smokeshow ꒱ alex [adult world] x gf!reader ⁞⁞ 18+ ; mdni
you rock your hips back and forth, the thumb on the back of alex’s neck stroking up, twisting in the soft curls at his nape. your other hand holds the blunt to his parted lips, smoke curling in wisps from the corner of his mouth.
alex’s eyes are closed, dark lashes resting on his cheeks, one hand on your side and one on your hip as he inhales deeply. he smiles and pulls away just a few inches, irises flicking up to meet your heavy gaze. he cants his hips upwards, and smiles when you gasp.
your skirt parts over his thigh as you straddle him more intently, grinding into the sharp jut of his hip, maneuvering the knee of your other leg to wedge against his groin, where his jeans tent.
he lets out a keen and gives your ass a half-affectionate, half-needy squeeze before carefully taking the blunt from between your fingers and jerking his leg upward, sending a jolt to your heart. he holds the blunt to your lips, and you take a long pull, relishing the burning feeling that spreads through you. then he pulls it away, replacing it with his lips, and you breathe the smoke into alex’s mouth, drawing another groan from him.
“fuck,” he murmurs. he gives your ass another squeeze, his blunt fingernails biting into your flesh. the space between you is hot, and the air feels taut. it’s a balancing act at this point. who will be the first to take off their clothes? but — “fuck, i can probably cum like this,” alex grits out.
your mouth falls open and something whine-adjacent and very embarrassing breaches containment. “mmm…prove it, then,” you tease, tugging on one curl gently.
alex hides his face in your shoulder, nose bumping your jaw. he rolls his hips into your knee and you feel him set the blunt down blindly, his grip on your body tightening as his breath does the same. it comes in short pants, air forced from his lungs before it can settle in.
you kiss his hair, trying to keep the movement of your hips from being frantic as you ride his thigh. your teeth graze his pink earlobe, your free hand trails down his front to grab his pec. which is only fair, really. the heat builds. builds. builds.
i return from the abyss, because i feel like haunting you with my thoughts about tate. i woke up with the urge to overstimulate him until he cries. i want him sobbing and squirming around and getting fucked until he can’t think straight :)
tate told you, once, that in death, everything dulled. colors desaturated, his senses atrophied, his emotions leveled out and flattened. he developed, in the space of about a day, a higher tolerance to sensation as a whole.
so, when you fuck him, you do it within an inch of his life.
you just need to be sure he feels it.
and it’s not like he isn’t grateful. you look like some kind of cruel angel, down there, situated between his legs, your fingernails digging into his pale thighs, teeth dragging up the length of his dick. the hand that isn’t keeping his hips in place as he bucks fruitlessly upwards pokes at his perineum, scraping gently.
tate’s fisting in your hair with one hand, the other slapped across his mouth, fingers bumping the back of his throat as he sucks on them. he’s trying to choke back the sob building his chest, trying to somehow force the weight of his feelings down, down, down. “fuck,” slips past the seal, the word raw and hard to distinguish amidst his gasps.
you hum, disapproving, the vibrations from your mouth crawling all the way up tate’s body as hot static, only exacerbating his problem. you bob your head forward, intentionally gagging on him, then spitting the saliva that accumulates onto his cock, resuming your task with a new intensity, gripping his hips with both hands now.
tate didn’t think it was possible to feel even more than he had been. every inch of his body feels alight, nerve endings frayed and smarting, his skin thin and sensitive. he’s already come twice, the evidence of which paints his tummy and your tits and neck.
and, of course, he’s proven wrong. “oh my god,” he gasps. “oh, i, fuck, i c-can’t–too much—” his eyes squeeze shut, hand moving from his mouth to his sides, almost interlacing his fingers with yours where they dig into the meat of his thighs. “i can’t—”
then, all of a sudden, the feeling is gone. until, of course, you readjust, climbing on top of him and skewering yourself on his cock in one swift motion. a sob escapes him, the feeling too much, too big, too hard to reconcile with the dullness he usually feels.
you wrap your fingers around the back of his neck, pulling his head up and dragging your tongue over his cheeks, his jaw, his collarbone, licking up the rivulets of tears that stream down from his closed eyes. “you can take it, can’t you?” you murmur, voice thick and throat raw from the amount of time it spent wrapped around his dick. “don’t you want to make me proud?”
he nods, mouth opening as another sob falls from his lips. your hands move to his head, and you yank on his curls. “please,” he begs. his mind is fuzzy, his vision blurring from the tears. whether he’s begging for you to stop or keep going, he’s not sure. “please, pleasepleaseplease—”
you roll your hips hard, one last time, and you somehow wring another orgasm from him. he spills inside, but it doesn’t really matter—he’s dead, and anyway, whatever comes out of him is basically empty.
your kitten licks over his cheeks continue, even as he softens. you stay in place, stroking through his hair.
tate’s chest heaves, tiny hiccups escaping his swollen lips. his head is spinning, a headache blooming behind his eyes.
“tate,” you begin, grabbing his face in your hands, making him look at you. his neck hurts. “i think you have one more in you, hm?”
tags: @ravioli-isgood @star-rey-night @ethereallmonkey @posiebb @kylesdove
i messed up my taglist - lmk if you're not supposed to be here (or if you are!)
thank u hannah for the wonderful idea, as always; i love u, kisses
this tate is so ooc . he should be way eviler . but today he cries
꒰ Synopsis ꒱ Being stuck on an island with your shitty boss wasn’t ideal in the least. But, after showing him how resourceful you were and he was not— he finally submits under pressure for his survival.
꒰ Authors Note ꒱ I watched this movie last night and wrote it the moment I got home. 🤭 Probably will be my only entry but he was so sad and stupid in this movie (need thattt) No spoilers!
꒰ Credits ꒱ 18+mdni, oral sex (fem! Receiving), mean!reader, degradation, no beta, slight dub-con, Bradley is weak and pathetic just how I like it. Gif credits! Wc: 1.6k
“You said you wanted a charmer. So—“ you dusted the sand from your hands. “charm me.”
Bradley stood there in front of you, shaking like a leaf, his hands twitching at his side. “I…I’m not sure what you mean—“
“Remember? in your office?” You scooped up fresh mango chunks from your makeshift bowl, sitting in front of a small fruit spread you made on the table all while Bradley was too busy pouting and trying to prove how independent he could be.
You moaned in delight when the juicy sweetness hit your tongue, chewing on hard and soft pieces, eyes shut like you were in a food commercial trying to convince the audience how good something was.
And it worked, the audience being your boss of course.
Bradley watched you intently, swallowing hard, stomach curling with hunger— trying to imagine what that tasted like.
“After you told me how disgusting I was, and how you wanted to give up my position to that fuck from—“
“H-Hey— I know. I know what I said,” he slowly worked up the courage to laugh, trying to lighten the mood. “I was playing. See? I wanted to see your reaction— see if you had what it took to be my right hand.”
“Your right hand?”
“Yes! My right hand!” He raised his hand to show you, wiggling his fingers around. “I can’t have people who aren’t willing to go for things— especially people who are slackers—“
“How kind of you.” You interrupted, reaching for your cup to take a fresh sip of water.
Bradley went silent, almost like a dog waiting for a command. He rocked back and forth on his good leg, hands behind his back like a child, throat too dry.
He opened his mouth, trembling over his words, “P-Please, I realized that…without you, I wouldn’t be here. You saved me. Taught me everything I needed to know— showed me how to survive—“ he bowed his head, “I only want to return the favor.”
“Okay.”
His ears perked, head snapping back up. “Really? Okay?”
“Mhm.” You hummed.
“T-Thank you, thank you—“ and before he could drop down to the sand, you quickly snapped, forcing him to freeze.
“I didn’t say that was it,” You laughed, taking another scoop of mango and savoring the flavor in your mouth.
“Oh— I thought that was it—“
“As the one wearing the pants in our ‘relationship’, you gotta start providing. And I mean, I’m happy to do everything but in every office place, someone will have to get cut if they're not picking up their weight.”
“N-No, I’ll pick up my weight. I’ll hunt tomorrow, find some food, let you rest—“
“You're cute,” you chuckled, “but I didn’t mean that.”
“What…What did you mean?”
You grinned softly, tilting your head. “How above and beyond are you willing to go for me?”
Bradley gulped, hands fidgeting at his side again. He got the meaning when your eyes dragged down his body, watching him with this heatedness that he’s seen before— done before.
He remembered the exact scene because he did it to you a few weeks before you all boarded the plane.
He was going to fire you, lay you off for a college friend that fit the job description— but you were cute for what you were. Clothes crinkled, eyes hidden behind bulging glasses, gaze cast aside with tears dripping down your face.
He told you the same thing. Leaning against his table, eyeing your ugly cries with hardness in his pants.
“How above and beyond are you willing to go for me?”
His fingers gripped the hem of his undershirt, the fabric clinging to him like a second skin. Slowly, he peeled it off, dragging it upwards until he could pull it up and over his head, and he folded it like it would give him the courage to continue.
For someone so mean and downright horrible, he did have a nice body to look at.
“I-Is this okay?” He stood there awkwardly.
“Aww, you have to do better than that,” you pointed to the floor. “Get on your knees and work for it.”
He looked pathetic. Getting down in the sand, resting on all fours. Your eyes widened when he crawled under the table, the sand hot and rough against his hands and pants.
He went all the way through until his head popped up, your legs opening to give him space to take up the empty spot between your legs. And he swallowed hard, peering up at you with tears bubbling up from his eyes.
You soothed your fingers through his damp curls, humming softly. “I can tell you're not used to being on your knees for someone,” You noted, curling your fingers around the strands to force him up and closer, “but there’s a first for everything right?”
“Y-Yes,” he answered, nodding slightly. “Please— I just want to show you how hard I’m going to start working. Please.”
You almost wanted to deny him. Call him a bunch of names to kill his ego and make him submit more— But…It’s not every day you get stranded on an island with your terribly hot boss who needs a kick to his confidence every once in a while.
“Mhm, okay.” You agreed, leaning back to rest against the edge of the table behind you. You pulled your work skirt up, bunching it around your waist and Bradley waited obediently.
“Go ahead.”
He dusted his hands along your skirt first, wiping the sand from his fingers, and then he hooked them around the clothed area of your heat— pulling your panties to the side to reveal your cunt to the exposed warm air.
He looked back up at you, pleading for something, almost as if you would tell him this was a prank that was going too far but you only grinned, watching him with this predatory expression that could only be the result of having so much power in your hand with no consequences.
A single tear slipped down his cheek.
“Awww, are you crying?” You broke out into an obnoxious laughter, uncaring of the small sniffles he was trying to keep at bay. “Shit— you are!”
He shook his head, chewing his bottom lip. “I-It’s just the heat— I’ve been burning in the sun all day.”
“Then you'd better work faster or you’ll be here forever.”
He plunged forward, diving into your cunt— tongue first. A surprised yelp jumped from your throat, turning into a long drawl when he sucked at the bud of your clit and pushed in further to try and swallow you whole.
You jerked your hips, rutting into his face without a care for his well-being, taking whatever pleasure he was trying to give you selfishly.
Your fingers pulled at the strands of his hair, scalp burning with the force— and he groaned out loud when tugged again, sending vibrations into your cunt.
“O-Oh shit— keep moving like that and you’ll definitely get the promotion!” You praised, throwing your head back.
He slipped into a rushed rhythm, sucking at your clit to licking between your folds, his mouth devouring you like a man starved.
Well… he was a starved man. It only served to encourage him to go harder.
“How’s it taste?” You moaned, laughing in between when you pulled his face from your cunt to reveal his wet eyes and soaked mouth.
