Alisa U Zemlji Chuda
noise dept.
tumblr dot com
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PUT YOUR BEARD IN MY MOUTH
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Three Goblin Art
trying on a metaphor
taylor price
$LAYYYTER
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todays bird
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will byers stan first human second
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@evieelyzabethh
have a berry nice day
'when you get to meet her, you'll love her berry much'
Welcome to Big Apple City!!! Stay a while and let President Evie tell you a story. ❥♡❥ 18+, southern gal, she/they pronouns, not forever committed to any fandom but the current hyper fixation is: Michael Jackson
!Chose Your Adventure!
a. Town Rules b. Fan Favorite c. Get to Know Me A Bit d. Li'berry'
serving face
summary: jermajesty suggests making a movie and you agree without a lick of hesitation
contains: heavily 18+, mdni!, oral ( m and f receiving), pinv, freaked out jermajesty, recording
notes: i saw a clip from the 2000s of kim k absolutely serving face and i learned that clip was actually from her tape so…. enjoy !
The red record light blinked and the camera made a click
In the reflection of the large bathroom mirror, Jermajesty stood right behind you. One of his hands was wrapped steadily around the camcorder, while the other cupped around your breast, slightly bouncing it in his hand
“look at my baby…doing her makeup” he zoomed in on your face in the mirror as you did your makeup in a very short yet oversized white button down that belonged to jermajesty
“shes gonna look so pretty when i fuck her” he mumbled earning a little giggle from you
he zoomed out, angling the camcorder down just enough to capture his large bulge rubbing against your butt
the camera clicked again
now, the two of you were pressed tight against each other, cheeks touching as you both looked directly into the lens. your fingers stroked along his jawline, tracing the sharp line of his face. clashing a playful grin, you playfully stuck your tongue out at the camera, and he mimicked you,
with a sudden tilt, the frame whipped toward the wall mirror, revealing that you were now completely straddling his lap.
his hand was resting comfortably on your butt before slapping it and then gripping it “jer!”
the camera clicked again but you were now holding it
Jermajesty had his head buried deep between your thighs. a soft, involuntary moan escaped your lips, your fingers burying themselves into his hair, gently tugging the strands to guide his way .
“just like that baby” you gasped, tilting the screen slightly. Jermajesty looked up from between your legs, catching the lens, and gave the camera a very confident wink.
click
you were sitting on the very edge of the mattress now, and Jermajesty stood over you
“open for me, baby," he ordered softly.
you looked up at him and slid your tongue out. he chuckled and lightly slapped the thick tip of his cock against your tongue. before you could even swallow, he cupped your jaw firmly, tilting your head back, and began to smoothly thrust into your mouth.
the camera recording went on for 10 more minutes capturing the raw and messiness all the way until he finally came on your tongue.
“good girl”
click
you were laying completely flat on your back now, holding the heavy camcorder up in the air, pointing it down at yourself.
completely ignoring the mess of the room, you focused entirely on the flip-out screen. you checked your angles, idly fluffing out your hair, and took your time reapplying a thick layer of lip gloss until your lips looked perfectly glassy in the low light.
you gave the camera a confident smile, thoroughly enjoying your own reflection.
you glanced slightly to the side, looking at Jermajesty who was currently just out of the frame, and then your eyes snapped right back to the lens.
you held the gaze of the camera, leaned in a little closer, and whispered, “I’m about to get fucked” before bursting into a quiet giggle.
click
the camera tilted wildly for a split second, the frame spinning past the ceiling fan before stabilizing as it was propped up on the side table right next to the head of the bed. the angle was low, wide, and caught everything.
you were on your hands and knees now, your back arched deeply as you looked up, checking your reflection in the flip-out screen one more time. the short white button down was bunched up around your waist, leaving you completely exposed.
Jermajesty kneeled right behind you, his hands instantly gripping your hips, his thumbs digging into your skin to anchor you in place. he didn't waste a second. He lined himself up and pushed all the way into you with one deep, heavy stroke.
a sharp gasp caught in your throat, your hands gripping the bedsheets as he started a relentless, demanding pace.
“look at you” Jermajesty growled, his voice thick and rough as he stared down at where your bodies met. “look how pretty you look taking my dick…you like looking at yourself in that screen, huh?”
“yeah" you whined, your head tossing back as he slammed into you, the friction loud in the quiet bedroom. “jer, please” you whined
“please what? tell me exactly what you want” he commanded, slapping his palm against your hip, the sound sharp and echoing through the room, he leaned his upper body down over yours, his chest pressing hard against your back as he kept driving into you from behind. “tell the camera how good it feels.”
“oh my gosh your stretching me out so good” you moaned, looking toward the lens, your eyes heavy-lidded and glassy with pleasure. “t-so big, baby... fuck.”
“that's it, talk to me” he mumbled, his lips brushing against your ear “show me that face you make when I’m deep inside you, look right at the camera for me”
you turned your head toward the screen, serving face even through the haze of pleasure, biting your bottom lip as Jermajesty sped up.
The mattress squeaked rhythmically, the audio capturing every wet, heavy slap of his thighs against yours.
“look at my fucking girl," Jermajesty praised, his grip shifting from your hips to the back of your hair, gently tugging your head back to force you to look up and back at him. “how deep is it baby, can you feel me in your stomach?”
“yes baby!” you gasped out, arching higher against him, completely intoxicated by his words and the view on the screen.
“your doing so good for the camera baby” he groaned, his pace turning frantic, completely losing his composure as he buried himself as deep as he possibly could inside you. “arch your back more for me…take it baby, don’t run”
click
you were flat on your back, your hips elevated off the mattress by a stack of pillows, with your legs draped completely over Jermajesty’s broad shoulders. ye was hovering over you, pinning your upper body down in a heavy, suffocating mating press that left absolutely no space between you.
“look at me” Jermajesty said in a possessive whisper, he then leaned down, burying his face in the crook of your neck, before driving down into you with a slow, agonizingly deep stroke that made your eyes roll back.
“Jer...” you choked out, your hands flying up to grip the wooden headboard just above you to keep from sliding away. “your too deep, oh my god!”
"I'm exactly where I'm supposed to be," he began to grind his hips against yours, using his entire weight to press you down into the sheets, making sure you felt every single inch of him. “look at the camera, baby. let it see how you look when I fill up your pussy”
even pinned beneath him you were completely overwhelmed, you tilted your head toward the side table. you caught the reflection in the tiny flip-out screen,
your hair fanned out across the pillows, your lips parted as you let out a series of needy, broken whines and you held the camera’s gaze
“look at those pretty eyes” Jermajesty muttered, noticing where your attention went. he pulled back just enough to slam back into you, the force of it shaking the mattress and making the camcorder's view shudder slightly. “you love the way I fuck you on camera , don't you?”
“yes!” you cried out loudly, your fingers clawing at his shoulders now, pulling him down for a messy, desperate kiss. “don't stop, please, Jer, just like that!” you whined
“i'm not stopping," he promised against your mouth, his breath coming in heavy, ragged pants. His pace turned frantic, his hips hammering down in a relentless, bruising pace that completely locked you beneath him.
“your taking every fucking drop of me.”
The tape whirred to a sudden and complete stop.
you and jermajesty looked at the small screen and then out of each other completely breathless
Jermajesty let out a low, exhausted chuckle, leaning over to press a lazy kiss to your shoulder. “we really did that," he mumbled, his voice completely shot.
“we did” you breathed out, a proud, satisfied smile tugging at your lips. You tilted the camcorderup to look at yourself one last time, serving one final, sleepy look for the lens. “and honestly? the lighting was perfect.”
Jermajesty groaned, rolling onto his back and pulling a pillow over his face. “let’s keep this to ourselves and not leak it”
… sike !
tags 🏷️ @unseenleylinesecret @vict-oryy @hip-hop-star-4 @blkkbratt @pinkjollyrancher54 @dollthoughtz @commaanders @anglfac @doleuia @missharper33
𝒃𝒆𝒔𝒕 𝒇𝒓𝒊𝒆𝒏𝒅'𝒔 𝒃𝒓𝒐𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓- 𝒔𝒉𝒚!𝒎𝒂𝒓𝒍𝒐𝒏 𝒋𝒂𝒄𝒌𝒔𝒐𝒏 𝒙 𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒓
backstory: reader is best friends with Janet, she always comes over, but one day she questions why Marlon is so awkward/shy with her.
warnings: reader is oblivious to Marlon's feelings + language
type: fluff!!!
divider creds: @alypoetly @pxrce-lain @angelilcide
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Janet is your best friend. You two have been so close since forever. Y'all always have sleepovers, go shopping together, watch movies, everything. Y'all have an inseparable bond. But with that comes the non-stop loudness of her brothers.
Janet is always going on and on about how specifically Marlon and Michael are the rowdiest ones.
You don't believe it though, every time you go over to Janet's house, Marlon is quiet and shy. Barely looking your way.
---
Summer
"See! I told you Janet, this skirt is way too long," you complain, twirling in front of her bedroom window.
"Your skirts are practically belts." Janet says.
“They’re suppose to be!” you defend. She rolls her eyes and flips through the magazine.
“I swear my husband has to look as good as the models in here,” Janet says, eyes glued to the page before flipping it around to show you.
“Forget looks, I want mine to have a brain for a change.” you say. You remove the skirt.
“That’s rare,” Janet jokes.
The two of you laugh together.
“Is my bikini cute?” you ask.
“Yeah, the color is pretty.” she tells you.
“Great!!” you say. “Oh and guess what!!”
“What?”
“I booked my belly piercing appointment.” you cheer.
“Are you serious?!” Janet asks. “I asked my mom and-” Shouts and laughter are coming from downstairs.
“Ugh I can’t even hear myself speak.” Janet complains. You giggle. “You ready to go swim?”
“Let’s do it.” you say. You and Janet walk out of her room and down the stairs, getting closer and closer to the living room where all the brothers are chilling.
Marlon is up in the middle cracking jokes loudly, his brothers laughing at him.
“Could you guys be any louder?” Janet asks. Marlon turns around to say a comment until he sees you.
“Oh.. sorry,” Marlon goes quiet and sits back down. The brothers eye Marlon.
“Sorry, you know how Marlon thinks he’s a comedian,” Randy says. “Hey Y/N”
“Hey Randy,” you say back. “Hey boys,” you say to the others. In sync they all speak, Marlon a little delayed, his eyes facing his hands in his lap.
“We’ll be out by the pool,” Janet says, taking your hand once again and leading you outside.
“Okay, so this dream, it was so scary man I mean-” Jermaine starts.
“I’m bored,” Marlon blurts.
“You’re bored?” Jermaine asks.
“Yeah, let’s like, I don’t know,” Marlon starts. “Go outside? Play basketball.”
The brothers look at each other again.
“But we just got back inside,” Tito says.
“And you were just complaining about the heat,” Jermaine adds.
“Well you know, I’m feeling a little cold,” Marlon lies.
“If you say so,” Randy says. The brothers all get up and head outside to where they play basketball.
Once Marlon walks out the door he sees you cracking jokes with Jackie and Michael who are by the grill.
“So you’re just not gonna feed me?” you ask Jackie and Michael.
“Foods not ready,” Michael says shyly.
“And no special treatment,” Jackie adds.
“Guess I’ll starve!” you dramatically say, walking from them. The two boys laugh as you walk away. “Hey Marlon!” you say, walking towards Marlon.
“Hey,” he says quickly. You pause in front of him.
“How’s it going?” you ask.
“Perfect.” Marlon blurts out.
“That’s great!” you tell him.
“Totally.” he responds. You give him one more smile before walking away. Before Marlon knew it, he let out a deep breath he didn’t even know he was holding.
“You good?” Tito asks him. “You look like you saw a ghost.”
“Yeah, I’m fine.” Marlon says. Tito gives him one last look. He notices that Marlon’s eyes keep wandering back over to where you’re with.
“So, are you going to join us in basketball?” Tito asks. Marlon is pulled from the trance of you applying sunscreen to your body and turns to Tito.
“Right behind you,” Marlon says. Tito shakes his head and walks away. You look up from your leg and towards Marlon, he quickly whips his head from you and walks off.
“Is it just me or is your brother acting a bit off?” you ask Janet.
“They’re always acting off,” she answers.
“But really off,” you clarify.
“Which one?” Janet asks.
“Marlon,” you whisper. Janet stops setting up the umbrella and looks towards where Marlon is.
“He’s his normal bubbly self,” she says. You shrug your shoulders, dipping your legs in the pool. Occasionally you'd catch Marlon looking over, The second your eyes met, he'd look somewhere else.
Unfortunately, Randy catches this. Randy picks up the nearest Sprite can and walks over to Marlon.
"Y/N was asking for a Sprite, I have to go help Jackie, so hand this to her," Randy says, shoving it into Marlon's hand. Marlon grips the Sprite, looking over at you.
"Kill me," Marlon whispers, he slowly walks back over to you. "Hey Y/N, here you go,"
You and Janet look up at him.
"She didn't ask for one?" Janet says. Marlon's eyes widen.
"Hush!" you whisper to Janet. You bring your hand up to grab the Sprite, touching his fingers. Something in Marlon's body tenses once he feels the warmth of your fingertips. "Thank you Mar," you say.
Marlon musters out a nod before walking away. He sits down right next to Randy.
"You suck, she didn't ask for a Sprite." Marlon says.
"Wow! Really?" Randy sarcastically asks. "Did you touch her hand? "What do you mean?" Marlon asks.
"You know, when you handed her the drink, did y'alls hands touch??" Randy pushes.
"Oh shut up Randy," Marlon says.
"Seriously though! You're sweating so hard," Randy says.
"Cause it's hot," Marlon defends.
"You just said it was cold." Randy tells him.
“Foods ready, go get the girls,” Jackie says, more so to Marlon. Marlon points at himself to clarify if Jackie was asking him but Jackie is already walking off. Randy rubs Marlon's shoulders and pulls him up.
"Game face on," Randy says.
Marlon hypes himself up again before walking back over to you and Janet.
You look up from your Sprite and towards him. His breath hitches.
“Back again? Hey Mar,” you say. Marlon’s mouth opens and closes. You could’ve sworn he was sweating.
“Hey.” he says. The two of you stare at each other for the next minute.
“Marlon?” Janet asks. Marlon pulls his eyes from you.
“Foods ready,” he mumbles and walks off.
“That was weird.” Janet says.
“Very,” you squint your eyes watching him walk off. He trips over a stick, looking back to see if you’re watching. Once he does, he walks faster. You tilt your head at him.
———
Jackie is passing out the food at the table. As you and Janet are walking up Marlon is making jokes.
“I’m gonna miss your food so much while you’re at the nursing home,” Marlon says.
“I’m only 36..” Jackie defends. The boys laugh.
“Okay im just gonna address the elephant in the room,” Jermaine says. “Why do you get so awkward around Y/N?” he asks.
“What?” Marlon says, almost choking on his water.
“Oh come on, it’s like you freeze up when she’s near,” Randy adds.
“I don’t freeze up!” Marlon defends.
“Yes you do,” the brothers say in sync. Marlon rolls his eyes.
“If I knew any better, I’d think you have a crush on Janet’s friend.” Jermaine says.
“Good thing you don’t get paid for thinking,” Marlon says.
“Oh come on Mar,” Tito says, mocking your voice.
“Shut up Tito,” Marlon says.
“Can I sit next to you?” you ask Marlon, motioning to the empty seat next to him. He looks up and back down towards his lap, shaking his head yes.
You plop down next to him, shoulders touching.
His brothers looking at both of y’all.
Jermaine playfully shoves his shoulder, making Marlon push himself into your side.
“I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to,” Marlon quickly says.
“You’re fine Mar,” you say. “Relax.”
Marlon doesn’t know how you have this effect on him. His palms are practically an ocean yet he feels at home when you're near.
"Can you do me a favor?" you ask Marlon out of the blue.
"Sure," he answers.
"Could you tie my bikini really tight?" you turn around and have your back face him. Marlon's jaw drops, as he looks over to his brothers for help.
"What do I do??" he mouths.
"Tie it dumbass" Jermaine mouths. Marlon scratches his neck. Jermaine rolls his eyes, he grabs Marlon's hands and throws them at your back.
Marlon grips the strings and ties them. His hands rapidly shake and he almost forgets how to breathe.
"All done," he says.
"Thank you Mar," you squeeze his arm. Now that killed him. His brothers silently laugh before Jackie clears the air.
“How have you been?” Jackie asks you.
“I’ve been good, I’m only in town for a wedding.” you explain.
“She still needs a date,” Janet adds.
“I don’t have to have a date!” you say.
“I think you should,” Jermaine flirts.
“If you’re offering then I’m denying,” you mumble. Everyone laughs, except Marlon, he’s too busy picking at his nails.
“What are you looking for in a date?” Michael asks, redirecting the question.
“Eh, nothing much really. I’m planning on leaving early so I guess somebody who would keep me awake,” you answer. Michael shoots Marlon a look.
Marlon turns his head away from Michael.
“Or someone who’s a good dancer, I'd love to dance,” you add. Michael kicks Marlon’s leg.
“OW” Marlon blurts out.
“Are you okay?” you ask.
“Yeah…” he mumbles.
“Okay, I can’t sit here for any longer,” Tito says. “I have the perfect person for you to take on your date.” Marlon looks up at Tito who’s already looking at him. Tito offers a mischievous look and then looks over at you.
“Take Michael.”
Marlon’s mouth drops, all of the brothers looking over at Tito.
“That’s not a bad idea,” Janet obliviously says. You think for a moment.
“Are you okay with that Michael?” you ask. Michael looks over at Marlon and then back at you.
“Uhm, sure. Let’s do it,” Michael says.
“Okay, well, I’m wearing a black satin dress,” you say. Marlon rolls his eyes at Michael.
“I have to use the bathroom,” Marlon interjects. Jumping up from his spot and speed walking inside. Your eyes follow his body.
“Okay, am I the only one noticing something is wrong with Marlon??” you ask the brothers. They all look in between each other.
“We’ll go check on him,” Michael says, pulling Tito’s arm with him.
“Let me finish my burger,” Tito says but Michael is already pulling him.
———
The two brothers walk into the house and see Marlon pacing back and forth.
“Marlon,” Michael starts.
“How could you!?” Marlon yells. “My own brother, really?”
“Tito volunteered me!” Michael defends.
“You could’ve said no you traitor,” Marlon says.
“Wait wait,” Tito says but Michael begins speaking.
“Well maybe you should just man up and ask to be her date!” Michael yells back.
“I’m nervous! Every time she comes near me I start to shake or freeze, I can’t talk to her!” Marlon blurts out, pacing faster.
Marlon turns and points at Tito.
“And you know exactly what you’re doing,” Marlon says. Tito throws up his arms.
“If you like her so much then maybe go tell her?” Tito recommends. Marlon scoffs, plopping down on the couch, head in his hands.
“What’s the worst that could happen Marlon?” Michael asks.
“Have you seen her, Mike?” Marlon says.
“Yes? I was just outside with her,” Michael says.
“No Mike, have you seen her?” Marlon says. “She’s beautiful, she’d never go for a guy like me.”
Tito and Michael sit on the sides of Marlon.
“Don’t say that about yourself Marlon,” Michael says.
“It’s true. She’s everything and more. And I’m just, Marlon,” he says. Tito sighs.
“Marlon, take a chance.” Tito says. “Don’t think, just do.”
“Plus, you’re a good dancer and you’re funny!” Michael adds. Marlon thinks for a second.
“I know, but” he starts.
“Listen here Marlon, if you don’t go ask Y/N to be her date then Ima make Jermaine go with her.” Tito says.
“Wait but I thought I-” Michael interjects.
“And you already know how that love story is gonna end if Jermaine gets his hands on her.” Tito continues.
“That’s true, you’d be an uncle,” Michael agrees.
Marlon inhales and exhales. He stands up from the couch. Tito and Michael share looks.
“He’s actually doing it??” Tito asks. “I didn’t think that’d work.”
Marlon walks towards the back door and opens it, walking back over to the table.
“Marlon!” You say.
“Y/N.” Marlon starts. You give him a weird look. “I want to be your date to the wedding,” he blurts.
Janet’s head whips to Marlon.
“You want to be my date, like date date?” you ask
“Yes, I’ll pick you up and bring you back home,” Marlon starts. “And hopefully, when you’re back in town we can go on another date.”
You open your mouth and close it. Janet leans over to you.
“I know you're looking for a man with a brain, he’s the closest brother to it,” Janet whispers. You giggle at her comment.
“Marlon, I’d love for you to be my date and I’d love to have another date afterwards,” you say.
Marlon finally relaxes, sporting the hugest smile ever.
In sync, the brothers cheer.
"Wait, y'all knew" you ask, confused about all the cheers.
“Absolutely, but my expectations were low, I’m happy you said yes,” Jackie says, wiping away invisible sweat.
Marlon shakes his head while laughing. You look over at him and smile. For once, Marlon doesn't look away anxiously, he smiles back.
“Right? I thought I was next in line after Michael,” Jermaine adds.
“Oh please, the ladies like their men younger,” Randy says.
“Come sit down,” you tell Marlon, patting the seat next to you. He rushes over and sits next to you.
“Alright easy now,” Jackie says.
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I need Marlon so bad, who got a time machine???
MORE THAN MANAGEMENT.
a collection of all my manager!michael x gn/fem popstar!reader stories. while works are posted out of order, they're sorted chronologically here <3
i. hold the phone! (album)
hold the phone! — reader's first album with manager!michael, a youthful and girly pop album themed around slumber parties, girliness, prank calls, and fun.
what's in the headlines? — the beginning of something amazing. reader and manager!michael form a strong relationship and fun dynamic during this era. michael subtly begins his habit of spending on and spoiling reader. celebratory dinners are hosted by michael for reader every other night.
works for this era:
sugar daddy tendencies
ii. miss connection (album)
miss connection — reader's second album, a return to her girly sound with hints of more mature themes. this album is themed after connections and misconnections, framing reader as cupid.
what's in the headlines? — fame hits hard. everyone is making choices for reader, choosing her look, sound, rival, and even her boyfriend! reader struggles with her love for her new boyfriend and her fondness of her own manager, juggling both men until finally realizing she truly loves michael.
works for this era:
michael's better company, anyways
him & his sexy ass glasses
he's jealous over your pr boyfriend
vacay? without you? no way!
iii. honestly, (album)
honestly, — reader's third album, a mature exploration of her new self-chosen identity themed around her being the director of her own life.
what's in the headlines? — the messiest era. reader and michael are frequently on and off. both love each other, but fear the consequences of anything permanent. michael reconnects with his ex-wife via co-parenting; reader grows jealous. reader tours this album, selling out stadiums and gaining a reputation for how close she is with her fans.
works for this era:
learning a new lesson (18+)
jealous after an afterparty
it's just the music
iv. intermission (a break in music)
intermission — reader takes a break from music, having established herself thoroughly in the industry.
what's in the headlines? — the resting period. a more domestic time where reader uses her fame to do fun things. reader and manager!michael become official during this era, overcoming doubts and insecurities. reader spends more time with the kids, and the paparazzi and tabloids spread photos of her with them.
works for this era:
none yet!
iv. ask & receive (album)
ask & receive — reader's fourth album. theming tbd.
what's in the headlines? — the victory lap. reader returns to music with a bang. more events tbd.
works for this era:
none yet!
BOMBSHELL—
pairing: jermajesty jackson x femblack!reader (but feel free to imagine whatever, i don't describe anything fr) summary: jermajesty is part of the original twelve casted on love island season nine. when seeing you walk in as the first bombshell, he knows he has to have you. and he's not stopping until he does. warnings: lowkeyposessive!jermajesty, pre-toxic!jermajesty, reader is soft now, but she'll be his worst nightmare soon enough, use of the n word, make out in soul ties, 3.4k words a/n: thinking of making this into a mini series, like inter-connected oneshots type vibe? i saw a tiktok of someone saying that they need this season of love island to have a movie night, casa amor, and then another movie night and i was like fuckkk i gotta do it... so lmk if y'all like this and ill keep posting more
you had unknowingly been casted on the messiest season of love island.
you weren’t a part of the original twelve cast, though originally you were planned to be. a small family emergency arose and nearly pulled you out completely. instead, it was settled and handled by your sister. you gave the okay to stick to the process— coming into the villa as a bombshell the next day.
and of course, you were a hot commodity. no one in the villa was closed off, meaning you were pulled for chats consistently without all the added tension and drama. you’d started in a chat with a boy named ruben and found you had no connection immediately. your next few conversations were dry as fuck. one boy asked to kiss you within five minutes, and honestly? you didn’t play that shit. you’d gotten up with the quickness, making it maybe a dozen feet before deon pulled you for, finally, your first good chat.
physically, deon was your type to a T. he’d been a gentleman, holding your hand gently as you walked up the narrow steps and not letting go until you’d gotten comfortable on the overly cushioned couch. deon made sure to ask you questions and show you interest, spaced a respectable distance away from you as you chat about the vibes and everything you missed from coming into the villa late.
within a few minutes of chatting with deon, though, you feel a shiver down your spine. you ignore it for as long as you can but, as you shift positions to get more comfortable, you see an outline from your peripheral view. your eyes wonder and you see him sitting directly across the villa with a girl you’d been introduced to but already forgot the name of.
you feel slightly bad for her, because as she speaks animatedly— sitting so close that it was obvious they were coupled up— he watches you.
he doesn’t take his eyes off of you, even as you catch him in the act. in fact, you watch as his eyes trail slowly down— over your lips, down your printed dress that showed the perfect amount of cleavage, over your bare knee peaking through the slit, and over the heels on your feet. your stomach flips when his tongue glides over his bottom lip and plummets when he pulls his lip between his teeth.
his eyes travel back up your body until he meets your stare again. it feels like you’re frozen in his gaze, only breaking free when the girl— what was her name? winter? autumn?— lays her hand on his arm and pulls his attention away.
it takes less than two minutes for him to pull you after wrapping up your chat with poor, sweet, deon.
jermajesty doesn’t lead you far— just to the set of daybeds near the pool, away from the main seating area but still visible to anyone who wanted to look. he sits first and you sit across from him— a strategic distance— but he just grins like he knows exactly what you’re doing.
