Hiya, hope you're doing well! If you don't mind, could I please request house wardens + Jamil who REALLY likes their taste? Like, think their skin is delicious and like to kiss/bite them a lot in private, on lips, cheeks, forehead, neck, nape, collarbone, anywhere available and licking their lips afterwards along, before going back to their business while housewarden have hickeys and red 👀 When housewardens ask about it they they say with a nonchalant response "You taste delicious" and goes back to whatever they were doing unbothered. I'd love to see housewarden flabbergasted by this 😈🤣
the two of you sit beside each other, comfortable silence covering you. he doesn't pay you much mind, though he's grateful for your company. just sitting in each other's presence is enough, but you're starting to get bored. you reach out and take his hand in yours. before he can react, you bring it to your lips, licking a line up his wrist.
riddle yelps, yanking his hand back. "what are you—?!" he sputters, eyes wide and cheeks turning red, but you can't tell from embarrassment or anger.
"you taste good," is all you say in reply, already reaching to take his hand again.
he pulls away quickly, his face properly flushed now. "that is not sanitary! you'll stop this at once!"
you whine and give him your best puppy eyes, but he doesn't relent.
leona blinks one eye open. "...what the fuck," he grumbles.
"your skin tastes nice," you tell him casually, as though it's not the most creepy thing anyone has ever heard.
he rolls his eyes, and before you know it, he's biting into your shoulder, hard. he stops when you cry out in pain, pulling away and leaning back. he's already drifting off again.
"ow!" you complain. "what was that for?!"
"your skin tastes nice," he says. fair enough.
azul shrieks in a way that would be funny if it didn't blow your eardrums out. he expects this behaviour from floyd and jade, not you!
"if you're hungry, we have a perfectly good lounge," he says as he adjusts his glasses, recollecting himself.
"but you taste better." whether this is an insult to the food or a compliment to him, he's not sure.
he sighs. "warn me next time, at least."
"okay," you reply. "i'm going to lick you now."
kalim squeaks, pulling back. "that tickles!" he whines, completely unfazed by the fact you're trying to eat him.
he tastes sweet, like sugar, as though his pure kindness has spread to every aspect of him. you point this out to him, and he laughs.
"these desserts we had last night probably taste way better! come on, i'll get you some!"
he's leading you away before you can say another word.
jamil screams. loudly. he'd probably have a calmer reaction to a roach crawling on his face. after a moment to calm down, he takes a breath.
"what," he begins, "are you doing."
"i like your taste." apparently, this is not a reasonable answer for him. hey, it's not your fault he tastes so good.
he shudders and leaves to wash his arm off — but despite it all, he doesn't tell you to stop.
vil stares at you.
you stare back. his face conveys zero emotion. is he disgusted? scared? turned on? unbeknownst to you, he's asking himself these same questions. maybe all three.
"don't do that again," he finally says. he has to disinfect the entire area now, how annoying.
you nod. you are not the one in charge here, after all.
...you're gonna do it again, though.
idia freezes up. you think he might have died for a second, until his hair bursts into pink flame.
"????????" is all he can choke out. you're not sure how he managed to say that out loud. once he can move again, he quickly reaches out and wipes his hand off on your sleeve. gross.
"i was hungry," you defend yourself.
he glances at the various snacks he has in his room.
"...yeah," he says.
malleus blinks in confusion. "is this...a human custom?"
"yes," you lie. other animals lick each other as a sign of affection, after all. it's not too crazy to believe.
he nods slowly, processing your words. "i understand." it doesn't sound like he understands.
you think that's the end of it. you're going to take his hand again and do the same thing, when —
he leans over and licks your cheek.
not the response you'd been expecting, but you're not complaining.
Threat of assault by original male character, violence/murder, non-con due to implied drug use, cunnilingus, mild dub-con, switch!Brahms, choking, loss of virginity, etc.
ＷＯＲＤ ＣＯＵＮＴ：5.9K
ＳＵＭＭＡＲＹ：You’ve been hired as a nanny for a wealthy elderly couple from the British countryside; what could go wrong?
That night, you jolt awake to the crash of glass shattering somewhere downstairs. You crawl out of bed with a sigh before stumbling your way towards the sound. Grumbling into the darkness as you fumble for the light switch, you call out, “Brahms?”
Lights on, you’re struck dumb by the sight of a man in the living room and your heart sinks as you make eye contact. He's wearing all black, shards from the windows cracking under his boots. He tackles you to the ground when you try to run, knocking the air from your lungs.
He pins your flailing arms to the floor with a grunt, pressing his knee to your spine to stop your scrambling. You let out a hiss when he yanks your head back with a grip of your hair, heart racing as you try to think of a way to get him off of you. Fear renders your mind useless for a moment before you’re forced to pay attention to his words. “I didn’t believe the old man when he said the Heelshires left a pretty thing all alone in this big house,” he laughs. “It must be my lucky day, eh?”
You thrash wildly, gasping when he knocks your head against the floor in retaliation. You blink away tears and grit your teeth, the pain bringing you to the present. “Get the fuck off of me!” You scream.
He laughs, the waft of stale cigarettes and liquor making you recoil with a gag. Desperation floods your mind and you shout the only words you can think of: “Brahms! Help me, please!”
The man pauses before scoffing. “I know you’re the only one here,” he says. “Unless you actually believe that shite about a ghost?”
Tears spill down your cheeks as your throat constricts. “Don’t worry, I won’t hurt you much, so long as y—”
A rattling force interrupts his threat, a deep groan echoing through the walls. Lamps flicker as the portraits hanging around the room tremble and knick-knacks crash to the ground faster than you can keep track of. Your breath catches when every light in the room crackles and dim, sending the room into near darkness.
There’s a beat of silence as your heart jumps to your throat. You can’t quite make out anything, but you hear the drawn out creak that lures the man into turning towards the sound. The pressure on your back weakens as he mumbles, “What the hell?”
The lights brighten and the first thing you see is the imposing face of the grandfather clock, swung to the side to reveal a dark opening. Taking advantage of the distraction, you try to free yourself. The man is struggling to wrangle you back under control when you hear a voice coming from the clock. It says your name, calling for you in that childlike cadence. Relief swells inside you, ready to pop.
Brahms.
What emerges is kind of what you expected, in the back of your mind— the primeval fear you couldn’t voice. Not a spirit or, god forbid, a ghost.