“So, so good— fucking delicious,” he licked his lips, another tear dropping down his eye.
“You look so fucking disgusting.”
“I-I know. I’m sorry— I’ll do better.”
“You will?”
He nodded rapidly, his hand moving to hold your knees, spreading you apart more. “Y-Yes—“
“Ma’am,” you corrected, “I’m the boss right?”
“Y-Yes— you're the boss… m-ma’am.”
“Good boy, keep going.”
He went back in, licking up your slicked heat like a dog does to water, moaning and groaning when the taste of you slipped into his mouth and flowed to the back of his throat in waves.
You pulled at his hair again, dragging your cunt against his face, moaning out light praises that went straight to his cock.
“S-Shit— there you go,” you breathed, “who knew your true talent was eating pussy.”
He pulled back, panting heavily, his cock aching, “t-thank you ma’am.” and then went back in to fill his title.
You felt heat bloom, your pussy pulsing under his hungry mouth. You sucked in a breath when he dipped his tongue between your folds and curled his tongue up inside.
“O-Oh god—“ you gasped, hips raising and your hand pushing him down to suffocate him. “S-Shit— I’m gonna—“
Bradley stayed still, refusing to move his head, nose buried into your greedy heat— but his tongue continued to work you over the edge.
He felt your pussy convulse around his tongue once he was close to losing air, your pussy jerking forward into his mouth— creaming on him like fresh fruit. He didn’t pull back to breathe until you slumped back down. Dizzy and dazed, peering up at the sky with lazy breaths.
“Was that good?” He asked in a raspy voice.
“Yeah— y-yeah. You did good.” You came back down from your high to sit up, patting his cheek lovingly. “Perhaps you need a few more practices but you did good.”
“T-Thank you.”
You reached over him to grab your bowl, which you abandoned earlier on the table, scooping up mango chunks with a small smile. “Open wide.”
He dropped open his mouth, tongue lolling out and you fed him, watching as he moaned softly. He chewed slowly, savoring the taste, and then he swallowed it all down.
“I heard the manager position was open too,” you fed him again. Delighted at how easy it was to get him to submit. “Wanna show me what more you can do?”
“Yes ma'am.” he moved to kiss along your knee, traveling back to your soaked heat without a complaint.
pairing : peter maximoff x reader info : drabble, domestic fluff word count : 474
the room smelled faintly of acetone and cherry lotion, the kind of scent that clung softly to the air after a lazy afternoon. you sat cross-legged on the couch, brows furrowed in concentration as you carefully applied a coat of pale pink polish to your nails. a record spun quietly in the background, fleetwood mac, something gentle to fill the silence.
peter had been pacing earlier, full of restless energy, but now he stood behind you, oddly still. his head tilted just slightly, eyes following the slow stroke of the brush. he didn’t say anything, didn’t fidget or make a joke, just watched like a curious cat.
“you’re staring,” you said without looking up, voice teasing.
he blinked, caught. “no I’m not.”
“you are.” you capped the bottle shut, smiling faintly. “you’ve been quiet for a whole two minutes, which in your case is equivalent to two whole hours.”
he moved to sit beside you, elbows on his knees. “I just don’t get it,” he admitted finally. “you paint over something that’s already… your nails. they’re fine. why mess with them?”
you arched a brow. “why mess with your hair when you put gel in it? same principle.”
he made a thoughtful noise. “touché.”
you reached for another bottle, bright blue, the same color as his jacket, and twisted it open. “come on, just pick one. I’ll do yours next.”
peter’s eyes widened, and he pointed at himself. “mine? you want me to—no way. no, no, I’m not—”
but you were already holding out your hand expectantly, eyes sparkling. “oh, come on. you’ve done dumber things for fun.”
he hesitated, then grinned. “...yeah, fair point. alright. hit me.”
he stuck out his hand, a little awkwardly, and you gently took it in yours. for once, he didn’t make a joke or try to pull away. he just watched as you carefully brushed a streak of color over his thumbnail.
the blue glistened under the light. you blew on it softly to help it dry, and he found himself watching you this time, the way lashes caught the glow, the little crease of focus between your brows.
“there,” you said finally, holding up his hand with mock pride. “don’t give me that look. It’s kind of stylish... and rebellious.”
he flexed his fingers, pretending to inspect it like a piece of fine art with a pleased smirk plastered on his face. “y’know, I could pull this off.”
“you already are,” you said, smiling. “don’t act surprised.”
peter looked at you, the corner of his mouth quirking up. “you make it sound like I’m actually cool.”
you laughed, leaning back against the couch. “you’ve always been cool. you just needed a punky manicure to prove it.”
and for once, he didn’t argue. He just smiled, letting the blue dry between you like a symbol of connection.
Jimmy darling x f!reader • MDNI • smut, rough/possessive sex, breeding kink, pregnancy mention, fluff, praise • drabble • 1.2k word count • a/n: I don’t write Jimmy much but he is so underrated so I had fun writing this lil piece for him. hopefully more to come for this cutie! inspired by this prompt 🧡
The sun crawls in through the holes in the top of Jimmy’s tent, waking you with a gentle yellow ray of light as you groan and roll over to shield your eyes. Jimmy snorts in his sleep as you lay your hand on the back of his neck and thread your fingers through his sweaty red hair, smiling in adoration at this beautiful man you managed to find and keep all to yourself.
He sighs quietly as he realizes the touch is kind, twisting his head to try and get closer to it before his perfect dark eyes flicker open and come to land idly on you.
“Hey you,” he says, voice husky with sleep as he reaches out and immediately cups your hip with his hand and tugs you toward him.
You smile and lean in to kiss his forehead, and the mild sunburn there, hot to the touch and a gentle pink beneath your lips. He rumbles happily at that, gripping your waist tighter, his fingers, though oddly formed, still deft and unbelievably strong.
“Good morning,” you giggle gently into his scalp as you let him bury his face in your chest, breathing you in through your cotton nightgown.
“Mm… great mornin’,” he corrects, his words muffled as his face lands flat between your breasts. He sighs against your skin. “Mmph— love you s’much, baby…” He kisses you through your clothes before traveling up to your neck. “How’d I get so lucky, huh?”
“I’m the lucky one,” you correct, laying so your neck is even further exposed for him.
Jimmy grunts, shifting until you feel his bulge beneath his holey boxers, hot and needy. “You won’t leave me, right?” he mutters against your skin. “Promise?”
“Jimmy.” Your gut twists at the thought, your hand tightening in his thin, stained, wifebeater tank top. “Don’t even talk like that.”
“Then promise me,” he growls softly.
“I promise,” you exhale, breath hitching as his teeth graze your throat.
He hisses, “Mm, you won’t leave if we have a baby… It’ll need a daddy… you’ll need someone to keep you safe and fed. And fucked.” Your whole face flushes hot at his words, his voice gravely and desperate as he starts grinding absently on your thigh. You press your legs together as heat starts to gather at your cunt.
“Yeah,” you agree breathlessly, obediently parting your legs as Jimmy reaches down and roughly shoves your nightgown up over your thighs and yanks you even closer. You let him swing your leg over his hip as he fishes himself from his boxers and you gasp as he springs up and immediately meets your parted folds with his leaking tip.
“Mm, need you, baby,” he groans, still talking in low tones against your throat, his hands on your waist as he starts moving his hips, trying to get inside you, thrusting like a dog on someone’s leg; desperate and clumsy.
You shift your hips to try and give him better access, your body still heavy with sleep, and so is Jimmy’s, by the way it takes him a few good thrusts before his cock head finds the space between your folds and notches against the tight entrance.
Jimmy lets out a low sound as he holds you in place and slowly sheaths himself inside, ripping a ragged moan from your chest as he fills you up. It’s a shock, every time, how much there is to take of him. It feels like forever of Jimmy just working every inch of his shaft up and into your cunt, his breathing uneven and sweat already beading on his sleepy face as he stretches you.
Your walls flutter around his throbbing cock as he bottoms out with a snarl, hauling you into his arms so he can fuck you on your side, your leg still thrown over his hip, face tucked into his sweat-slick, musky shoulder. You love the smell of him; of old popcorn, burnt cotton candy sugar and the faint smell of hay. It’s just another thing on the never ending list of things you’re obsessed with about him.
Your head bobs forward as Jimmy’s thrusts grow rough after a few seconds of gentle breathing as you adjust to his size. Jimmy is a selfless lover — but once in a blue moon he gets like this; so feral to fuck you full of his spend that he’ll drag you behind the big top during a show, or bend you over the stage once the rest of the troupe has gone to bed. Now is no different, and he won’t slow down until you’re swollen with his cum and cock drunk.
“Mmph— Jimmy,” you moan softly into his ear, spurring him on.
He growls again, fucking you harder, your cunt already spasming around his fat cock, wetting him with your slick down to his balls.
“Shh,” he shushes you, his teeth sinking slightly into the soft flesh of your neck just below your ear, pulse hammering against his tongue as he moves his hands so one is cradling your head and the other is at the small of your back, steadying you. “Let me fill you up, baby,” he cooes.
You let out a quiet cry as he rolls so you’re straddling him on top, still flat against his chest in his half-bear hug, lifting his hips to fuck up into you violently.
Your thighs twitch on either side of his hips as you bury your nose in his neck, inhaling his scent as deep as you can as the pleasure and pain of his rapid thrusts begin to blend into a throbbing sensation between your legs. A whine starts growing in your chest as your cunt starts to squeeze him, and you feel Jimmy twitch inside you as he pants his approval. “Atta girl,” he rasps. “There you go, cum for me, baby. That’s it…”
You let out a sob into his tanned skin, clawing him through his tank top as your cunt clenches down around him. You feel his thrusts stutter before one of his hands slides down to press your ass down hard so his pelvis is grinding againsg your throbbing clit. “Good girl,” he praises, his voice breaking as he nears his peak. “Ah-! Milk me, baby, come on,” he begs, fucking so hard into you that you worry you won’t be able to catch your breath before he suddenly stills and spills into you with a choked yell. His cock swells and twitches before pumping you full, his hips still rolling on their own accord, massaging his spend into your spongey walls still clenching around him weakly as he whimpers at the aftershocks of his release.
“Good girl,” he pants when he can speak again, still cradling your head like he’s scared to ever let you go. “My good girl, all mine.” He rolls his hips once more, coaxing a squeak from your spent body, and he whispers, “Promise you’ll stay forever?”
You wrap your arms around his neck and moan shakily into his chest, cunt still aching around him. You never want to move. “Forever, Darling,” you promise. “I’m all yours, till the end.”
You plan to circumvent his lymph nodes. He shows up in the skin you wear. Ocean pulp is raw, not deli. He needs more. You're feeling generous.
⤷ harry gardner x muse user!f!reader. 3.1k.
He arrives on time. Knocks five times in quick succession. Not particularly well-mannered. Impatient. Or apprehensive. You open the door and peep through the narrow gap restricted by the chain lock.
"Hi, I'm— I'm here for the books," he says, sounding brittle through the pretense of naive friendliness. "We talked over the phone this morning."
He's shriveled into himself, slightly jittery and focused on his breathing, trying not to let the cold affect him. His hands are in the pockets of his coat, but the leather's tough to hide and easily justifiable in this weather anyway. Your jaw tightens, but experience saves you from giving away much else. Plans change. He seems to fully take you in after a moment, looks a little flustered, like you weren't what he was expecting out of a Craigslist listing link-up. It makes him straighten up. His lips thin out in a tense line of casual civility and you sense an underlying nervousness disguised by the thickening early-evening layer of frigid mist.