“nah, come sit over here,” he says, patting the seat directly next to him. “i don’t bite.”
you move closer, telling yourself it’s because refusing would hurt his ego, not because something in his voice makes you stand before your brain catches up.
he’s even prettier up close. loose curls fall over his forehead in a messy way, nearly grazing his thick but neat eyebrows. you can’t help the way you can’t look away from, switching from the heat of his dark eyes and his plush lips. his skin is so clear that you feel a little jealous. he has slight facial hair and you imagine what it would feel like rubbing against the skin of your neck and the inside of your thighs.
your first chat, outside of introductions during your entrance, goes just as you expect it to. he’s charming you in every opportunity and you’re accepting it with a shit-eating smile on your face.
“real shit— i saw you walk in and i already knew,” he says at one point.
“knew what?” you’d managed, and you hated how breathless you had sounded around him already.
“that you was gon’ be a problem for me.” and he sits back as he says it, spreading his legs wider and resting a hand on his knee. he watches you notice it and the corner of his mouth lifts a tiny bit higher. you roll your eyes, albeit playfully, and reply, “you know you’re coupled up, right?”
“i am. and?” there's no hesitation in his voice. “this whole thing is about finding your person, right?”
you hum in reply and he moves past it. “so what you looking for? ‘cause i peeped you with deon. he seem like a nice guy.” he says ‘nice guy’ as if it’s an insult, a slur. it causes a spike of annoyance to run through you. there was nothing wrong with being a gentleman.
“he is nice,” you sound slightly defensive.
“yeah, i bet,” jermajesty’s smile is slow, knowing. “you like nice? is that what does it for you?
you should say yes. you should tell him that nice is exactly what you want, what you need. instead, you hold his gaze and say nothing. he laughs— a low, rich sound that you feel in your chest and somewhere a lot lower.
“nah, you don’t. i can tell…” he trails off, “i bet you the type that need somebody who challenges you. keep you on your toes and make you feel something.”
“you don’t know me.”
“not yet, but i will.” he promises. your conversation continues until it’s time to unwind and get ready to sleep. that night, he shared a bed with winter/autumn/summer but doesn’t dare touch her. he turns to lay with his back facing her. conventionally, he can also see you two beds down, sleeping alone in your satin tank and short set.
the next morning, you’re met with two breakfast plates as you’re getting ready in the makeup room. the third arrives as you’re halfway done with your makeup. it’s jermajesty’s plate— and it’s piled up with twice the amount of food as the other two plates. the girl next to you shouts ‘damn girl, he want you bad!’ and you laugh. looking in the mirror sat on top of the vanity, you see a twinkling in your eyes.
the day is chill. you spend some time in the pool getting to know the girls better. jermajesty pulls you for multiple chats throughout this time, giving the other boys damn near no chance as he gets to know you better. that night, the villa is hit with a surprise recoupling where the choice is in the hands of the men.
to no one’s surprise, you and jermajesty share a bed that night. and the night after. and the night after.
you slowly get closer, even as your connection is tested by the arrival of two new bombshells— both men. they’re revealed during the villa’s lingerie party, as you’re blindfolded and handcuffed to a pillar. jermajesty has to remind himself that it’s a challenge as he watches one of the bombshells choose you to kiss, removing your blindfold, wrapping your legs around his waist and your arms around his neck. you’d looked at jermajesty the second the bombshell stepped back.
but, jermajesty refused to meet your eye. instead he eyed the bombshell, tracing every step he took with a clenched jaw and a bouncing leg.
the next day, he’s seething as the bombshell gets to take you on a date outside of the villa. his anger builds with each passing hour and he seems oblivious to the way the other islanders avoid walking within his vicinity.
he sits at the fire pit, elbows on his knees and hands clasped together so tight that his fingers start to go numb. his jaw works like he’s chewing on something bitter. isaac, one of the original six boys, approaches cautiously, his bottle of water and phone for pictures in hand.
“yo, you good, bro?” isaac asks.
jermajesty doesn’t look up, doesn’t really move at all, as isaac sits with him. “yeah, i’m straight.”
isaac side-eyes him, a burst of laughter leaving him. “this date got you in your feelings, huh?”
“nah, not in my feelings. i’m just observing,” he finally looks up, smoothing his palms down the front of his pants and rubbing a hand over his chin. “watching how niggas move when they think they got an opening.”
“ay, he gotta get in somewhere, it’s part of the show—”
“i know what it is. that’s why i ain’t trippin’. cause at the end of the day?” he leans against the back cushion, spreading his arms along the back of the bench. a picture of complete confidence. “she coming back to me. she gon’ tell me all about it, probably apologize for shit she don’t need to apologize for, and imma listen. imma be understanding. and then imma remind her who she really want.”
“what if she actually vibes with dude?” isaac asks, “like, the date goes well? what you gon’ do if they kiss?”
jermajesty’s jaw clenches again, that muscle jumping. “then imma have to check that. real quick.”
isaac opens his mouth to respond, but the sound of laughter and cheering cuts through the villa. both of them turn toward the entrance.
and there you are.
you’re glowing. that’s the first thing jermajesty notices— the way your skin catches the late afternoon sun, the way your smile is so wide it makes your eyes crinkle at the corners. you’re wearing a different outfit now, something flowy and baby pink that moves with you as you walk. and your hand—
your hand is wrapped around the bombshell's.
jermajesty goes completely still.
“oh shit,” isaac mutters under his breath.
the girls rush up to you immediately, a whirlwind of questions paired with squealing and hugs. one girl, deanna, wraps her arms around your waist, lifting you up and spinning you. jermajesty praises her in his mind, because that’s the thing that gets you to let go of his hand.
you’re talking animatedly when you get set down, gesturing with your hands as you recount different moments from the date. the bombshell is grinning down at you like he just won the lottery. he’s tall, light-skinned with a fade, wearing a linen button-up that’s open at the collar. he looks comfortable.
he notices as you recount the date, that you’re only showing genuine excitement over what you did— a private beach set up— and not over the bombshell. not over what the two of you talked about. he feels himself relax slightly. when deanna asks if the two of you kissed on the date, you shake your head ‘no’ and he feels the tension leave his body completely.
he walks right up to you, body angled away from the bombshell and giving him no attention, and asks to pull you for a chat. you say yes, the smile on your face growing bigger, and let him lead you down the stairs to the dock. he holds your hand the entire way, switching to wrapping an arm around your waist and pulling you closer when you finally sit. he breathes a lot easier with you in his arms.
that night, the tension comes back to him tenfold. the fire pit is lit and everyone is gathered around. the host’s voice leaves an echo through the space as she announces that the bombshells will get to choose who they want to couple up with, while the two boys left single will be vulnerable and at risk of being dumped.
jermajesty stands across from you, lined up with the rest of the boys. his face is a mask of indifference, but you can see the tension in his posture. you both know what’s coming and it leaves a sick feeling in your stomach.
brandon, the bombshell, is called first. he steps forward, confident and smiling, “this is an easy choice for me,” he says and his eyes find yours before he shifts his attention away immediately. “from the moment i got here, there’s been one girl who’s caught my attention. she’s beautiful, she’s real, and our date today just confirmed what i already knew. so the girl i want to couple up with is…”
he speaks your name, and it’s a fight to force a smile onto your face. you stand and step forward, even as your legs feel like lead. brandon meets you halfway and pulls you into a hug, leaning down until his mouth is lined up to your ear, “you okay?”
“mmhm,” you lie. you meet jermajesty’s eyes over his shoulder and the expression on his face makes your breath catch. it’s colder than cold, and he can’t seem to pick where he wants to focus his attention. his eyes jump from brandon’s arms around your waist, to your hands on his back, to your chin on his shoulder. you can’t help the guilty pout that crosses your face as you mouth ‘i’m sorry’. your stomach drops when he looks away with no acknowledgement.
the second bombshell makes his choice, leaving an islander named tyler at risk alongside jermajesty. the host continues to announce that the decision of who’ll be dumped from the island will be up to the girls. you blink frequently, wishing that you could advocate for them to save your connection. instead, you sit off to the side— shivering even though you don’t feel cold.
deliberation happens quickly. the girls huddle, whispering. you force yourself to drown it out, focusing on jermajesty. even as brandon’s leg presses against yours and his hand rests just slightly above your knee. when the girls announce that they’re saving jermajesty, you try and keep the relief under wraps. a shaky breath leaves you before you can stop it.
tyler is dumped from the island. you, having not really built any kind of bond with him, find it easy to say goodbye. in a fucked up way, you wish he’d hurry and leave so that you could finally talk to jermajesty.
when it’s over and everyone disperses, mostly leaving to comfort tyler’s old connection, brandon immediately tries to pull you toward the daybed but you shake your head with a small frown.
“sorry, i just need a minute,” you tell him. “wanna… decompress first.”
he accepts your answer and you wait until he’s gone, until most of the islanders have scattered. and then you go the direction you’d watched jermajesty head in moments earlier.
you find him in soul ties.
he’s sitting on the day bed, one leg pulled up and the other stretched out in front of him. the lights cast shadows across. suddenly nervous, you stand in the entrance, watching the rise and fall of his shoulders.
“you just gon’ stand there?” his voice is quiet and flat. he doesn’t look up as you climb over to sit beside him, but he does wrap a hand around your calf, supporting you so that you don’t fall.
you wrap your arm around yourself, “i wanted to check on you.”
he looks at you, so deadpan, as he asks where the other half of your couple is. you groan and throw your head back, two hands pressing hard against your forehead. you can feel an incoming headache from the day overall.
“you know that wasn’t up to me,” you lean your head back up and look at him. unconsciously, you turn to face him fully and bring both legs under you, now sitting on your knees. “we just talked. that’s it. i didn’t— we didn’t kiss or anything. i didn’t ask for him to pick me.”
“you wanted to? kiss him?”
“no, i— maj,” you pause and take a deep breath, because were you really gonna stutter over a nigga on reality tv? “i don’t know... maybe he wanted to, but i didn’t. i couldn’t stop thinking about—”
you cut yourself off, but, of course, he catches it anyway.
“thinkin’ ‘bout what?” he grins, but it’s more condescending than anything. “thinkin’ about me while you was out there holding his hand, smilin’ all big and shit? happy as hell about that basic ass date?”
a flash of irritation hits you. if he was gonna be petty, then fine— you’d be petty too. you give him the same grin and say, “yeah, actually. i was thinkin’ about you as he hand-fed me strawberries too.”
it’s the wrong answer and you regret it as soon as the words leave your mouth. they hang in the air between you dangerously. you feel an urge to leave, to end this conversation before it goes somewhere you can't come back from but you're frozen in place as he watches you with those dark, unreadable eyes. and fuck, you think he might actually be crazy as he shakes his head slowly and laughs.
his arm that rests behind you inches closer, fingers teasing the ends of your hair. he’s still leaned back, still with one leg pulled up. “i want you to understand something.”
“understand what?” you glance at his fingers before meeting his eye again.
“you can couple up with whoever you want. you can go on all the dates, hold all the hands, smile all you want.” his fingers graze your neck and the rest of his hand follows. you swallow as he swipes his thumb down the front of your throat before moving to your jaw. “but at the end of the day? you gon’ end up right here with me. because you already know who you belong to.”
“i don’t belong to anyone.”
“nah?” he’s getting closer, but he’s not the one leaning in. he’s got a gentle hold on your jaw and he uses it to guide you slowly towards him. “then why you in here right now? why you ain’t with brandon, celebrating your new couple?”
you look away, silently.
“go ‘head, tell me i’m wrong.” he challenges, his voice dropping lower. his thumb reaches your bottom lip, hovering before brushing across.
“jermajesty—” his name leaves your lips; a sigh of resignation.
“yeah ma,” a small smile, “that’s what i thought.”
and he kisses you.
it’s not gentle. his hand slides from your jaw to the back of your neck, fingers tangling in your hair as he pulls you closer. his other hand grips your waist, and the kiss is claiming, possessive, everything you knew it would be and more. there’s a hunger in it, the build up of tension finally snapping all at once.
he takes advantage the second a soft exhale leaves you, deepening the kiss until you’re dizzy with it. he tastes like mint, and something sweet, and you need more.
you push him back— though you follow right after, leaving no space between you. you move to straddle his lap and he adjusts immediately, hand guiding your hips as you settle over him. your hands have a mind of their own, trailing down and back up his chest, traveling over his neck and around, finding purchase in his hair and tugging. his grip on your waist tightens at that, teeth catching your bottom lip, and you make a sound you’ve never made before— something between a gasp and a moan that has heat flooding your cheeks.
a deep groan leaves him in reply. you feel the hand in your hair untangle, urging an arch in your spine as it travels down until he reaches your ass. jermajesty kneads, grabbing you and pressing you closer, and you can feel exactly how much he wants this, wants you.
you help him, grinding down into his lap and pulling away from his mouth to trail kisses down the side of his face. his stubble scratches against your lips int he best way. you lick and bite the tender space on his neck, right under his ear, before leaving open mouthed kisses.
“mm, fuuck—” he eagerly tilts his head to give you better access, throat exposed and vulnerable as both arms wrap around your waist. he presses his hips up once, grinding against you in a way that makes your breath catch, before he forces himself to stop. his breathing is ragged, chest heaving beneath you.
you fall into a fit of giggles in his neck, giddy and breathless and overwhelmed in the best possible way, and you hear his soft laugh, dangerously close to your ear. his warm breath ghosting across your skin and sending shivers down your spine.
with one last lingering kiss to the corner of his mouth, you remember where you are and go to sit back at his side. but the second you shift your weight, you feel it— the hard press of him against your thigh. jermajesty’s arm pulls you back down immediately and your eyes widen at him.
“just don’t, uh—don’t move, yet.”
-
𝐌𝐈𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐄𝐋 𝐀𝐒 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐒𝐔𝐆𝐀𝐑 𝐃𝐀𝐃𝐃𝐘 . ♡
⁀➴┊warnings: 18+ (mdni), sugar daddy/sugar baby dynamics + daddy kink + feet rubbing/kissing + recording + dumbification
⁀➴┊SUGAR DADDY!MICHAEL WHO... obviously, like all sugar daddies, loves to spoil you. he absolutely loves when his girl looks well taken care of. that means that your hands and feet are always done and that your hair is always styled perfectly. and he loves to spend all of his money on you.
he sits on the sofa all excited, waiting for you to get home from the salon. you scrape your new, long nails over his chin from behind to announce your presence. “hi, mikey,” you say in that syrupy voice of yours. you circle around him, plopping on the sofa next to him, your bare feet immediately finding his lap. “what do you think?” you ask coyly. and all michael can do is release a sharp breath, thumb massaging the balls of your feet. “love ‘em, baby.” he mumbles resolutely, lifting one foot up to his mouth, placing a kiss on your metatarsal.
⁀➴┊SUGAR DADDY!MICHAEL WHO... has lots of pet names for you, and his favourites are pretty baby, princess and sweet girl. he uses them all the time, even if he’s upset with you. even when he just woke up and preferably wants to cuddle with you in bed and shower you in affection, but you come up with another magazine asking for a specific pair of heels the model is wearing, even then michael never fails to press a kiss to your forehead before grabbing his reading glasses from his nightstand. “show me what you like, princess.”
⁀➴┊SUGAR DADDY!MICHAEL WHO... no matter how many times you stay over, always makes you breakfast. at the beginning of your little secret deal, you sneak your way out of michael’s bedroom before he can even wake up and realise you’re gone. but as your relationship progresses, michael insists you eat something before heading to your college lecture. and he’s actually very stern about you skipping meals, constantly affirming that your “beautiful brain needs energy to concentrate”.
⁀➴┊SUGAR DADDY!MICHAEL WHO... loves when you spend evenings on the sofa with him. feeding you sweet, sugary candy by pressing the sticky gummies to your puffy lips, not even directly looking at you. his eyes are on the movie playing on the screen. “there y’go, princess.” he’d whisper next to you. and if it’s not candy he’s feeding you, he’s massaging the balls of your feet, your calves, what have you. your skin slippery and buttery from michael rubbing some sort of strawberry lotion into the sensitive skin of your legs while you just revel in his touch like a lazy cat.
⁀➴┊SUGAR DADDY!MICHAEL WHO... teaches you how to dance. it’s not in a dance studio or anything, it’s not even to his own song. maybe it’s a cheesy love song he remembers from his chelsea days: you spend the entire night awkwardly swaying to the melody with your arms swung around michael’s neck, while he guides your body closer to his, all sweet and pure.
⁀➴┊SUGAR DADDY!MICHAEL WHO... comes to you for fashion advice. asks which tie matches his shirt better, and if his shoes match his belt. you critically assess his entire outfit while laying on your stomach on his soft bed, lazily paging through a magazine with your legs kicking in the air. “wear the red one, babe,” you tell michael before casting your eyes on the glossy page of your magazine again. and you know michael takes your opinion to heart. he genuinely changes his mind.
⁀➴┊SUGAR DADDY!MICHAEL WHO... urges you to come to the studio with him. and you end up sitting in his lap, duh! you two are all alone, the lights in the booth dim as michael pens down lyrics, melody ideas, rhythmic percussions. you’re not necessarily bored, but you do miss michael’s attention on you. so when you start softly pressing kisses to his neck, tracing your tongue over his earlobe, michael suddenly grabs your chin between two fingers. he wears a smug grin, but his tone is firm, yet teasing: “you’re a distracting little thing, aren’t you?” he chastises.
⁀➴┊SUGAR DADDY!MICHAEL WHO... is into nasty shit, but is sweet about it. you knew his deal before agreeing on being his sugar baby, but sometimes it still surprises you how dirty michael truly can be. and how he gives no fucks about who sees or hears you two going at it. the world is shaped to his hand, for fuck’s sake!
⁀➴┊SUGAR DADDY!MICHAEL WHO... just like your manicures and pedicures, also takes care of your lingerie. he trusts your taste, but gives you his card to buy whatever your heart desires at the shops. you love anything that has rhinestones, is pink, and looks a little skimpy, showing off your pretty legs.
after your shopping spree, michael has you do a little haul in front of him while he eyeballs your body unashamedly, his tongue tracing over his bottom lip as you step out in a baby pink set, pretty, delicate lace covering your chest and pussy. “c’mon, baby,” he mutters out, hands rubbing his thighs impatiently. “do a spin f’me, thaaaat’s it.”
⁀➴┊SUGAR DADDY!MICHAEL WHO... is an ass man, deep in his bones. he really is. so during your little shopping haul, he pulls out his camcorder and records you standing in front of him. at the blinking red light, you feel goosebumps blossom all over your skin as michael has you spin around for him again, zooming in on your juicy ass every time you turn your back to him.
in the beginning, you felt shy in front of the camera, but as michael pulled out his camcorder more often, you started to gain confidence. posing, jutting your ass out, messing up your hair. and michael? he loves it. “such a pretty superstar y’are, baby,” he praises, voice husky. “made for my camera.”
⁀➴┊SUGAR DADDY!MICHAEL WHO... gets custom made panties for you. a little “m” sewed on the back, right where your tailbone is. michael loves looking at it when you two casually watch television. you’re perched on his lap in only a baby tee and your little panties, absentmindedly filing your nails into your usual almond shape. and michael’s attention is not even on the television, but more on your plump ass, thumb rubbing over his letter on you. he’s focused on your weight on him, your hair splayed over your shoulders and your tummy slightly poking out over the elastic hem of your panties, giving michael a perfect view of everything he wants in life.
⁀➴┊SUGAR DADDY!MICHAEL WHO... always wants you to strip for him, until you’re wearing nothing but your panties. he’s planted in the chair in the corner of his bedroom, legs spread, cock throbbing painfully fast in his trousers while he lazily chews on his gum. “such a pretty baby,” he says, voice cracking open in wonder as you finally shrug your top off, exposing your cute bra. “such a good girl for your daddy.”
⁀➴┊SUGAR DADDY!MICHAEL WHO... obviously has a bit of a daddy kink. it comes in all variations: he wants you to call him daddy, he calls himself daddy. especially when it’s of sexual nature. for example, when you want attention and michael has no time, he’d be like “sorry baby, daddy’s busy.”
in all vulgarity, wants you to talk to him, and explain what he’s doing to you while he fucks you. it’s so dirty, to hear you speak so sinfully, nasty words tracing over your tongue as michael is balls deep inside of you. you’re on your back, gaping hole drooling slick on the sheets as you feel michael’s heavy balls slap against your ass. “tell me, baby,” michael hisses out, completely lost in your warm paradise. “what’s daddy doing to you?”
⁀➴┊SUGAR DADDY!MICHAEL WHO... also loves to have sex with you in public spaces. he just loves exhibitionism, just knowing that someone could randomly walk in and see the obscene scene of him sliding into you with precise, fast strokes while you moan out, begging for more of his deliciously large and heavy cock to penetrate your poor pussy. even though he always tells you “quiet, princess.” nanoseconds before bottoming out, his tip kissing your cervix, you never really listen.
⁀➴┊SUGAR DADDY!MICHAEL WHO... is not shy of eating you out. when you mention that classes have been stressing you out, michael carefully folds you open with gentle precision, the academic stress evaporating in smoke and billowing around you as he peels your panties down, gusset sticking to your core because of the wetness. softly shushes you, examining your weeping pussy like he’s a doctor, cooing at how your hole flutters from sensitivity. “that’s a poor kitty, baby,” he croons some more, “let daddy take care of you, yeah?”
⁀➴┊SUGAR DADDY!MICHAEL WHO... fucking loves putting you in his clothing when he fucks you. especially loves when you wear his aviators while you ride his dick, even though they’re too big on you. when michael roughly bucks his hips up, pressing his dick further into you in a quick succession of sharp thrusts, he loves to see how his sunglasses pathetically slide further down your face with every jerk, head lolling along.
⁀➴┊SUGAR DADDY!MICHAEL WHO... loves spraying his cum all over your stomach. at the end of his release your entire stomach is coated in a thick layer of sticky white, and i know for sure michael would write his initials in the pool of cum on your stomach, your fucked out gaze staring up at him while you barely register his fingers sliding over your skin as he carves the two letters, “m.j.”, on the soft of your stomach. even likes to snap a photo of your white belly with the two cursive letters etched in the creamy liquid.
⁀➴┊SUGAR DADDY!MICHAEL WHO... gets off when you look at him with your glassy eyes, nothing going on in your head, all dumb like a little doll. babbling out nonsense, incoherent words, pawing at his hands on your body as you can only chant out his name. “mikey— mikey— ah,” you sound like a broken record, voice getting whinier and pitchier with every thrust. michael just croons at you, a sly, sardonic smile on his face. “yeah, baby, that’s me,” he grunts, baring you his teeth from above you. “can you moan so pretty for daddy again, baby? ah, mikey— ah—” he mocks a little.
⁀➴┊SUGAR DADDY!MICHAEL WHO... thinks the epitome of romance is when the two of you come at the same time. he gets to squirmy and twitchy when he’s close, and always asks if you’re close too. tries to delay his climax a little to get you closer to the edge. he just wants to unravel with you, bolts of lust shooting through his spine. “don’t make me come alone, princess.”
⁀➴┊SUGAR DADDY!MICHAEL WHO... gives you aftercare that’s out of this world. so soft, running a bath for you, getting you something to eat. michael wears you out during sex, and you end up being limp, flabby doll he has to carry to the bath. soaps you up, moisturises your skin and puts you in your oversized pajamas, all the while telling you how good you were for him, and how he’ll always take care of his sweet girl.