Pale, human hands grip the frame of the clock— materializing from its darkness, connected to even longer limbs. It feels like your entire world comes to a standstill as the figure emerges. Your heart jackrabbits as you watch the man crouch down to fit massive shoulders through what you now realize is a door, a cricket bat gripped in his large palm. His face is covered with a porcelain mask resembling the doll you tucked in earlier. “Brahms,” you breathe.
The man— Brahms stands well over six feet, hairy chest heaving with growling breaths. His bloodshot eyes dart over you before they snap towards the burglar, who curses and tries to flee.
Your eyes consume every inch of the very real, very strong man as he overpowers the intruder. It’s almost comical, how quickly your assailant is subdued despite the frantic slaps Brahms is deflecting with one hand.
He lifts the bat with the other and swings it against the man’s temple, knocking him down with a loud thud. He falls to the floor but Brahms doesn’t seem to care, climbing on top of him and slamming his head against the floor much like he’d done to you. He raises the bat again and the man tries to hold him off, lifting his hands to stop it from hitting its mark.
It doesn’t work.
You cover your mouth to stifle a scream as blood splatters your face and Brahms’ mask with every violent ‘swoosh’ of the bat. Brahms reduces the intruder’s skull to a ghastly sight with brutal force and you hear him take his last breaths before falling silent.
Dead.
You’d be ashamed, later, of the satisfaction you feel filling your chest, the pleasure you take in watching him die. But for now, this demands your attention. The metallic smell of blood hangs over you, silence broken by Brahms’ panting and your uneven breaths.
“Whatever it might look like on the outside: our son is here, he is very much with us.” Mr. Heelshire said.
You remember nodding politely, glancing around the large garden. Mr. Heelshire’s voice drew your attention to his solemn, pitiful look. “Do you understand?” He asked.
“Yes,” you replied absentmindedly.
A lamb to slaughter.
Brahms takes a step forward, pausing when you scramble away from him. You won’t be able to get away, you think as you stare at him. You flinch when he says your name with that childlike inflection. “Don’t go,” he whispers.
His meek demeanor doesn’t fool you one bit— his eyes trail over you, body rigid with tension. Your heart quivers as he begins to plead. “Please. Don’t go, I’ll be good, I will.”
You smother the part of you that feels indebted to him, telling yourself you wouldn’t even be considering staying if he hadn’t just saved you. You’ve almost gathered enough courage to run when you hear tires pulling up the driveway.
Malcolm.
Your escape attempt is as futile as you predicted, but you give it the effort it deserves. Brahms pounces, curling his bicep around your throat with palm covering your mouth. “If you try anything, I’ll kill him,” he threatens, childish ruse abandoned as he growls in your ear.
It’s the same voice from the attic, from your so-called dream. “Fuck,” you whimper.
Brahms drags you to the grandfather clock and through the darkness of the walls, pushing past a door into a space filled with amenities. Including a bed, which he sits you on the edge of. Curls damp and chest heaving, he cages you in between his arms. You flinch when he leans down to press his mask to your forehead and note, with a touch of hysteria, that he smells like your body wash. You spend what feels like forever sitting there with him panting over you, wound tighter than a spring.
Long enough for you to understand that killing you is the last thing on his mind. And for you to admit that you’re not appalled by the idea, eyes shamefully trailing over his body. In fact, every shaky exhale of breath Brahms lets out makes your stomach clench in girlish anticipation of his next move. But it seems he’s not sure what to do now that he’s got you here.
It’s not like you’re not creeped out, but you’re not terrified like you were earlier. Sure, he’d been watching you for months but you can’t focus on much besides the fact that it was him in the attic. You wave away the nervous flop of your insides as you try to keep your thoughts on track. He’s still clinging to the illusion of your power over him, but you’re not sure how to use it to get out of this.
Or if you truly want to.
You force yourself to meet his gaze once your heartbeat has calmed down. You must’ve achieved the confident glare you were aiming for because Brahms bows his head like a scolded child, placing his arms behind his back. It was hard to believe this was the same person who just bludgeoned a man to death.
Before you can get any ideas, you hear Malcolm pounding on the front doors. Brahms snarls as his grip tightens on the bloody bat you didn’t realize he was still holding before pulling away from you. “Wait!” You say and he freezes, peering at you. “Thank— thank you for helping me earlier, Brahms.”
He tilts his head, eyes glued to your face. “I-I was really scared, y’know?” You confess. “That— that he was going to hurt me.”
Those eyes rove over every inch of your body as you speak and you’re hypersensitive to how little you’re wearing: a flimsy tank top over worn out shorts that haven’t fit properly for years. “You don’t want to hurt me, do you, Brahms?” You force yourself to ask.
He shakes his head slowly and you figure that’s good enough for now. Inevitably, you consider what he did want to do with you. There’s a body pillow wearing your dress on the bed that you can’t think about if you want a chance of appearing at ease and a pesky, persistent thought that’s been bugging you since watching him emerge from the walls: he’s fucking hot. Everything about him is jarringly attractive, from the slope of his shoulders and thick biceps to his unkempt beard.
His curls sway with every ragged breath as he waits for you to speak again. Your eyes are eventually drawn to the hard-on he’s sporting, proportional to the rest of his lanky body. In the distance, Malcolm starts yelling your name.
Brahms goes rigid. “Don’t hurt him,” you plead. “Please, Brahms.”
His eyes dart over your face. “He wants to take you from me,” he argues.
You shiver; after watching how he handled the burglar, you know the grocery boy doesn’t stand a chance. “You were going to leave me for him,” Brahms accuses,
“Wha— Brahms,” you stammer. “I-I’m your nanny, I wouldn’t leave you!”
“You’re lying,” he murmurs, which is— fair. “You like him, you were going to sleep with him.”
Right, he’s been listening to your conversations. “Brahms, that— that’s not true!” You protest.
You might have been considering it, but that was only because you’d been left bereft of any other contact for months. “I won’t let you leave me.” He insists, crowding your space. “I chose you, not him!”
You flinch when he grabs your hand, the one with the ring on it. “You’re mine,” he growls. “You accepted my gift, you belong with me.”
Your stomach churns; there goes your hope of convincing him to let you go. Looking back, no wonder Malcolm thought you were going crazy. How could you have tried to justify a spirit being behind all of that? Now you’re fully aware of the true motive behind the jewelry: a twisted proposal from the man in front of you.
“I’ll be the one to take care of you,” he says. “And I’ll kill anyone who tries to take you from me.”
Intending to follow through on his promise, he pulls away from you. “Brahms!” You shout. “You are being a really bad boy right now.”