Plans change – because Sommers and that bitch Noir like playing god. This one could be promising: in his early 30s, if you had to guess, and inexperience is easier to spot when that's the case. He shifts stiffly but doesn't look away, letting his crystalline eyes, sharp chin and charming set of smile lines do the work. It's always nice to see them shiver. You make up your mind, wordlessly shut the door and unclasp the chain. When you open it again he lifts his head from where it was evidently hanging in those seconds, all 90s heartthrob locks—dark and glossy, wind-whisked: the innocence and earnest ambition of a teen with boyband confidence—but doesn't make a move. Smart enough. Or queasy. Either way, you find him somewhat precious. He thinks himself the undetected predator tonight.
"Come on in," you offer, quick and simple, detaching from the entrance and turning your back on him carelessly.
He steps inside and shuts the door behind him. Hesitates, but follows you into the kitschy living room. You offer him a drink and catch him eye the 2019 Bardolino bottle on the coffee table. He politely declines. Ariel is there too, off to the side, on the hardwood edge, and so is The Colossus. You watch him read the titles on the spines from a distance. What's funny is you really wouldn't mind them gone. He looks like he listens to Leonard Cohen and doesn't have a solid grasp on dad jokes quite just yet.
"Poetry aficionado?" you ask. "Or is it just the Cape that tends to make us melancholy?"
"Yeah, um, a bit of both, I think," he says, awkwardly sticking out amidst the antique furniture. "It's mostly for research, actually. I'm a writer too."
You stop by the cherry-colored chesterfield and give him a once-over.
"Not that kind," he's quick to clarify. "I write for TV."
"This must be where I go 'Anything I might've seen?'" you quip, a tad heavy on the delivery in a way you hope he doesn't recognize as too vixenish just yet. Then again, the game you're playing is the same. You take silent pride in having him beat already.
He lets out a puff of air. "Probably not. I've done a couple of network procedurals. Just signed a sort of a big, uh, streaming service deal, though."
"Mm," you acknowledge neutrally. "Not big on subscription services."
He breathes out a chuckle. "Yeah, I don't blame you."
His stance is unobtrusive and you can tell he's questioning your reserve, but a writer's ego is impossible to muzzle, so he gets himself to loosen up, stands tall and secure in his imaginary (in his eyes: discernible through cultivated taste, an urban bourgeois sort of angle; in actuality superficially appreciable, pop culture zeitgeist palatable, not yet even realized – just like yours) prestige. The beauty of the pill is the way it unveils that scorned superiority complex. He's getting there. You relish his need for reassurance.
He looks around, clearly stalling. Scans the room and takes a gloved hand out of his pocket to readjust the gray bag hanging from his shoulder. You pour yourself a glass of red, unhurried. The smell of currant feels like EBM synthesizers and drum machines turned into vapor, dry and crunchy, softer to the trained ear. The presence of the other bottle on the table—a brown glass onion, heavy liquid and not a lot of it—sitting pretty just behind the wine, exhilarates you more than you can afford to admit. Something obvious catches your guest's attention and he takes a step, small and almost involuntary, toward the metal rail by the south wall. Galvanized steel, hangers holding up chiffon, silk, calfskin, lace and paper. Organic matter you mostly deem recycled. One should avoid sounding too familiar to Jean-Baptiste Grenouille.
"Are those—" he lifts a hand and points in the direction of the impromptu rack, "yours?"
You hum flatly. "Work in progress."
He approaches slowly, as if magnetized; momentarily distracted from the demand for brutality that brought him here: that pressing, insistent thirst. You take a sip – raspberry and black pepper blend, easier to recognize by the minute, and observe him from the side.
"Graduation collection," you explain after a moment, because it doesn't really matter what he learns about you. He doesn't know it yet, but he's no threat. He glances at you briefly, searching. Must be the question of your age. "Master's," you add, toneless, to give him at least that crumb to latch onto. It's just about enough, and he turns back to examine the garments more closely.
"It's looks..." he breathes out, "incredible." You let yourself enjoy the praise, the genuine appreciation in his tone. He hovers, right beside them now, looks to you for more. "May I?" So you nod. Goes to show how he goes about manners, about morality when he deems you're of equal standing. You like what this could mean for potential exhibitions, those excerpts you might get to read on The MET's webpage in ten years, with a foreword by Andrew Bolton.
He traces the pads of his fingers along a shoulder seam, as if he could feel the material through the glove. It's a jacket you could see him in, a tighter fit that would accentuate his lean physique – something to file away for later.
"It's—" he hesitates, trying to find the words. "It's very..."
Grotesque?
Intense?
Morbid?
Hungry?
"...poignant." He says instead.
You study him with tame curiosity, swaying the wine glass in languid, subtle little circles.
"It's the posthuman. A glimpse into the future, if you will. Or the present," you expand, deliberately measured.
"The posthuman," he repeats, tasting the words. You can only see his profile from this angle, barely in a position to catch the miniscule twitch along the line of his brow. "Non-human hybrids. Dystopia after the end of humanism."
"That's the one."
He drags his hand over to another piece, grazing the hardened ripples of the structured beetled linen sleeve. The mask hanging over it—deconstructed medical influences and a dash of 80s body horror—goes to show you've set your course after the British avant-garde tradition. You sit down on the upholstered sofa, crossing your legs as you contemplate his candid fascination.
"It's jarring, isn't it?" you muse, testing. His head slants in your direction, instinctively leaning into the sound. "Facing it directly. Anthropomorphic, yet so... inhuman."
He shifts—hardly noticeable tension—but keeps his eyes on the rack.
"We never quite imagine it lurking like this, in broad daylight," you continue, suppressing a bourgeoning smirk. "Clinging onto remnants of the little humanity it has left. Sharp-toothed... insatiable."
It does the trick. He goes rigid – like the molded fiberglass you manipulate to mimic rigor mortis. You lift your chin.
You hear the inhale, see the pretty panic in his eyes when he turns to face you, swift and alert. His expression tells you his brain has gone into overdrive. You hold his gaze. The suspense spreads, a charade he was not privy to lands atop his shoulders in a way that looks to weigh him down and make him lighter, snappier, at the same time. He licks his lips and the way his face unknits the next second seems to mean he's put the puzzle pieces together.
"I'm not here for the books, am I?"
"Books?" You tilt your head and draw your eyebrows together, slightly lifted at the inner corners – amusedly sympathetic, like you pity his distress. "Is that really what you came here for?" you coo sweetly.
He stills under the invisible charge of your inflection, your scrutiny; alarmed; reaches for his pocket. The terror of the unexpected ambush. You let it unnerve him for a moment.
"Relax," you say eventually, lowering your chin. It's cute, the way he's masking being startled, how he's bracing to defend himself (to attack first, if needed), and you graciously provide the answer to his confusion in the drapes of a question, voice laced with a teasing sort of composure. "You think I'd pull this trick on one of ours?"
The confirmation sinks in fast. He shifts his weight from one leg to the other, breathes in with his whole chest. You're in no rush.
"How did you know?" he asks, quiet and unsure.
"I could smell it on you," you say, plain and a little sly. "From the moment I saw you." His features tighten, so you probe in a way that forces him to reconcile himself to the discomfiture. "Still debating going for my throat, screenwriter?"
He shakes his head. "No, no," then exhales sharply. It sounds like guilt, adrenaline and the kind of uncertainty that makes your blood pulse in your neck. "No, of course not."
The hazel in his eye has warmed over in the dim low-level light of your living room. You know he's half lying, half convincing himself – a protective mechanism, a nervousness that makes the pink tissue of your gums buzz with a pleasurable thrill.
"Funny where we draw the line," your voice drops lower.
You take another sip and move to set your glass down. "Sit," you beckon him over without another glance.
He wavers. A second. Two, three. Four. You pretend to miss the way he fiddles with whatever's in the pocket of his coat, until he finally decides to drop it. His steps thump atop the wooden flooring, then soften to a dull thud on the carpet.
"What's your name?" You turn to him again as he takes a seat on the armchair just beside the sofa, clutching his bag strap with both hands. "Your real name," you clarify. "We both know how this works."
"Harry."
You prop your elbow on the upholstered armrest – tall enough to allow you to hold two fingers at your temple as you lean into your hand. He draws another hefty breath and meets your eyes.
"Look, I wasn't—" he starts.
"Yes, you were."
His lips stay parted for a beat, taken off guard, as he rummages for something in your expression, then closes his mouth, jaw tense. You remain motionless – easier to keep him on edge.
"I didn't want—" he tries again. "I don't want to hurt anybody."
"No," you drawl sympathetically, syrupy and ambiguously comforting. "Still getting used to it, aren't you?"
He readjusts his posture, letting go of the bag and inclining forward, forearms resting on his thighs; faring better, it appears – accepting of your awareness. "Do you ever? Get used to it, I mean." His timbre's gone breathier, slightly dispirited and earnestly desperate. You find you'd quite like to make him fully trusting, hopeful and reliant on you for relief.
"Do you like what you do?"
He cups a hand over his mouth, drags it down heavily, rubbing the skin, stops at his chin and holds it there. "Yeah."
"You want to be good at it," you prod. "More than just good. More than great. You want to be... exceptional."
It's not a question. He falters – long enough to indicate at least an arbitrary attachment to the imposed moral obligation. Good to know he isn't exactly heartless.
"...Yes." He admits.
"Then you don't have a choice."
His shoulders slump downward. "How long— how long have you been..." he trails off, the question fizzling out. You take pity on him.
"It's my second season. Came here last winter to work on the collection. Couldn't finish it in time."
"So you came back."
"So I did."
"For the collection."
"For the lobster rolls."
He laughs, short and sweet, like a weight lifting off his lungs. You roll your bottom lip inward, let it rest beneath your teeth momentarily, and keep your eyes on him.
"You seem... you seem okay." He says in the silence that follows. You raise an eyebrow, prodding him to spell it out. "I mean, it seems like... it's easy for you."
Your forehead melts, expression smoothing out into a simple look of receptive understanding. It gets increasingly more endearing by the minute: the way this stranger's leaning into you for comfort. For validation. For approval, or even for advice. There's a mole—prominent and solitary on his chin—that you frivolously imagine kissing after a kill, after he's ripped open someone else's throat and the blood has trickled down in a thick little stream of dirty maroon. The same fate he had envisioned for you.
"I've made my peace with the end of humanism," you say, tongue-in-cheek.
"Yeah," he smiles through a sigh, then lets the bitterness take over, full-bodied this time, strangely vulnerable—the gleam of something tender (something scared) flashing in his eye. "I... I have a family."
Ah. All the more fun.
"Poor thing," you mutter attentively. "You like it, don't you? You like it so much it scares you. You don't want to put them in danger. To hurt them. But it feels too good to stop."
"No," he immediately shuts the notion down. "No, I will. I can. I just need to write a few more scripts and then it's done. I'm done."
A knowing smile tugs at your lips, controlled and admittedly arrogant. People never change.
"You went to Dr. Feldman."
He frowns. Exhales heavily, like he's been caught again, a reluctant acknowledgment. You get the feeling this won't take much.
"You're a murderer," you jab, matter-of-fact and silky on the consonants.
He huffs, disgruntled – on the defensive. "That's not fair."
"You like it."
"I don't!"
The veins on his neck strain through the thin skin as the assertion soaks into your shared air, bleeds into the expensive leather seating. You let him struggle through it. His eyebrows twitch harshly, as if to startle himself out of it. His head drops forward and you find wicked amusement in the way he breathes in deeply, facing the floor, and runs his hands through his hair roughly. "I fucking don't." He rasps, quieter this time.
The seconds crawl onward, lethargic in the space between you. Contented with the Phantom Thread-esque approach's success, you straighten up and reach for the second bottle – the one you're glad you refilled earlier.