⁀➴┊SUGAR DADDY!MICHAEL WHO... opens up about the pressures and hardships he’s endured throughout his life. both of you lay in the dark, breathing deep and slow. michael then proceeds to tell you how somehow you’re the only one who makes him feel alive and worthy, wishing you could stay by his side forever.
⁀➴┊SUGAR DADDY!MICHAEL WHO... after a year of being his sugar baby, makes you his fiancée. you end up with a rock on your finger, always hand in hand with the love of your life.
this has absolutely nothing to do with either of the au's i started (and sorta abandoned srry im getting to it) but I was thinking thoughts about off the wall!era (or any era you prefer tbh) being incredibly obsessed with his oldest brother's wife.
warnings: not proofread (2.2k words), very pervy!mike, male masturbation, voyeurism (michael listening in on reader and Jackie hunching), phone sex (but reader is unaware of the freaky shit he's doing on the other end), michael is a d1 yearner and highkey obsessed, and i think that's about it.
Michael's infatuation with you wasn't always perverse in nature. He knew what kinda man Jackie was, he remembered those late nights at motel rooms where he was told to look out for whatever girl he was screwing around with last week didn't catch him with his new flavor of the week. He was never the type to settle down, the thought of marriage in his mind equating to his life being over before he had a chance to have his fun. Hell, he spent most of his life raising his brothers, God forbid he wanted to indulge in the sin of flesh before it was all over; fatherhood and the mundane replacing the fast-paced life he wanted to enjoy for just a little while longer. Michael was both too young to understand and not the type to judge either way. He didn't care about any of them; they never lasted long enough for him to. That was until you.
It started with a nosy, but innocent, curiosity. He wondered how you managed to turn his floozy of a brother into this doting fiancé and eventual husband. He didn't doubt it laid beyond your physical features, residing somewhere in your loving and patient nature and social acumen. Life started to feel normal with you; like summer cookouts by the pool with Jackie manning the grill while wearing a 'kiss-the-cook apron' and you not far from him in a tasteful one piece and designer shades sloped low on the bridge of your nose and late movie nights with a bucket of popcorn between the two of you while you made-out like teenagers under the warm lamplight.
You fit into the rhythm of their lives, filling up a space he didn't know he needed. Then he starts to linger on things, stupid things. Like that one time you overheard Joseph make fun of his features for the umpteenth time and he bit his tongue trying not to cry when he thought he was alone in the hallway.
"Don't worry about him, sweetheart." He tried to forget his room was next to Jackie's, but he laid awake hoping for any small run ins he could get with you. A towel was wrapped around your head, and your face was still dewy from your shower. You were wearing some old t-shirt, one of Jackie's old shirts, that made him look like a giant with the way it hung loosely on your frame. "You'll grow into your nose, and that acne will go away sooner or later."
You had this look in your eye, like this was more than an empty pep-talk he had time and time again from people who didn't understand how deeply his appearance ate at him. You seemed to get it. Or maybe he wanted too badly to be seen by you in a way more profound than being the brother of your husband who you were obligated to be nice to. You gave him a small smile, "Your daddy's a lost cause though, time don't help ugly." And he couldn't help but chuckle with you.
Moments like that started to pile up. Innocuous things that he probably shouldn't think so hard about but still kept him up at night. Then the teasing started. It was no secret that Michael was incredibly expressive, especially to his own detriment when it came to you. He started looking for you in every room. He asks you to accompany him to his studio sessions and the award ceremonies he gets invited to and struggles to conceal his immense disappointment anytime you turn him down. If it wasn't for Marlon catching onto him and being the blab who told his brothers about his little crush, he'd continue to follow you like some puppy at your heels into every room you went into.
And he wishes it stopped at just that. He wishes his guilt was strong enough to stop him from trying to sneak glimpses of you in the shower, your figure blurred by the steam on the shower walls, but the outline of your curves was more than enough to sate him (at least for now). And while he feels positively disgusting being up so late at night, listening intently to the sound of his brother putting you through the mattress, calling out his real name because Jackie was too impersonal to you. He was Jackie to the world and his brothers, and Sigmund to practically only you. It made Michael's skin crawl. He really shouldn't be listening to this. Sex was supposed to be something sacred, an act only between husband and wife, and here he was with his hand down his pajama pants; a secret intruder in something that was meant to be shared only between the two of you.
He can't look at you anymore. To be fair, he struggled looking you in the eyes before, but now, the shyness is replaced with a burning shame. He tries to get a girlfriend after that. He thinks that maybe if he got a girl of his own, he'd stop wishing you could be his. He hoped that maybe this infatuation was just the by-product of his sexual awakening. Surely, he wasn't the first person in history to have a slight obsession with a brother's wife, and he certainly wouldn't be the last.
Maybe this was more normal than he was allowing it to be, instead simply just the consequence of years long sexual repression and the fear of breaking out of it. This didn't have to be a case of unadulterated and insatiable lust. If he was being generous, it was just proof of the parable of the caves; what he thirsted for was a knowledge of the world greater than the shadows presented to him, not just a chance to get at whatever heaven was between your legs. He just really needed to get his dick wet, and it didn't need to be you. He just wanted it to be. Really badly.
But if everyone was being honest, his little girlfriend was always bound to just be a version of you. That's when Jackie really catches on. He thought it was funny at first, he'd even go as far as to say he took it as a compliment. Imitation is the highest form of flattery or whatever they say. You thought nothing of it, however, and that was probably the hardest part for him. Here he was parading a carbon copy of you to the point where it was almost believable that she was made in a lab, Michael creating her in your image. That was devotion. What did Jackie know about that?
So what, he gave up having a different girl every day of the week once you waltzed in. Michael wouldn't even look at other women. He couldn't physically think of women. On the quest to find his own love, all he could find was a version of you and he wasn't even an option to you. It's like he doesn't even occupy the same reality as you. Like you were some thing that he can only see but never have. A mirage in his desert of reciprocation, promising that you would love him back but not in the way he needed. But that was the best and worst part. He was completely unassuming.
It was only a matter of time before the two of them broke up. He wasn't good at that part either. He left the poor girl then immediately hopped on a plane to New York. Onto bigger and better things, thinking the distance would finally knock some sense into him. But Latoya is long gone out with her friends and it's just him in the apartment, and he starts to feel that itch again after trying to stave it off. He tried counting sheep and watching old re-runs of black and white TV shows, but you're still in the back of his mind where you always are. Next thing he knows, it's nearly 3 a.m and there's only one thing he can think of doing.
"Hello?" Your voice was groggy with sleep. Jackie was at the studio and you had only called it a couple hours ago after trying to wait up for him.
"Oh-I'm sorry. I didn't mean to wake you." In fact, he wished you hadn't answered at all. It was a stupid idea, but by the time his hand snaked into his pants and wrapped around the base of his dick, his brain was too foggy to think clearly. He was just so tired. And needy. And above all else desperate for a release anyway he could get it. That girl just couldn't scratch the itch. She was never going to, but God did he want her to so he didn't have to admit he had it this bad.
"Mikey? You okay?" His heart ached. You were genuinely concerned. His voice was breathy and light, and you had assumed the worst. His grip was almost as tight on the phone as it was on his dick. He exhaled shakily, experimentally stroking himself to the thought of your pretty face.
"I'm f-fine, jus'... Latoya's out right now and I wanted someone to talk to, I guess." You were silent on the other end before you connected the wrong dots.
"Oh, Mikey. I'm sorry." His thumb rubbed at his leaky tip, already red with pent up frustration. His breath hitched in his throat as he coated his dick eagerly in what leaked out.
"It's ok. It wasn't meant t-to last." His eyes were squeezed shut. His mind drifted to what you would be wearing right now, one of those silk teddies that stopped right below the curve of your ass, or maybe one of those matching sets that you loved so much. Or even better, nothing but a t-shirt and a pair of panties, something big and comfortable, a piece of his merch with his face printed on it. Just him. Not his brothers. Especially not Jackie. He bit his tongue so hard that a metallic taste came over his taste buds, the moan he was trying to hold back rumbling in his throat.
"But still, first relationships are a big deal, honey. Doesn't matter how long they last." The way his breath rattled on the line, you assumed he was crying, and to be fair, at this point tears were rolling down his eyes. His mouth was half open, his head thrown back, his chest heaving as he tried to control his breath. He couldn't figure out if he liked the fervor with which he stroked himself or the pressure that came whenever he squeezed at his shaft. He ultimately decided he liked the thought of you doing it for him best.
"I know, I know. It still h-hurts." He really wasn't lying. He wasn't sure he'd ever been this hard before, and he'd certainly never gotten this close to cumming before. He hardly even knew that was the feeling building in his stomach. It felt overwhelming. All-consuming. It felt like ecstasy and he didn't quite understand the most efficient way to chase it. You had the perfect voice for this. Even over the crackling phone, your breaths even and slow, your voice like dripping honey, your presence, though not physical, so soothing that you could cure what was aching no matter how far you were.
"It's going to, but that's how heartbreaks work. You gotta go through it to get through it." With the twist of his hand, he almost blew his cover, that and the sound of his sheets rustling with how hard he bucked into his fist. It was tantalizing. He was so close. He just needed you to say his name again, then it would finally be over. He just wanted to hear it out of your mouth, just for him, in this moment so he could close his eyes and pretend that you knew exactly what he was doing. He didn't even need you to need it as bad as him, he would be content with knowing you did it because he needed it.
"You're so good t' me, you know. Don't know what I'd do without you." He could just hear you smile on the other end. You loved to be needed. He didn't know why you didn't see how perfect you were for each other. He needed you more than anything else.
"Good night, Mikey. I love you." Oh, that did it. He expected it to be loud, that's how it felt racking through his body, but when he opened his mouth, nothing came out. His vision went out for a second, and if you said anything on the phone it was met with deaf ears. He didn't realize it was over until he tasted salty tears on the tip of tongue and looked down to see the mess he made on his sheets. His hand was covered in his spent and he didn't even wanna see what he did to the phone handle.
"Love you, too. Good night." With a shaky hand, he set the phone back on the receiver. You'd think post nut clarity would guide his conscience to a better place, maybe a recognition that what he did was a huge violation of you, who was just trying to be a good wife to his brother and a good friend to him. Instead, he's going to bed wishing Jackie would do something terrible to lose you so he could swoop in to be for you what you are to him.
Truly Outrageous
˖ ݁♬⋆.˚𝄞glamour and glitter, fashion and fame˖ ݁♬⋆.˚𝄞
summary☞ thriller!Michael Jackson x popstar!reader, after the death of your father, you're left leading a double life; average girl next door and best friend to one of the biggest stars in the world by day and one of the only stars who rival him by night.
word count: 2.1k
The loss of your father was a tragic one. Every song on the radio was a tribute to him, artists he'd worked with personally, those he scouted at the start of their careers and left them more successful than they had ever dreamed of being, even his rivals and competitors, each finding it within them to admit the tragedy of his passing. It was deeper than that for Michael; it was also about the girl he'd left behind.
It was pouring outside, leaving slick wet grass beneath your feet and a tighter grip on your umbrella. The masses had largely cleared out, no one but lawyers, ex-business partners, and a few stragglers behind still waiting for their cars. There was also you and Michael, though that was no surprise. That's who it had always been. Ever since your father pushed for Off the Wall to happen at Epic, making quite the persuasive argument that they would regret not letting the boy go off on his own and show the world what he was made of outside of the safety net of the Jacksons, he cropped up in the most inexplicable ways. One day he was just a name you heard on the radio, the next he was eating dinner in your home and watching horror movies on your couch. He stood next to you, quiet as he always was, his cologne mixing with the scent of rain and recently disturbed dirt, staring straight ahead. His knuckles were white around the stem of his umbrella. His breath was uneven. He masked the sniffle of his nose with a cough. "How are you doing, honey." If you had a dollar for every time you'd been asked that question, the pit in your stomach wouldn't feel as heavy, but you knew why he asked. Slowly retreating into the foggy unknown beyond the wet grass was who you decided is your mortal enemy; Eric Raymond. Music executive, greedy businessman, and professional pain in your ass who couldn't wait until your father was fully cold in the ground to reveal his scheme to relieve you of your inheritance, half of your father's entertainment company and the only means of supporting the whole reason it was opened, Starlight House for Foster Girls. "Ask me again in a week, and I think I'll be able to give you the answer you want to hear." All he could do was sigh and turn to face you, enveloping you in a hug before he had the chance to see a tear roll down your cheek. "I'm sorry I can't do more for you. I'd give you the whole world if I could, y'know, wrap it up in a pretty bow and everything." You smiled into his chest through the sobs that heaved in your chest. "I don't need the world, Mikey, you bein' here is more than enough."
You were friends. Very good friends. Friends who shared a bed frequently, and when they did, they certainly woke up in each other's arms and may have kissed on an occasion or two when tipsy off of a good night and secret sips of champagne. But nothing more than that because you were both too reticent and too terrified of change, even if it was for the better. Even if you both desperately wanted it.
Amidst his rise to fame and the frenetic style of celebrity life, it would be a disservice to you to say you faded into the background. That's where you always had been, but in the best possible way. You were synonymous with the old, faded cotton pajamas that become irresistibly desirable when the sequins and flash of the rockstar visage grow irritating to the skin, the feeling of skin once the pounds of makeup come off, the weight behind lifted off his chest when he doesn't have to pretend anymore. He wasn't anything to you, not a financial opportunity, not an atm, not even Michael Jackson. Just Mikey.
That was the way you'd prefer it to stay. If you had it your way, millions would magically fall into your bank account, and you'd have Starlight back into shape. You weren't meant for the cameras, too shy, too in your head, too anxious that you would get addicted to the limelight and burn out in a destructive haze. But it seemed you wouldn't have a choice in the matter.
It began with the mysterious box left on your bed containing a pair of the most gorgeous earrings you'd ever seen, when upon putting them on, you summoned a woman in your room, made of nothing but color and light. Next thing you know, your car is going through the facade of a concrete wall and you were met with the sight of an unmentioned part of your inheritance; your very own supercomputer, Synergy, able to disguise you beyond recognition who came with all the equipment anyone could ever need to make a hit.
Before anyone knew it, there was a new name topping the charts. Ever mysterious, unsigned to any label yet able to produce music that couldn't have been made in some amateur's basement, always decked out in so much pink people were left seeing green from color deprivation. Jem, that's what you called yourself; so shiny you could be seen from space, such a rarity they had better cherish you before you're gone.
You could tell Michael was on edge, but you were too tired to accuse him yourself. You had been up all last night dancing around in the newest digital world of Synergy's creation, hair done up in a ridiculously big wig with even bigger curls, diamonds in your hair, pink silk covering your skin. While Synergy was a perfectionist whose powers seemed to know no bounds, it seemed the one thing she couldn't, or rather wouldn't, do was create the illusion that you hit every beat while singing every note flawlessly. Lucky for her, you were quickly turning out to be a glutton for praise, and she happened to have an incredibly soothing voice. "You're out of it today," he remarked, shoving a fistful of popcorn out of the shared bucket between the two of you, eyes trained on the movie playing in front of you. It was a Disney flick this time, Fantasia. He had always been partial to The Rite of Spring, but your favorite part, The Nutcracker Suite, played in front of you now. You liked it because it came early and you almost always fell asleep when it was over. "Jus' tired. Not used to doing all this work around the house." He hummed. From where you laid on his chest, you felt the sound beneath you. "Who's got my girl workin' all the time? I feel like I never see you." You chuckled under your breath. If only he knew. Maybe he could give you some pointers, starting with how to dance the night away without continuing to feel it in your feet for weeks after. "Nobody you need to be worryin' about. Doesn't feel nice, does it, waitin' around and only ever seein' me in your dreams." A blush bloomed all over his face. "At least you could get a hold of me," you shot him a doubtful look. That boy was always recording with Quincy, and if he wasn't there, he was in front of a mirror until the early hours of the morning, and if he wasn't there, he was hopefully, finally resting. "Well, I always made sure to call you back as soon as I could," he mended, "I'm lucky if I can even hear your voice." You bit your lip, guilt gnawing at you. You hear my voice a lot more than you think. "I just had to get busy, that's all. Someone's gotta keep this place running. I don't plan on keeping up with it much longer." It didn't feel physically possible. Sooner than later, people are gonna start trying to contact you. Well, not you, Jem. And Jem was gonna say yes because something could always go wrong here. Someone always needed you and Jem had what you couldn't provide. You shrunk into Michael, trying to find comfort in the smell of him and the salt from the popcorn coating your lips. "Are you sure you're okay? If something was wrong, you'd tell me, wouldn't you?" Big doe eyes stared into yours. It's like he was trying to stare right into the grooves of your brain and pick out what you wouldn't tell him from your mouth. "I could ask you the same thing."
Jem was his problem. He saw that face everywhere and it plagued his every waking moment. The voice was so familiar, the eyes that looked into the camera hooked into him as they did everyone else, but he really meant it when he said it was like you were looking right at him. Anytime one of your songs came onto the radio, he flipped the station. Anytime one of your videos played, he had to change the channel before your hypnotizing voice could advise him to do otherwise.
Jem was everything pop music was - exuberant, assured, and so full of charisma you had the world hanging onto every word. It was polished, but not past the point of relatability. It could be fun and stupid, but not to the point of being vapid. There was a magic, but not for love of the sound. It was whimsical without sincerity because a girl like her couldn't possibly exist, though she wasn't too convinced that she was real either.
What excited the execs the most was the marketability. He heard that name at every meeting; people talking about where to find you, questions if you were some plant or some hoax, and what the hell to do with the girl who took the radio and MTV by storm within a couple weeks, but that wasn't what unsettled him the most. The pressure certainly lit a fire under his ass, everyone now turning to question what he could do to compete with a new force in music, but what crawled under his skin was her familiarity. Like the person behind it all was on the tip of his tongue. Of course, Jem wasn't just Michael's problem.
"What is this?" The question was a formality; your eyes knew exactly what the paper you held meant. A letter from Starlight Records, signed by Eric Raymond. A request to sign Jem. Even more terrifying, your signature already signed to accept the deal. "He knows." Her monotone voice rang out in the empty space. To ease your anger, you imagine a shred of remorse to be laced within her hollow tone. " I gathered that, Synergy, but how!? And why did you accept? This is a 5 year contract!" You crumpled into the plush arms of a nearby chair, half ready to start tearing out the pale pink wefts of your wig. "I know it is not ideal, but this is what your father had planned. I was made for this, to make music. I was made for you, too." Heat rose in the back of your throat, but Synergy was nothing but calm. Air blew from her cooling system, making the room a degree colder. There was still sweat on your brow from practice and your brightly colored tights shifting hues in the warm lights did nothing to hide the blood at the back of your foot from dancing in heels that were starting to feel a half-size too small. "But I wasn't made for this! I can't keep doing this. I have responsibilities and a life outside of you. I don't want the deal." Dark eyes stared back at you, devoid of a pupil, just solid purple and unfeeling. "It will not be as much of a burden as you think; they have already made arrangements for you and your friend, Mr. Jackson, to work together soon. Everyone is very eager to see it. Surely that will make this more bearable." You let out a sigh of defeat. "That's the worst part, Synergy, I can't work with Michael. I can't tell him." This was starting to turn into your worst nightmare. The thought of Michael seeing you all dressed up like that, having to pretend that you were just strangers. "Of course, you can-." "No, I can't! If he knows I kept this a secret from him, he'll freak." But something else was eating at you. What if he likes me better when I'm her? "If he finds out, I'm scared I'll be stuck living with her forever."
Totally Tubular
Home of the 80's AU's Masterlist and Moodboards
.✦ ݁˖Earth Girls Are Easy.✦ ݁˖ ~ Michael Jackson x reader, Marlon Jackson x reader, Jackie Jackson x reader
part 1., part 2., the rest coming to a galaxy near you very soon ⋆˚࿔
⋆.˚✮🎧✮˚.⋆ Jem! and the Holorgrams ⋆.˚✮🎧✮˚.⋆ ~Michael Jackson x reader
part.1, the best is still yet to come 𝄞
Summer Madness
‧₊˚♪ 𝄞₊˚⊹part 2 of the Earth Girls Are Easy AU‧₊˚♪ 𝄞₊˚⊹
part one
summary☞ time sure can fly when you have a broken heart. one second, you're sunbathing, the next your face to face with the aliens taking an involuntary dip in your pool. oh well, you've had worse company.
an: this part is more jackie centric, but all of the brothers will get their time in the spotlight down the line. complete side tangent, but this ai drama is tew much for me, omg. i understand feeling suspicious (i myself do as well tbh especially since anything and everything seems to be inundated by ai these days) but maybe don't accuse people without concrete proof?? it's times like these I think we should remember a majority of us don't write like ai, ai writes like us because it was trained off of real writers. anyways, i hope yall and enjoy and dont mind the slow pace i'm taking with this. i've been having quite a bit of fun with it and I think I'm gonna work on Jem next.
taglist (i hope i did this right lol i never bother with taglists): @sabbiabbydabbywabbie
word count: 3.4k
It was a deceptively nice day. After the shit show that was last night, you half-expected to walk out into a torrential downpour and the heavy sound of thunder. Fortunately, or maybe unfortunately, Mother Nature didn't seem to be in as sour a mood as you, and thus the sun was shining and the birds were chirping. Perfect weather for pretending that all is right in the world.
To step out of yourself and breathe in life the way it was, it truly was beautiful out. You opened your kitchen window to let in a breeze while you cooked yourself breakfast, peering longingly at your neglected pool, thinking back to the last time you ever dipped so much as a toe in. A tan line marked where the ring had left your finger and it would be a tragedy for that to be the only one on your body. Especially when the outdoors was practically beckoning you to wet yourself with chlorine instead of salty tears. To bring the old stereo you bought ages ago out of retirement, to dress yourself in the tiniest bikini you own, hell, go naked as you had the right to do in your own fenced in backyard, and just float your troubles away.
Like a siren to the sea, you were drawn in, helpless to deny the compulsion of one of the best days summer had to offer.
And it was perfect for more than a while. A warm towel laid under your belly, your back to the open sky, shallow but upbeat pop music blasted from your stereo, and any look into any reflective surface confirmed what you already knew; red was so your color. A magazine folded in one hand while the other held a sparkly gel pen for you to circle everything of interest in Saks' catalogue, daydreaming, against your better judgement, about potential reactions to the new wardrobe you were conjuring.
With every tiny dress was a new scenario about how your ex-fiancé wouldn't just beg to have your back, he would actually mean it. Like a new pair of shoes doubled as a time machine that would undo what he did. Like a new bag would finally allow him to say he loves you and actually mean it. You pouted. This whole thing was rather immature and certainly counter-intuitive, but that was healing. If you were over it in a matter of hours, then that only means it never meant much to you in the first place. And God did it. As much as you'd like to feign a colder composure, it should seem you would be crying yourself to sleep for at least the next two weeks.
But that didn't matter. The breeze kissed over the harsh rays of sun, the sound of shimmery blue water blended nicely into the beachy radio tunes, and you were making plans with every advertisement you heard. A new restaurant was opening downtown, a shopping complex a few cities over was receiving a few more luxury outlets, and it seemed like at least a dozen new movies were hitting the cinema. And dammit, it was the 20th century, and you were a modern woman. Who needs a man to take them out? You didn't even need one for his wallet, let alone his company. You let out a sign of exasperation and turn the page.
It was mid outfit fantasizing when you thought lighting struck your pool. There was a reverberant bang, followed by the wild splash of water exiting your pool. You flipped over, not fast enough to see what crash landed but to be blinded by the streak of light still trailing behind it. Like the sun was just one large dinner plate and a chip had broken off and fallen down to Earth, there was what could only be described as a hole of light in your swimming pool. You screamed, jumping back, your feet stinging against the hot concrete, your back connecting with a tree you had planted in your backyard. Even when you closed your eyes, you were met with the light.
The thing made noises, odd beeps, harsh sizzles, and crunching sounds, still vibrating with impact and trying to settle into the new atmosphere. There was steam and smoke in the air, combining with the light to create an atmosphere that rivalled a horror movie. You could barely see the hand you placed in front of you to shield your eyes, much less the edge of the pool. A panic began to creep up your spine. Was it safer to stay put and wait for the smoke to clear, even if it had the potential to reveal some hideous creature waiting to probe your brains out or try and make a run for it and risk falling in anyway?
You shuffled your feet in the direction that you hoped would put you furthest from the pool. "What do I do?" You breathed out, your shaking hand meeting the bouncy curls at the top of your head as you anxiously stepped around. Your neighbors must either be out or perfected the art of minding their business with their lack of reaction to what surely sounded like a miniature bomb dropping in your backyard and you had no one to call...well, you had one person.
You pushed him to the back of your mind. Even if you made it inside, and even if you called him, even the thought of doing that made your stomach turn, there's no guarantee he would rush over to your rescue. Would he even answer the phone? You took another slow step.