He flinches and you’d laugh if you weren’t trying to imitate Mrs. Heelshire’s no-nonsense tone; Malcolm’s life depends on you convincing him to stay. You never thought you’d be glad for the time spent catering to the doll, though it’s hard to deliver scolding lines to a sociopath a foot taller than you. “Were you lying when you promised to be good?” You question.
There’s a pause where you're sure he’s going to do as he pleases before his shoulders slump. He returns to your side, dropping the bat and, ignoring caution, you raise a shaky hand to ruffle his curls with a soft, “Good boy.”
You’re not expecting him to drop to his knees and rest his head in your lap, forcing you to awkwardly cradle him between your thighs. He stares at you with a reverence that almost makes you uncomfortable, as if you’ve hung the moon and the stars. You try to remind yourself that Brahms’ perspective isn’t one you should lend credence to, even if his obsession shines a light on a gnarled part of you. It shudders at the exposure, relishing in the depth of his yearning and lapping it up without regard for any consequences.
He was offering never ending, all consuming passion that you’ve been waiting your whole life for. The kind you told yourself would never happen. The desire for which made you leave home to escape the dreadful feeling that you’d end up dying surrounded by people who overlooked you. A collision of two rogue stars.
Like he said: he chose you. If you were looking at things from a purely materialistic perspective, would anyone else be willing to give you the things Brahms could? Hundreds of millions isn’t something you’re willing to run from without a second thought.
He wasn’t perfect, but what man was? The warmth of his body against yours as he clings to you, the imperceptible tension in his spine— a tamed beast laying at your feet, does something to you. Would you ever find anyone as devoted to only you?
It gets harder to be reasonable the longer you run your hands through his hair. No solution would be found in your judgement when he makes your heart ache like this. So small, prostrating himself before you.
A poignant silence signals Malcolm’s eventual departure and you pull your hand away with only a bit of reluctance. Brahms groans like it pains him to be deprived of your touch. A lot about this shouldn’t turn you on, but the way he gazes at you with those pitiful eyes seals the deal. Eager to sink your teeth into this affection, were you that different from the man in front of you?
Before you do something stupid, you place a hand on his shoulder. You hope he doesn’t notice the way your arm trembles as you push him away, fighting the desire to pull him closer instead. “It’s time for bed, Brahms,” you say, ignoring your silly thoughts.
If you could get him to go to sleep then you could plan your next move. It’s too bad he looks at you as if you’re the crazy one. “Brahms!” You scold. “You know the rules.”
He gauges your sincerity before habit wins; it is past his bedtime after all. He rises from the floor, glaring at his bed with all the sulkiness of an eight year old boy. You need a fucking Oscar for how straight you keep your face as you rise to tuck him in beside the doll he’s made of you.
It’s almost…cute.
“Be a good boy and go straight to sleep, okay?” You murmur, voice shaking with suppressed laughter.
It dies down pretty quickly when you see how he’s watching you. You try not to gawk back at him, feeling your face heat up at the intensity of his stare. Moments pass as you gaze at one another before Brahms breaks the silence. “Kiss?” He presses in that weird voice.
Your conscience makes one last protest, but it’s quickly silenced as you bend over to press a kiss to the mask’s lips. You wince at the metallic taste of the blood coating the porcelain before wide palms seize you.
You’re pulled off your feet by Brahms placing you on the bed in a smooth motion. The display of strength shouldn’t make you wet, but your traitorous body loves every moment. Perhaps Brahms can smell it on you, the willingness to let him cross that line as arousal pools in your gut and between your thighs.
His body dwarfs yours as he looms above you, hands inching towards every sliver of exposed skin like he can’t decide where to touch first. He caresses your clavicle before sliding his long fingers to your sternum, resting a wide palm over your rabbit heart. Your eyes widen when you notice the metal band around his ring finger, the other half to yours. It glints in the low light and you swallow.
“Kiss?” He rumbles, breaking you out of your thoughts.
Heat suffuses your body as he waits for some sort of protest. But you’re done protesting, especially with him this close. He moans at the press of your lips against the mask when you muster the courage to bridge the gap between you. His large hands rise to tilt your head into another mockery of a kiss right after the first one.
The bed creaks as he overwhelms you with his presence, caging you between his long legs. Brahms ‘kisses’ you again, letting out a low growl of frustration as the porcelain clinks against your teeth. He pulls back and you hold your breath as he violently tugs it off, revealing his handsome visage to you. One side is smooth, the other rough and pink with scar tissue.
Crystalline eyes gauge your reaction before he bows his head, shying away from your blatant stare. Your lingering reluctance vanishes as you lean forward, pulled by the urge to reassure him. He whimpers when you caress his scarred cheek, nuzzling into your palm. His lips are warm when finally you kiss them. The kiss is hesitant at first and then searing.
Emboldened, Brahms kisses you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear. His hands move to your hips, squeezing your softness between his fingers. You pull away with a whine and Brahms looks down at you, eyes trailing voraciously over your body.
“You make such beautiful sounds,” he says, before gripping your thighs. “Especially when you’re cumming.”
You can’t be sure exactly when he’s referring to but your face flushes all the same. “I want to hear them now.”
His expectant tone and the way he immediately forces your thighs apart bring to mind Mr. Heelshire’s comment on overindulging their son. His eyes slide from your face to between your legs, thin rings of an indistinguishable color swallowed by its pupils. Then his hands move to the edge of your shorts to tear the flimsy fabric off of you, revealing your slick entrance for him to marvel at.
He scoops your thighs into his wide palms and pulls you closer, lifting you off the mattress. “So pretty,” he says, leaning forward. “Your cunt is so cute.”
Your face is on fire as you squirm in his iron grip. Despite how embarrassed you are, the earnest praise kindles the flame in your core, slick from your drooling entrance. Brahms can’t seem to draw his eyes away from your wetness, captivated by the sight of a tear of slick rolling down your thigh. It plops onto the sheets and you yelp when he abruptly tugs you closer. His tongue laps at the slick between your thighs before making his way to your glistening lips.
A ravenous noise escapes your chest as he devours you. Brahms drinks from you like you’re an oasis in the desert, or mana from Olympus, with audible gulps of your slick. The bridge of his nose grinds into your clit as his tongue chases every pearl of precum beading from your cunt. Lips meshed to your sticky vulva, his tongue pushes past your quivering opening and thrusts against your walls.
He doesn’t seem to mind when your thighs snap shut around his ears, content to suffocate between them. “More,” he demands, something hungry staring up at you from behind his eyes when you look at him.
