging at his hair a little to get him to crane his neck up, to finally press a kiss to his lips. That's what does it for him, has his hips stuttering against yours as he comes deep inside of you.

He opens his mouth to moan, and you take that as your opportunity to deepen the kiss, slipping your tongue into his mouth to lap lazily against his own. He shudders through his orgasm, your hips slowing down to a stop when he starts to shake with overstimulation.

He's not very good at kissing, but his plump lips and wide tongue make up for it. You find your cunt fluttering at the feeling, clamping down around his cock to milk the final bit of come out of him. You try not to be disappointed that you haven't been able to chase your own release, too focused on making Billy feel good.

You're not sure when you stop kissing, but when you do and you open your eyes again, you notice Billy's eyes are wet and his cheeks are stained with tear marks. You wipe his tears away with your thumb, smiling at him until he's forced to smile back.

"Good?" You ask gently, hips rocking subtly, his soft cock still nudging slightly against your soft spot. You try not to be pushy, knowing he'd be sensitive, but you can't help but want to do it again, the coil in your gut still wound tight with need.

Billy nods, huffing out a little, "I can - I can feel that, you know?" He says, nodding towards your soft hips moving, "It's - it's really sensitive, God."

You continue moving your hips in silence, squeezing your cunt around him, feeling his dick throbbing inside of you like it's trying to pique interest again. You really hope it does, you need to do this for a little longer, just a little.

"You can come again though, right? Let me try, please?" You're basically begging him, forehead to forehead and circling your hips back and forth on his already half hard cock and he's crying again, overcome with pleasure and sensitivity, struggling to think straight through the feeling of you on top of him.

Billy nods anyway, a silent yes and you use the leverage of your knees on the hard material of the chair to rise back up again, sinking back down softly. You do it like this until he's fully hard again, up down, up down, up down, your nails digging into the skin of his neck to keep yourself stable.

His hot hands on your waist make your skin feel like it's on fire, has your tummy coiling even tighter, the telltale sign of your own orgasm beginning to wash over you with every drag of his cock head against your gummy walls.

"That's it, Bill, God, your cock feels so good." You cry out, chasing your high until your cunt spasms around him and you feel the white-hot waves of pleasure crashing around you. A gush of slick comes from you, making your pussy impossibly wetter, so wet you feel it drip down your inner thighs onto Billy's own.

You feel like you black out for a second, only coming to when you feel Billy's hands grip onto your hips impossibly tighter so he can fuck up into you from below, his wet moans telling you he's close to coming again, too.

"Fuck, I love you, darling, shit. Love you, always have, m'so sorry, fuckfuck," Billy's hands slide up your back, tugging you until you're impaled on his cock impossibly deeper, chest pressed flush to his own as he comes for the third time, face buried into your neck tightly.

Your heart swells at his words, face flushing dark at the confession. Your insides bloom warmly, consumed with the sheer love you have for him, "I love you too, Bill. Loved you forever, was it not obvious?"

Billy's crying against your chest, hot tears spilling onto your bare chest, "No, I didn't, God, why didn't you tell me?"

"You needed to get better first, Bill." Your voice is soft, hand deftly running over his hair soothingly, "You're getting better now, though. It was time. I'm here forever, I'm not going anywhere."

You whisper encouraging words into his skin until his cries come to a stop, his shuddering body finally stilling. He'd finish his treatment, get the fuck out of here and you could start your life together.

It was the only thing keeping him focused on getting better - he needed to, to go out and see the world with you by his side.

#i'm gonna gnaw my fucking arm off by the way #i have felt so many things writing this it's not even funny omg #billy knight #billy knight fic #billy knight strike #billy knight x reader #billy knight fluff #billy knight smut #billy knight x female reader #billy knight x fem!reader #cb strike #joseph quinn x reader #joseph quinn smut #joseph quinn x you #joseph quinn fic #joseph quinn x female reader #my fanfic #mine

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