Entertaining the impossible, what was he gonna do? He'd patronizingly accuse you of driving yourself crazy after last night, but at least then maybe he'd come over. But then what about the fucking UFO in your pool. Did you want him to fight the aliens? Call NASA? You kept putting one foot in front of the other, your arms out in front of you helplessly trying to move the smoke. "This really is just my luck." With that acknowledgement, it shouldn't have been that much of a surprise when the step you took connected with water instead of solid ground.
You flailed your arms around in a panic, the memory of how to swim long forgotten, as you kick around trying to at least tread water. Oh god, I'm going to die. I'm going to die in my own pool. The knowledge that no one would hear you scream was irrelevant to your terrified brain as you began to shout without even realizing it.
"Help! Somebody help me! Please!" The air was still cloudy, but you could see the ripple of water in front of you and the shiny surface of whatever landed. Then it began to make sounds again, mechanical whirring and a heavy revving, like it was nothing more than a big, oddly shaped car. Then it moved.
Your eyes widened with horror. Your heart pounded in your chest, there was ringing in your ears, and your limbs moved with a new fervor against the exhaustion threatening to overtake them. "Help! Anybody, please!" Suddenly, you felt a sharp pain in the back of your head and your vision became peppered with black dots. The water that previously only reached the base of your neck grew higher in your struggle, and before you knew it, the world went black and you went under.
"You don't think she's dead, do you?" Michael's voice was anxious as he bit his lip, his arms crossed against his chest. He had been the main one fussing over you, his suit still drenched from his unplanned swim. He shook out his hair, sending beads of water flying next to the puddles of water at his feet.
"She can't be, she's still breathing." The eldest one circled your body as it lay on the table he had haphazardly cleared. The rise and fall of your chest had been the only reason he hadn't completely freaked out. The plan was to replenish supplies and finally get on the road back home, not kill a random woman and find a way to clean up the mess.
"But what about her head, Jackie, the door hit her pretty hard." Both brothers turned to glare at Marlon. Wonder whose fault that was, the youngest muttered under his breath. In his defense, by the time you entered their field of vision, the escape hatch protocol had irreversibly started, and Marlon wouldn't have been able to undo the trigger unless the ship had exited critical condition.
"She wasn't bleeding when you brought her in, was she?" The edge to Jackie's voice was offset by the tender way he lifted your head into his hands, praying that when he pulled away, he wouldn't find any red.
"No, but-"
"Then she's probably fine. I should hope her species isn't so weak that a little run in with a door would kill her."
"Then why isn't she wakin' up?"
"Give it a minute, Michael, we just brought her in."
They consolidated to a back corner of the ship to bicker, the increasing volume of which rousing you awake. Your eyes fluttered open slowly under fluorescent lights which beamed as bright as the light interior, quickly looking down to see that your arms and legs were unbound and there was a delightful lack of scary looking machinery. In fact, the inside looked more like the Jetson's living room than the spacey torture chamber you were expecting.
To the left of you were sleek red chairs sat in front of a control center with cartoonishly colored buttons and switches, resembling a child's toy more than a frightening extra-terrestrial. To the left of you was a window revealing that you were still inside your pool, a bright yellow rubber duck floatie intently staring back at you. You closed your eyes, hoping that when you opened them, you'd be back in your room, but your bed didn't feel like a cold operating table, and it certainly didn't contain the voices of three grown men.
You sat up slowly to be met with the sight of what looked like three men, perhaps brothers, in the midst of some heated discussion. They were all roughly the same height, though the one in the middle seemed to be a bit taller and broader than the others.
They each wore the same suit, stark white and astronaut-like, but they wore it differently. The one in the middle unzipped the top half, revealing the navy-blue undershirt underneath that pulled at the seams when he crossed his arms, like he was some action figure ready to bust out of his shirt. The one to his left had the sleeves rolled up to his elbows and wore different shoes, not the clunky ones the other two had, but something slimmer and meant for agility. The third one, bless his heart, wore his exactly the way you assumed it was meant to be worn, zipped all the way, his shoes perfectly laced, metals and buckles glistening, even more so because he was sopping wet. Water continued to drip down the slope of his nose and his hair dripped into his face, causing him to groan in annoyance every now and then and try to push it back. He had this quality about him, like even when he wasn't in his fancy soaking suit, he still sparkled.
The inside of the ship looked clean, albeit, a bit worse for wear. There were scuffs on the wall and dents in the ceiling, implying that it had certainly been lived in. There were traces of this everywhere, the few books strewn about, writing on the windowsill next to you, the way none of the knobs on the control center look like they belong together, instead having been pieced together and replaced over years with whatever they found that would fit.
"Look," the voice brought your attention back to your captors, "she's up." You backed up awkwardly on the table, stunned into silence. The wet one's face lit up with a smile and a sigh of relief. He approached slowly, hands placed in front of him, palms facing out to counteract your skittishness.
"Hello, there." You looked him up and down with narrowed eyes, then over at the other two who awkwardly waved with strained smiles.
"You're the one who pulled me out?" He nodded sheepishly.
"You were screamin' for help; I couldn't just leave ya' out there."
"Yeah, help from a-" The words died in your throat. You expected something different, something out of a cheesy 60's sci-fi flick; tiny green bodies, black football shaped eyes, an impossibly large head held up on a pencil thin neck. They didn't look anything like that at all. They looked entirely... normal.
"Help from a what?" You swallowed thickly.
"A human." They continued to stare at you confusedly.
"What's a human?" A better question was what were they? They spoke like you and looked like you. Just thinking about it made your head fuzzy.
"Uh..I don't know, something that needs food and water, walks around on two legs; a person from planet Earth." They turned to look at each other with a satisfied look on their face. So that's what it's called.
"I told you Ear-th sounded stupid, Michael."
"It sounded better than Ee-arth, you schmuck." You looked between the two of them. Definitely brothers. But also, definitely not from around here. You swung your legs over the edge of the table before gently lowering yourself off the ledge, your legs feeling like jelly underneath you. The tall one quickly came to your aid, his large hands ghosting around the skin of your waist.
"Where you trying to get to, baby?" Your breath caught in your chest. He smelt good for an alien. Clean and smooth, like herbal soap and amber.
"Back home." The words left your mouth in barely more than a whisper as soon as he bent down to hear you. It was then you noticed the thin chain around his neck, the imprint of some charm showing through the fabric of his shirt.
"You can't go out there! You can't swim." Michael shouted, to which you rolled your eyes defensively.
"Yes, the hell I can!"
"Didn't look like it from in here." His voice was felt behind your ear, his warm breath fanning down your neck in a way that sent shivers down your spine. There was no concern in his tone, only teasing.
"Because I was caught off guard by the literal spaceship that crash landed into my pool. Real considerate of you, by the way, now I have to spend a fortune to get it drained and refilled."
"It's not just a spaceship: we take Rhonda everywhere." The concept of an oversized flying saucer being a typical mode of transportation intrigued you. You had half the mind to ask if the thing took unleaded diesel.
"Ya'll named it?"
"Michael named it, and believe me, honey, it didn't catch on." Michael scowled at his brother, looking about ready to rumble. The tall one seemed unfazed, leaning on the back of a chair with one of his feet kicked up.
"You don't seriously plan on keeping me here, do you." You spun to face him, apprehension written all over you. It's not like you could run for it; you didn't even know where the door was. Threatening him was certainly out of the question. He was too...big. You ignored whatever rolled through you when you came to that conclusion. I hope they can't read minds. "Because I'll have you know, my fiancé is going to come busting down my door if he realizes I'm missing." It flew out quicker than you could think and now you hoped you had drowned.
"Fiancé?" A piece of you died inside. Yeah, the person who's supposed to love you and only you forever and not sleep around with some busty brunette he met at work.
"Your betrothed?" You tried, but he still looked at you with a confuddled expression. "Your forever person. Who you spend the rest of your life with."
"Your mate." For a brief moment, something beyond understanding flashed on his face. Disapproval? Disappointment? Either way, it had you clutching your proverbial pearls.
"God, when you say it like that it sounds really-"
"Passionate?" You could tell he was a charmer wherever he came from the way he looked at you, his voice deeper, white teeth on proud display, a commitment to eye contact that made it seem like nothing outside of his gaze, nothing outside of you, existed.
"Primal." There was a beat of stillness.
"Is that a bad thing?" He chuckled, the sound different from his demeanor, much lighter. Like suave was a disguise that failed to cover the sound of pure laughter.
"Not bad, just...outdated. No one really thinks like that anymore. It's, like, animalistic."
"But isn't that what the rock is for?" You were perplexed until you felt the suffocating weight atop your finger. You never took it off. Your face grew hot. "He found the biggest one he could to impress you and you wear it around so that everyone knows you're his." You twisted the band around on your finger.
"It's not like that." None of this conversation could be further from the truth, but he didn't need to know that right now.
"Then explain to me what it's like." And it wasn't much of a challenge, more of an admission of pure curiosity, not searching to be right, just searching for an answer. You opened your mouth and then closed it. You were the last person on Earth who should be trying to explain marriage.
"Get me out of here, and maybe I will." There was nothing serious in your tone, just extreme avoidance to the way conversation had drifted an attempt to play coy. He took it in stride, biting the inside of his cheek while he smiled again.
"Michael! Marlon!" Though he called their names, it was you he stared out as he barked out orders. "Quit foolin' around and open the escape hatch. We've found ourselves a willing hostess." You froze.
"Wait, I don't think I agreed to all that."
"'Course you did, baby, you agreed as soon as Michael dove in that pool of yours and saved your life." The ship was soon filled with movement again, the brothers each flipping switches and slamming buttons, running around out of sight and returning with various items, pieces of clothing, heavy toolboxes, large hoops filled with what to have been hundreds of keys.
"But what about my fiancé? He's going to lose it when he sees that I'm housing three strange men in my house. And what the hell are they doing?"
"If he has a problem with your generosity, he can take it up with me." You let out a frustrated huff. "Like that's gonna do any good," you mumbled under your breath, but he didn't dignify your irritation with a response.
"We can't make any repairs to the ship from the inside, so unless you want us here forever, we need to get out and get movin'." You would've continued to protest had you had any more objections to make. Prince knows better than to try and come back, right. Then again, so what if he does. If anything, the worst that could happen was that you evened the score a bit.
Oh god, you thought, I'm starting to sound like Hilary.
It wasn't long before the top of the ship peeled back and a ladder was lowered, allowing sunlight to filter in and break up the artificial, stale white light. Somehow, your escape wasn't as exciting as it seemed before.
"Ladies first." You looked back to see it was Marlon who said it. You grimaced.
"You seem too excited about that." He looked at you, eyelids heavy and low, and a smirk on his full lips.
"Just lookin out for ya, baby, it'll be easier to fish you out in case you fall in again."
"I know how to swim!" You shouted as you mounted the ladder, the steps hot under your feet.
"I believe you, honey, no need to shout." You didn't even wanna look down at his smug face, especially when your beautiful home was finally back in view and everything looked exactly as you left it. The newest WHAM! song played from the stereo, branches from your tree waved with the wind, and there was soothing tranquility in the air.
Yes, everything was deceptively right in the world, except for the fact that there was now an oversized blow-dryer in your swimming pool and your new guests were cousins with ET.
Cruel Summer
✮It's a cruel, (cruel) cruel summer/ Leavin' me here on my own✮
summary☞ life was truly fabulous...at least it used to be. stylist to the stars with a doctor for a fiancé, a pretty house with a shimmery pool and a picket fence, and a big rock on your ring finger. only thing missing? a fiancé who's just as committed as you...and a mechanic for the ginormous spaceship that just crashed landed into your backyard.
an: I needed a name for your ex-fiance, so we're pretending it was Prince because I didn't feel like coming up with anything else lol. Also, if you're familiar with the film, the aliens here have a completely different design, they look like regular people. Also also, sorry this is so long, I just wanted to get the exposition out of the way. last also, my inbox is open in case anyone wants to request something, I'm super excited for this and Jem. I hope you all enjoy!!
word count: 3.8k
The middle of June always seemed particularly noisy. Maybe it was the tourists streaming in for the beach that waved at the edge of town, flip-flops dragging sand as far inland as the shops that lined the boardwalk, seashells stuck in the half-melted pavement and sunscreen as prevalent in the air as oxygen. Or maybe it was specific to the studios you were in and out of, going back and forth between the costume closets, your heels kicking up sequins and diamonds, hairspray coating the inside of your lungs along with the scent of nail polish and cigarette smoke. Everyone was doing something, Coca-Cola 4th of July shoots, swimsuit ads, beach scenes for the cop shows and messy teenage dramas that clung in their airwaves like your clothes stuck to your back in this humid heat under the heavy fluorescent lights.
You weren't bothered by it. Either because after years of running around in high heels and a full face of makeup under the summer heat you finally got used to it or because your paycheck finally grew large enough for the pain and annoyance to be buried deep in the designer bag you carried around, the world may never know. All the world saw were your pearly white teeth between the shiny gloss on your plump lips, the diamonds hanging from your ears to match the one that hung heavy on your finger. If anything kept a smile on your face, that certainly did.
Even now, staying late in some dusty dim studio, your fingers knuckle deep in some bottle blonde's head, the sound of your coworkers' lips popping on gum that must have long lost its flavor, with even the radio getting tired of the high energy and opting to play slow jams that were definitely present at the very end of your prom night, you managed. That was until a voice broke the near silence.
"You know, that ring's been sittin' pretty on that finger for a while. Did the bazillionaire run out of money for the wedding or somethin'?" The smile dropped real fast after that. Hilary, that observant, ill-mannered bitch.
"No." You cringed at the way it sounded; totally pathetic. "Prince just wants to take it slow, ya know, we want everything to be absolutely perfect." You back combed your frustrations out, punctuating your aggression with hair spray.
"How perfect are you shootin' for, honey, because it's looking to me like you got a ring instead of a husband." You didn't want to give her the satisfaction of looking over. That would be like admitting defeat, like admitting that you felt like as much of a loser as she was practically accusing you of being. So you smiled that same practiced smile you've gotten quite good at, twirling a section of hair around your fingers and biting down the urge to yank it in frustration. God, who put in these extensions.
"Perfection takes time and dedication, sweetie, you know, like all that time you spend trying to convince us and yourself you're a natural level 8. Speaking of guy troubles, though, how are you and Brad? Or was it Nathan?" She huffed out a quiet laugh, slightly impressed, even more annoyed. The models dug their noses into their magazines. You pretended to believe the one in front of you actually cared about the price of a home dryer as an excuse as to why she hadn't turned the page.
"It was Jordan, sweetheart." You feigned a giggle, bringing a manicured hand to 'courteously' cover your pretty red lips.
"Gosh, I'm like so totally sorry, Hilary, I can be such an airhead sometimes. All these names just blur together; I can't keep up. I just don't know how your husband deals." A tiny sequel was heard from the model beside you as well as the sound of a Marcel iron aggressively slamming open and shut.
"I'm sure I could ask you the same question about that fiancé of yours." You stilled. Your model finally turned the page. You certainly became very interested in the article: TOP 10 SIGNS YOUR MAN IS LOSING INTEREST. Very suddenly, the filmy pages slam shut.
"I'm sure I don't know what you mean. But if you mean what I think you mean, which most certainly cannot be true whatsoever, he spends entirely too much time at the hospital saving lives to even think of doing...anything like that." Blue eyes try to catch your gaze in the glass, but your eyes are far too quick to be caught in their pity. You feel bad that you've instead chosen to focus on the terrible dye job in her head. The chunks are too chunky, some parts didn't lift evenly, she is definitely too brassy for her skin tone, and most importantly, Hilary is totally, absolutely, and definitely full of shit. She should seriously think of suing her previous stylist.
"Right, and is he saving kittens on his way to the motel that he cheats on you in, or is that just on his way back home?" You can hear the smile in her voice; you read between the lines of her self-impressed giggle. It screams "I'm far better at being a bitch than you" in a big bold font, possibly even in a bright red and yellow comic book text bubble. This game isn't much fun anymore.
"What's your damage, Hilary?" Your tone was clipped. "Cheaters never prosper." And then she has the audacity to cackle, full on, head thrown back, full-bellied, all-she's-missing-is-a-pointy-hat-and-cauldron cackles.
"Cheaters may never prosper, baby, but they sure do have a lot of fun." You bit your lip. Partially in defeat, partially to bite back the tears threatening to spill. Should Prince be there when you get home, you'd hate for him to see you with black streaks running down your face. He was never into the whole goth thing. You look down at your watch dejectedly, a tear fighting to roll down your cheek when you see it was almost 11:00.
So, you do all you can do. Busy hands are happy hands, and a happy model means you were one step closer to cruising home along what should be empty streets lined with neon lights and starshine. The radio plays something old and mellow, and you sway along to it in your aching feet. The bottle blonde with the kind eyes and horrendous highlights picks back up her magazine while clutching her pearls at the slaughter of your ego she just laid witness to and before the both of you knew it, she was cautiously climbing out of your chair, like she was anxiously stepping over the chalked outline of your dead and embarrassed body.
To make matters worse, you truly believe your assailant had no mal intent. It's absent in the way she approaches you when you are both alone, the pointy canines she used to rip out your jugular hidden behind a tight-lipped smile while she pats you on the back. And the words that slip out of her mouth, you think she genuinely means them.
"I hope you don't have a cow over what lil' ole me said. I mean, you are like a total babe, get out and live a little. Pull down that top and lift that skirt, sugar, and I promise you, you could do more than even then scoreboard."
But you had faith. You were hopeless romantic. Fairy Godmothers turning mice into horses, wishing on evening stars, happily ever after was all you ever wanted to happen. And it was going to happen. You were engaged to a man named Prince for fucks sake; it had to happen. It was going to happen. With some faith, trust, pixie dust, and all that jazz, because love can't be that hard.
"There is no scoreboard, Hilary." And because deep down she truly was a cruel hearted bitch, she laughed in your face.
It had been millennia.
Well, actually, it only felt like a millennium, but they lost track of time on the ship 3,462 days into their trip back to their home planet. Who knows how much time had passed since then. This solar system only had one plasma ball, and by the calculations in their directional system, they had been rather far from it, so far that its light only began to reach them a few cycles of boredom ago.
There was no new reading material, tossing the ball around got boring 5 galaxies ago, and you can really only jerk off to the exact same still image oh so many times before even that gets boring.
"Jackie!" His eye twitched. Maybe if he slowed his breath enough, his body would enter a catatonic state, and their voices would be nothing more than echoes in his empty head. But no, Jackie is the only one who knows how to run the ship. All giggleshits number one and two know how to do is complain and burn the rest of their food supply. Jackie needs to be conscious long enough to find some place to land this hunk of junk and keep those troglodytes alive. Last time he closed his eyes they lost an engine. It is very possible he hasn't so much as blinked since then.
"Jackie!"
"What?! What could you possibly want right now, Marlon?"
Marlon rolls his eyes, his fingers toying with buttons at the control hub, Michael tossing around some puzzle cube with his feet set up on the dash. Different holograms flash in front of him, showing different planets of varying distances away. A tiny one named Pluto, a frosty ones a few hundred miles away, gas giants even farther, none of any use to them, incompatible to their biology with no available resources. But there was one. One so beautiful it also brought tears to his eyes, a way out of this damn spaceship.
Jackie's heavy footsteps approach the console, the heavy beats slowing one he catches on to what his brother is showing him. He froze in place, as if touching anything would make it all disappear, like it was some mirage they were seeing in this empty space desert.
"It's called...Ee-arth?" His brother screwed his face up.
"That don't sound right." Marlon turned to face Jackie, annoyance all over his expression.
"Then what would you call it?" Jackie and Michael cocked their head sideways, like changing the angle would arrange the words in a way that felt more comfortable in their mouths.
"Ear-th?" Michael suggested, though his brothers were still unimpressed.
"Nah man, the E is probably silent. It's probably just Arth." They rolled that version around in their heads, still unconvinced.
"Then why bother with the E?"
"How am I supposed to know? It's a foreign planet galaxies away, why should I understand their linguistic conventions." The eldest brother's tone was slightly defensive as he slid into the pilot seat, his fingers dancing across the keyboard as he typed out the coordinates into the auto pilot.
"Because you're the one who suggested it, Captain Genius." Michael huffed as he leaned into the 3-d picture of the spinning planet. Blue and green marbled, perfect distance from the sun. He clicked onto a random region to be met with the sight of organisms that looked just like them. Bipedal, full heads of hair, fleshy skin.
"Does it matter what it's called? It's got food, water, sunlight-”
"And women!" It was Marlon who said the quiet part out loud, though he was met with an unenthused reaction. Michael blushed in his seat, Jackie thought he was too mature to dignify him with a response greater than a judgmental side-eye. Marlon cleared his throat before mumbling out an embarrassed "tough crowd."
"It'll be tight, but we can make it with the fuel supply we have. Give it a day or two, and we should be out of this tin can." His hands practically jittered with excitement. His skin itched under that stupid suit he'd been wearing for who knows how long, every nerve in his body was lit on fire with anticipation. They hadn't been under the heat of anything in so long it's like the air they breathed was dead too, aching for something more. A smile graced his lips for the first time in a while, and the universe winked back at him with a shooting star gracing their view. They all unknowingly wished for the same thing.
This is stupid. That was the only thought that entered your head as you looked at yourself in the mirror. It wasn't just the aftermath of the roller set you went through the trouble of doing, your hair still slightly fluffy with texture because you never cared for the silky straight look. Nor was it the lacy lingerie covering your body, some black matching set that sat in the back of your drawers unused since you bought it. It wasn't even the way your skin glowed even in the candlelight, your skin perfumed and oiled all the way down to your feet that were adorned by your favorite red bottom heels. It was the fact that you were looking at a version of yourself who was really no different from the one before you did all of this.
"I can't believe I let her get into my head like this. Doin' all this work as if lookin' like this is gonna change anything." And yet, you had absolutely no plans of changing. You walked in your kitchen, grabbing the bottle of wine you set into a bucket of ice and pouring generously into the glass you had filled at least four times over in the last hour, and walking back to the mirror.
"I mean, look at me! If there's one thing that bitch was right about, it's the fact that I am a total babe." And you know what, maybe you were losing it by now, sipping wine while staring at yourself in the mirror, pretty red nails cupping your breast through the bustier, twirling around to watch in awe of how your body moved. "I am a total catch. A really fucking good fish, god dammit, and my fiancé cannot wait to marry me. Hilary doesn't know what the hell she's talking about, all that peroxide is messing with her head." Self-awareness hit your heart like a knife, but only for a brief moment before it was chased away with the best purchase you've ever made in your life.
You forced out a chuckle. "This is totally ridiculous. Prince would never cheat on me. That word isn't even in his vocabulary. In fact-" Your talk with the woman in the mirror was swiftly interrupted by the sound of keys in the lock and hushed whispers. But those were totally a figment of your imagination. That or Prince just humming to himself. Because he totally does that. All the time. In a super high key that could be confused with a woman's voice but isn't. Because he isn't a cheater.
But your feet still move on their own and by now you're starting to feel like you're in a trance or some bad dream, helpless to the monster that resides behind that door. The keys continue to jingle. The door knob moves restlessly. A large weight bumps against the frame. Your heart jumps.
It’s an intruder.
Someone’s trying to break in.
And yet your body doesn’t move towards a weapon, it just steps at a crawling pace. Closer.
The voices are at it again, mixing in with the summer breeze and the jingle of keys.
The lock clicks. The door swings.
Your heart drops.
The woman meets your gaze first, blush heavy on her cheeks, hands still around the belt loops of your fiance’s pants, lips just inches from his neck. Her eyes drop to your feet then rise to the top of your head.
“Oh, baby, she’s gorg and all but I’m really not into threesomes.”
The heady taste of alcohol is suddenly very thick on your tongue. The woman who stares back at you couldn't look more different, lighter skin, lighter hair, looser texture looped around flowers in her hair and legs that just went on for forty days and forty nights. His scarf, the one you bought him for your first anniversary, was tied loosely around her neck, not that you wanted to even entertain the thought of what it could be covering up. They smelled like summer. Like warmth, and lush grass, and something musky yet sweet. The room began to spin.
In that moment, you truly understood the phrase “in the eye of the storm” more than you ever had in your entire life, yet not in the way you expected. You always thought the storm would rage physically, and though many things flashed across your mind in that moment, visions of smashing the wine glass in your hand and stabbing him with the boozy shards, dreams of you chasing him down the street in the red Rolls Royce parked out front, nightmares of him on his knees pleading that this was nothing like what you thought even though there was no way to misinterpret the perfume of another woman of his collar and her lipstick on his neck, but instead, it roared inside. Quietly. Violently.
“Do you want to introduce me to your friend?” Your heels clicked on the floor as you walked over to greet her, sounding like the tics to some invisible clock counting down to your ex-fiance’s impending doom.
“Oh, I don’t really think that’s necessary. You really have nothing in common-” His hands are already ushering her out of your home, looking frantically between her and you whilst practically pushing her across the doorstep.