"The pill doesn't create monsters, you know," you murmur, low and gravelly. "It just unearths what's already there."
Harry shakes his head dejectedly, not looking up, fingers still buried in his hair. You grab a shorter glass—for whiskey—setting it down right next to yours, and pour some of the murky plasma.
"You think you're better than them, don't you? The pale ones. You've heard the Chemist's bullshit story." You continue. "Except the truth is that they were strong enough to give up. They let go of their dreams because achieving them meant they'd have to step on others. You and I? We're just the marketable motherfuckers ruthless enough to keep going."
He swallows hard and lifts his head at last, eyes flicking back up to find yours. His brows are tightly creased, like this is something he is pained by even if he knows already. You nod toward the glass, lulled by his torn-up countenance, the way those ruffled locks fall over his forehead in messy, wavy black clumps. Neatly handsome even when exasperated. He stirs, leaves his bag behind and walks over. You hand him the glass. He takes it and sits down on the sofa, some inches away.
"Drink," you command, intentioned but far from cold.
He brings the glass to his nose and stares at the shallow pool swirling inside. "Is this—"
"Drink, Harry."
He shoots you a final look—glassy but nervy, floating on an undercurrent of determination and conceit—and takes a swig. You drop your gaze down to his throat and watch it bob with the sip. The tautness of his features dissipates at the taste, eyes widening as they flicker rapidly back and forth between what's in his hand and your face. Antipodal sensations: you see the thirst, unleashed and raging now, the bewilderment and the perturbation. He's so delightfully dazed – like you've broken something in him only to restore it, more vibrant and delicious than before.
"Yeah?" you murmur breathily, unable to help the affectionate lilt – because he's already just so pleasantly receptive. "Good?"
He nearly freezes at your tone, muscles stifling down a shiver.
"How..." he quavers, clearly affected. You're in no mood to explain just yet, especially considering how difficult it is to get your hands on the fresh stuff nowadays. This one came in clutch before you even met him.
"Let's worry about the how later, yeah?" You recline back against the solid upholstery, sounding thoughtful, somewhat sheltering – as if you've made up your mind now, as if you're saying that you've got him, that you know how much this weighs on him, that he doesn't have to bear the burden of responsibility with you, always the caretaker outside these four walls. "Drink up."
He does, of course – it's not like he can help it once he's had a taste. You wonder how many days it's been. You wonder what Aristotle would say now about the soul, the animalistic side; but he isn't here, so you've taken it upon yourself: the deconstruction of the zoon politikon. The politics of fangless vampires are somehow both Hobbesian and a confirmation that rippers live amongst formal, organized institutions too. For now, you'll coax the hybrid out of the battered stranger on your couch. He keeps drinking and you smile lazily, eyes growing half-lidded as you reach out to gently scrape your nails across his nape. He lets you – trusts you, recognizes your pride.
"It'll be okay," your whisper is a soft rasp.
He drains the glass and peers back at you with the inkling of a different kind of hunger. You encourage him to pour himself the rest as well. He stays until the understanding tethers you together: barbarity is a negotiable malady. You choose to pretend that you can be the boot that stomps.
a/n: sorry for the long wait 😭😭 @all-monsters-are-human enjoy!
peter maximoff x plus-sized!reader
SUMMARY: you don’t like kids. never have, never will. so why the hell did one stupid song make you picture one—and not hate it?
warnings: cursing, discussion of children/parenthood, reader doesn’t want kids (at first👀) fluff with light angst?, internal conflict, kissing, fleetwood mac mentioned ❤️
rules!
the song starts out low—soft, scratchy through peter’s ancient record player, like it’s been dragged through time a few extra decades just to land here.
you’re half-paying attention at first, flipping through a comic peter let you borrow, legs tossed over his lap while he sprawls sideways across the couch.
then..
rhiannon rings like a bell through the night…
your thumb stops mid-flip. “…wait,” you murmur.
peter hums along, off-key but committed, tapping your ankle absentmindedly. “mm?”
“..that name..”
“huh?” he glances over, distracted, still half in the song.
“rhiannon..”
“…yeah?” he says, like he’s trying to figure out the problem.
you stare at the page, but you’re not seeing it anymore. “…that’s a really nice name.”
peter squints at you a little. “m’kay…”
“no, no, like—” you shift, sitting up just slightly. “It’s really nice.”
“…you good?” he asks, brow slightly furrowed.
you hesitate. that alone is enough to make him pay attention now. “I dunno,” you mutter. he nudges your leg. “uh-huh,”
you sigh, dropping the comic onto your stomach. “I just—fuck, this is gonna sound stupid.”
“c’mon, hit me babe.” he murmurs.
you rub your face. “…it sounds like a girls name.”
peter huffs a quiet breath. “well. yeah—”
you shoot him a look. “not helpful,”
“okay, okay—my bad, keep going, y’just gotta be a little more specific.”
you hesitate again, then just push through it. “It sounds like a little girl’s name.”
he goes quiet for a second, “…anddd?” he prompts.
you exhale slowly, already irritated. “and I don’t even like kids. I’ve never liked kids. you know that.”
“yeah,” he says. “I know.”
“I don’t want them. not now, not later, not ‘maybe someday,’ none of it.”
“got it, babe.”
you drag a hand through your hair, already wound up. “..so why the hell did my brain just go ‘oh, that’d be cute’? Like—where did that even come from?” peter shifts under you, sitting up more a bit. “…you thought that?” he asks, more focused now.
“yes,” you snap. “for like half a second, but it was there, and now I can’t unthink it and it’s pissing me off.”
he exhales through his nose, glancing off to the side like he’s trying to line up what to say. “…what’d she look like?” he asks.
“why does that matter?” you quickly reply.
“because, it does,” he says, a little firmer. “you don’t get this all worked up over nothing.”
you stare at him for a second, then look away.
“…small, of course.” you admit. “runnin’ around.”
his mouth twitches. “fast?”
you give him a flat look. “…obviously.”
“hell yeah,” he mutters under his breath, almost automatic, then catches himself and clears his throat. “continue?”
you stifle a small laugh, but keep going. “she was loud. laughing. like—really laughing.”
he nods once, like he’s actually picturing it.
you shake your head, “and, it didn’t annoy me. that’s the problem.” peter leans back slightly, “…okay,” he says, slower. “sooo, you had one thought that didn’t suck.”
“peter, that’s not how this works,” you fire back. “I don’t do ‘one thought.’ It’s always been a no.”
“it’s alright, people change their minds all the time,” he says.
you press your lips together in a line, energy buzzing under your skin. “It’s just—what if that means something?” you say. “what if this turns into a whole thing and suddenly I’m— I don’t know—rethinking everything and—”
“hey,”
you don’t stop. “—and I don’t wanna rethink everything, I was fine with how it was and now it’s like my brain just—”
“y/n,” he says again,
you keep going anyway. “—threw this at me and now I can’t just ignore it because it didn’t feel bad and that’s—”
his hands catch your arms—not rough, just enough to snap you out of it. “jeez—breathe for a second,” he says.
“I am breathing—”
“no, you’re not—fuckin’ liar.” he muttered, no real bite to it. “you’re spiraling, like, crazy, and y’know that freaks me out.” he continued, direct. you open your mouth to argue and he leans in, kissing you.
It’s quick at first, more of an interruption than anything, but it works. your words cut off mid-sentence, the momentum breaking just enough for your brain to stumble.
you pull back slightly, frowning. “pete—” he kisses you again, slower this time.
“peter, quit it—” you try, turning your head a little, but he follows, one hand sliding up to your jaw, not forcing, just steady.
“your overthinkinggg,” he murmured against your mouth before kissing you again.
you let out a frustrated huff that melts halfway into it, “I’m serious,” you mumble, but it comes out weaker now.
“you always are.” he says, softer this time, not letting go.
there’s a beat where you just sit there, your hands half-raised like you’re not sure whether to push him away or grab onto him. “…it doesn’t mean you have to decide anything right now,” he adds, quieter.
you don’t respond immediately. “…I don’t like it,” you admit.
“I know,” he muttered, giving a quick kiss to your cheek.
“feels like I’m losing my mind over one stupid name.” you continue. his thumb brushed lightly along your jaw as you spoke. “…it’s not that stupid if it got you like this.”
you roll your eyes, but there’s no real bite behind it.
“…rhiannons still a good name,” you mutter.
“for sure,”
you glance up at him. “…you’d actually want that?”
he hesitates—but not in a dodging way. just thinking.
“…eventually?” he says. “I think I would.”
your stomach flips, just a little. “…we’re not having a kid,” you say quickly.
“kay,” he answers just as fast.
you narrow your eyes. “that was.. too easy.”
he sighs, one corner of his mouth pulling up. “y’want me to argue with you right now? that’ll go great.”
A/N: have i wrote for austin before? no. will i do him any justice? also no. but here’s an attempt from someone who fell asleep during red tide and needs to rewatch it
MDNI. 18+ BELOW
“just hold still, i’ll be done in a sec” austin murmurs as he lines the tip of the bladed object to your lower abdomen, just above your mound. his eyes were focused in deep concentration which wasn’t something you’d expect to see from austin in these scenarios
without any warning he made 3 quick slashes into your skin, creating an ‘A’ shape into your flesh. the wounds instantly began to fill with blood, pooling on surface of your skin. it stung like a motherfucker, but you couldn’t deny how the pain sent a rush of pleasure down to your throbbing clit. the blood instantly spilled and began to dribble down your flesh towards your weeping cunt
a grin tugged at the corners of his lips, and he began carving an ‘S’ beside the A. just like before, the stinging sensation flooded your senses with painful euphoria; the blood yet again dripped down your body, mixing with your slick and leaving austin with an even wider grin
without saying anything he licked the carved initials, tasting your blood. he licked down your body until he reached your clit, lips wrapping around the sensitive nub whilst he licks the blood off of your sensitive flesh. he continued moving down south, licking along your slit with the flat of his tongue and drinking the mixture of your essence and blood: two of his favourite things.
your body writhed in pleasure beneath him, eyes fluttering back in your head whilst austin drew sweet moans from between your lips. he let out a small scoff of amusement at how you were reacting, the noise sending vibrations washing over your sex.
his tongue lapped up your bloodied essence and he moaned into your cunt when he felt more blood drip down from the wounds which were slowly closing up. he couldn’t deny it was hot though: his initials permanently carved into your flesh aroused him to large extent
you felt that familiar coil building in your lower stomach, the stinging sensation from the cuts further fuelling your pleasure until you came undone, with austin practically drinking your release.
“so good, you’re fucking hot when you cum on my tongue” he hums in delight, milking your orgasm for all he could get, however the grin on his face showed that he didn’t plan on stopping yet.