He seems to be enjoying it almost as much as you are, grinding your hips against his face. Lashing every ridge of your walls with the pointed muscle, he plunges in and out of you with gusto. The vibration of his moans push you over the edge embarrassingly quickly as you squeal. Brahms’ grip on your thighs tightens when your convulsions threaten to separate him from you.
Your head spins as he lays you back down without parting from your pussy. He pulls out briefly to slurp at your clit, flattening his tongue over the pulsating bud. His tongue glides back and forth as he moans at your taste. A second orgasm follows quickly when he doesn’t relent, gripping your thighs to roll your hips harder against his mouth.
He doesn’t stop when your hands fly to his head and yank forcefully on his curls, riding the crest of another orgasm. You’re pretty sure he could do— has done this for hours from the way he refuses to be parted from you. You grit your teeth, fighting the heat turning your body to jelly. You ignore his growl of protest and he ignores your attempts to tug him off of you, much too weak to have any effect.
Brahms moves to return to your entrance before you dig your nails into his shoulder, grateful when he lets you hold him back. “No more.” You say. “I want you.”
He doesn’t need to hear any more than that, tearing at his clothing before you can think to help him. Your mouth drops open at the sight of his cock. It’s intimidating, just as long as the rest of him, tip flushed red and dripping with the remnants of orgasm. You consider the possibility that you’ve bitten off more than you can chew as Brahms makes space for himself between your thighs. Your pussy throbs when he seats the veiny inches of hefty girth against your mound; you suppose you could stomach missionary if it made him look like this.
Dumbstruck and mouth trembling like he’s about to cry, Brahms seems content to cum this way. His hips rut into yours none too gently, gaze laser focused on the sight of his cock sliding back and forth between your syrupy lips. The sound it makes is filthy and the whimper he lets out when his mushroom tip nudges your clit is particularly pathetic. You push forward when it looks like he’s close and wrap your fingers around the base of his length, marveling at how hot and hard it is. His entire face is red, eyes wet as he pants, flinching at your tightening grip. “Are you trying to cum without my permission, again?” You question, peeved.
He shakes his head after a moment and you scoff in disbelief. “Liar,” you scold. “Don’t move.”
Brahms obeys with gritted teeth, eyes never straying from your pussy as you guide him to your entrance. You nearly bite through your lip because frankly, it fucking hurts. You take him slowly, impatience tempered by the sting as you push past the initial resistance before breaching your syrupy insides. It feels like you’ve been punched in the chest when he sinks into you, a throbbing heat nothing compared to what you pictured leeching its way into you.
Your core tenses, hungry for more and wary as your body implodes with sensation. Distantly, you hear him blubbering above you, but you pay him no mind. You’re too busy trying to remember what it’s like to have how to breathe. All you feel is him, hot and heavy, like a lung full of smoke.
Eventually desire wins out and you dig your heels into his back, driving him deeper into you. The sound he makes as his pelvis meets yours is shattered, yanking you back down to Earth. You gasp, blood humming. “You—” he mewls, voice like he’s swallowed glass.
There are tears pooling in the corner of his eyes and you feel them plop, plop, plop! onto your skin. His cock throbs as its tip reaches the spongy wall of your cervix. Your core pulses hot and tight around his length, a delicious mix of pleasure and pain as the thick, bulbous head of his cock carves a space for itself. “I-I can’t—” Brahms sobs.
You cup his face, sliding your hands into his unkempt beard. There’s no turning back now, you think vindictively. “You can take it.”
He moves slowly, as if he can’t help himself. You moan encouragingly, fingers gliding over his scar. He whines, face screwed tight as his hips pull back to rut into yours. Your snug walls cling to the swell of his thick cock with every forceful thrust, knocking loose something wild. Something that might have been better off left untouched.
You tuck the thought away, urging him to go faster. His shoulders tremble with every roll of his hips into yours, tears spilling over onto his cheeks as he lets out broken cries that he muffles in your neck.
“You wanna be a good boy, don’t you?” You ask, smirking at his desperate nod. “Then keep going.”
He barely pulls out with every shallow thrust, reluctant to leave your warmth despite the pleas for mercy leaving him. “You gonna cum?” You question.
Brahms huffs in affirmation, a visible pulse in his neck from the effort it takes to restrain himself. You slide your hand down to his nape, gripping his curls in your fist before pull him into an open-mouthed kiss. His submissive whines don't match the way he bullies his cock against your walls over and over.
“Hold it,” you order.
He keens like a wounded animal, gazing at you with an imploring expression. Despite the order, you’re close. Clamped around Brahms like a vice, every plunge of his cock is like a brand to your sensitive walls. He obeys, but you can tell that he isn’t going to last long. The bob of his throat as he swallows a groan of despair, hips rolling into yours with an animal instinct, pushes you over the edge.
Your eyes roll to the back of your head, back arched as you cum, soaking his cock in your juices. Brahms doesn’t hesitate to press his advantage as you succumb to the rush of pleasure. He pulls out with a groan before slicing through you in a single thrust, watching the way your cunt flutters around his cock. Any power you might have had is wrenched from you when he grabs the meat of your thighs, pushing them to your chest to slam into you.
You can’t think— fuck, you can barely breathe. You scream beneath him, hands clawing at his shoulders to cope with the way you break at every deliberate clap of your hips together. You ride what feels like the wave of one, two, three? orgasms. Brahms’ relentless drilling of his hips rob you of any choice in the matter, stars exploding behind your eyes as your body convulses. “You’re mine,” he huffs. “I won’t let you leave me!”
You wail at the force of his strokes, thighs trembling as you gush around his length with a sound that makes your ears burn. You feel as if you’re floating, awash in a sea of pleasure that’s beginning to border on pain. Brahms doesn’t seem to care when he orgasms either, honing in on your g-spot soon enough and smashing into it mercilessly. “You’re mine, mine—”
You’re barely able to meet his matching glassy gaze when he grabs your face with one hand, tilting your gaze towards where his cock was disappearing into your slick, cum soaked channel. “Say—say it.”
He spits the demand out between clenched teeth, jaw tight as he approaches another orgasm. You can’t hear yourself over the sound of your heartbeat but you think you stammer, “I— I’m yours, Brahms.”
“Again,” he orders.
There was no more of that shy, timid boy Mr. Heelshire described. It gives you whiplash, how quickly he’s gone from begging to demanding. You yelp something that seems to satisfy him enough to have mercy on you. But it doesn’t last long before Brahms is drawn to your mound, sliding his fingers over your slippery clit.