“I don’t know, Princey, we seem to have one big thing in common.” Your voice came out light and airy, and you're sure the smile on your face was as unsettling as it was an ill-omen. “Why don’t you invite her in? I can even pour her some of the wine I planned on sharing with you, unless you have some other friend waiting to join us. You know what they say, fours a crowd, but three's company.” It seems then the gravity of the mess she was caught in between finally hit the other woman.
“Shannon isn’t much of a drinker.” He tried to laugh it out, swallow this into one big joke that they could laugh about somehow down the line. Even Shannon smiled sheepishly behind him, smiling through the searing pain of your gaze with his hands crossed behind his back, a bead of sweat rolling down from his curls from the amount of effort he was putting in to seem like he had control of the situation.
“I really think I should be going.” She squeaked out, already shuffling towards the door.
“But I drove you here.” He protested through his teeth, but she was unwavering.
“I’ll find a way.” An agonized look crossed his face when he realized his only lifeline was about to walk out the door, but he found the restraint not to reach out for her, correctly coming to the conclusion that even the slightest movement of his hand might end in the two of you wrestling on the floor in a way he didn't have planned for the night. Instead, the door closed softly behind him and the house grew deafeningly silent.
“You have 30 minutes to pack your shit.” Your back was already turned, wine glass halfway to being empty again, the whole bottle preparing to be drained as soon as you got your hands on it.
“Wait, sweetheart, wait, don’t be so irrational.” By the sound of your stillness, he realized that was a dangerous road to try and go down. “That’s not what I meant to say. What I meant to say is that this is all one big mistake. It’s all my fault.” You chortled.
“Obviously it’s your fault! Who else's fault could it be?” You were yelling. He could work with this. Or at least he thought there was something to work with.
“Exactly, baby, and I am so sorry. Can’t you turn and look at me, just to see how sorry I am.” Had your right mind been thinking, you would’ve kept those high walls and not even given him the satisfaction, but something in you caved. Maybe it was the romantic in you. Maybe it was naivete. Either way, you turned to see him on his knees, supplicating at your feet, more than ready to spin straw into gold just to string you along even further.
“Get up, Prince.” Your voice was softer than it should’ve been. Something moved within you, your heart, or maybe bile from the pits of your stomach moving in disgust. God this was all wrong. The ring on your finger seemed to tighten, but you couldn’t bear to look down to see if it was actually turning your finger blue. You’d get caught in your reflection, glimpses of the past and the promise that ring was supposed to mean.
“Don’t you wanna yell at me, baby, don’t you just wanna get it all out. You don’t want me to walk away from this. From us.” When he reached out to grab your hand, you could barely turn your head away. Why were you so bad at this? Everyone else seemed to be so good at not giving a damn and here you were, digging your nails into your palms to remind you of what you were feeling.
“I don’t have anything I want to argue about.” He darted his lips out to wet them, rubbing your skin with his thumb, leaning down to kiss your wrist.
“We don’t have to argue, baby. I can just sit here and listen, alright. I’ll just take my licks so we can put this whole thing behind us. So, all of this doesn’t go to waste. So that all these years of work weren’t for nothing.” You squeezed your eyes shut. All he did was work. All this relationship was work. So much emotional labor and nights spent alone, planning a future for the two of you by yourself in the bed that was meant for a husband and wife. Wearing a ring that was supposed to be a symbol of a sacred oath and yet you were the only one keeping it.
You looked down at it, then at him. It really was such a pretty ring. The bastard had good taste.
“Get off your knees and go. I don’t wanna talk about this.” The storm was swelling. Expanding. It was leaping out of your chest and it felt like it was about to start pouring from your eyes.
“You don’t wanna talk about this tonight, that’s what you mean. But we have tomorrow. And the day after that. And if you’re not ready then, we have until the sun ceases to rise, isn’t that right, pretty girl. My girl.” You felt sick. Absolutely sick.
“I don’t wanna talk to you Prince. I don’t wanna look at you. I don’t even wanna think about you. Not tomorrow, not the day after that.”
“Just sleep on it, baby, just do that for me.” It was the exhaustion that made you speechless, or maybe your lips moved and simply nothing came out. But it was enough and later rather than sooner, nothing but the stupid cologne he wore lingered after he drove away. To where, you didn't want to know. You hoped he was on the highway to hell.
Then, you moved your pretty legs to your bedroom and sat your pretty ass in the windowsill, and the fractured piece of you who maybe wasn’t romantic, but was still a dreamer nonetheless, found some joy in the shooting star that passed you by. You closed your eyes and cried the tears you had been holding for hours and you made a wish.
More of a demand, really.
If I don’t have a fine man at my doorstep begging for a chance to love me, I am going to lose what’s left of my mind.
I know this is like so totally different from my usual content and also kinda niche, but would anyone be down for me to write for Michael Jackson?? I'm a sucker for 80's movies and tv so both of these ideas are heavily inspired by two of my favorites.
Earth Girls Are Easy AU: hyperfem!reader who's recently left her ex-boyfriend after he was caught cheating with a coworker :( lucky for her, 3 very attractive, but very confused, aliens crash land into her pool out back and she just doesn't have the heart to leave them defenseless on this strange planet. I'm thinking Michael, Marlon, and Jackie x reader for this one!
Jem and the Holograms AU: After your father passes in some inexplainable freak accident, you are left with co-ownership of his record label, responsibility for the down-on-it's-luck orphanage he started, and a super-computer in the basement hosting the digital goddess, Synergy, tasked to help you in any way you see fit. Severely lacking funds but surprisingly lucky in connections, you are left to lead a double life; by day the kind girl next door, and by night one of the biggest stars the world has ever seen.
masterlist and moodboard for both
Who Knows
✮i'll probably be a waste of your time, but who knows. ✮ Also known as the ATLA College!AU pt.2
summary☞ zuko had never been the object of anyone's attention, not until you at least. to make a long story short, things were good until they weren't, and he is far too honorable to try and tell you what you want, even if it means losing you. prequel to the CollegeAU! absolute pining final boss! Zuko, mentions of oral (f receiving), insecure!zuko, a bit of angst because Zuko just loves reader so much.
an: i was so excited for this au, i already started writing part 2. hope you guys enjoy.
It was unbearably hot in Zuko's room. You'd expected it to be fancier with all the daddy's money you thought he had stashed away, but it was rather barren all things considered. A small fan droned on in the corner of the room, not that it did much to combat that staunch August heat and the feeling of his massive body laid on top of yours. Maybe it was the heat, maybe it was the physical manifestation of whatever had been going on between the two of you, but it was as if you had melted together. Underneath your fingertips were his bare, hot skin, and you could feel further beneath it, the push and pull of his muscles with the slightest of movements. It was times like this you wondered if your boyfriend...situationship...friend? was even human.
He could be rather mechanical. You had always figured it was just one of his charms, polite to a fault and a bit unfeeling. Never cold, if there was one thing to be understood about Zuko, there was nothing cold about him. Even when you were both strangers, he had this warmth in his eyes, something in-between passion, curiosity, and a hunger. A hunger for what, you don't exactly know. You were never one to push, and that wouldn't be your business unless he made it your business. But still, you expected him to open up by now. It's been months of screwing around and months of him skirting around even being seen with you in public.
At this point, you were starting to doubt this was ever going to be anything serious. Honestly, you had no idea what he wanted. There were moments where he was so different, fragile almost. Like one wrong word and he would just shatter in the palm of your hands. He was so unsure. He was so...odd. Like his warmth was a natural quality of his that was never practiced, like the attempt at apathy was nothing more than a thin veneer covering whatever was underneath, scared that it would bubble from the surface and spill his guts out.
Even now, with Zuko literally balls deep in your pussy, there was somehow that separation. He was there. He was everywhere. His calloused hands splayed across the expanse of your hips, holding you firm in place with every jerk and spasm caused by the ridges of his cock drilling into you. Though he initially had tied his hair back, after a few rounds of his fucking his tongue into you and your hands undecidedly pushing him closer than further, more than a few stray pieces were currently buried into the side of your neck where he hid. He tried to be quiet, but he couldn't will his mouth shut, and now he panted into you, the occasional whimper escaping in between quiet groans of expletives.
And it wasn't the first time he got like this. The first time you two had sex he requested for the lights to be off, scared you wouldn't like what you saw, scared of having to face you when it was over, so embarrassed he almost talked himself out of what he'd practically prayed for. He did it then, his hands nervously placed on your hips, eyes screwed shut and his head tilted back. If there was one thing he got better at, it was quieting himself. Back then he was a wreck, so much filling his head, his brain couldn't figure out what was meant to be kept a thought. If he was being honest, he was a bit embarrassed now because while balls deep in your pussy, something struck him violently in his chest and he wanted to cry.
He thought he could hide it with his mean thrusts and his bruising grip bringing your hips to meet him. He couldn't manage the words, but if he could find them, he would only be able to plead with you to fuck back on him, to fuck him as hard as he fucked you, to give him some sort of sign that you liked him just as much as he liked you. He started to lose his own breath. "Fuck...o-oh fuck." And when your hand came to meet his hair, he shuddered.
"Zuko, are you ok?" God this was pathetic. He was so pathetic. Your hand cradled the back of his head, thumb tracing the short hairs at the nape of his neck. "Can you look at me...please?"
He shook his head, the small movement punctuated by a growl from the depths of his throat. If he looked at you, he would say something stupid, like I love you or will you marry me (never mind the fact that he had barely even known you a year). Despite himself, he managed a defeated chuckle.
"You're gonna laugh at me." He didn't need to look at your face to see you frown.
"Why would I do that?" And when he reluctantly lifted his face after a breath or two, taking in the sight of your damp face and the image of the skin that laid beneath the t-shirt, his t-shirt, that you had still been wearing because he was in so much of a rush to fuck you he couldn't be bothered to strip you completely, you swear the ice melted, even if just a bit. "Hi, handsome."
He couldn't help but smile like some love-sick fool. Probably because he was nothing more than a love-sick fool. His hips stalled, time froze, everything went still except for the stray hairs blown around by the fan and his fingers tracing tiny hearts on your skin. "Hi, angel." The way you looked up at him now kept him hard inside you. If it wouldn't cheapen the moment, he'd reach over to grab his phone and take a picture and keep it in a folder with all the other pictures of you on his phone. It was practically all he had in his camera roll. Never the both of you, just you.
"I didn't mean to interrupt your flow, I think I just wanted a kiss." There it went again. That thing in his stomach, that abyss that expands with each passing day and each breath you take, growing exponentially, infinitely until one of these days he slips up and lets it out.
"Who would I be to deny you." He bent until he was practically on top of you, his neck craning down to meet your lips while his hands travelled up your back to press you up and into him. You sighed, something of relief and satisfaction, your hands cupping his cheeks, holding him nearly as much as he held you. It was slow and intentional, at certain moments still, as though the pleasure was entirely derived from just being in each other's presence. He breathed into you, almost greedy, but not devouring. Exploratory was a better word, even though it was territory he had already charted, but it wasn't the novelty that excited him. It was the familiarity. The comfort. A warmth beyond the literal sense, a sort of fullness.
He couldn't get enough of you. He pulled you even closer, your thighs enclosing his, his hips slowly thrusting into yours. And it was painfully slow. As slow as the sweat streaming down both of your bodies, slow as your breath, slower than time itself. He just didn't know what to do with himself. A confidence overtook which he had never experienced before. You felt him smirk against your mouth as the tips of his fingers danced along the hem of your shirt before dipping underneath the cotton.
You decided you liked this version of him that was so rarely afforded to you. The hotter Zuko. The less ashamed Zuko. And your reactions conveyed it, the gasps you let out whenever he teasingly flicked your hardened nipple and massaged your tits like they were stress toys. His hips pistoned with determination now, it was his way of saying that even when face to face, even when equal, he would always be more than willing to carry your weight.
"Am I doing good? Do you feel good? God, you feel so fucking good." You could feel him throb inside you, with every inch he pulled in, it's like he found a way to bury himself even deeper. You found that he absolutely took your breath away. You let a laugh out, and it tumbled out to the sound of twinkling stars. Pure magic.
"S-so good. So fucking perfect." He almost missed it amidst the sound of slapping skin and squelching coming from between the two of you. If he were to look down, he would be entranced by the sight of your juices mixing together, eager to romanticize it into some proof that you were absolutely made for each other. In the act of trying to ground yourself, you had wrapped his hair around your fingers. He groaned at the sight and the pain. He'd put a ring right there. "Pull it harder.", it was barely a whisper before he tried again, "Please, pull it harder." And who would you be to deny him.
He was running on fumes now, perfectly intoxicated by the taste of you that still lingered on his tongue and the feeling of you everywhere. Even when he closed his eyes, you were still there, skin glistening, mouth agape, eyes blissfully closed as you just took it. He would be more than willing to give it to you forever, to be whatever you needed. And of course, he felt fulfilled the more you squeezed around him, practically choking his dick, like even when unconscious to what it did on its own volition, your body didn't want him to leave. "I'm close - fuck- so close." Your voice grew high at the end, out of control and desperate as the coil in your stomach grew tighter and tighter.
Your moans are a broken mess as you cum and in the moment of clarity, it hits you how long you'd been at this. Slightly beyond Zuko's head you can see the setting sun, fallen from where it stood when you began, falling apart in dozens of colors across the once clear sky, waiting to be put back together tomorrow morning. At some point you slouched into him, still spasming, your breath hitching, his hips stuttering into yours as though they were stuck in some loop. Your head falls into Zuko's neck, for a change, your heated breath fanning across the top of his collarbones. He freezes again while looking at your exhausted body. It begins to feel like you're lying on stone.
"I'll go grab you a towel-", he starts, nervously pulling out and trying to roll off his bed despite the fuzz between his eyes and the haze in his eyes. Your tired hand reaches out for his wrist, and he lets you take it, basking in the feeling of your soft skin against his before it fully fades.
"Why do you always do this? It's like every time we have a moment, you freeze. You're running." He fakes an expression of incredulity.
"What are you talking about?" Through your weariness, you manage a look of stoned exasperation. A dry laugh forces its way through you.
"I don't want a fucking towel, Zuko. It's never just a towel with you; it always snowballs into you finding some excuse to leave. Do you have somewhere more important to be? Some other girl you're fucking?" He swallows the anger that rises within at the sheer thought of leaving you to be with anyone else. In hindsight, perhaps it would've been better if he did, if he acted like he felt something. "You know, I just don't get you. You're a real nice guy, but half the time, it doesn't seem like you're here. I mean, why can't you just lay here with me. You never do. God, we've been at this for months, and you never have."
He starts to feel it again, but it's a bit different than before. A bit sharper. You drop his wrist but maintain eye contact, which is more uncompromising anyway. "I don't think I understand why you're upset." It's like he's worlds away, and even scarier, it only takes him a moment to get that far. There's a clinical quality to his voice, something unreal about the way he blinks, something unnatural about the way his chest rises and falls, like he has to remind it too. In all honesty, none of this was like him. He feels like he's taking everything one at a time, trying so hard to just be.
You roll your eyes, mumbling that it's nothing. He hates it. Zuko doesn't do "nothing", that's why it's so hard with you. He can't do anything halfway. He finds it incredibly difficult to just fuck you and waste your time with cheap dates and gross food for the sake of taking it slow. He's just stuck. That's the only way he can think to explain it. Stuck in between wanting to be around you and wanting to be with you in a way that's meaningful to him, skipping past you going back to your stupid dorm and leading separate lives outside of when you text that you want him to come over. Why can't you just live together? Skip the towels and the separate beds. God, he'd live in your fucking skin, if he could.
Maybe that's why the two of you didn't work. You thought the wall he put up was because he didn't like you, which couldn't be further from the truth. He did it for you, because if he didn't there would be nothing stopping him from foregoing all the formalities and the bullshit and waiting to just be with you. Deeper than the superficial way it happened all around him, the relationships whose oxygen to their flame was the circumstances around them. Deeper than boyfriend and girlfriend situationship thing or whatever the hell the two of you had. Something spiritual. Something eternal. Something that can never be swallowed down, something that never goes away.
"I really like you, you know." Your expression softens.
"You don't act like it." He exhales all the confidence he breathed in from you earlier.
"I don't know if you'd want me to act like it." You cock your head at that, staring up at him inquisitively. "I don't know how to be what you want me to be."
Green Eyes
✮my eyes are green, cause i eat a lotta vegetables. it dont have nothing to do with your new friends✮ Also known as the ATLA College!AU pt.1
summary☞ sokka has been in love with the girl next door for months, both luckily and unluckily for him, aang knows her very personally. even more unfortunate, stuck-up asshole next door, zuko, knows her even better. ex!zuko x reader, popular!aang x reader, loser!sokka x reader.
an: This is more of an introduction to the longer college au i have planned. i would say interact with this if you want more parts, but they're lowkenuinly gonna be written anyway, so pls interact bc i have a praise kink and it would make me very happy :)
Sokka had been into you since the moment he laid eyes on you. Though this sounds cliche, according to Katara it's a very common experience for him. Perhaps that's where his reputation comes from; the fact that it really doesn't take much to get him going, but that doesn't negate the fact that it doesn't take much for him to fall in love either. He couldn't decide if it was his mind playing into his delusional fantasies or if he was hallucinating your face. It seemed that every time he went into the shared basement where both of your buildings did their laundry, you were there too, pretty legs crossed with your phone in your hand, occasionally laughing at some video you happened to scroll onto with your earphones in. If he was lucky, you'd look up and wave at him, recently made familiar with him through Aang. The thought of him made his stomach turn.
Aang knew everybody. It's like the world revolved him as he walked through campus, everyone shouting a short greeting when they saw him walk around the quad or coming up to them when they ate lunch together asking him about if he was attending some party or if he heard about happened some guy he knew by at least 3 degrees of separation. And to think, there were a couple days of calm before he practically became a campus celebrity, still shrouded in the misty mystery of being a transfer student from some university like a million miles away. Not that Sokka was that popular with the ladies even before he met Aang, hell he didn't even have his first kiss until spring of his freshman year while drunk at a party Aang was enthusiastically invited to.
The memory of your first meeting still lingers in his mind. The first day of class, fall semester, sophomore year. Everyone by now had figured out the groove of college life, no longer walking with their heads deep in their phone hoping the digital map knew the lay of the land better than they did with an over-stocked bookbag weighing down their shoulders, but looking at you then, you seemed like one of those people who never lacked confidence. You walked with a group of girls, probably your friends, or maybe people who just like him were swept up in your breeze and followed closely, leaning into every word that came out of your glossed lips. It's like you sparkled, shiny shades resting on your head, pearly teeth smiling through whatever the topic of conversation was, tiny shorts and an even tinier shirt covering your body. You looked like the weather, warm and bright, smelling of something faintly floral and sweet, like walking temptation begging him to take a bite out of you.
You never interacted once. No classes together, never ran into each other at the dining hall (he assumed your pallet was too refined for whatever they passed off as food in there), despite all his straggling across campus hoping to "accidentally" bump into you, it's like you were identical magnetic poles; absolutely repelled by each other. It wasn't until one day in the middle of September when it was uncharacteristically cool, rainy and practically flooding outside. In his haste to get inside his door and out of his soaked clothes, he almost missed the flutter of your laughter. Almost. Your hair was positively drenched, which you lamented about through fits of giggles and Aang's 'hilarious' commentary on the sour weather. If the metaphorical flames of his anger were real, his clothes would be ash at his feet.
The door slammed behind him, or maybe his foot shoved it closed. The sound rivaled the thunder booming outside, garnering the attention of both his traitorous friend and you. Feeling as though you were suddenly out of place, you stood quickly, droplets of water flying from your hair as you rushed to find your umbrella and shoes. Snapped out of his daze, he tried to slow your haste, "You don't have to rush out. I can't in good conscience let you go back out there. It's past cats and dogs at this point; it's like lions and wolves out there.", but you only shrugged him off with a smile on your face. You had opened your mouth to respond, but whatever you were going to say, Aang beat you to it.
"She'll be fine, she's practically next door."
And from the second the words flew out of his mouth, he regretted them. Sokka tried to force his grimace into a less hostile expression, but he never got there. He knew where she lived. He knew her. That bastard knew.
In all honesty, he should've known, Aang knew everybody. What shocked him is that he also knew that he'd been harboring this crush for months and didn't tell him anything. He'd poured out his heart and soul, his opinions of the nail color you had chosen that month, that one time he saw you at the gym in a purple set and he got a nosebleed so bad he had to leave, and the great many wet dreams he's had about you. Why didn't he tell me?
To his credit, he did look guilty on the couch, unusually quiet and staring off at a crack in the wall. Because of this discernable shred of remorse, he decided to only yell at him after the door had closed.
"What the actual hell, man!" Aang looked down remorsefully, clenching his jaw as a reminder to choose his words very carefully. Sokka once yelled at him for half an hour for leaving his dishes in the sink for a week, he could only imagine how long he could go for something like this.
"I'm sorry." He patted himself on the back mentally. Good choice, it's simple and to the point, that couldn't get him in any deeper shit.
"Oh, you're sorry? What part are you sorry about Aang, the part where you've been harboring sacred knowledge about the girl I've been obsessing over for months or the part where you've been sneaking her around the apartment for who knows how long?!" Aang's eyes went wide.
"That's never happened! She's never been in here before, I swear." This was only half true. You had been in the apartment before, but not in the way he implied. There was the one time you dropped off his laptop after he left it with you at the library after one of your study sessions and the other time you came by to borrow his charger after you misplaced yours and a few other times in between, but you hadn't slept together. You were friends. Good friends.
"And how do you know where she lives, huh? When did you two get so friendly?" His tone was accusatory as he huffed while throwing his bag on the couch and hurling his wet jacket on the floor in between them, throwing down the proverbial gauntlet. "And why didn't you tell me. We're supposed to be friend's, man and believe me when I say this is a massive breach of the bro-code."
"I know, Sokka, and I'm sorry, ok. I just didn't think it was a big deal-"
"You didn't think it was a big deal?! I've been pining for months. There were days where I moped around this place like some pathetic loser because she didn't look in my direction all the while you two were just chopping it up behind my back." Dammit, Aang thought, I should've kept it to I'm sorry. It's simple and to the point, never done me any wrong before. Everyone loves a nice, simple apology.
"You're right, it is a big deal, a-and to make it up to you, I'll tell you everything you wanna know." He was flying by the seat of his pants now. If he kept going at this rate, he wouldn't hear the end of this even in the afterlife. He could see it now, the both of them buried side by side, the incorporeal ghastly form of Sokka laying into him even after he's been laid to rest. It seemed to please him anyway, the corners of his lips quirking up into a smirk.
"Anything?" This felt like the most important decision of his life. Screw figuring out college or a career, he felt like he held an untarnished library of Alexandria in his hands and all he had to do was pluck the right book. He didn't want too much, he wanted the intrigue, wanted to hear it from you.
"I don't know her bra size if that's what you're gonna ask."
"I should hope you don't, asshole!" He barked out. He stilled for a moment, freeing his hair from the elastics keeping it out of his face so he could run his hands through it, as if massaging his scalp would make a few synapses fire off quicker.
But Aang was too impatient. In his defense, this bit of knowledge stuck with him more than anything, and if it meant so much to him, giving it to Sokka would be like giving water to a dying man. It was with the most satisfied smirk on his face when he said it, as though he couldn't even begin to contain it.
"She used to date Zuko."
Summer
✮Let's make love in the summertime/ on the sands, beach sands, make plans/ to be in each others arms✮ Otherwise known as headcanons for Billy Hargrove, Eddie Munson, Jonathan Byers, and Steve Harrington as boyfriends in different seasons.
cw☞ 9.4k wc. for jonathan: drug consumption, allusions to oral(fem!recieving), for steve: breeding kink, missionary sex, a smidge of overstimulation, for Billy: slight mentions of sub!Billy, and allusions to him being a bit mean. All of them have very suggestive segments within the headcanons, but nothing super explicit. not super tied down to the canon timeline since I'm not caught up on s5, but just imagine that obviously Eddie and Billy never died, and it's takes place after all the upside shit has been dealt with
𓏲ּ𝄢Spring - Jonathan Byers 𓏲ּ𝄢
𓏲ּ𝄢Jonathan Byers is tender in the way spring is. He's awkward in the way a newborn dear is, struggling to get his footing in his relationship with you. He's stable, he's wet grass after the snow melts, he's the first flowers after a harsh winter. But he's a realist, he's the cold air that still bites because it's not yet summer. He clings onto winter, not yet ready sometimes to give way to what is soft. He's always had to be tough. Always had to be grounded.
𓏲ּ𝄢 Jonathan is also a bit of a freak of nature. He's a watcher. He's incredibly patient and mysterious in a way that's just in his nature. Like some cryptid creature that hangs out in dank forests, a slightly off gaze in their eye, a tilt in their head as they assess the newcomer into their territory. It's no secret Jonathan wasn't the most popular in high school, and he was mostly fine with that. Popularity didn't matter. He didn't need to go to all the parties and drink until he was sick, he quite liked the dark. No one came to bother him in the dark.