A/N: i have never struggled this much with characterisation. austin is definitely my weakness. i thought i was bad at writing michael langdon but this is a whole other level💀
Even when you were just getting to know each other, random touches were common with Tate. He just loves feeling close to you—whether it’s holding your hand, fixing your hair, resting his head on your shoulder, or giving you a hug. His favorite thing to do is cuddle up while watching a movie or stay wrapped up together while playing games. No matter what you’re doing, he just wants to be touching you. When he feels extra needy, he just shows up by your side, even if you're busy with something: "Positive education. Wanna cuddle now or when you finish? You win in both options."
kit walker – physical touch, acts of service, and gifts
Kit covers a lot of love languages, but these are the core ones. As a hardworking man, he likes to save money to buy you something special you mentioned wanting. Even when he’s exhausted, helping you with tasks makes him feel good, and he appreciates when you return the favor whenever you can. Physical touch is crucial—it’s how he reconnects with you after a long day. Sometimes, he just wants to hold you in silence or listen to you talk. "My day? Boring, just work. How about yours? You did somethin' new today?"
frat!kyle – quality time and acts of service
Being a dedicated student, Kyle’s idea of a date is often a study session together. He’s always happy to help with a tough assignment, and you’d do the same for him with your knowledge. If he had to be away for a trip or exams, he’d constantly text to ask "how you’re doing", "how your day’s going", "did you have your breakfast today?" In his free time, he’d join you at parties or stay home to hang out. He’d never let you wash the dishes—it was his way of thanking you for spending time with him. "You can do something for me later, okay?"
zombie!kyle – physical touch and words of affirmation
At first, Kyle wouldn’t quite know how to express what he felt, but he’d quickly fall in love with giving you bear hugs. Kisses all over your face would become common, but when you did the same to him, it felt extra special. Over time, he’d learn to communicate his feelings, blurting out things like, “You’re really nice,” “I love being with you,” or “Can I have a hug?” at random moments during the day.
jimmy darling – physical touch and acts of service
At first, Jimmy might be hesitant to touch you, worried you’d find his hands strange. But once he got past that, it was like his fingerprints had super glue for you. His favorite pastimes would be giving you massages, hugging, playing with your hair, or holding hands as you walked around—feeling bold and accepted. He’d also take any time spent fixing up the trailer, house, or meals with you very seriously. Can't go out without you. "Wanna join me for a ride after cleaning? I was thinking about buying something for the show and having some ice cream. It's freaking hot today."
james patrick march – words of affirmation and quality time
James has no filter when it comes to compliments—they’re grand and meaningful. Anytime you did something extraordinary, he wouldn’t hesitate to shower you with over-the-top praise like, “Darling, that’s fabulous, stupendous, bravo!” or “Indeed, my muse, how radiant my queen is today.” He adores spending time with you, especially if you join in on his strange hobbies. If you weren’t into hunting, he’d settle for a dinner date or a tour of the hotel, sharing its secrets and stories about its residents.
kai anderson – words of affirmation and quality time
Although physical touch is a constant in Kai’s life, he expresses his emotions best through words. Rare as they may be, his compliments are always intentional—"you're very intelligent, you know that?", or even changes in your hair or appearance "liked what you did in your hair, looks healthier". Quality time is another strong expression for him—whether watching movies, talking about his plans, or venting about how the world is falling apart and how you seem like the only one sane person next to him.
austin sommers – words of affirmation, physical touch and quality time
As a writer, Austin is most comfortable expressing himself with words. Though he enjoys physical affection, he values time together even more. Of course he loves to bury his head on your neck and nuzzle his nose after love bites, but there's something special about spending time with you doing nothing. He’d take breaks from writing just to go on walks with you, using the excuse that he needed inspiration when, in reality, he just wanted an excuse to admire you a little longer. "You wanna go back home? Nooo, I just had a new idea in my mind. Let's keep it for a while, hm?"
note: I made this gif and I am super proud of it even though it’s shitty.
Life was riddled with plentiful opportunities to experience something new and unfamiliar. Sometimes those things might come off as more frightening than exciting, thus steering people away from taking the plunge into the abyss of the unknown, but other times the anticipation and the prospect of the thrill overrode any apprehension they may have felt.
In Mary’s experience, life was really just about taking those opportunities as they happened along. It wasn’t often that someone was offered a chance to escape the mindless humdrum of their life. If she let her trepidation stand in the way of trying something new, then she ran the chance of being trapped in the rut of routine for years, living the same day in and day out until life was no longer waiting for her to take that leap of faith in an attempt to change the normality that was pressing down on her shoulders with an oppressive weight.
It was this mindset that had landed her in one of the most interesting situations she’d ever found herself in.
Summary- When Kai finds out you’re planning to avoid pregnancy behind his back, he acts immediately to make sure his plan for a new and better future isn’t ruined.
Warnings- Dub-con (I think), breeding/impregnating, car sex, unprotected sex, sexual punishment, daddy kink, arousal from crying, Kai Anderson.
Words- 1.6k
This was a left over idea from Kai Week that I had planned based on a request, and I wanted to do it! Returning to car sex, fun! :D
Enjoy<3
–
“What is it Y/N?”, Kai forcefully asks.
“No honestly nothing”. You try your best to lie, but Kai always knew when you were nervous or worried. He also knew when you were keeping secrets from him, which is why right now you were completely screwed. Kai often looks through your belongings and does regular pinky power meetings to ensure that he knows absolutely everything about you. You know how some people say a little mystery is good in a relationship? He was certainly not one of those people.
Kai anderson x wife!reader • smut, violence, kissing, drug/alcohol use, soft sex, cw semi incestuous line • word count 1.4k • a/n: anon requested this AGES ago but I hope y’all enjoy! Also I PROMISE it’s fluffy, it’s just. also Kai. 😳
“My lamb,” he whispers when he finally pulls back for air, gasping quietly as he tries to lock his unfocused eyes onto your face. “Forgive me…”
He kisses the faint bruise on your cheek, in the shape of his hand, almost in reverence as he reaches inside his drawers and lets his cock nudge at your clit. You jerk underneath him at the touch, heart hammering. Is he really going to fuck you like this? In his sister’s bed?
frat!kyle Spencer, franken!kyle Spencer, Austin Sommers, Kai Anderson, Jimmy Darling x f!reader • fluff, kissing, tw blood, violence • 6.4k word count • a/n: 1 billion years later and this is finally done! I’m still considering a part 2 where I write Cooper, Colin, and possibly Tate or Kit? Lmk if y’all would like to see that. :3
…
Kai
You know Kai sees what’s happening. The way the stranger sidles up to your side at the bar and grins lecherously. He pushes a glass toward you and you shift uncomfortably, wondering why Kai hasn’t said anything yet. You whip your head around to look at him, eyes wide with a silent plea to do… something. Anything. Just not sit there with a dead eyed look like he is. You watch him watching the man close the space between you, Kai on your other side but not nearly as close as this stranger is getting.
You turn back when his hand ends up on your thigh, your heart pounding as he grins and asks, “Hey baby, what’s your poison? You got a man here with ya tonight?”
You’ve been all but completely programmed not to speak unless Kai gives you explicit permission, so you just balk, staring at the man with a slack jaw and clenched fists. His eyes grow confused and then he doubles down with his efforts, leaning onto the bar so you're boxed in, and grumbling, “What’s the matter, kitten? Cat got your tongue?” He raises his brows and shoots a look over your shoulder at Kai, who sips his drink serenely. “Or is it this blue haired bitch behind you?”
“I, uh…” You swallow hard and Kai finally speaks behind you, his voice loud.
“Like what you see?” he asks, still calm as ever. He even sounds… mildly amused.
The stranger snorts. “Hell yeah. She yours?”
Kai smiles, and you turn around to see him stare right past you, like he’s talking about a pet. Or a collectible. “She is.”
The man’s hand twitches on your thigh and you freeze, heart starting to race faster than you can breathe to keep up. “That so? Well, I hope you don’t mind sharing.” His tone is dark and threatening, and if you weren’t afraid of Kai getting mad, you would be sprinting for the door.
Kai just smirks wider. “Not at all! Go right ahead.” His eyes finally, finally land on yours and you beg him with a look to come rescue you. But his eyes flash with a meaning you can’t decipher and he says quietly, “It’s a new age. Women aren’t property anymore. Are they, lamb?”
You exhale, “Kai, please—”
“That doesn’t mean you should argue with me,” he chuckles, earning a shocked expression from the man hitting on you. “Go on, have a little fun! Show our friend here a good time,” Kai urges, lifting his drink to the man.
Tears start to sting your eyes and your chest heaves. Don’t cry, don’t cry. That will earn you a lecture from Kai.
The stranger chuckles too, his hand sliding up around your waist. “Well if ya insist,” he starts, pulling you from your barstool.
But you hesitate. Your heart pounds— you know you should obey Kai, but everything in you screams to run, to fight. You hold your ground as he tries to drag you away from the bar and the stranger frowns. “Hey, bitch, I said let’s go.”
You shake your head and cry, “N-no! I don’t want to.” You spin your head around and find Kai watching, still calm, still unburdened by your terror. “Kai!” you call desperately.
He glares at you. “Go. That’s an order.”
You shake your head again, tears starting to stream down your cheeks. “No, Kai, I want you! I’m scared!”
“Fear is what makes us human,” he drones, like he’s said it a thousand times— and he has, “I told you to do something and I expect you to listen.” His eyes flash behind his blue hair and his jaw clenches.
“You heard your faggot boyfriend,” the man snarls, trying to yank you after him, but you scream, hitting him in the chest.
“No! I want Kai! Let go of me!” you shriek, shocked that no one has turned around to see the uproar.
The man growls. “You bitch…” He rears back, his massive hand looming and ready to break your jaw. You hide your face as he brings it down, and gasp as you feel a soft ghost of cool air brush your cheek.
You fearfully open your eyes to see a muscled pale hand gripping the stranger’s wrist, stopping the blow from landing across your flesh.
You suck in a sharp breath as you see Kai standing there, your knight in shining armor, glowering up at the man twice his size.
“No one touches my wife but me,” he says simply. Wife. It hasn’t been officiated but it might as well have been, with how possessive he is. You back up rapidly as he glances at you meaningfully.
The stranger barks an angered laugh. “What the fuck are you gonna do about it? You said we could share!”
“Her rank just changed, go find some slut off the street,” Kai orders, his hand already growing weak from holding this guy back.
The man growls murderously. “Oh you're dead,” he says.
Kai takes a deep breath and bellows, “HERETIC!”
You cover your ears as the bar is suddenly thrumming with the screams of a dozen grown men, all pounding their chests before they rush to the middle of the room to dog-pile the stranger that touched you. Kai watches as the man is swarmed in seconds, his body buried by swinging fists and stomping boots. Kai stands there for a long time above him until the shrieks of pain stop. But the mass of men don’t. You feel your stomach flip over as Kai turns and give you a sickly sweet smile, walking over and grabbing you by the back of the neck to lead you outside ahead of him.
By the time you reach the alley, the cold air biting your skin, you’re sobbing. “I’m sorry, I’m so so sorry,” you wail, shaking as you wait for him to hit you or scream or pull out a gun.
“Babe.”
You keep crying, “I should have just obeyed you, I know that, I’m sorry, please— I was so scared, I— I wanted you to save me, Kai, and I know—”
“Babe. This was a test,” Kai says loudly, his hands coming to rest on your shoulders. You shake under his touch and keep sobbing.
“I know! I failed, I know, just please— I know you have to punish me, just don’t leave me, Kai, please,” you whimper, covering your face as you hear him breathe hard in front of you.
“My love!” he snaps.
You look up through your fingers in horror and confusion, further confused when you see his gentle smile and adoring glint in his dark eyes. His hand strokes your cheek with such an air of love it makes you ill. “My wife,” he purrs, voice dropping another octave as your knees click together and you cautiously drop your hands. “You passed. With flying colors,” he chuckles softly.
“I— what?” you whisper.
Kai smiles. “You did it! You passed. You reacted exactly how I’d hoped you would.”
“What?” you say again, fear turning to confusion.
Kai smiles wider, leaning in to kiss your forehead possessively. “Of course I expect you to obey me, that’s the role of a follower. But you chose me, you chose to disobey my order to remain faithful. To remain mine. That is the role of a wife, not a follower.” He pulls back and you watch his eyes darken, and your mouth goes dry. “I don’t need you to obey me as long as you would risk yourself to get back to me.”
It makes sense, then. He set this up. All of it. It was why he let you wear makeup tonight. It’s why he chose this place with his goons stationed in every seat to stand up and step in when things got heated. Why he held back and scared you and let you cry. It was all a ploy to pull you even further into his orbit. Under his thumb.