You have to admit that you’re already exhausted; you’d much prefer the docile, whimpering creature over this feral one. You summon the little willpower that hasn’t been fucked out of you by his steady decimation to dig your nails into Brahms’ chest. “Wait—” You gasp as he knocks the breath out of you with another wet plap! “Brahms, wait!”
Your frustration reaches its peak and you drag your nails down his chest. He doesn’t flinch as red lines bloom on his pale skin, too occupied with fucking you senseless. Furious, you grab his throat with both hands, squeezing as if your life depends on it. His his jerk before slowing down long enough for you to get your bearings.
You consider for a second, not stopping. Reality is humbling. If you let him run wild, you’ll never be able to keep up. Brahms must sense the blood-lust in the air because he stops moving. You take a moment to catch your breath, pulling your hips back with a scathing expression.
You get on top of him before he tries to test his luck, legs trembling. He groans your name, pleading with a buck of hips and you dig your nails into the pulsing cords of his neck. “Don’t move,” you hiss, leaving no room for argument. “Nod if you understand me.”
Brahms stares for a moment before nodding slowly, tense with suppressed desire. Irises swallowed by their pupils rake over your face and down your body as you lift yourself over his hips. “Keep your hands to yourself,” you order, glaring at him. “Nod if you understand.”
Brahms nods roughly, eyes glued to your cunt as you grind against his length, coating him in the remnants of your combined release. It was overwhelming when he was spearing you open, but the slow push of his cock is like a cool balm to the ache that’s been building in your core.
A wrecked call of your name and the sound of creaking metal makes you open your eyes; you could cum just from the sight of the man under you. Face, ears, and shoulders flushed red and chest heaving, Brahms’ face is streaked with tears as he grips his bed-frame. It practically crumples in his grip and you clench around the searing heat of his cock as it licks up your spine until it feels like you’re going to melt into a puddle.
You look down at Brahms, committing the sight to memory. You’ll be damned if you let him take control again when he looks so perfect under you. You grab his face, forcing him to meet your gaze.
“You’ll be a good boy?” You couldn’t accept anything other than complete obedience.
“Yes!”
“Promise.”
“I promise!”
“Hm. I don’t believe you.”
“I- I will!”
“How?”
“I’ll keep you looking pretty, so pretty an— and soft. Like a respect—respectable husband should.” Your stomach flips as he grabs your hand, giving the ring on your finger a chaste kiss before dipping his tongue between your fingers.
He holds your gaze. “I’ll—I’ll be a proper daddy, I’ll take— take care of you,” he says in a pitiful tone. “Forever, I’ll do any- anything, please, just don’t— don’t leave me.”
You watch with wide eyes as he parts his lips to take your fingers into his mouth with a moan. It takes a lot of willpower to maintain the slow roll of your hips into his. “Please,” he begs, staring at you with wide, wet eyes.
He sobs, gazing at you with a lovesick expression. “You wanna cum?” You ask, voice foreign to your own ears.
Brahms’ neck seems like it’ll break from the force of his nod. “Yes, wanna—”
You recall the way he held you down, forcing you to take every inch of the cock you were now claiming for yourself. “Not yet,” you decline.
You smirk at the sad noise he makes as he complies. “Pleasepleaseplease, let me cum, I’ll be good,” he pleads.
You hum, eyes fluttering closed as you swivel your hips against his, grinding the mushroom tip of his cock deep into that sweet spot. “I don’t know if I believe you,” you murmur breathlessly. “You’ve already misbehaved more than once.”
“I’m sorry, sososorry, I- I won’t do it again!”
You coo approvingly, sliding a hand into his sopping wet curls and tugging his head back, nipping at the taut column of his throat. “You promise?” You murmur against his skin.
You hem and haw like you’re still thinking about it when you’re moments away from breaking yourself. “Look at me,” you order.
Brahms forces his teary eyes open, gazing at you like it hurts. “I’m in charge here,” you declare. “I decide if you get to cum, how and when.”
Brahms nods. “If you misbehave, you get punished, understand?”
Another despairing nod and you feel a giddy sense of satisfaction.“Say it,” you order.
“I won’t— won’t cum without your— your permission.”
Your smile is sadistic and so is the way you clench around him. “Good boy.” You pull him closer and kiss him, smothering the broken sound he lets out with your tongue.
Brahms gasps like he’s drowning as your name dragged from his throat. “My handsome boy,” you purr before placing both your hands on his hairy chest.
Brahms’ answering moan is ragged and his wrecked expression as he submits to your will is all you need. “Now cum.”
Brahms howls, spine so rigid you’re afraid it’ll snap as his back arches underneath you, shooting hot, furious spurts of cum against your walls, the wet glide of your bodies getting even filthier as he empties himself into you.
He still looks pretty soaked with sweat, tears, and drool. You suspect there might be something wrong with you when the sight fills you with pride. You lay your head on his chest, the galloping sound of his heart against your ear lulling your fatigued body to sleep, and think nothing of it.
Brahms comes back to himself nearly an hour later, dazed eyes drawn to the warmth on his chest. He stares at you until he’s choking on the feeling burning its way through his chest. He holds you against him as he sits up, scooping you into a bridal carry; you’re small in his arms despite the way you took control of him earlier. He’s still a bit dazed as he carries you into the master bedroom.
You blink your eyes open by the time he’s sinking both of your sore bodies into the marble bathtub and he marvels at each expression crossing your face: confusion, shock, pleasure and then a smug approval that sends a shiver down his spine as you unflinchingly meet his infatuated gaze.
His breath catches when you cup his face in your small palm, stroking his scar with a murmur of “Good boy,” before falling back asleep in his arms. After you’re both clean and dry, he lays you on the bed that once belonged to his parents before standing back up. He has every intention of returning to bed once he’s finished cleaning up.
on the topic of Final Reckoning being the most bleak thing ever. this is a work in progress snippet of a larger post-MI8 fic that I probably won’t have time to work on for a while. tw for Ethan being like catatonically depressed and passively suicidal
———
It’s quiet when he wakes up. This is wrong.
Ethan’s hand feels at his side. The scratchy material of the old cot rubs against his skin, and then his fingertips find cool, hard plastic. There’s a tremor in his hand as he brings the recorder up into focus, squinting at it in the dim light of the room. Thumbing the play button does nothing. Dead battery again.
He sits up. It’s morning, fortunately, so the yellowed light coming in from the papered-over windows dimly illuminates the interior of the building. It’s warm, too, enough that he sweat through his jacket during the night. He doesn’t shrug it off; it’s still preferable to being cold.