𓏲ּ𝄢 He's often alone in the dark. You're the muse in a lot of his photos, it's just that you don't really know that you are. You can sense how deeply he loves you, it's evident in a glimmer in his eyes, the physical manifestation of his artistic genius, that moment when lightning strikes behind his eyes and he sees you as even more than you. Something eternal. Something endlessly beautiful.
𓏲ּ𝄢And of course, he lets you into that world of photography. He's the type to keep them hidden in a box forever, just for the two of you, a hidden treasure beneath his bed, but you insist on making them more than a personal event. You put them in pretty scrapbooks decorated with memorabilia from your many dates, blades of grass from a field where you had a picnic, movie tickets, candle wax from a romantic dinner. You're the type to keep them in a fancy leather bound book under a coffee table, itching to show off to anyone who will listen.
𓏲ּ𝄢It's very new to have something so positive in the house. Joyce couldn't be happier. It makes him a bit jealous, he wishes he had the Joyce who didn't need him to be a parent. The Joyce who picked up hobbies like knitting to make you both matching sweaters in the winter. The Joyce who had time to relax and just age, not Joyce the struggling mother at her wits ends because of her useless ex-husband, and definitely not the Joyce screaming into the void about the truth that no one is willing to hear. Now he gets to worry about anniversary presents and date night ideas. He gets to be normal.
𓏲ּ𝄢Jonathan has always been a giver. He's the type to give you his jacket in freezing weather just so you won't be cold. He's so warm. He's caught off guard by the first time you insist on putting your hands up his shirt for warmth, but of course he lets you, with a very obvious blush on his face that he can't even bother to hide. He bends to your every whim. He's the boyfriend who carries your shopping bags for you, who's willing to drive around town on dates with you before parking in some open field so you can run around and collect flowers for him. He's very quiet in the ways he's a giver. He's a watcher as well. He's a bit of a creep. Sometimes you chalk it up to a good memory, and sometimes it's things you never told him, but he found out anyway. He always knows.
𓏲ּ𝄢For all the time you spend outside, Jonathan has terrible allergies. He just looks like someone who would have a shit ton of allergies. And though this is projected as someone who personally isn't just allergic to pollen, but also grass and trees, I choose to bestow upon him my same afflictions because, once again, he just looks like someone who's allergic to damn near everything under the sun. This being said, he pretends he isn't nearly as sick as he truly is. It's not because he hates being bed bound, quite the opposite, he loves the opportunity to rest without guilt, but he gets so incredibly sick and he feels like if he lies about the pain, it simply won't be as bad. He's completely averse to taking any medication, insisting that it only prolongs the healing process by stopping the body from fully sweating the illness out. He'd rather just sleep for hours, dealing with the strange fever dreams and night sweats, waking up at odd hours of the night to rattle around in the kitchen for a cup of water. You chastise him for this. Next time he's sick, you swear you're just going to buy him a bell he can ring when he needs something.
𓏲ּ𝄢Spring with Jonathan is very warm. It smells musky, yet clean, like fresh flannel blankets and hours spent lounging around in his bed with nothing on the agenda but lying in each other's arms while soft music plays from his record player. It's a very slow season for the two of you, very sleepy. While I do think his over the top weed usage in s4 was a bit much, it's a vice I'll keep around, if a bit more contained.
Jonathan gets terrible cotton mouth when he's high. You'd think his biggest enemy would be hallucinations or a terrifying tingling all over his body, but he'd never really experienced that. Maybe it's to do with the strain, maybe it's to do with his tolerance, but either way, if he smoked a joint, ate an edible, or ripped a bong, the cotton mouth was absolutely atrocious.
He made sure to involve you in his habits if you didn't want to, he's not even the type to over-indulge himself. Weed is too expensive and hard to find in Hawkins anyway, it's more of a special treat, a break from thinking after an exhausting semester or particularly difficult shift. It's like a calming ritual, his version of those girlie bubble baths with scented candles, a snack tray, and a nice book. He keeps his stash in a box under his bed, right next to his stash of dirty Polaroids of you, kept unnecessarily tidy. His grinder was a parting gift from Argyle, his rolling papers were cheap and boring because it was hard to find the flavored ones, and his rolls were never the neatest, not that they needed to be.
His perfect Friday evenings, those nights where Joyce is working a night shift and Will is in the Byer's basement playing D&D just like they used to. There was something in the air. You had already spent the day together, lazing around the house, going from his bed, to the living room couch, to his bedroom floor. The day had been a haze of kisses and heated touches. You were sitting on his bed when he pulls out that special box on the floor, watching intently, legs crossed on the edge of his bed with a curious look in your eye as he pours the weed into a messy line, adjusting and adding more as he rolls it until it forms that signature cone shape. He doesn't notice your gaze until he picks it up to lick the edge, a boyish smile flitting across his face.
"You wanna try it tonight? 'S not as intimidating as it seems." You bit your lips at the thought. It's not that it's intimidating, but rather that it's intimate. Like one of those scenes from an old movie where someone like Lauren Bacall would share a cigarette with a Humphrey Bogart type, some sort of old rough-around-the-edges detective character, sexual tension thick in the air amidst a tense cat-and-mouse game.
You rubbed your lips together, still sticky with whatever lip gloss you put on about an hour ago. "I don't know, Jay, won't my lip gloss make the end sticky?" He licked his lips at the thought of that. Just a few weeks ago, you'd spent hours in his bed just kissing because he couldn't get enough of the taste of the stuff.
"If anything, it'll make it better. Mask the taste of it a bit, y'know." His palms are already sweaty as you move to the floor, sitting on your heels looking at him expectantly to talk you through it. He's never been the one in the relationship to talk you through anything.
"Can you show me." He's sure you said it in that tone of voice on purpose, just to see him squirm. A shiver goes down his spine, and he looks down at the joint just to avoid your burning gaze. He fiddles with the lighter in his pocket, flicking it once then twice before a steady flame starts. It's with shaky hands that he lights the end, holding it until that familiar amber glow sparked.
"W-What you do is inhale - like suck in the air", he says, putting it to his mouth as a demonstration. He was messy when rolling it, he knew after tasting the crumbs of weed at the tip. "A deep breath, and then you hold it in for a bit, gets you high a bit faster. Then, you blow out before you start coughing like hell." Smoke pooled from his mouth and you watched in fascination, something pooling in the pit of your stomach. Maybe anxiety. Maybe arousal. He held it out to you, and you took it between the tips of your fingers.
"So... I just... go like this." The second it hit your lips; it took all of you not to smile at the indirect kiss you had just shared. You did as he said, inhaling and holding it in your lungs, but the cloud you blew out was puny in comparison to his, which made both of you laugh at the anti-climax of it all. "I don't think I did it right." He chuckled as he took it back from you, ego slightly inflated at the fact that he may have just found something that he was better than you at.
"It takes practice, baby, my first time I coughed until I felt like I was gonna puke to death." Your nose scrunched in disgust.
"Ew, Jay, that's gross." He was already starting to feel it; he could tell by the way your laughed sounded like bells jingling and all the moisture was evaporating from his tongue as it grew heavier in his mouth. Laughter started to bubble up in his stomach and he had to suppress it before he forgot how to breathe.
"That's what it does! It was awful. We nearly cleaned out all the pizza in that stupid van, too. I felt like absolute shit the next day." His voice had gotten raspy after that last hit, his eyes noticeably drooped as well. He looked unreal in this lighting. If you could, you would've snapped a picture.
"Are you hungry now? I think there's some pizza rolls in the freezer?" Pizza rolls were the furthest thing from his mind. He felt like he could dry all of Lake Michigan. He reached awkwardly for a crumpled, half-empty bottle of water that had been in his room for who knows how long before bringing it to his lips. Water doesn't expire right? Does plastic expire?
"N-No, I'm fine. Just peachy." His hands on your thighs caught you off guard, pulling you into his lap with strength you often forget he possesses. He didn't even mean to. He just wanted to be closer to you. You were maybe mere inches away and it still felt like you were on a separate planet. He rubbed patterns in your skin just to remind himself that you were close, hell, you couldn't get much closer. "You want another hit?" God his mouth was like the fucking Sahara Desert.
"I think I'm gonna quit while I'm ahead. Y'know, before I puke to death or something." You weren't whispering, yet he still leaned in to hear you speak, his eyes wandering from your eyes to your lips. They looked like fruit. Smelled like it too. There was some sort of apple in the flavor, it must be. Apple juice, sweet pear, maybe something spicy. Utterly wet. God, he hoped he wasn't drooling.
He reached out to touch you, his thumb rubbing against the sticky substance on your lips as if he could taste it through the pads of his fingertips. They were so full. Like if he bit them, juice would just spill out. "Can I kiss you?" His voice was breathy, like smoke itself. "Please, honey." You nodded slightly and that was all he needed.
He threw off his balances when he kissed you, nearly knocking you to the ground. His hands were fixated on the material of your shirt. He's sure it was his as his fingers found themselves in small holes, wear and tear in material that was too soft to be new. He pulled and tugged as his tongue was undisciplined in your mouth, wandering the expanse of it as if he'd never even kissed you before. He whined as you pulled away, hands on either side of his head, looking up at him through those pretty eyelashes of yours. He had such a pretty girlfriend. So pretty.
"Baby, are you okay?" Your words swam through his head as he tried to concoct whatever response would get your lips back on his the fastest.
"I'm fine. Just wanted to taste you, that's all." His voice grew high at the end, the same way it did when he was begging and broken after you two had been going at it for hours. To be fair, he was incredibly hard right now, but he was willing to ignore that. That wasn't what was important right now. What mattered is the fact that his tongue felt like fucking sandpaper in his mouth. So, what if he was horny, it wasn't gonna solve anything...
He got quiet in the way he did when he was thinking. His lip between his teeth, trying to figure out how to ask what he wants, cheeks red in embarrassment.
"You got something to say, Jonathan?" He could've creamed his pants right then and there. His eyes flutter closed as he tries to find the right words, his hands inching towards what he wants as he struggles to ask.
"Can I eat you out", he asks quietly. You heard him perfectly fine, but you wanted to see him squirm.
"I'm sorry, I don't think I heard you quite right." You were torturing him. You had to have been. In that sorry excuse for shorts, practically underwear, and you were just right there, and he felt like he was going to explode if he didn't get his mouth on you.
"Can I please eat you out. I'll be so good, I promise." And who were you to say no to that.
𝜗ৎSummer - Steve Harrington𝜗ৎ
𝜗ৎ Steve is a very summer boyfriend. I mean, just look at him. Sun-kissed and relaxed, long days out in the sun with absolutely nothing to do. He's summery in the way that he can be a bit much. His relationship with Nancy left him incredibly insecure, his relationship with his parents left him feeling unlovable, and his constant run-ins with the killer supernatural and dangerous government officials is starting to make him feel like maybe he just isn't long for this world. Like a star that is hurtling towards its own heat death; and what is the Sun if not a star.
𝜗ৎSteve likes to pretend he's cool around you, but it's always been a difficult sell. It's hard to take a man seriously in a stupid sailor's uniform and even harder when he keeps having to work silly jobs because he couldn't get into a good college. He leans in doorways with a smirk on his face looking to flirt with you no matter how long you've been dating for, he's the type to race you to his car just so he can open the door for you, he even wears those god-forsaken designer shades in-doors just to better sell the role of your cool and mysterious boyfriend. But, like the summer sun, there is no beating the heat and Steve has never been cool.
𝜗ৎ When you first started dating, back when his reputation as 'The Hair' was starting to fade away, revealing the man behind the myth, he used to joke about his big empty house. The incredible sex potential was always the selling point. The fact that he could have you over the counter, on the dining room table, hell, even the stairs if you were feeling really dangerous, and no one would be any the wiser. What that really meant is that no one around cared.
𝜗ৎStill, that big house is nice to have. Whether the constant babysitting is what sprouted to want for a litter of kids, or it was only exacerbated by them, he likes to pretend to be a dutiful father if only for a couple of hours. The big pool in his backyard finally being used to create good memories, a kiss-the-cook apron across his chest, you in the air-conditioned kitchen making picturesque glasses of lemonade with perfectly cut lemon slices on the sugared rim.
𝜗ৎSteve doesn't know how to use a grill. When you came into his life, he really tried to make himself useful. You once told him that nothing is sexier than a man who gets the job done, that's why women love men in uniforms. From that day onward, he spent all his free time in that big empty house, windows cracked open, wind blowing through freshly washed curtains, the smell of too much lavender wafting through the air because he has a tendency to go overboard with the laundry detergent. He has been trying to learn how to cook, but the grill is too advanced, and the apron is for decoration. It's with shame he asks Robin to do it for him, but you simply smile at him and run a hand through his hair and thank him for trying his best.
𝜗ৎThe kids pretend to gag when they look at you, laid up on his pool chairs, your fingers flipping through a book with the back of your bikini untied while Steve spreads the cool sunscreen against your back, utterly entranced. The sunscreen had long since been absorbed, giving your warm skin a sparkly sheen - or maybe the sparkles were Steve's imagination - at this point he was giving you a massage, listening intently as you gave him updates on whatever you had been reading.
"Oh my gosh - babe.", he hummed in response, a smile creeping onto his face at the nickname.
"Yeah?" Summer meant shitty romance novels you get in the checkout line at the grocery store, the kind with long-haired men in pirate shirts on the cover and yellowed pages even when brand new.
"You remember Beatrice and how I was telling you she was abruptly fired from her job as secretary for that pharmacy guy and I thought it was Fernando pulling the strings?"
"Yes", by which he really meant no because these plots were always so convoluted he barely managed to remember the major character names.
"Well, it actually wasn't him! Can you believe it? I was so sure he was up to something shady. You know, it's so hard to trust men with light eyes and Fernando is not called the "blue-eyed devil" for nothing. I swear they're like the source of his manipulative man-powers or something-"
"Would you love me if I had blue eyes, baby." The interruption was mostly a joke, but he is self-aware enough to admit he would've found a way to pout if the answer was no.
"I would miss your brown eyes; you wouldn't be you if they were blue. You'd be like...evil Steve. Very unnerving."
"So, what I'm hearing is you'd be lost without these chocolate browns." You giggled under his hands.
"Oh, I wouldn't know what to do with myself."
Unbeknownst to the two of you, the kids had migrated to the opposite end of the pool to stare in disgust. Dustin dramatically gagged, Lucas screwed his face up as if he had just stepped in dog shit, still annoyed that you forced him to put on sunscreen after he insisted that Black people didn't get sunburn, to which you had to assure him that they definitely did and melanoma didn't discriminate, and Will complained through gritted teeth.
"Look at them.", he spat out, "it's like we aren't even here. Steve has this big ass house; I refuse to believe there isn't a room they can't take this to."
"That's just what people do when they get into relationships, they have to get it all out before they hit like 30 and they're too old to get it up. Be glad they don't have their tongues down each other's throats... or somewhere else. This is tame compared to the shit my brother does." El sighed on the ledge of the pool, tuned into the conversation enough to sigh dreamily.
"I think they're cute. They make each other happy." Dustin rolled his eyes.
"Yeah, but they don't have to be so happy in front of us. It's fucking gross! Me and Suzie don't do stuff like that." This aroused a chorus of laughter.
"Because you're too busy serenading each other and smooching over the radio, dude. You can't do stuff like that when your girlfriend is like a million miles away." Lucas remarked which prompted Max to start loudly humming 'Never-ending story' before erupting into a fit of giggles.
"Yeah, but if she was here, we would have the decency to keep our hands to ourselves in front of the company. That is just a complete lack of decorum."
𝜗ৎSummer with Steve smells like lemons and chlorine and sunscreen. His hair is floppy; it's too hot for his signature style, the effort just melts out of his bones, and the gel would slip and slide down his neck after a couple minutes in the sun. It takes him a while for him to realize that you love him anyway. He holds you tighter in the summer, even though you slap his hands away because it's too hot to be on top of each other, to which he pouts and remarks that you hate him. He finds it hard to believe it when you say you could never hate him.
𝜗ৎSteve Harrington lives in fear that he has a heart that cannot love you the way that he does. You once told him you had a heart so big, if you didn't tell him, you loved him every time you felt it pounding in your chest, you might just explode. You just had so much love in your heart you could cause your own Big Bang. He cracked a joke that you two could have a 'big bang' in his bedroom and you snorted. You thought he didn't get it. He did. But he was an accident, and his parents couldn't bother to stick around long enough to notice that he hated them, and he's worried he has a heart like his parents. That it's just not in his nature to love you the way he does. That one day he'll forget how.
𝜗ৎIn the summer especially, he doubts he could forget how to love you. He remembers every time he sees you. Every time you come over late at night, the stars peeking in to watch whatever movie you two had on, your limbs tangled in his with his head on your chest, he's overwhelmed by it. He buries himself deeper with every beat of your heart and he counts each one, and with everyone he is reminded of yet another thing he loves about you. You've been doing movie nights for years at this point and he doesn't think he's ever repeated a single thing.
𝜗ৎOne of Steve's favorite parts about summertime is the way you look. He's never been one to judge the tiny skirts you pull out, the two-piece bikinis, the way you match your manicured hands with the pretty polish on your feet. You just glow in a way he didn't think was possible. You look like something only he could've dreamed up; it's why he's never angered at the stares you get when you walk down the street. You're his dream, not theirs, you don't even exist to them. To them, you're just some pretty girl, probably the prettiest they'll ever see, but they'll never have you. I suppose it would be more accurate to say to Steve, you're everyone's dream girl, but you're Steve's dream come true.
𝜗ৎAnd of course, it's not always sunny out. There are those occasional summer storms where you can feel the moisture in the air, thick on your skin, thunder rumbling in heavy clouds, lightning cutting the power around the city. Steve wasn't a fan of loud noises. Silence has never been comfortable, but it's what he's used to. Heavy footsteps echoing in that big empty house, the low rumbling of his car while he hums along to the radio alone, sometimes just sitting with you. Lightning reminds him of gunshots and screeches coming from the unknown. It sounds silly, but after all he's seen, sometimes he thinks it might be the sky opening up to swallow Hawkins whole.
𝜗ৎHe often spends the night with you on nights like those. He stomachs ghost stories until it gets too dark, and the sky gets too loud, following you wherever you go like a shadow, large arms wrapping around your waist. He finds comfort in holding you, it makes him feel stronger, maybe a bit more brave. Like nothing bad can happen as long as you're around. If he was Superman, you wouldn't be his Lois Lane, you'd be his Sun.
𝜗ৎHe can get rather protective, though he's like that all year round. He works out a lot in the summer, whether it be a game of basketball with some friends, a few laps in the pool, or household activities. Lifting up couches so he can vacuum underneath them, rotating the tires on your car, making a sport out of bringing in all the groceries in one trip. He's just so big, and he makes sure you know that it's never been for show.
𝜗ৎMaybe it's all the sun getting to his head, but the urge to have a family with you gets so much worse in the summer. He starts planning it out. If you started about now, you could have a baby in the spring, and it's that the most perfect time to bring someone new into the world. And he knows what you'll tell him, like clockwork you have this conversation every summer when he gets like this. You say it's too soon, you haven't even graduated college yet, you want a career and stability. And he knows. He knows he's being irrational and that now definitely isn't the time when he's been stuck in a new job year after year. But that has never stopped him from wanting it.
You're incredibly sweaty. You feel it in the roots of your hair, in the valley of your breasts, in the palms of your hands intertwined with Steve's. He's an absolute wreck, hair falling in his face, groans flowing freely from his bitten lips, eyes full of love as he looks down at you. If it was possible, your overwhelmed expression made him even harder.
He feels like he's in your throat. Steve has always been a lot, he's just so big. Big hands pressing your hips into his so that even when he pulled out to plow back in, it was so shallow, like he just couldn't bear to be outside of you. His shoulders are so wide, but with how long you've been going at this you don't even have the energy to grab at them, leaving pretty scratch marks all over his back. "Stevie...", you whine out, eye's lidded and your breath haggard, "Baby, I don't - fuck - oh, Steve, I don't know if I can keep up much longer."
He pouts. You'd think you just told him you hated him. His pace slows, almost gently rocking into you, your headboard creaking, screaming for the two of you to stop before it crashes down onto the both of you. "Honey, I'm sorry." You smile. No, he wasn't. Even the way he said it wasn't convincing, he was teasing you. He leans down to kiss you, cradling your head in hand, while his tongue moves sloppily in your mouth.
"I can stop if you want. Run you a nice bubble bath, make you dinner. That would be nice, wouldn't it." He whispers it, centimeters from your lips, like it was some secret meant only for the two of you, but it didn't seem like his mouth and his hips connected. His hips still thought it was time to breed the next generation of Harrington's in your womb.
"Stevie-", you whine out, his lips now making their way down the curves of your tits, his tongue collecting the sweat collecting in between. When he says he could eat you whole, he truly means it. He moans as your hands wind into his hair, tugging from the roots just the way he likes it. His eyes roll when he looks up at you, attempting to be serious with him. "Baby, you have work tomorrow, we can't be up all night like we used to." He shook his head.
"My duty is to my beautiful girlfriend who still somehow coherent enough to argue with me before my stupid job at Radio Shack and I'm not stopping til that pretty head gets too full of me to speak"
✮⋆ Fall - Eddie Munson ✮⋆
✮⋆Eddie looks like fall. All leather jackets and spooky tattoos, worn out band tee-shirts and ripped jeans. He's off putting to the people who don't get it, gothic - demonic even. And while he does put up a front on the outside, you can't be known as 'The Freak' if you don't put at least some effort into the moniker. If anything, it's something he hides behind. Eddie Munson would try and tell you that he's an open book and that there wasn't a damn thing he had to hide from the world. He would be lying.
✮⋆He's terrified of everything. He'll watch horror movies, but he doesn't like them. Usually, he'll only watch them with company, be it the campaign members, or Wayne, usually not you. His first instinct is to jump into your arms and then pretend that he was only doing it to catch you off guard to scare you. For days that follow, he's looking over his shoulder at small noises, turning all the lights on just to walk down the hall, practically sleeping with one eye open waiting for the boogey man to jump out of his closet. The rumors are ridiculous for this reason. He'd be the last person on the planet interested in summoning demons, hell, when Garrett bought a Ouija board a couple years ago, he took it out back to burn it. Devil worship couldn't be further from the truth.
✮⋆ It's no secret he's not as scary as he pretends to be either. Your first introduction was in high school, paired up together for some history project you were prepared to complete on your own while he blew you off. You were surprised when the first words he ever spoke to you were an apology, eyes casted downwards, kicking dirt around with his shoes. He ran from you. He hated group work for this reason. He felt guilty when others got paired with him, he knew that he was the worst case scenario, the kind of person people begged not to be around. You only barely found him during free period, seated quietly at that old picnic table halfway rotted into the ground with a black metal lunchbox in front of him. Dappled light shone through where leaves had begun to fall as damp grass hid the sound of your footsteps. When you whispered a small 'hello' he screamed.
✮⋆ He's surprisingly charming. While he would prefer to believe he was some daring knight in shining armor, perhaps even some mysterious elf who lived among the forest creatures and ghouls, he was the court jester to your blinding majesty. He's quick to play the role of the fool, make the stupid faces and do the silly voices, it's part of his job as DM anyway, to be an actor. He's so caught up in the performance he doesn't realize how undeniably endearing he is. Especially when it's just the two of you, maybe a bottle of beer that grows lukewarm in his hands as he's been nursing it for a while, a shitty B-movie playing on a small screen and he cracks those small jokes to you, but mostly to himself. The innocuous random tidbits of knowledge he keeps stored in that beautiful brain of his. The way he tousles his hair when he thinks no one's around, too self-conscious to be caught fixing it as it would break the illusion of his roguishness and make him seem like some self-obsessed pretty boy. How his pupils grow incredibly large, leaving nothing but small rims of deep brown with how much love he feels when he looks at you.
✮⋆ He has all these soothing habits. He's just a bundle of nerves. You remember when you first met him in class, damn near every part of him was tapping. The eraser of his pencil moved fiercely against the sheet of notebook paper he had been doodling on, his legs bounced out of sync on the floor, he bit his lips before annoyedly erasing whatever progress he had been making. And he's a hummer. It's like the bell you put on a cat, so they don't sneak up on you. You know he's near when you hear that deep humming, something off a Motley Crue, Black Sabbath, or a Joan Jett album.