You realize this with a sinking feeling in your gut as he chuckles and shifts to kiss you deep and slow, stealing your breath.
As you gasp for air when he finally breaks it off, he murmurs against your parted lips, "Besides. I could make you obey me if I wanted to. I always can.”
You nod despite your fear, despite everything. You wouldn’t have it any other way.
…
Frat!Kyle
He doesn’t mean to be absent, fetching you a drink from the bar and making polite small talk with the bartender. Kyle’s always too polite. But he doesn’t notice as a strange man approaches and sits on the stool right next to yours, too close, eyes wandering over your body.
You try not to make any eye contact but he reaches out and brushes his elbow against yours, clearing his throat. “Buy ya a drink?” he offers, raising his brows. The tone is anything but innocent, his gaze dark and making you shift uncomfortably in your seat.
“No, thanks,” you say softly, “I’m here with my boyfriend.”
He glances behind you and blinks in disbelief. “I don’t see him here.”
You tense, shifting again to look for him, and like a knight in shining armor, he catches your eye and grins, your frat boy in his stupid beaming varsity jacket.
You don’t smile back, hoping he sees the flash of fear in your eyes as you stare, and his smile fades in an instant as he realizes something’s off.
His gaze darts over your shoulder to the man and gauges his proximity before leaving your half-made drinks and walking right back across the crowded bar to your side.
You let out a breath as Kyle plasters a thin lipped smile onto his face and lays a protective arm over your shoulder, keeping you on the stool but making sure it’s known you’re not up for grabs.
“Can I help you?” he says immediately, and the stranger doesn’t seem to get the hint.
“Just checkin’ on your girl here,” he explains, sleazily, eyes still wandering over you. “She’s not one I would leave all by her lonesome in a place like this.”
“Right,” Kyle blinks, slow and unamused. “Well, that’s good, ‘cause I didn’t, and I don’t plan to. Thanks for looking out for us, though, man.”
The guy snorts. “You fuckin’ serious?”
“I’d be happy to go grab the manager of this place if you need some help,” Kyle says, but all kindness is gone from his tone, “Otherwise you can fuck off.” You shiver slightly as Kyle grits his teeth, slipping his arm from your shoulder to step in front of you slightly.
The guy scoffs, shaking his head, “Whatever man, she’s an ugly bitch, anyway.”
You bristle, but Kyle lets out an airy laugh. “Oh-okay, see, I was gonna let you walk away, but now you fucked up,” he replies, rearing back and punching the guy square in the face. The dude falls flat on his back off of his stool and Kyle spins around, grabbing your hand and yanking you out of your seat muttering, “Time to go.”
The two of you race out of the bar and leap into the nearest taxi, panting and laughing breathlessly as Kyle’s hand stays tightly wrapped around yours.
“You too chicken to beat that guy’s ass?” you tease him when you’re able to breathe again, grinning as Kyle looks at you with glittery eyes, cheeks red.
He pants, “Did you see him? Dude was three times my size at least.” He ducks in unexpectedly to lovingly kiss your neck, muttering, “If you asked me, though, I would have.”
“Liar.” You say it in jest, pulling at the collar of his jacket so he’ll kiss you harder, maybe leave a hickey— but Kyle stops, pulling back to stare at you seriously.
“I’d do anything for you, babe,” he says, tone dropping.
You feel your face heat up at the intensity of his gaze and exhale, “I know…”
Kyle’s lip tugs sideways into a smirk as his eyes begin to dance with mischief. “Need me to prove it?” he rumbles. “Give me a task. Anything.” He leans in further and you feel his hot breath against your lips as he nears you but doesn’t touch, “Name it.”
You cup his jaw and grin, “I have a few ideas.”
…
Franken!Kyle
Maybe you shouldn’t have taken Kyle out to a bar yet, so early in his stages of recovery. But he’s seemed to be doing better with things, and the girls practically begged you to join them. So here you are, awkwardly swaying in a too-loud crowd, drink in hand while Zoe, Queenie, Nan, and Madison try to talk to one another over the blasting music. You keep checking over your shoulder to make sure Kyle’s okay; he’s tucked away in a booth in the corner, a lemonade on the table, his scarred hands planted over his ears as he rocks gently in his seat. You sigh softly. This was a bad idea.
“He’s a grown man,” Madison tells you suddenly, yelling over the cacophony. You whip your head around and frown. “He’s fine.”
“It’s too loud for him,” you yell back. “I think I should take him home.”
“Maybe it’s because he’s not meant to be alive right now,” Madison snarks. “He’s a freak.” You roll your eyes and nudge past her, earning an annoyed squawk, and try to shuffle through the crowd to reach Kyle.
As you move, though, a hand appears on your waist. You assume one of the girls is stopping you, so you turn and say irritatedly, “I need to go home—”
“You could come home with me, pretty thing,” a strange man says instead of any of your coven sisters. You try and spot any of them through the crowd but they don’t even notice that you’re gone, let alone in trouble. Your hand flies down to his and shoves it off.
“No thank you,” you say quickly, swallowing and trying to tamp down your panic.
He lets you push his hand down but his other comes up immediately to replace it, this time slipping up to encircle your wrist firmly. “Come on,” he urges drunkenly, “You come out looking so fine and leave just like that?” He jerks his head to the side. “There’s a bathroom we could occupy…”
Your heart rate spikes and you squeeze your drink, mouth going dry as you attempt to pull away, to no avail. Your head cranes back as you immediately think of Kyle— what would happen to him if you got taken? It’s almost funny, a man is openly threatening you and all you can think about is Kyle's well-being. Maybe that’s what love is.
He’s still rocking gently in the booth, his elbows in his lap as he plugs his ears, overstimulated. You know you don’t have a chance of screaming over this music, so you just struggle against the man’s hold as he starts to drag you through the crowd by your arm. You stare at Kyle, hoping and praying some sort of message goes through. Maybe it’s magic, maybe it’s something else, but he suddenly looks up, opening his black eyes to lock onto yours, his expression shifting from overwhelmed to curious. His big eyes take in the image in front of him; your distressed face, the man with his hand on your arm, the way the crowd batters you as you’re dragged against your will.
Kyle’s eyes flicker with confusion for a second before he lifts his head fully, hands dropping from his ears to clench into fists in his lap. He blinks at you once before he shoves up from his booth and stalks forward through the crowd.
One of his feet drag slightly behind him, but he’s at your side in an instant, his hand wrapping around your bicep to stop you. You wince as the stranger tugs you, feeling resistance and spins around to glare at Kyle.
Kyle’s fingertips dig into your flesh accidentally, but you don’t mind— you know he means well and you’d take a thousand incidental pains from him over one touch from this horrible man in the bar.
“Hey,” the man snarls. “Back off.”
Kyle just grunts in response, pulling you hard, out of the man’s grip, and drags you into the space beside him, never taking his burning eyes off the man.
You pant, backing up as Kyle lets go, still staring at the guy, his chest heaving as he pants. The man glances at you and narrows his gaze— clearly undeterred.
“Go find your own slut, you mental case,” he spits cruelly, and you almost scream at him, the desperate urge to protect Kyle making your blood boil. The man tries to dodge around Kyle and grab you again, and Kyle lets out a roar, slamming both hands into the man’s chest. He’s bigger than Kyle— by a lot. You watch on in terror as the guy snarls and grabs at Kyle, but the boy is too determined. Too strong.
Kyle lets out another feral sound as he grabs the man’s head, hands bunched in his thinning hair, and yanks downward to drag him to the floor. His hands are clumsy, but his arms flex, knowing exactly what they want to do. He twists his grip around and with a loud, wet snap, the man collapses to the floor, leaving Kyle standing above him, sweat beading and making his dirty blond hair cling to his forehead. Kyle looks down blankly at the unmoving body at his feet, breathing hard.
You stare for a long moment in shock before a sob erupts from your chest, falling into Kyle’s arms as the crowd starts to realize a murder just occurred. A justified one, at least. Kyle’s chin rests on your head protectively, his angry, teary eyes flitting over the rest of the people here. His hands wander up and find a firm place to land on your back, fingers splayed out as he holds you against his chest.
The girls gather around as accusations start flying, but you can’t state your case or even defend Kyle, the tears won’t stop coming. Nan meets your eye, though, and speaks up. “He tried to rape her,” she states bluntly. Then, glancing at your — well, your boyfriend, she adds, “Kyle stopped him. He wouldn’t leave her alone— it’s all he could do.”
Your tears start to slow as Kyle strokes your back comfortingly, shushing you softly and nodding to confirm Nan’s story as police begin to be called. Zoe grabs your arm and whispers, “Madison said we should get out of here before they try to take Kyle away.” You nod in agreement.
“Yeah,” you say. “Let’s go.”
But before you follow the girls out the back door, you look up to see Kyle’s broken expression, the fear and concern there, and you reach up to kiss his cheek gently. He blinks in surprise and murmurs, “Hurt?”
You smile smally. “No, I’m not hurt,” you assure him. “Thank you for saving me.”
“Mm, save,” Kyle echoes, leaning down to kiss your forehead with a sweet sound. He slurs against your hot skin, “Always.”
…
Austin
The creep had been staring at you since you got on stage. Austin’s arm is slung around your waist, his voice slurring and eyes red as he sings his heart out into the microphone. You try to ignore the stranger’s gaze but you squirm anyway, thankful when you can finally finish your song and get back to your table.
“Hold on, I need another drink,” Austin says, patting your backside lovingly as he nuzzles his nose in your hair briefly. You grab his leather jacket as he turns away and he stops hard, eyes widening in surprise.
“There’s— that guy’s been giving me weird looks,” you whisper uncomfortably, trying to subtly point him out. Austin frowns, eyes flicking drunkenly over the sparsely filled room before landing on a larger man seated at the bar. As you said, his eyes are glued to your form, dark and lecherous.
At first, Austin’s lip curls in distaste before his eyes trail over the man’s hunched, broad build, and he sucks his teeth hard, expression shifting into something else. Something less protective and more… hungry.
“Should we… see what he wants?” Austin suggests, a devious smirk dancing over his sharp features. You whirl to stare at him.
“What?” you hiss. “You’re joking.”
“Hey. I never joke,” he says, forcing his lips into a thin line before they break back into a toothy grin.
You’re not amused, pleading with your eyes for whatever terrible idea Austin has to never meet the light of day. Or— the dim interior light of the bar.
“Babe,” Austin says now, his tone dropping back to more serious as he wraps his arms around you and pulls you against his front. “Have I ever let a living thing on this earth hurt you?”
You think for a moment, but you know the answer. You shake your head, blinking guiltily.
Austin lets out a bark of laughter. “Hell— I don’t think I’ve let anyone touch you since we met, let alone get close enough to hurt you.” You nod, your cheeks flushing at the realization you probably insulted him by acting so distrustful. Austin’s arms tighten around your body, tugging abruptly to make you look up into his eyes. He stares seriously down at you, dark gaze glittery and glazed over but undeniably adoring. He cooes softly, “That is not about to change one iota, my Princess.”
You giggle shyly, ducking your head again in embarrassment to push your face against his warm, bony chest. “Princess?” you echo.
He rumbles, “What, don’t like it?”
You giggle again, kissing his pectoral through his shirt and reveling in the sound of his racing heart beneath the skin.
Austin snorts, “Listen babe, I’m a screenwriter, not fucking Shakespeare. Now—” He grabs your face and pulls your head up to lock eyes with him, a nasty smile on his sweet lips. “—can you trust me, Mi Corazón?”