Getting his boots planted on the bare wooden floor, he begins rocking on the bed, building up momentum for standing. It’s always the hardest part. He just has to get through the initial wave of pain, and then it’s fine. One, two, three….
His cry echoes throughout the upper floor of the building, ceilings high and empty. Clenching his teeth, he stands half-hunched, free hand braced on his thigh, waiting for the tremors to work through his body. They’re getting better, he thinks, or at least they aren’t getting worse.
Once he’s steady enough, he limps towards the stash of supplies he’d set on a table in the north-eastern corner of the room, away from the windows. He grabs a water bottle from the open pack—eight left; he’ll need to buy more soon—and swallows some of it down. He checks his phone: six missed calls from Benji, four of which had ended with a voicemail.
The small box of batteries are right by the front, where he’d left them. He lifts the cardboard lid with a finger. Six packets of four are left, and the open one has two inside. He hasn’t measured it out exactly, but he thinks they’ll last him a few months still.
Ethan takes another drink of water. It’s warm in his mouth, which is nice. Setting the water bottle and recorder down, he flexes his hands, clenched and open, clenched and open. This is the other hard part. His fine motor skills are still out of whack. He’s sure one of the messages Benji left him is to remind him to go to a doctor.
He spends the next few minutes extracting the dead double-As from the exposed back of the recorder, watching his fingers tremble. The first one is always the more difficult one to pull out, but he eventually does it, and sets both of them down on the table. They immediately roll off the edge and drop onto the bare floor.
Now to open the plastic wrap around the batteries. Thankfully, one of the packets is open already, so he can just crush the plastic in his hand until it deforms enough to shake the batteries out. He’ll have to peel open a new one next time. The next replacement will be harder, take longer.
He has to press the body of the recorder down onto the table to hold it steady as he slots the fresh batteries inside. It’s too dim to see where the plus and minus indicators are, but he memorised the positions awhile ago.
The joints in his fingers are already starting to hurt again. He’d snapped the latches on the protective plastic backing of the recorder at some point, purely by accident. It makes replacing the batteries easier, although he has to be careful about not knocking them out.
All done. With a sigh of relief, Ethan flips it around, rewinding to the beginning and pressing the play button.
“Hello, brother.”
Ethan smiles, a wave of calm washing over him. “Hey, Luther,” he whispers, and grabs his water bottle.
“If you’re listening to this, the world is still here. And so are you.”
He limps back to the cot. His boots echo on the bare wood floor, loud enough that he has to hold the recorder up by his ear so he doesn’t miss Luther’s voice. He half-collapses back onto the cot, setting the water bottle down on the floor next to him and placing the recorder on his chest.
“For the record, I never had any moment of doubt. I knew you’d find a way. You always do.”
Ethan settles back into the thin mattress, letting his eyes slip closed. He’s got a few hours still before the hunger gets bad again. For now he can rest.
“I hope in time you can see this life was not some quirk of fate.”
Following along, his lips form silently around the words as Luther speaks them, caressing the inside of his mouth.
“This was your calling.”
———
Benji’s really getting on his case again. The next time Ethan checks his phone, there’s a ream of unread messages, sent over the course of the last ten days. He should’ve looked at it sooner.
Hey man, how you doing?
You doing okay?
Ethan?
Are you eating at least?
Im gonna come find you if you don’t respond to me.
Ethan. Just checking in
Youre starting to really worry me
Please answer me man. I only need to know if youre alive. I don’t care about anything else
Ethan
Please
I will find you, you know
We’re all worried about you. You still have people who care about you. You can call anytime, anywhere, I’ll pick up. I’m not mad
Proof of life. Just send me that. a thumbs up or something. anything. Then I’ll leave you alone
I promise
He swallows down the resentment and the guilt with a bite of the energy bar in his hand. Benji’s just being nice. But he’s forcing the issue, and now Ethan can’t put it off any longer; he knows the threat of searching for him isn’t an idle one.
Proof, Ethan sends back, and then Sorry. It hurts his knuckles to type. Relief washes over him as he sets his phone down on the floor next to the cot. He won’t have to deal with that again for another week.
He presses play on the recorder.
“I hope you know I’ll always love you, brother. And I will see you again. Though I hope it’s not too—”
Ethan thumbs the rewind.
“—know I’ll always love you, brother. And I will see you—”
“—hope you know I’ll always love you, brother. And I will see—”
“—you know I’ll always love you, brother—”
“—I’ll always love you, brother.”
———
Benji lied to him, obviously. Of course he came looking for him. He shouldn’t have said anything.
He wakes to someone gently shaking his shoulder. “Ethan. Hey.”
His head is pounding. The building is quiet, aside from Benji. Batteries must have died again.
Ethan opens his eyes. It’s light, mid-afternoon. Deep yellow. He feels for the recorder. It had slipped from his chest, down to his side.
Benji’s face comes into focus, breaking out into a smile that’s almost convincing.
“Hey, buddy. It’s good to see you.”
“Benji.” He clears his throat. It’s dry. He needs water.
“Come on. Sit up.”
He lets Benji do the heavy lifting. His hands feel good on shoulders at least, gentle and warm. Ethan avoids his eyes, not wanting to deal with the poorly-concealed look of horror Benji is giving him. He hisses as he gets upright, and his hand wraps around the recorder so Luther doesn’t slide off the cot.
“There we go.” Benji grabs one of the mostly-full water bottles from the floor. “Here.”
Ethan blinks as a wave of dizziness washes over him. It doesn’t sound like anyone else is around. Benji came alone. A small blessing.
“Can you….” He coughs around the dryness in his throat.
“What is it?” Benji’s kneeling in front of him, eager. “Ethan, you should drink.”
“Yeah.” He takes the bottle. “Change these,” he says, offering the recorder to Benji. “The batteries. Table.”
“Sure,” he replies tentatively, frowning down at the recorder as he stands up. “As long as you drink.”
A fair trade. Ethan does. It’s warm, but not as warm as it used to be. The weather is starting to get cooler. He’ll have to relocate soon.
“How long have you been here?” Benji asks, his back to him. Ethan watches his hands work where he stands at the supply table. He can change the batteries a lot faster.
“What day is it?” Ethan asks.
“Thursday.”
“The date.”
Benji turns, recorder in hand, expression pinched. “September 24th.”
“September,” Ethan repeats, frowning. “Uh—I don’t know. Few weeks.”
Benji comes back to his bedside, handing Ethan the recorder. He holds it against his chest.
“I rented out a motorway hotel room you can stay in for the next month,” Benji says, standing over him. “It’s a lot nicer than this place. Is there even running water here?”