✮⋆He always needs to be touching you in some way. He blames the cold of an impending winter, but he's like this in the fall too, walking not even a pace behind you, hands stuffed in your jean pockets, whispering some stupid joke in your ear from behind. It's even worse in the cold when the two of you are alone in the trailer, his hands up your shirt, your bra discarded somewhere on the floor hours ago, his hands fidgeting with your tits as you read some magazine you found thrown haphazardly over the couch arm. He sits behind you, your back to his chest, allowing him to peek off his shoulder at whatever you were reading. It was an old Rolling Stone, the one with John Lennon and Yoko Ono on the cover, Wayne bought it for him thinking it would motivate him to read something that wasn't the Hobbit or Ursula Le Guinn. There's nothing innately sexual about it, he says he does it to keep his hands warm and it was either this or shoving them in his pants, but the care to take off his rings and hold you so close led you to believe it was for more than just warmth.
✮⋆Despite what you think, the trailer gets incredibly warm in the fall. Eddie thinks it's your added feminine touch, the fall scented candles, the blankets they forget they had now draped over the old couch. Eddie takes up cooking when he meets you, desperate to find some way to impress you and seem like he has his life together. Flowers weren't gonna do it, it seemed like you got those from a different guy every other day of the week. Jewelry? With what money? A stuffed animal wouldn't cut it either, what if you grew out of them? What if you thought he was a complete idiot? He even bought a stupid Cosmo hoping it would give him some insight to the particular female mind, only to give up and ask Wayne for help who laughed in his face for a few minutes. Needless to say, the house is always warm because the oven is always running and he thinks himself to be the next Julia Child.
✮⋆Fall with Eddie also means matching Halloween costumes. He's never had a girl voluntarily choose to be within 15 feet of him, so he is milking this for every opportunity he's never had. He'd go as far as to sew them himself if he had to, just to see his vision come to life.
"No." Your voice is stern, but had you truly meant it, you would've never let it get this far in the first place. You look at yourself in the mirror, admiring your boyfriend's craftsmanship. It was admittedly well made, but how hard could it be to make something that was barely there.
He's grinning wildly behind you, fiddling with the gold bands around your arms and the fabric of the skirt. "What's wrong with it? You look perfect!"
"Eddie, I look naked." He shakes his head furiously.
"No, my dear, you look like a princess." His hand finds its way to your cheek, caressing it before leaving a kiss on your lips. If they weren't slick with gloss before, they were certainly wet with spit after. He's so messy.
"It's degrading. How come I'm dressed like this, and you get to be fully clothed. Everyone's gonna be staring at me and I swear one wrong move and I'll flash everyone." He did look nice in his Han Solo costume, though being Eddie, he went for more space pirate than spice trader. The beige under shirt was far more billowy than it needed to be, a deep v revealing the tattoos across his chest, specifically the top edges of the fancy lettering of your name that crossed his heart. He even went for eyeliner and sparkly eyeshadow, but you suppose that's less space pirate and more space rocker.
His smile dropped. He hadn't thought that far ahead. He was so caught up in his selfish fantasies he didn't even stop to realize he was taking you to a party...full of drunk people...and a terribly desperate Harrington. He started pulling the brown duster from around his shoulders. "You can wear this, y'know for warmth and stuff." His ringed handheld it out for you and you skeptically looked it up and down.
"This skirt is literally two panels of fabric barely covering my ass and my front Eddie, I'm literally not even wearing underwear right now. What is your stupid jacket gonna do?" Still, you shrugged it over your shoulders, wrapping it around your frame fruitlessly as it lacked anything to tie it with.
"Well, at least this way your tits won't be - wait, you're not wearing underwear right now?" You roll your eyes in annoyance, flakes of brown and gold glitter in your eyeshadow reflecting in the low, yellow light.
"Of course not, everyone would be able to see it."
"And your solution was to go commando?!"
"Oh, I'm sorry, would you rather me walk around in a black thong for all to see?!" This was definitely going to be a problem. Here he was, all excited to parade you around, maybe play a bit of poker with Nance, Jonathan, Robin, and Steve, sing a bit of karaoke if he got drunk enough, and prove to all those assholes that Eddie 'The Freak' Munson was cool enough to be dating the hottest girl in the galaxy. He really wasn't the jealous type. Honestly! Scouts honor. But something about a bunch of randoms staring at you opened a dark pit in his stomach. It wasn't jealousy, he was too cool to be jealous. Jealousy wasn't a very metal emotion.
It didn't help that a boner sprang up as soon as you mentioned the lack of underwear. He was already chubbed with anticipation in seeing you in your costume, realizing it almost made him blow his load, and now he was hanging on by a thin string of sanity and gnawing feeling eating away in his stomach at the idea of everyone seeing you.
"Whatever, if we don't leave now, we'll be late and Robin will never let us live it down. She already thinks we're a couple of horn dogs who can't go a single day without going at it." He smirked.
"Aren't we." Your back was turned to him, but he didn't need to see your face to understand you were unimpressed. You moved out of his room to look around for his keys, committed to keeping the jacket closed tightly in the grip of your left hand. He was quickly behind you, his fancy boots creaking along the floor.
"Wait- we can't go." His protest didn't stop your search and never had he been so glad he was terrible with keeping up with his keys.
"And why's that." You were on your knees now looking under the couch and the force by which he bit his knuckle could've drawn blood. He waltzed up behind you, dry humping the air behind you while you were too preoccupied to reprimand him.
"Because you're totally right. Your costume is completely inappropriate and anyone who sees you is gonna be driven into a terrible sex crazed state. You're simply too dangerous to be seen, my dear." You were sitting back on your heels now, looking under the couch cushions and flicking out the spare change you found in between.
"Then I'll just change. I doubt I'll be the only one not in costume." He let out a pained cry.
"That's even worse! All my hard work gone to waste. I'll die."
"I promise, you'll live." It was that moment when you stood back up, looking your exasperated boyfriend up and down, eyes unable to simply skip over the prominent bulge in his pants. "Or not", you say as a fit of giggles bubble over, "Is that a blaster pistol in your pants or are you happy to see me?" He dropped to his knees, dramatically running his hands down his face.
"You're laughing at me! I'm so hard my balls might actually fucking explode and you're laughing at me. All I'm asking is that we maybe skip out on the party, hand out some candy instead, and maybe put on a movie."
"Right, and fucking me silly isn't anywhere in those plans?"
"Of course it is, but I didn't wanna lead with that. Contrary to popular belief, I am a complete and utter gentleman." You roll your eyes.
"You have 15 minutes to shut up and fuck me, pretty boy, after that I'm changing and we're leaving." The speed at which he got up threw off his balance, but as he wobbled, he faked a deep bow, his wild curls flopping all over the place.
"As you wish."
"Wrong movie, loser."
✦ Winter - Billy Hargrove ✦
✦Billy is harsh in the way that winter is. To put it simply, he bites. There's a chance he used to be warm, somewhere under layers of snow and ice, but whatever warmth used to be there is unpracticed and half-forgotten. He isn't much of a cuddler, he doesn't like being touched unless it's your hand wrapped around his cock, he can be mean and rude, dare I say cold.
✦He has his own way of loving you. He' s not a very doting boyfriend though he insists on being a provider. The lifeguard gig didn't last; he got tired of the screaming kids and even the older women begging for a piece of him got bored after a while. He just seems like the type to work as a mechanic. He loves that Camaro more than life itself, he was the one who nursed her back to life from the sorry state he found her in, mechanical work was nothing new to him. It was strange for him to figure out what he was working for.
✦One minute he's dreaming of new parts, maybe a fresh coat of paint and a nice detailing job, then his mind starts to drift to that anklet you had been eyeing at the mall when you forced him along to spend time with you and Max. He'd rather die than be caught holding your girly purse, but it's worth it to see you in the fitting room asking his opinions of whatever you were buying. But the anklet isn't a sign at first, especially when he realized he could add a charm of his initials on it, an addition that made his chest swell with pride, but then his mind continued to wander. He kept being reminded of your favorite designers, which days of the week you get your nails done, even the movies you're excited to see in theatres. Next thing he knows, he's handing over his wallet telling you not to spend it all in one place, rationalizing it as simply being what men do.
✦He doesn't bring you home for the holidays. That man ruins the holidays, and he wonders if there ever was a time where he wasn't a complete Grinch. Truth be told, he likes the lights and the family activates. It reminds him of a time he can't return to, before his mom up and left and they used to go Christmas tree shopping, fantasizing about what it was like to celebrate the holidays somewhere where it actually snows. Ironic that now that he's here where it snows, he is lacking in the family department.
✦Its more bearable with you around. If the roads are clear, he takes you for late night drives around the rich neighborhoods to judge their big fancy houses and elaborate lights. Amidst the jokes about how high their light bill must be and wondering where they keep all that stuff in the non-winter months, there's a silent promise. In some capacity, that will be the two of you one day. Though he would like to pretend the opposite is true, he isn't much of a realist. He wants that big brick house and the heated driveway, the nice picket fence and a couple of dogs, maybe a kid or two somewhere down the road. He doesn't make wish lists anymore, but a part of him asks for it every year. One year he'll be ready. One day he'll stop getting in his own way out of fear that he'll end up like Neil.
✦He gets cold very quickly. He's not used to mid-western winters or anything below 50 degrees. He hates being cold, he cranks up the heat in his car to the max, irritated at how stiff his bones feel and the fact that his fingers are so numb he can barely light a damn cigarette. He only feels better about it when you crawl into his lap, burying your head under his chin as he snakes his hands around your bundled up waist. You were smart enough to wear layers of sweaters and jackets and coats, but Billy thought he was too cool to get cold. You start keeping blankets in the back seat of his car for this reason and the temperature drops low enough he stops being too prideful to use it.
✦He spends most of his free time at your house, though that's nothing specific to the winter season. It's calmer. Quieter. Believe it or not, he gets tired of his own noise, the loud rock music, the unnecessary obnoxious revving of his engine, his weights clanging to the floor. It's all a distraction, an attempt at being louder than the world around him. Though it takes him a while to meet your parents, he kicks himself for not doing it sooner, if only to appease you and your incessant worrying that they'll break you apart because they don't trust him. He didn't think he did such a thorough job of building a reputation. Everything's so much nicer in your house, the people are so much nicer. For once, he gets to sit with his thoughts and realize that the only way to blow off steam isn't limited to fights and bruising your cervix.
✦He's somehow nicer in the cooler months, maybe a bit more insecure. He's out of his element, it's when he realizes the most that he's incomplete, just a body without any sort of complex interiority. He's almost more self-aware how much of a cliche he is, the leather jackets, a dark past, a very long list of women he's tossed to the side. He would rather die than say it to your face, but he questions why you stick around when you could do so much better than him. He holds you tighter, he insists on staying the night more, on lending you his jacket under the guise of being the territorial macho man everyone thinks to be, but there's something deeper than that. Something more vulnerable, like he's trying to remind himself that you're still with him. In reminding himself that you choose to stay, maybe one day he'll start understanding why you do.
✦Winter's with Billy are often spent with Max. At first, he was averse to the idea, but after that one mall trip months ago when a random old couple complimented you as a young married couple, he decided he didn't mind it that much. It didn't help how fond she was of you. It's like one day she was scowling at your presence around the house, viewing you as just one of the many girls who blew in and out without anything between the eyes and the next you two are going to the mall having whispery gossip sessions about him while he's just a door over. He'd never considered himself someone who yearns for a Hallmark Christmas, the one spent in front of a fireplace with How the Grinch Stole Christmas or any of those other shitty animated movies on display on a wide screen, here he is driving the two of you to the mall to go shopping for presents while his heart grows at least two sizes in his chest.
✦When it isn't all holiday cheer, it's still pleasant in its own special way. He's not the type to offer you his jacket when you say you're cold, then you'd both be dying of hypothermia as all he's wearing under there is a partially buttoned shirt and a gold chain. He instead encourages you to huddle into him, in his mind a much more efficient way to keep both of you warm. He's not one to be excited by snowfall, even if you're buzzing with excitement and dreams of snowmen and hot cocoa, but he will watch you run around until you tire yourself out finding amusement in your joy. If he's feeling up to it, he may get out there just to pummel you with snowballs, only stopping when he has you writhing in his arms, both of you as cold as you are horny.
Perhaps as much as Billy loved you, he hated snow. It was all in his hair, somehow in his shoes makes his socks soggy and wet, and still felt numb despite only being out there for half an hour. But he supposed there was some sort of balance. For one, watching you strip in front of the mirror in his room without a care in the world, carefully removing layers of warmth until nothing but your bra and panties remained made this whole adventure worth it.
"Lookin' good, princess." He whistled low, pulling a cigarette from a stray box and putting it between his lips.
"Yeah, keep it in your pants, Hargrove, you already tired me out." By which you mean he ran you ragged out there. He used to insist he only ran on the court, but clearly, he must've abandoned that rule just to chase you around with hunks of snow he couldn't even be bothered to properly form into balls. To be fair, you started it, catching him with his back turned and throwing what was practically a tiny brick of ice at that perfectly permed head of hair. From there your ass was grass.
"You're no fun," he drawls out, kicking off his leather boots and fiddling his belt buckle, "You should know better than to start something you can't finish."
"Oh, I finished it or have you already forgotten that you ran back in here begging for mercy." Which is partially what happened. Whether it was your final icy blows or the fact that he slipped on ice and fell right on his ass is really a toss-up, but either way a white flag was raised, and the word "please" left his lips. You could've recorded the moment, who knows when it would happen again.
"That's not how I remember it." His memory was full of snowy images of you on top of him, concentration knitted on your brow with a pretty smile across your face. The details on why got lost in between.
"You just can't stand to lose, can you, baby?" He wanted to wipe that smirk right off your face. You were starting to become a sore winner, which could only mean he was starting to rub off on you. While you start pulling a dry shirt over your head, he starts ripping his off, stalking over to wear you stood by the mirror, casting his shadow over you in the dim light.
"I don't lose, sweetheart." You chuckle under your breath, taking a half-step away from him which he easily matches. His lit cigarette is abandoned in a nearby ash tray, and his belt hits the floor with a metallic thud. You feel his hands over your bare ass before you see them. "I still have you, practically naked, alone with me in my room. Could hardly consider that a loss." You shuddered under his touch.
"Your hands are cold."
"I'm sure you could find a way to warm them up real quick." As his hands start to dip below the waist band of your panties, you turn around, the palm of one hand resting flat on his chest while a finger hooked around the chain around his neck.
"Not so fast, Hargrove, I don't think you earned it." He looked at you incredulously.
"Earned it? Since when the fuck do I have to do that." His minty breath fans over your face, a mix of nicotine lingering in the kisses, the cold surface of your cheeks, the bridge of your nose, the corner of your lips.
"Since I made you my bitch out there on the snow, I wanna see you work for it for once in your life." The laugh he barks out is sharp, his pearly whites starting to resemble the fangs of a wolf. You whispered that last part, not because you were scared of him hearing it. In fact, your piercing gaze sent a shiver down his spine.
"I'm your bitch?" He said it nice and slow, feeling the way that it sounded in his mouth. Before you know it, you're hoisted off the ground, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist as he leans in to kiss you. A real kiss, nothing slow or easy. Just tongue and spit and him practically forcing himself down your throat and his hands grabbing at either side of your head.
"You already getting used to it?" He made a sound deep in his throat, something like a guttural moan or a feral growl. You both fell onto his bed with a small bounce, your knees on either side of his legs and a wild look in his eyes. You don't know what happened first, his hips rolling into yours or you grinding down on top of him, his dick hard in his jeans and your fingers tracing where his Calvin Klein boxers met his tanned skin.
"What did you have in mind for me? You never struck me as the type to be into the whips and leashes." You were surprised he was entertaining this, a salacious grin on his face as he looked up at you, fingers working at the closures of your bra.
"Just warm me up, handsome, and we'll see where we go from there."
"disasterology"
⭒"i have a million different kinds of fun, when i'm asleep and in a dream that i'm your only one"⭒ WerewolfYandere!Jayce x reader
pairing(s): WerewolfYandere!Jayce x reader
warnings: fantasy au, slightly yandere content, possessiveness, sorta dubcon, slightly pervy jayce, oral (f receiving), fingering, size kink kinda, jayce has an unrealistically humongous cock but doesn't know it, slight mentions of virgin! Jayce, a bit of begging and subby jayce, vaginal penetration, not beta read we die like men, and i think this is it
an: sorry if smut feels rushed :(, idk why but i really struggled writing it (its because i wasn't supposed to be writing this at all bc i have two 7 page essays due next week that i literally havent started on but fuck it we ball), hope you guys enjoy!!!
werewolf yandere! Jayce who used to live as the Royal Scientist. Before the incident, he could be seen all around. He was the type to save kittens from trees, to make toys for the village children, to have his own little garden outside his modest cottage on the outskirts of the kingdom. He was always nature oriented; it's how he gets into this mess in the first place. He thought it'd be just fine taking it what he thought was an injured pup, but after being bitten, he does note it's odd that his illness isn't accompanied by some rabies induced foaming from the mouth.
He used to be very princely; very clean shaven and rather lean. His time in the forge built some muscle, but recently, he's noticed he's only gotten bigger. It feels like he's cutting his hair every day just for it to grow back thicker and longer the next morning to the point where he just gives up all together. And he's so irritable. He was almost unrecognizable from the soft-spoken Jayce everyone had known and loved. He's losing sleep. An assistant dropped a flask on the floor and the sound of the shattering glass was soon followed by an uncharacteristic growl. The speed at which they scrambled out of there in tears was unseen, the look of terror on their face unfamiliar to him. People didn't use to look at him that way.
He's starting to scare himself. He didn't used to look this way. His amber eyes have gotten wilder, his hands have gotten rougher, his voice is louder and mean. He didn't use to be mean. He can't seem to find patience anymore, not even with himself. His walls are coated in mysterious substances, there's glass on the floor from test tubes being tossed in a fit of rage. It truly was only a matter of time before he was deemed too dangerous to be kept in the castle. He's far too useful to actually be put down, no one quite has the touch that he does. As of now, he's irreplaceable, so they shipped his lab equipment to an old, dilapidated structure so far that even if some unlucky soul happens upon it, there would be no one for miles around to hear them scream.
There truly is a difference between being alone and being lonely. Alone is physical, he's used to being alone in his lab with the window letting in a gentle breeze and the occasional leaf into his high tower. Lonely is a mental beast. Alone is the absence of space, lonely takes up too much. It fills his lungs, it turns his blood blue, it's making him insane. He's seeing brand new colors, he feels as though the world is moving in slow motion, he's smelling and hearing things from miles away. He's getting twitchy, he hasn't slept in months, and the isolation is finally beginning to get to him. There's a reason everything is so dead around him, a biproduct of some old war or maybe a previous test site for volatile materials. Whatever the reason may be, no thing comes around. No birds, no insects, no good grass. A barren wasteland has become the legacy of what used to be one of the brightest minds the world had ever seen.
Then there's you, the court physician who graces his presence every couple weeks. You're nice enough and you have an air about you, something light and pretty, like petals floating about in the wind. It's the way your soft footsteps tread on dead ground, it's the flowy skirts of your dress, it's the wide look in your eyes whenever you look at him. Like a dear in headlights, but rather than being trapped by fear, you're trapped by circumstance. It's a necessary habit to be as light as you are, an image of death less shrouded in blackness and decay. Something more metaphorical and comforting was better suited to with what you dealt with; the sick, injured, and dying, and he seems to be caught in the middle of all three.
He really isn't taking solitude well at all. All he has is his work. All he does is work, only it's becoming less and less legible. His scrawls resemble symbols rather than letters, the mechanisms for his machines become more convoluted, everything twists and turns into vines of wire, gears, and loopy writing that chases their own tails. Besides losing his mind, he's losing time. He's started to black out. The last spell lasted for 6 hours, 45 minutes, and 27 seconds of time where he has no idea where he was nor what he did. There are clocks everywhere, the accumulative sound of their ticks becoming a droning buzz to distract himself from questioning things he can't find the answer to. Questions like what the hell is happening to me?
He doesn't want to seem crazy to you. You're the only person around for miles. You're quick on your feet and he's sure if you could stomach it, you could have him killed. What good is he now as he mutters to himself trying to figure out where he was last night. So, he tries his best to be on his best behavior. He finally gets into the habit of tidying up his space, fearing that you may trip and fall over the mess of papers, quills, random junk he has lying around. Sometimes, he even ventures far enough out to find some tea leaves. He sits by his door and waits for you, catching your scent in the air a while before you arrive which makes his nerves even worse. He can't decide how he wants you to find him, reading a book by the window, shirtless in his forge, pouring you a cup of tea. He breaks a sweat running around to set the scene.
He feels you in the wind before he hears the sound of your keys at the door. You cringe every time you do it, feeling like you're breaking into a foreign space, but the door only locked from the outside and Jayce swallowed any complaints he had. Your bag is slung over your shoulder when you come in, hair in a state of disarray, heaving after the hike and subsequent flight of stairs you climbed to reach his door. "Hello, how are you doing today?" Your voice is full of practiced cordiality, perhaps a bit of guilt somewhere beneath it. He perks up at the sound of your voice, trying not to move too fast, you flinch when he does. You're skittish, he thinks, that must be why you do. He can swear he smells it on you. There's sweat on your brow and an anxious beating of your heart, more than usual. Something is different today, but he feels too foggy to put his finger on it. With the slightest shift in his seat, he's hit with the smell of you. Usually, you smell like where you came from, like the wind and a few flower petals got stuck on you despite there not being any for at least a mile. You smell calm. Like the best parts of outside, running water, and soap. You smell...sweet today. Almost unbearably so.
"I'm...fine. I've been better." You frown, turning to dig in the leather bag hanging off your shoulder for a pill bottle. He beckons you to sit down, which you do reluctantly after only after squinting at him and turning your head in confusion. You lean forward, placing your hand on his hot head, and he closes his eyes to avoid the urge to stare down your cleavage. Still, he leans in, exhaling and inhaling you, as his mind races so fast he couldn't even tell you what he's thinking. You're pleasantly cold. The silky fabric of your blouse hits his face like a cool pillow. He freezes, all too aware of how his breath is uneven and quick. You smell too good.
You pull away, too quickly for his liking. He still runs too hot, maybe even hotter than usual you realize as you pull away as if you'd been burned, and he winces at the loss of contact. His eyes flicker as you dig in that stupid bag on your shoulder. There's always some new poison in there. His nose scrunches in disgust.
"Have you been sitting out in the sun?" And he's still in a daze, subconsciously leaning forward as he tries to figure out what's hitting his nostrils. It's not like candy, it's not artificial or manmade. It's not a chocolate or something sugary, it doesn't really smell like anything at all. It's like he's smelling a feeling. Oh god, he's really losing it now. Next thing you know, he'll be hearing colors.
"N-No. I've just been in here, you know, working in my fortress of solitude." He grimaces. It's almost too much and yet somehow not enough. He can't decide if he wants to force you out or devour you whole. His leg bounces as his head falls into his hands at how pathetic he sounds.
"Is that headache still bothering you? I know you said the other pills upset you even more, so I had Dr. Reveck alter the concentration. These are only a quarter of what the last dose was." He growls, sharp canines poking through the corner of his mouth as he rolls his eyes. He was tired of the pills, all he ever did was puke them right back up and he hated that retching feeling. He didn't eat enough to regurgitate food and he barely had enough energy to keep himself upright as he emptied the contents of his barren stomach. All he did was retch and retch until his body had convinced itself that the toxins were gone and he could finally breath again.
"I said I wasn't going to take anymore." His arms cross over his broad chest, the fabric of his shirt straining due to the stretch.
"I know, but these should at least take care of the headaches. He doesn't know what else to do", you sigh. He doesn't think he was supposed to hear that last part. He knows you study under Reveck, or at least you have more recently, but you've never been much of a chemist. And yet, you take this failure as if it's your own. You were too sweet. "You've been running a fever for months and you still haven't sweat out it out. The medicine is just supposed to boost your immune system to get it out more effectively. I know it's not ideal, but-"
"Then why can't you find something else. It's been the same thing over and over and it doesn't work!" He's trying not to lose his temper, he really is, but he isn't in the clearest state of mind to do that effectively. You flinch, and he feels a pang somewhere in his stomach. Pain? Hunger?
"We don't know what to do." You're tired as you say it. Defeated. The symptoms: the fever, the lost time, the joint pains, they don't make any sense. At first you thought it was a simple cold in the summer, then maybe an issue of over exertion. But he was in pain all the time, you saw the makeshift splints in the corners, the occasional bandages, like his bones were glass and his skin was paper that decided on random whims to break apart. What do you do with that? "I really am sorry."
"And what good is that supposed to do me!" He shouted in a way that physically hurt, his ears were ringing, and his vision was blurring again, that weird sort of blurring where the world were reduced to shades of yellow and blue and everything else was sludgy and brown. You watched on in curiosity and slight horror as the amber of his eyes nearly glowed, like oil lamps in an otherwise bleak abyss.