You grumble, “That’s even worse…”
He squishes your cheeks so your lips stick out and you start to snicker again, the complaint dying in your throat, heart thrumming when Austin pecks your puckered lips and releases you to yell, “Atta girl!” He punctuates his words with a sharp smack across your bottom and you have to suppress a squeal of surprise, following him as he saunters across the bar toward the terrifying onlooker.
“Good evening, sir,” Austin drones dramatically, sliding onto a stool right in front of the man, finally startling him enough to stop staring at you for five seconds. “My girlfriend and I couldn’t help but notice you’ve been enjoying the view.” Austin smiles with all of his teeth, threatening because you know what’s under those veneers— friendly and a bit eccentric to anyone else.
The man snorts. “I like th’ look of her, if that’s whatcha mean,” he grumbles, again glancing over to sneer at you. You swallow hard, hand falling instinctively to cling to Austin’s jacket like a scared child.
Austin notices and hooks his finger in your belt loop, yanking you against his side in a second.
“Well, of course,” he scoffs, “Who wouldn’t?” He looks at you now, eyes drunk on more than just alcohol as he soaks up the image of you in front of him, lips parted slightly. He hisses suddenly, tone regretful as he wraps both arms around you and bends slightly on his stool to lay his head between your breasts, shocking you into blushing hard, and says, “Unfortunately, we kind of come as a package deal… you want one, you gotta take both, y’know?” He clicks his tongue as if to say there’s nothing he can do about it— ‘I don’t make the rules.’
The man frowns, but he looks at you as if considering it. Austin trails his hand down your belly and toys with the hem of your shirt, not lifting it, but teasing. He bounces his brows. “So…” he urges slowly. “You interested?” Austin’s hand slips under your shirt hem just enough to give your belly a pinch; a subtle signal to plaster on a seductive expression. You obey, locking eyes with the man even as his features make you ill. But it works. His brows raise ever so slightly before knitting again, He dips his chin in a brusque nod and starts to stand, Austin breaking out in a wide, excited smile.
The man wrings his hands, looking like he wants to eat you right then and there, but Austin’s hand remains firmly wrapped around your waist as he stands, too.
“Should we get a taxi?” he asks in a low tone.
Austin wrinkles his nose— that irresistible expression he makes so often, the one that makes you weak— and throws his free hand out in a half shrug. “I don’t see why we’d need one when I have a perfectly good car parked outside,” Austin bluffs.
The man wrinkles his own nose but you snark, “Don’t worry, there’s enough room for your fat ass in the back seat.” The man bristles and you start to smirk before Austin’s big hand flies up to clamp over your mouth.
He lets out a sharp, nervous laugh. “Haha! That’s my girl, she’s a bit of a feisty one… real mouth on her.”
You let your lips part and bite down onto Austin’s finger, prompting a shocked little yell as he pulls away. You smile at him as he furrows his brow but can’t keep the smitten simper off his face.
“And teeth,” he mutters, his dark eyes dancing as he looks at you.
The stranger breaks into your magical moment with a grumbled, “I don’t mind…”
You have to resist rolling your eyes as Austin leads you out of the bar, the stranger on your tail.
You itch under his gaze but steady your breathing. You trust Austin. You do. But sometimes Austin is a madman as much as he is a bloodsucking vampire.
The three of you exit the bar, Austin’s limber fingers dancing along your hip as you walk. “Down the alley,” Austin drones over his shoulder. “I always park in back.”
“Yeah?” the man asks, sounding suspicious. But you know Austin already has him hooked— he’ll be eating good tonight.
You shiver slightly when the three of you get out to the end of the alley, knowing what’s coming next when Austin untangles himself from your body, pecking you atop the head and shooing you a few feet away. “Enjoy the show,” he teases, sticking his tongue between his teeth as he scrunches up his nose again. You giggle as he questions, “Do you count as my groupie on karaoke nights?”
“What the hell-?” The man Austin lured out here stops in his tracks, confused by your banter. “What are you talking about?”
“I don’t think so,” you ignore him to answer Austin, “Do writers have groupies? Whatever those are called, I’m probably that.”
Austin clicks his tongue in agreement, blinking at you with double finger guns before closing the space between him and the man.
“See why I love her?” he sighs dreamily, clapping a hand onto his prey’s shoulder.
The man snarls, wresting him off, “Hey—! Where’s your car? I thought—”
“That’s the thing buddy,” Austin says, feigning regret as he throws his arm all the way over his shoulder to yank him into his orbit, “You didn’t think. Not with your brain, anyway.” He lets out an obnoxious laugh, shooting you an annoying tongue waggle that you promptly respond to with an eye roll.
“Get off—” The guy starts to panic, still raging as he struggles to shove your boyfriend off of him.
“Oh that is a certainty, my friend,” Austin sniggers, shifting his stance to throw the man against the alleyway wall, deftly slipping his retainer out to reveal his row of jagged fangs. He jokes darkly, “Trust me— I always get off.”
You would laugh, but your stomach turns and you close your eyes before you have to see him sink his teeth into the man’s throat. A wretched scream is cut off almost as immediately as it starts, dissolving into a horrible gurgle that makes you sick.
You finally open them again after Austin’s content guzzling has finished, finding him leaning against the wall with a sheen of crimson blood dripping down his chin.
He licks his lips, eyes half lidded and satisfied as he blinks slowly at you and smiles. “Heh,” he chuckles lightly, pushing off to step closer to you, “Thanks for dinner, babe. I just love it when you cook.”
“You idiot,” you laugh, meeting him halfway. “I’m sorry I freaked out. I know you’ll always keep me safe.”
Austin frowns. “You’re always a freak, what are you talking about?” You laugh harder.
“Shut up! You know what I mean,” you whine, patting his chest when you reach him.
Austin huffs a soft laugh, lowering his tone. “Yeah, I just like getting a rise out of you,” he admits. He leans in for a kiss and you squeak, slamming both palms against his chest.
“Ah! Wipe your face,” you snap in disgust.
Austin blinks before leaning back and wiping his messy chin with a sleeve, dramatically scrubbing until he’s relatively blood-free.
He quips, “I thought you liked the whole sexy vampire thing…”
You wrinkle your nose. “It’s not sexy when you get all gross like that,” you reply. “It’s the exact same as getting food on your face and not wiping it off.”
Austin yields, licking the front of his fangs. “…alright, you got me there.”
You lean in and let him lay a gentle kiss to your lips, his hands instantly finding your hips and pulling you closer.
When you finally break it off to breathe, you ask, “You up for another song?”
Austin grins wickedly, his grip on you tightening. “I think there’s a different kind of beautiful music I’d like to make together.”
You groan, “You are such a dork.”
Austin sticks his tongue out, biting back, “Hell yeah I am.”
…
Jimmy
Of course he notices immediately. You didn’t feel right letting him blow off steam at the bar alone, not when you knew he could end up in jail. Again. And he’s stayed reasonably calm all night.
Until he notices.
The stranger had only started staring a minute ago, but Jimmy was all over it like the whisky over ice being poured for him at the bar. He swivels on his stool and narrows his eyes over your head, his deformed fist clenching angrily next to his empty drink.
“Stay right here,” he slurs. “I’m gonna teach this asshole a lesson ‘bout starin’ at my girl.”
“Don’t.” You reach out and grab his arm tightly as he stands and starts across the bar, his eyes fiery. He’d probably been hoping for a fight. But as much as you love tending to Jimmy, you did not need another day of bandaging wounds and icing black eyes back at the Freakshow.
His eyes fall back to you instantly, mildly confused as he searches your face. “Don’t worry, baby, I’ll take care of ‘im,” he assures you with a little nod.
“No, Jimmy, please,” you say, tightening your fingers around his bulky bicep. “I don’t want another fight. And nobody’s gonna bail you out if you get tossed behind bars again. Please, Jimmy.”
Jimmy stares at you, jaw popping as he contemplates his options. His gaze crawls back to the disgusting slob seated across the way, his eyes still on you as he sips his drink. Jimmy lets out a little growl, his eyes flashing with a different kind of fire as he grinds his teeth. “Fine,” he spits, moving to stand in front of you, now, his hands coming up to frame either side of your waist. “Then lemme at least give ‘im a show.”
Your face heats as you feel his fingers dig lightly into your sides, murmuring, “What’re—”
You don’t get to finish that sentence, yelping as Jimmy hauls you off your barstool and onto the bartop, yanking your face into his orbit to plant a rough kiss to your lips. He smells sharply of alcohol and sweat, and a little cologne he used to save for the ‘special’ occasions you don’t let him go out for anymore. Not that he’s ever even considered it since he met you.
You're shocked at first but you eventually melt into his kiss, soon forgetting all about the man staring at you from across the room. You tilt your head, feeling Jimmy’s hand come to rest cautiously at the back of your head, digits teasing the feathery hair at the nape of your neck.
You lose yourself in the moment a bit, overwhelmed by the warmth Jimmy radiates, until suddenly his hands are somewhere else— on your thigh, pushing your dress playfully up to reveal the skin of your leg.
Your eyes fly open and you pull back, smacking Jimmy lightly in the chest. “Jimmy Darling!” you scold, breathless. “What are you doing?”
He smirks, that delicious smirk he knows full well you’re helpless against. “What?” he teases gently, his eyes slipping over to subtly glower in the leering man’s direction, “He needed reminding of who you belong to…” He pulls you hard forward by the waist until your legs are akimbo on either side of his hips and your heart pounds against your ribs, eyes wide as you stare down at him from the bartop. Jimmy smiles adoringly up at you and murmurs, “I’m just reminding him.”
He buries his face in your chest, his favorite place to be, you’ve found, and squeezes your waist with both arms, prompting you to giggle breathlessly.
Your fingers end up tangling in his hair, dipping your nose to bury it in his locks, breathing in the scent of him, as he nuzzles warmly in your chest.
You almost lose track of time— and where you are— but a pair of clearly disturbed locals approaching from behind your boyfriend quickly reminds you of your surroundings.
You tense, Jimmy grumbling when you stop stroking his head, clearly over the petty point he was tying to prove and now just lost in breathing in the smell of you, squeezing you even tighter against him like he can block out the whole world if he holds you firmly enough. When the two men, bulky arms crossed, are right behind Jimmy, you start to rapidly tap his shoulder, fear paralyzing your voice momentarily.
Jimmy lifts his head fast, as fast as he can with the amount of alcohol in his system, blinking big, watery eyes and inadvertently pouting his lip. “M’sorry,” he whispers, almost an automatic response. He swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat as he tilts his head up to look at you, brow furrowed in concern. “…You… don’t want…?” His arms start to untangle from you and you grab his wrists before he can pull away.
“No!” you gasp, and he blinks in surprise. You cup his face and hold him there gently, stroking his cheeks with your thumbs. “Jimmy, I love everything you do— you’re about the best man I’ve ever met… that’s the only reason I’m sitting with you right now and not googly eyes over there.”
Jimmy doesn't even look back at him, just blushes furiously, his expression never changing from that of a smitten puppy dog. You swear if he had a tail it would be thumping the floor right now.
Impulsively, and again forgetting about the world around you, you lean in and let your lips collide in a soft, warm kiss. Jimmy sighs against you, his eyes fluttering shut as you work your mouth against his.
But the moment is cut short when one of the unhappy fellow bar goers grabs your man by the shoulder and whips him around to face him.
Even tipsy, Jimmy is immediate to react, smacking the stranger’s hand off of his body and snarling, “What’s the problem? Can’t a guy show his girl a little love?”
“We don’t mind her,” one of them huffs.
“It’s you we want gone.” The two of them cast pointed looks down at Jimmy’s hands before stating, “We don’t need freaks in here.”