“There’s a bathroom on the lower floor.”
“Can you walk?”
He rubs his eyes. “I’m not going anywhere.”
“Ethan—” Benji looks around, eyes lingering on the exposed insulation and pipes. “You can’t stay here.”
“My stuff’s here.”
“The supplies on the table, you mean?” Benji looks over his shoulder. “I can move all of that for you. I have a car.”
Ethan sets the water bottle down on the bed next to him, wiping his mouth. “Leave me alone, Benji. I’m fine.”
“No you’re not, and no I won’t.”
His voice is forceful but not unkind. Ethan finally looks up at him.
“Come with me,” Benji says softly. It’s hard to meet the warmth in his eyes. “We’ll get you cleaned up. You’ll feel better.”
“Benji, I’m fine—”
“It’ll get cold soon,” he interrupts. “You don’t even have a blanket.”
Ethan pauses. “You don’t need to worry about me.”
Benji smiles at him, way too sad. “Yes I do. Come on, Ethan. Please.”
He looks down at Benji’s outstretched hand. It feels good to talk to someone, and Benji’s a nice someone to talk to. It’s not Luther’s voice, but it’s a lot better than silence.
Ethan nods. “Okay. Yeah.”
———
Benji’s uncharacteristically quiet as he drives them to the motel. Ethan doesn’t have the stamina for it; his fingers keep brushing the play button of the recorder, aching for Luther’s voice. Any voice, really.
“What’s wrong with you?” Ethan asks eventually.
Benji gives him a side-eye. “What?”
“When you were moving my things. I saw you wincing.”
“Oh, that.” Benji’s hands shift restlessly on the wheel. It’s really bright outside; Benji gave him his sunglasses to block some of it out. “Nothing major. Risks of the job, y’know. I’m healing.”
He can’t rest his head anywhere but the seat headrest. The car rattles too much. His head lolls against the thin cushion, staring blankly out the front window. “What’s nothing major mean?”
“Well, I….” Benji trails off with a nervous laugh. He looks at Ethan again, properly this time. “Nothing as bad as you.”
“I’m not gonna die if you tell me.” It takes a lot, but he offers Benji a smile. “I can handle it.”
“Just—you look like you’ve got a lot on your mind, is all.” His eyes flick down to the recorder, still clutched to Ethan’s chest. “What is that, by the way?”
“A recorder.”
Benji gives him a sour look. “Ethan.”
“Tell me what happened to you and I’ll tell you what this is,” he bargains.
“No way. You still haven’t even told me what you’ve been up to.”
“You saw what I’ve been up to.”
Benji gives him another one of his pinched worried looks. It makes the lines on his face crease together, especially deep around his eyes. Deeper than Ethan remembers them being.
“Tell me….” Ethan swallows. His throat is dry again. “Tell me what you’ve been doing the past few weeks.”
Benji scoffs. “You’re awfully demanding.”
“I don’t like the sound of my own head. And I like listening to you.”
That seems to be enough to get Benji going. “Uh, well, I’ve been recovering, mostly. Nothing serious, like I said,” he adds quickly. “Decompressing, y’know. Been in London for the most part. But I’ve spent a lot of time in bed, and it’s quite boring if you’re not sleeping, so I’ve been reading French novels to get my vocabulary back up. It’s the only common language I have with Paris that either of us have any fluency in, and she’s stuck around for some reason. Well, kind of. She disappears randomly. Kind of like you. But it’s been good. I’ve been walking Grace through some….”
Ethan closes his eyes as he listens to Benji talk. It’s a soothing babble of noise, and he especially likes hearing about the others. Grace is alive. Paris and Degas are alive. And Benji is here, alive, right in front of him. It’s good to be reminded of it.
thinkin bout r63 girls will and mack (and also leno is there being a douchebag and kinda getting lesbian cucked on snapchat)
so like yeah yeah women in the nhl, the sharks for whatever reason happen to have had a very dude-heavy roster for the last little while, which is why front office goes so hard on mack as the future face of the franchise. she gives them local credibility (much to her chagrin), the intensity rick hammered into her (perhaps even more strongly than he did her brothers, saying that she needed to work twice as hard to get half as far as the boys would), and hashtag girlboss points (look at that lovely young lady! isn’t it so awesome that girls can play hockey here in san jose california! she’s so cool and tough and young and gorgeous!!)
because of the lack of women on the sharks bench in recent memory, some of the fellas have forgotten (perhaps never really knew) how women interact with each other. to them it makes perfect sense that these two rookie girls would glom onto each other in a sea of men, they obviously have more in common. like, uhhh, periods and stuff. they probably synched up or something.
they are kinda intense on the girly cliquey stuff they have going on, though. like, is it normal for them to go out for lunch (and breakfast and dinner and coffee and dessert) just the two of them, even when there’s a loosely-planned team meal on the books? is it normal for them to have scheduled “girls nights” multiple times a week where patty and jumbo (depending on who’s hosting) aren’t allowed to interrupt them? is it normal for them to brush off every guy who tries to pick them up while on the road, making the briefest eye contact over the poor bastard’s shoulder and cackling to each other at some joke they only communicated telepathically, grabbing each other’s arms and thighs and leaning in to catch their breath until the guy gives up?
the hookup thing especially confuses the boys. even though they’ve never seen will or mack pick up while on long roadies, they never seem stressed or frustrated in the same way some of their dude teammates do if they go too long without something. maybe girls just dont need it the same way?
leno is also kinda baffled by it. the will he played with didn’t really have girl friends, she always stuck with him and gabe and their other dude buddies wherever they were playing. it’s not until will starts hanging out with mack 24/7 that he realizes that will was telling the truth when she told him she was bi the first time they got drunk together. in the back of his head he always assumed she was exaggerating her attraction to girls when she wolf-whistled at something foul that was said in the locker room about someone’s sister in the bleachers, or that her making out with chicks at frat parties was largely for him. she usually ended up in his dorm bed after those escapades anyway, leno just thought that was a thing that straight girls do to rile up guys.
but, like, will and mack are fucking. leno could tell from their first facetime call while will was on the road, rooming with mack. when she picked up the call her hair was all mussed, her cheeks all pink. she was slumped against the pillows on her hotel bed, one strap of her tank top slipped off her shoulder. for a moment, there was a sliver of someone else’s bare shoulder off the edge of the screen with just a hint of what leno thought was sideboob before the bed dipped it was gone, and will was looking to that side and past the phone to relay leno asking mack if she’d learned “how terrible of a roommate smitty is?” mack has the gall to say “well, she’s pretty fucking loud,” before falling into a contagious giggle. leno watches will’s face heat up, mouth falling open, mock-scandalized, before cracking into a smile as she whips a pair of plaid pj pants in what appears to be mack’s direction.