He got up from his seat quickly, trying to find a reason for doing so as to lessen your fright. "I have been more than patient, being his stupid fucking guinea pig while you two run around like chickens with your head cut-off trying to appease me while you come to the realization that I came to months ago! Neither of you have any clue as to what the fuck you are doing." His hands itch, trying to find something to occupy them so he doesn't throttle you. They settle on his hips as he looks down on you. "It can't be that fucking hard. I worked miracles up there. Fucking miracles, and you know what they do to me as soon as I get a little sick." He pauses, waiting for an answer that you knew he didn't want. He wasn't just a little sick. Right now, in this very moment, it was more than sick, it was insane. His eyes were more than livid, something primal in that glowing irises, his nostrils were flared, and his chest rose rapidly as his breathes came quicker. He wasn't content to stand still; he had to move. Like if he wasn't in constant motion his body just wouldn't know what to do with itself.
"They throw me in a tower and lock away the key. And even worse, there isn't a soul for miles - no - there isn't a soul in the world that knows what to do. The only one who would even stand a chance at figuring out what the hell is wrong with me is me."
He began to pace, swiping papers off his desk, smashing tiny vials of mystery liquids with his bare hands, flinging his journals at the walls seemingly ignorant of the blood dripping from tiny cuts over his hands. He growled as he stormed around, destruction following his large footsteps. He was so big. It was so noticeable now that he stopped putting in effort to make himself small. A few steps and he was across the room, he couldn't even afford to be much taller or his head would scrape the ceiling. Was he always this big?
And you, bless you, who knew when to snap out of your shock and try and calm his rampage. Your hands were firm when they needed to be, and your tone strict when it needed to be as you managed to grab his hands and hold onto them, your grip iron tight as if your life depended on it and ignoring the hellish sensation of sticky blood smearing so thoroughly into the lines of your palms.
As his eyes darted wildly around the room, you tried to maintain eye contact. You were too close. You were overwhelming his senses. Your hands over his, your face inches from his, and you smelled divine. He was assaulted with you, he developed a migraine that fast, the world grew dizzy until he stumbled on to the floor, landing ungracefully onto the wood floor and taking you with him.
"I need you to listen to me." The harshness of his fall seemed to break him out, if only for a moment, as he looked up at you, dazed and mouth half open. There was a stabbing pressure around his temples, his pillars of sanity were collapsing as you spoke. "You're right, we don't know what is going on but damn it if we haven't tried everything we knew to try. We don't know what's going on because we've never seen anything like this, so excuse us for not having a magical cure already prepared. We're in uncharted waters, but you're going to get through it" He looked up at you, blankly, not a thought behind his eyes, just an indiscernible feeling. Like you had hit the eye of the hurricane; you didn't know if it was over or if the worst was still to come. "I am truly sorry."
A few things crossed his mind in that moment, so fast he didn't know what to do. The first was panicked helplessness, the daunting realization that he may be stuck like this forever. He felt tormented, betrayed, and lied to. Sequestered, isolated, locked out of life and the heaven that was the extended feeling of your hands on him. His stomach lurched, his mind reeled, not that humanity was kept from him but that you were kept from him.
Were you scared of him? Is that what it was? He could make himself meeker, he could quiet his voice, he could soften his hands if it meant you came around more often, stayed a little bit longer. Among the fear and the rage that came across him, hunger seeped into the pores of his skin in that moment, that fraction of a second you spent on top of him. And he never did quite nail down the smell, even as he drew in a deep breath to still his beating heart, the allure of you only making it even faster.
You can hear it; you must be able to. He wouldn't be surprised if you could see it, feel his blood flowing in the iron grip you still held. He breathed you in again, he gripped your hands back.
You really were quite pretty. Of course, he had noticed it before, but then he had the decorum to keep his hands to himself and out of his pants. That wasn't right. It was dirty. And he didn't look like much of a gentleman anymore, he didn't look like much of a man anymore, but damn if he couldn't play the part well. That's what you smelled like, gentleness and effort. Like his wants and his desperation. Like herbal tea in the windowsill, sweetened with too much honey and laced with sleepiness and dreams. He could taste it on his tongue, saccharine and floral, petrichor and dirt, bursting on his tongue in culminating into more than a flavor, into an experience.
You were on the tip of his tongue; you were in his grasp. You were right there.
"Me too."
He knows he shouldn't, but he was a scientist, which meant he was curious by nature. You fit so neatly into him, your lips so plush against his cracked ones. You didn't stand a chance, stiff and caught off guard, startled by the force his lips came onto yours and the vigor with which they attacked, even after you were unresponsive. So, he moved his biting kisses, down the slope of your jaw, the side of your neck, the center of your throat, the tips of your shoulder blade.
And he'd be lying if he said he felt bad, listening to your gasps and pleas in confusion. "Jayce...", exasperated, confused, and so damn cute, "Jayce, what the hell are you doing?" He was right about one thing, that you could hear his heart thrumming in his chest, practically purring as he nosed over you, contorting his spine to dive as deeply into your skin as it would allow. Every moment you try to make is countered, the both of you pushing and pulling in tandem, waiting for the other to give up.
"Stop it." He huffs at you, like your command was some annoying fly buzzing in his ear. You may as have been, the way you jolt and squirm, fidgeting as he just was a few moments ago while now he was as solid as a wall. And was he...drooling on you? You nearly freeze when you feel his tongue at the junction between your jaw and neck, wetting the spot before sucking harshly and allowing one of his canines to nip the sensitive skin until it felt even wetter. He drew blood. "Jayce, I said stop!"
The combination of the metallic scent of your blood and the assertiveness of your voice drew his attention enough. His eyes flash again, that same gold flash you saw from before, except now reduced to a light rim around his blown-out pupils. And his canines, now sharpened to a point, looking as though they were made to tear through meat. Nothing about him was the same as when you walked in, like something - some animal- had possessed him. In a flash of shame he drops your hands, backing himself into the corner of the room, heaving with a proverbial tail tucked between his legs.
You scrambled to your feet, gunning for the door, in disbelief of what just happened and what you had just discovered. Lycanthropy. He was a fucking werewolf. You had been trying to treat a damn lycanthrope with cough medicine, pain medicine and delusion, of course he was pissed. Even in his corner, indignation boiled in his chest.
"You can't leave me up here. That's not fair." It was a quiet fury whimpered out from a body that just wanted to rest. He was at war with himself, his brain and his body battling it out for control. He didn't want to be alone. He didn't deserve to be alone. It was probably best that he was left alone.
"I can't stay." It's not safe. He slowly stood, staggering drunkenly until he found a chair to lean on.
"Please." And, oh, he sounded so broken. His voice crackled, as unsteady as he was standing, sputtering out of him like a broken record. "Please. I'm sorry. I don't know what's happening to me." He rambled weakly, his eyes glassy in a way that couldn't just be an act. "If you want, I'll take the pills. I'll take whatever you bring up here. I'll be good, just for you. Just - please stay."
The most disappointing part is, sometimes the wolf doesn't mean to open his salivating jaws, but the lamb will still waltz right in away.
You weren't stupid enough to take your hand off the knob, it lingers there, halfway out, almost out. "I don't think that's right. I'd be taking advantage of you. Something is wrong a-and I'll bring someone up here who knows how to deal with this." But you had no plans of going anywhere. You didn't even know if you wanted to run away. Morally, that was probably the right move to make, but maybe his depravity was rubbing off on you and maybe, just maybe, you didn't wanna run for the hills.
But you were scared, you tried to remind yourself. You were terrified. On paper, hell to a person of sound mind, you were in the lion's den, and it was only a matter of when — not if — you were going to be lodged within the jaws of the beast, the only remnants left being the blood he licked off his foul lips. Your heart thrummed in what could only be intense anxiety or excitement. Dread or anticipation. You didn't know what you wanted it to be.
He sighed as his eyes closed, and he shook his head. Breath came slowly to him, rattling in his chest with the little restraint he had within him. His voice was many things when he finally spoke. Pathetic. Scared. Deceptive, even as a real tear slipped down his face. It was almost an out of body experience, sitting and watching and feeling what his worser parts were about to do and even worse than being unable to stop it, he couldn't confidently say he wanted to.
"I can't let you leave."
In an instant, he was across the room. Sooner than you could brace for impact, sooner than you could scream, your back hits the door with a force that almost knocks the breath out of your lungs. His gaze is sweltering as he looks down on you, calculating. He never thought he would make it this far. He doesn't know what he wants to touch first. His breath fans across your face, he chokes something out that could be a dry laugh or his own breath catching in his throat.
"It's not your fault." And he tries his best to make it feel that way, even as his hands voyage across your body. He can't decide what he wants to be. Does he want to be romantic and cradle your head in his hands and at least have the decency to look you in the eyes as he shoves his other hand up your skirts? Does he want to be the big bad wolf and keep your wrists bound in his hands and swallow your whimpers and moans alike with his tongue? "I'll try and be good. Just for you."
His kisses are salty as they mix with your tears, yet the moment almost feels intimate. He doesn't force his tongue down your throat and his lips are as soft as they could be. Even as he catches your weak jabs at him, the grip he has isn't bruising. It's firm, it's a warning. Don't try my patience. I don't wanna be mean. He groans into the crook of your neck, his canines wet against your skin, not from your blood, but from his own saliva. He was fucking salivating, rutting against your leg, panting like a damn dog and god you can feel the imprint through his pants.
"I don't think this is a good idea." you try and reason, but your voice is too light and he's too unfocused to pay you any sort of attention. Even now he's fidgety, you can feel it in the twitchy finger tips wrapped around your wrist. He needs something to focus or he's gonna cream his pants like some virgin, which he was, but you didn't need to know that. So, while he's trying to ground himself in stupid equations and chemical formulations, his hands travel to find the most interesting thing, which happen to be the silky fabric of your skirt. It's comfortable in his hands as he grabs and pulls it higher and higher until the bare skin of your thighs are exposed and the scent of you becomes that much clearer.
Like his third eye opened and he fucking saw god, the tips of his fingers meet your clothed pussy and a pleased expression takes over when he feels a damp spot and the throbbing of your poor clit. "Can't believe you were hiding this from me." He sighs, exasperated, while you struggle to avoid his gaze. "Been suffering all this time, alone, and my cure was just right here." His dexterous fingers slip into the pretty fabric, collecting what was already practically leaking out of you, without a clue in the world as to what to do.
Your cunt feels good. Warm and wet and smooth as the silk you were wearing, and as much as you bite your lips to quiet yourself, it doesn't stop your pretty sounds of pleasure from slipping out, small and just for him. You must've been made for him with how at home he feels knuckles deep in your cut, moving is fingers inside you without a lick of precision but all the determination to make you feel good. Like you were some puzzle cube he kept on his desk and all he needed to do was to figure out what way to twist his wrist and flick his fingers to make you come apart.
Your hand at his wrist was no deterrent, especially with the way you ground yourself in his hand, unable to even stop yourself. And by now his hand was wet with evidence that your pussy was at the very least having a great time, even if you didn't want to admit it. It was almost embarrassing how entranced he was, thumb rubbing tight circles around your clit in a way that made your head spin, fingers thrusting in and out in at pace that made you squeeze your eyes shut as you tremble out a faint "-oh god."
He plays with you, and that is the most accurate word, play. Like he was finally back in his element, back in his lab building some great invention, waiting for that eureka moment to hit when he finally figures it out. "Am I doing good?" he mutters out of breath, tongue bit between his teeth, eyes attempting to urge yours to look at him while you tell him that 'yes, he's doing so good, it feels amazing', and you're ashamed how much you don't want him to stop. But the words die in your throat as your pleasure addled brain forces your hips to move faster and your moans to get louder, which isn't exactly what he wanted, but it'll do.
It's not much longer until you're cumming all over him with a squeal, vision blurred, chest heaving at the force in which it came out of you. He's still moving in and out of your soaked cunt, possibly not even realizing how slippery it got, unbothered with the way you squirmed at his ministrations. He doesn't stop until he notices how much your fingernails had dug into his wrist, leaving angry crescent moons in their wake until you let go in your exhaustion.
You realize your legs must've caved a while ago as clarity hits, you feel like all your nerve endings have been shattered into millions of tiny pieces and your limbs have been reduced to jelly, and yet you're still eye to eye with Jayce, who looks shocked. Proud even. A boyish smile crosses his face, a blissful expression in the sea of black that had become his eyes, irises completely swallowed by his dark pupils. He was giddy, like a kid in a candy shop, which is when the idea hits him. Had the ceilings not been so low, he would've had you over his shoulders and his face in your cunt, but he supposes the short trip to the table was worth the trip to save your head. Before you barely register than your moving, your back hits the table and you hear him growl as he licks a languid stripe down your pussy.
Testing the waters, he's cautious, wading in and slurping out what he just pulled out of you, nose bumping into your sensitive clit and his hands confused as to whether he should reach up and play with your tits and start doing what he was doing before. You seemed to like that. You sounded so pretty when he did it, but then again, you sounded pretty now, breathy and light, humming in satisfaction, your breath hitching in slight pain at the way your thighs burn with how his beard rubs against your smooth thighs.
"So good.", he mumbles, the vibrations making your back arch. "You're so good to me. Jus' perfect for me." The slurps are cartoonish and loud as your thighs wrap around his head, his large hands pressing down and holding you so that you couldn't even writhe away.
His other hand was deep within his pants, if his dick wasn't freed soon, he felt like it was going to explode from the pressure. His rhythm was sloppy, open mouthed and messy in your pussy, spit and cum dripping from his mouth and down his chin, debauched expression on his face as he squeezed his cock in a desperate attempt to get the pressure to go away.
He knew when it was getting to be too much. Among your many pleas, "slow down, 's too much" and your teasing "'m not going anywhere", your hands in his hair, tugging him away while your thighs threatened to cut off his oxygen supply, he wasn't the kindest.
"Quit runnin'", he'd mutter out when he grew particularly frustrated, nipping your clit with his teeth or pinching it with his mean hands. But he wasn't just frustrated with you, he was frustrated with himself. It wasn't enough. His hand wasn't enough, sucking on your pretty clit got him closer to that release than his jerky motions down his length and he was starting to take it out on you.
When he pulls away, it's not because he wants to, it's because he needs to and the puppy dog eyes he pulls should be criminal, looking up at you, hard cock angry and red, absolutely leaking and menacing and he just looks like he could cry. "Can I put it in?"
You were at a lost for words. That thing wasn't going in you.
"That's not going to fit." And he sees your hesitation and meets it his own terrible form of coercion, rubbing the leaky tip against your cunt, as if trying to prove to you that it'll fit. He didn't even like the idea, it almost brought tears to his exhausted eyes. "Please - I need it.", and his convincing is doing something to you, your hips moving to meet him, mixing your cum together in a way that was almost romantic.
"Just the tip." You muster all the authoritativeness possible into his voice, but he takes it as permissiveness, proverbial tail wagging like he was about to receive a treat. He repeats it back to you, "mhm, just the tip. I can do that. Just the tip." He has no experience with lining himself up and he's clumsy with it, heavy cook drooling over you in a way that makes you wonder if he was doing this on purpose. It doesn't help how slippery it is, yet no amount of slick could make him slip out.
When he finally gets it in, he loses it. Had he been of sound mind, his face would've gone bright red with the fact that he lasted mere seconds in your pussy, didn't even get a full inch in, and busted immediately, but right now shame was so far out the window it was barely a concept in the far sober part of his mind.
And you? You were positively a wreck, the initial stretch of getting his tip in making you shudder and trying to find something to grab for support. "'m sorry", he moans out, "Didn't mean to. I'm sorry. I-hm- couldn't help it, 'm sorry." He's face to face with you now, his hands on either side of your face, his breath fanning over your face, eyes squeezed shut, trying, and failing, to stall his hips and just sit there. You take mercy on him, pulling him in by his hair to kiss him until the apologies die in his throat, replaced by your spit and your tongue.
He tries to be steady, honestly, but you're just to perfect. What was once slow and stable wasn't even smoothly transitioned into deeper thrusts. "It's not that big," he reasons, "you can take it. You're so perfect, just made for me. You can take it." It's laughable. Not that big, he's not even half way in and you can feel him in your throat. But you let it slide because you don't really have a choice, you can't get many intelligible words out in between screams of pleasure and hysterically load moans.
"Liar," you whimper, all venom lost in translation and his sweet kisses trying to make up for it.
He laughs, practically manically. He knew it. You were too perfect, of course he would fit. What a silly suggestion that he wouldn't, as if you weren't just made for him. "I know, I jus' need it. Need it so bad. 'm sorry." His thrusts are deep and uneven, erratic and dangerous, cock kissing your cervix and all the spongy spots that you couldn't reach on your most wild nights alone. "I'm doing good, right? Makin' you feel good." You laugh lightly; it sounds like the gates of heaven. "You're perfect."
The praise has him keening, dopey and smiley, more than lost in your pussy, but lost in you. You look so divine like this, evening sun coming in through the window, lips soft and plump and kiss bitten, sweat and sex making you glow. He could just keep you forever.
He refuses to cum again until you do, which you admittedly aren't far from. Your voice now hoarse from screaming, it's not long until your vision blanks out and you're creaming all over him, gushing out around his cock, forming a pretty sheen all around him. "Give it to me," he heaves, "want it all. Need all of you." and you certainly have given all you have in you. He finishes in you, deep in you, shortly after you go limp, eyes fluttering shut as your cunt flutters around him, beckoning him to stay inside where it's so wet and inviting. It feels like home; exactly where he belongs.
So that's where he stays, hushing you when you ask him to pull out, holding your weak wrists in his hand when you try and push him away. "Gotta stay here, right where I belong." And beneath that is another statement. I'm keeping you here. Exactly where you belong. Exactly where you always should've been.
He really should've done this sooner.
Ill and Getting Worse
but if i so much as let my mind wander/ i come crawling back to your face
pairing(s): Isaac Night x cursed!reader
summary: Isaac Night would do anything for his cursed beloved, and he truly does mean anything
warnings: slightly yandere content, possessive behavior, mentions of violence, slightly smutty content (it's not super explicit but they are definitely fucking)
an: never in all my days did I think that I would be writing for Wednesday but here we are. The brainrot (pun intended) with this rotting zombie man has overtaken me mind and soul. I debated on holding off on posting this until we were undeniably in spooky season, but I was so excited to write this I wanted to go ahead and post it. hope you guys enjoy!!!
☽☾Yandere! Isaac Night and his cursed beloved, doomed to die young over and over again. It's a cruel fate, to never know why or exactly when or the who, only to know that the time will come and there was something you could've done to stop it, but you couldn't. Either because you were too stupid or too slow, you were always not enough.
☽☾Yandere! Isaac Night who wasn't always undead. He used to be beautiful and brilliant and so very alive. Though even in life, he had the appearance of someone not long for this world, perhaps already gone. Dark hair, cold eyes, pale skin, iron heart. He was almost comically stereotypical, a tortured scientist down to the leather gloves and stupid goggles that left imprinted rings on the hollows of his eyes.
☽☾Yandere! Isaac Night who lived a double life. Assuring and compassionate to his tortured love, working tirelessly to free you of your affliction and eager to do anything he could within his power to ensure you could live as you were intended, finitely with the promise of a sweet end. The other life was doing everything he could to destroy whatever would untether you from this mortal coil and figure out how to ensure his own eternity. Your love was infinite, and you had the golden opportunity to cherish it with each other forever and you wanted to just throw it away? Didn't you understand that people spend their whole lives merely hoping to find what you two had already found in each other. You had done the hard part, why waste what could be an easy infinity.
☽☾Yandere! Isaac Night who almost gives up all hope after his accident, the accident. A mess of lightning sparks and screams, terrible screams, your screams as you held his body and touched his skin, charred and warm for the first time. His heart beat rapidly, it had never stopped, it could never stop beating for you. There was no "as-if" it was your love that persevered and continued to animate his heart. His imagination was overactive as you carried him, weeping, to where you would lay him to rest, your tears soaking the soil and your fragile hands grasping the earth, as if asking it for his body back. But he had never left. He was always there. Waiting. Watching.
☽☾Yandere! Isaac Night who was very patient, even as the sound of your footsteps ceased. You had died of a broken heart, he had felt it, his own over-active heart was allowed a moment of rest. It stopped in his chest, and he ached. Trapped within a dead body that yearned not for life but for love, he cried tears of slugs and screamed out the scent of petrichor. His natural raucous must've been the cause for the storm that night, the worst storm that town had seen in decades. His headstone now cracked, an old oak tree falling across his grave, when his gnarly hand reached out, he grasped nothing but moss and bark.
☽☾Yandere! Isaac Night who knew time would pass. Even worse, he knew you could forget. The more things reset, the more loose your memory becomes until real memory feel like hazy dreams. He knew this and he knew you would overcome it. He knew it when he saw you every night, staring through your window in the home you had both dreamed of sharing. He was almost sure you hadn't changed the locks. He was almost sure you would recognize him, but it was too soon. He was too bloody. You couldn't know what he had done to make sure he was perfect for you. He could never wash it all away, but he'd be damned if he couldn't hide it.
☽☾Yandere! Isaac Night who maybe goes a smidge overboard. Maybe he didn't need to kill that many people. He certainly shouldn't have relished in it that much. There was something so carnal about it, the flesh underneath his fingernails, the blood from his mouth, he had never felt so alive. It was a drug. He had never partaken when he was alive, a deluded mind was counterproductive to his mission. He had to be present for you. But this, he didn't just feel alive, he felt like God.
☽☾Yandere! Isaac Night who begins to take advantage of the fact that you believe you're hallucinating. It's not breaking and entering if he had a key. It's not an invasion of privacy if he had already seeped his way into the recesses of your mind. You remembered him. You thought you were dreaming of him. If anything, you invited him in. You forgot, but he's more than willing to forgive you.
There's something wrong. Something missing, maybe. How do you even know if you're dreaming. It's starting to get messy, your nights are blending into your days, you can seem to remember what you've said and what you kept to yourself. Things are moving. Two mugs by the sink in the morning, two plates of food made for dinner, two sets of keys hanging by the door.
Even when he's not here, there's traces that you know are real, but for the life of you, you can't figure out if he's real. Yet he's in front of you, appearing as he so often does, dressed like he came out of some old movie. A fancy jacket, a flowy dress shirt, a mask dangles from his fingers. "I see no point in hiding from you. I don't think there is anyone who has ever lived who knows me quite like you." He says it so convincingly yet, you don't know who he is.
You feel him. You feel at ease with him, yet you don't feel safe. Like you're entranced. But he's supposed to be here. He belongs here.
It's late now. Some party is happening at Nevermore; you hear it through your open window. The curtains flow, he catches the end with his hand. "You should know better than to sleep with these open. You'll catch a cold." He frowns as he sinks down next to you on your bed. He lets his hair down and it falls gracefully. It frames his face well; he looks more familiar like this. Slightly wild, a look in his eye as he straightens the strap on your nightgown, breath fanning on your exposed skin. "I don't know what you'd do without me."
He smells too clean. Chemical almost. Almost something else. He takes your chin in his hand, his thumb rubbing on your cheek, and he smiles sweetly. It's a look of adoration, a warmth he's not even physically capable of. And when he moves his lips to yours, you can feel him smiling still, you can feel languid strokes on your cheek, his other hand lifting under your gown until his cold hand is splayed across your stomach. There's no rush, his mouth moves languidly, even as you shiver. His kisses are meant to appease you. To say "I'll warm you up. All you need is me. I'm yours." You feel it as your back hits your pillows and you feel him everywhere.
It's not human. The way his tongue moves, how calculating he is, there's some sort of ticking. A ticking against your breast when he kisses you, a ticking that sounds louder when you rake your hands through his dark hair, a ticking that speeds up in contrast of his languid movements. Like everything's in slow motion. Like you're in a movie. Like you're in a memory.
And yet, you enjoy it. You think. There isn't much time for thinking during nights like these, with his hand between your legs pulling moans and whimpers out of you that get lost and mingled with nightingales in the wind. It's wet and it's raw, and he always slips into you without you knowing, impossibly cold and hard, but you can't tell because you feel so alive. You feel complete.
"Don't forget me." That's what this feels like. With his hair falling in your face, and against every fiber in your being, you somehow manage to keep eye contact with him. His eyes soften in a way the rest of him must be incapable as he pushes into you as if angry. You can feel the bruises form, his hand places yours onto your stomach to feel his imprint. It would seem intimate if his thrusts weren't so mean, if he didn't huff out "mine" over and over. It was simple and yet somehow you forgot. How could you ever forget this.
He doesn't leave immediately after. He lingers, kisses up and down your thighs and stomach, gently stroking your arms. He looks pained. He needs to go but he doesn't want to. His consolation are the reminders on your skin that he was here. The scratch marks on his back that he knows mean a job well done. Ever the gentleman, he kisses you hand as he leaves. "Til we meet again, my love." He doesn't even leave a shadow. He's just gone, and when you wake up the next morning, an ache between your legs on top of clean sheets and a surprisingly clean body, you find yourself wondering yet again if your mystery man is more than just the man of your dreams.