You slip off the bartop fast, grabbing your boyfriend’s arm, sensing an impending fight. “Jimmy, let’s go.”
“Freak?” Jimmy barks. “Who’s the fuckin’ freaks here? Me or the bastards tryin’ to kick my girl outta here?” He jabs a hand in the direction of the man who had been ogling you. “This your friend, too I bet, right? Bet all of ya are a bunch of—”
You hate the sound of Jimmy’s nose cracking under fists. He’s broken his nose enough times, you’re shocked he’s still as good-looking as he is. And boy, is he good-looking.
You beat your fists uselessly against one of the men’s arms as he drags you to the door after the man hauling a flailing Jimmy. The two of you are tossed into the dirty parking lot out front, groaning as the doors swing shut. You should be used to this by now, but you’re not sure you’ll ever get used to being treated like less than people— and you’re not even the one being persecuted. You shift to lay your arm over Jimmy’s front, his chest heaving as he blinks stars away and wrinkles his nose, hand coming up to palm the bloody mess. “Shit,” he mumbles.
“I told you to leave it,” you sigh, only half scolding. He doesn’t deserve this— any of this. The least you could do is be gentle with him.
He sighs. “Well, I couldn’t let those assholes look at my girl and get away with it.”
You smile, laying on his chest, giggling an embarrassed apology when he groans louder at the gravel digging into his back. You stand and help drag him to his unsteady feet, cooing sadly at his bloody face, cupping it while he whimpers softly at the pain.
“My Darling boy,” you murmur, leaning in to kiss the edge of his lips, trying to avoid the blood trickling over them. “Thank you.”
Jimmy frowns. The dunce. “Fer what?” he asks.
You snort. “For being the only the normal thing in my life,” you explain.
Jimmy’s eyes dance, sparkling in the starlight, a smile spreading despite the growing bruise just above his mouth. “Never been called normal before,” he muses, bringing one of his hands up hesitantly to the side of your head. Before he can pull away, you grab it and pin it to your face, leaning in to his touch and locking eyes with him, smiling adoringly. He smiles back, broken and grateful as he chuckles, “I could get used to it.”
𝜗𝜚 sunrise - colin zabel x wife!reader
↳ morning sex, fluff, cuddly prone sex ⁞⁞ wc: 1.5k ⁞⁞ a/n: nothing like colin zabel smut to overcome writer’s block ⁞⁞ » 18+ ; mdni
as always, you feel him before you’re even really aware you’re awake. colin is a solid line against your back, his body warm, chest rising and falling steadily with his predictable breaths. one of his arms is draped over your waist, fingertips brushing the soft skin on your bare stomach.
both of you were too tired to have sex last night, but naked cuddling was a very sufficient substitute. his stubbly jaw scratches your cheek, the weight of him pressing down on you an easy, grounding transition to wakefulness.
your eyes flutter open, but you close them immediately, the morning light streaming through the curtains too bright for your sleep-adjusted mind. you don’t mean to shift, but you do, extricating yourself from colin’s limbs and sliding out from underneath your duvet (100% cotton, the result of an argument in homegoods last spring), rubbing at your eyes with the flat of your palms as you pad into the ensuite.
the tiles are a cold shock to your skin, and even worse is the porcelain toilet. you keep your eyes shut, trying to hold on to your drowsiness. it’s a saturday, and colin doesn’t have any cases that demand his attention, which is rare, so you intend to make the most of your time in bed with him.
after a few minutes, you return to the warmth of your bed, finding colin blearily sitting up, propping himself up with one hand as the other rubs over his face. when his gaze lands on you, his entire body seems to soften. “hey,” he rasps, his voice deep and grumbly from disuse. he stops massaging his jaw and extends his hand to you, palm-up. “was starting to think i was abandoned for coffee.”
you hum a vague disagreement and slide back into bed with him, settling into the curve of his arm, head resting on his shoulder. your eyes close again, even though your sleepiness has mostly dissipated. it’s just the calm that accompanies him, you suppose. “no,” you say, nuzzling his collarbone. “coffee can wait.”
he presses a kiss to the top of your head, pulling you closer. “you smell like soap, babe,” he murmurs. “mmm…g’mornin’...”
his hand finds your chin, and he tilts your face up, bringing your lips to his. you kiss for a while, your hand on his chest, the two of you unpressured by outside forces for the first time in a while. inside this room, it’s just you and him, your easy love hanging in the air like pearlescent mist.
you don’t know how much time passes, but he pulls away, forehead against yours. his eyes are dark, his cheeks pink-tinged and his smile boyish. “love you,” he says, and then kisses you again before you can respond.
“sneaky,” you say, coming up for air, completely unable to mask the affection on your face. you drag your hand down from his chest to his stomach, where your fingers splay over his abs. colin is muscular—almost anachronistically so. his job is physical, but you’ve never been able to understand how he manages to maintain the build he does with his once-monthly gym visit. ‘good metabolism’ he said with a shrug when you asked him about it. hell, you’re not complaining. “do you wanna have sex?” you ask plainly, because sometimes he misses your signals.
he flushes deeper. “are you up for it?” he asks, rubbing up and down your arm.
you nod, and kiss him again. “mhm. i want to.”
“’kay,” he agrees, and kisses you back, hand moving to cradle the back of your head this time, fingers slipping into your hair. the pair of you rock back and forth like that for a moment, your knee wedged between his legs, pressing ever so slightly on the underside of his dick. “how?”
you’d make fun of him for how easily that could be unflatteringly misinterpreted, but you’ve known him for too long to actually misunderstand and you’re quickly realizing just how long it’s actually been since you and your husband have made love. “on my tummy,” you say. “m’cold.”
he nods and shifts on the bed (you don’t miss the way his fingers twitch towards his dick when he opens his legs up). “okay. i can do that,” he says playfully, stroking the back of your hair as you settle into position, arms wrapped around a pillow, cheek mashed into it, eyes closed. he taps your knee gently. “open.”
you oblige, spreading your legs open. colin climbs between them, rubbing circles on your lower back. the bed is soft, and your husband is so warm, and for a moment you think you’ll fall asleep again, but then he wraps one hand around the meat of your thigh and squeezes once. you let out an embarrassing sound and your face heats up.
“oh, sweetheart,” colin murmurs. “c’mon, it’s me.”
“sorry,” you say, peeking over your shoulder at him. “it’s been a while.”
he smiles at you. “i know.” he squeezes your thigh again and his expression shifts. “can i touch you?”
your eyes flick to his, then over his body. the jut of his collarbones. the subtle curve of his stomach. “mhm,” you murmur, closing your eyes again as you return to your position. “please.”
he works you up easily, fingers moving like waves crashing against shore. you’ve always been like that. the tide. ebbing and flowing, drifting apart and then back together. not in a sad, star-crossed way, but an inevitable one. life will always drag you away from each other, and you will always return home. the comfort in the tide, not the tragedy. soon, you’re moaning against your forearm and colin’s hips are rutting into the mattress.
“can i?” he breathes. you nod again, clutching the pillow. but you relax completely when colin lowers himself over you, the weight of his body familiar, predictable, and adored. the trail of hair on his stomach scratches your back, but you don’t care. you don’t care especially when he begins to line himself up with one hand, cockhead bumping your clit and sending a jolt through you. his arm slides under your front. the motion is so colin—purely tender and almost reverent—that you almost want to cry.
you feel him shudder when he bottoms out, his breath on the back of your neck shaky. “mfph…fuck, babe,” he murmurs, kissing your hair, your jaw, your neck. “you’re good?”
you nod, removing one of your arms from the pillow and grasping behind your for his hand, which you interlace your fingers with, squeezing. “mhm. all good. you’re good?”
instead of answering verbally, colin pulls out a few inches, and then pushes back in, faster now, his tempo set. he squeezes your hand as he fucks into you, a steady reminder of his prescence.
the sheets smell like laundry detergent, but all you can smell is colin—the aftershave he hasn’t used since wednesday, the remnants of the cologne he washed off in a shower last night, the sheen of sweat resting atop his skin, giving him a shiny, almost ethereal glow. he’s an angel, you think. your angel.
you can feel your orgasm building, a tight coil of heat in your lower stomach. really, though, it feels like light. you grip his hand harder, fingernails biting into the space between his thumb and forefinger, and let out a particularly loud moan when he hits a specific spot inside you. “ah, col, baby…mfph…sweetheart…”
“you close?” he breathes, letting the hand conveniently positioned under your body snake down to between your legs, and his thumb finds your clit. he presses it hard before beginning to work at it in tandem with his thrusts. you can feel his heartbeat pound through his ribs against your back. “i won’t last,” he warns.
neither will you. because you don’t, coming with a strained ngh and another squeeze of his hand, thighs beginning to shake.
colin follows soon after, spilling into you. he strokes your hair as he catches his breath, laying on top of you. he presses a kiss to your ear, and you feel his deep breath on your skin. “love you,” he repeats. “but i don’t think coffee can wait much longer.”
you giggle and manage to roll over while still keeping him on top of you. you meet his dark eyes, let your gaze linger on his pink face and swollen lips. your husband is prettiest when he’s like this. when there’s nothing inhibiting his love for you. maybe that sounds narcissistic, but really, it stems from a lifetime of needing to wonder. with colin, all of that is eliminated. he loves you, and it’s simple. you love him the same way.
you pinch his hip and then swallow his surprised squeak with a kiss. “you’re right about that,” you say into his mouth. “but afterwards, we have all day.”
tags: @mysticsandmagic05 @ravioli-isgood @star-rey-night @ethereallmonkey @posiebb @nephilamb @bohnerrific69 @darlingdearestdove
i fucked up my taglist badly so this is mostly by memory - sorry for the ping if you're not supposed to here!!
Colin Zabel x wife!reader • smut, phone sex, kinky talk/thoughts(?), male masturbation, pre ejac (sorta), annoyingly confident reader • word count 1.5k • a/n: for the wonderful one and only @sunskine 🩷 love you boo I hope I did your hubby justice. sorry if he’s ooc 😭 this man is an enigma
Your voice came through the receiver again, soft and crackly as you shushed him. “Colin,” you purred, purposefully quiet so he had to hold his breath to properly hear you. “Just let me take care of you.”
Colin nodded, before he remembered you couldn’t see him and murmured a creaky, “Yeah.”
“You love me, don’t you?” you whispered, and Colin palmed himself.
“Course, baby…”
“Yeah, you do,” you continued, and Colin swallowed. “And I love you. Love you enough to be your plaything.”
Colin grunted as the words went straight to his cock, hand stuttering to tug at his zipper again. “Geez…”
Feeling very heavy and gross today (bled thru pants and bottoms), and so I'm having Peter Maximoff thoughts.
(Minors, dni. 18+ content/thoughts).
Imagine being on your period while you're dating/with Peter Maximoff. You're all achey and sore and gross and uncomfortable.
Cue this man, this sweetheart, this himbo to offers to eat you out to ease your cramps
And he's just lying there, on his bed, looking up at you with those big brown eyes, like, "pleeeease, baby,,, just a crumb of pussy??? 🥺🥺🥺🥺"
...anyway, yeah. You sit on his face. And he fucking loves it. He loves having his face stuffed between your thighs, devouring that cunt like it's a damn thanksgiving meal.
He doesn't stop, doesn't let up, keeping you in place, even when you get so fucking sensitive. He just can't help it, the metallic tang on his tongue, the way you squirm and whine and moan for him, the way you gush and cry out, grasping onto his headboard and grinding against his face.
He's in fucking heaven.
And when you do eventually tap out, he is so fucking soft with you, rubbing your tummy, offering to run you a bath or clean you up. Just being a total sweetheart, a mess on his face and love in his heart.