and it’s obviously really hot; leno’s not above admitting that he’s gotten a lot of mileage out of the thought of will fucking another girl, but he knows she’s not doing this for him. at least, not entirely. it’s just that will keeps calling him with mack right beside her, holding the camera just low enough to show off the massive hickey on mack’s collarbone. she’ll snap him pictures of mack playing chel in her room, the light from the tv shining off mack’s slick, bruised lips. the last time they chatted on the phone, will apologized for her slightly scratchy voice, at which point mack called across the hotel room “my bad!” before laughing and walking into the bathroom to shower. will lets leno see the aftermath of whatever it is they have going on but won’t give him specifics—won’t give him anything to flesh out the, admittedly, tried and true “girls kissing and one of them is will” method of getting himself off. every time leno tries to make a joke about it (“has mack seen what you let me do to you?”) she just laughs and calls him a freak.
leno’s only hope to really see what it is will does with girls (girl singular, more like, it’s not as if she has much time to be seeing anyone else besides mack) is to, perhaps, bypass her. and mack’s cool: the right kind of intense that leno really appreciates, quite funny, definitely really hot and a welcome addition to certain fantasies—plus she’s got this very obvious possessive streak leno can make use of. by the time will makes them exchange snaps so she can stop playing intermediary for shit they want to pick each other’s brains on, half the messages mack is sending leno are pictures of will: will reaching up to the top cabinet in mack’s kitchenette in jumbo’s garage, her shorts riding all the way up her ass; will laying on her stomach on mack’s bed scrolling tiktok in her underwear and a hoodie with “celebrini” plastered across the back. that kind of thing.
one night shortly after the hoodie photo, leno gets a video of will on her back, camera held right above her face, thrashing weakly against the thighs bracketing her hips as she tries to slow her breath. and mack keeps sending shit like that. sometimes will’ll be on her stomach, face buried in a pillow and knees half collapsed into the bed, shifting to roll over and reach for where mack is standing with her phone out. in those ones, her eyes are always screwed tight, lips parted, and sometimes leno will get the front half of a breathy “fuuuuck” before the clip cuts off.
it gets a little weird. leno and will still keep up like normal—as normal as possible when will is still picking up the phone with crazy sex hair and a smirking mack half in the frame, or is letting leno stare at a massive bruise on her inner thigh on their calls when she’s alone. leno doesn’t know if will even knows that mack’s videos are being taken, but it’s not like he can be that mad at mack. he’s the weirdo tugging one out in the shower thinking of his old fuck buddy’s current… girlfriend? (no, but maybe? he doesn’t know if will’s that kind of bi, whatever) secretly filming her immediately post-orgasm and sending them to him across the country. he’d like to think its just like when he and will jack off on facetime, only he doesn’t have to rely on will’s shaky camera skills while she’s coming.
with the time difference, leno usually gets his fill of mack’s camerawork in the morning, waking up to a couple snaps taken on pacific time the night before long after he’d gone to bed back east. one weekend, though, while will and mack are on an east coast roadie, leno’s wide awake to open them. it’s a little after midnight, but he’s got coursework to get over with the next day before an evening practice, so he’s just stumbled into his dorm. he’s tipsy from the party he just left, and a little overexcited by the prospect of seeing whatever mack’s blessed him with in close to real time, so he trips a bit getting onto his bed. thank god he doesn’t have a roommate this year.
the video starts pretty normally, with will on her back, topless. she’s got her forearms thrown over her face, and the first difference from previous videos that leno notices is that she’s talking. nothing exceptionally coherent, but when the baseline is just heavy breathing and the occasional whine when mack touches her briefly, it’s a bit jarring to hear something close to a sentence like “fuck, please, right there. mack, fuck, more!” being panted out of will’s swollen lips on leno’s tinny phone speaker. working his pants open, leno next notices that will is moving—being moved, pulled up and down the sheets, her tits bouncing a beat behind as she’s shoved around.
and leno knows she’s being shoved because the camera angles down more, cutting off will’s twitching hands grasping onto her elbows as she tries to hide her face to show what must be mack’s hand on will’s hip. mack is knelt between will’s thighs, wearing some kind of weird underwear? no, leno thinks as he gets a hand around himself, no that’s a harness. the black band spanning mack’s hips is a harness attached to a purple strap-on that she’s fucking will with.
because as she’s holding the camera, mack is fucking will. she’s got her phone positioned to get both the bottom half of will’s face that isn’t covered by her arms and where the purple silicone is being driven into her in the shot. the hand on will’s hip lets go and latches onto one of will’s tits, kneading it, and without the anchor at her hip, pulling her where mack wants her, will has to throw her arms open and grab onto the sheet to stay put. she sounds different, leno thinks, hysterical, speeding up his hand. when leno would fuck her—in his dorm last year, in the freshman residence building a block away from where he’s now laying—she would sound similar, but this was more desperate. whinier in a way that leno could make her sometimes, but not for long as it was usually right as he was about to finish too. maybe there’s something to be said for the consistency of plastic dick. maybe will’s getting something now that leno can’t give her.
because leno feels like he’s going to die, staring at an image of will he knows so well that is now, on his screen, completely unfamiliar. will’s eyes have shot open, and leno feels like he’s been caught, but then mack’s saying “you like being pretty for the camera?” and will lets out what sounds like a choked off sob, though leno couldn’t tell with his eyes screwed shut for a moment trying to calm himself down. the clip ends like that, the next one booting up right away. the hand that was on will’s tit—mack’s hand, leno reminds himself—has moved up to cup her neck, tucked in where it meets her shoulder, helping will drive herself down on the plastic cock mack is thrusting up into her as mack continues holding the camera. leno thinks he sees a splotch of spit on will’s turned cheek, but he can’t be sure with how his own hand is shaking holding his phone.
and then will’s hand is latching onto mack’s wrist, shooting in from the side of the frame to pull mack’s hand up and off her neck. she drags mack’s hand towards her face and leno groans into his empty bedroom right as mack clocks it too, laughing a bit to herself, saying “yeah? you need something in your mouth, kibble?” and will whines, like really whines, as she shoves mack’s fingers in her mouth. they hook behind her molars, and leno can just barely see will’s teeth clamp down on the fingertips before she closes her lips around them too.
mack does her best to lean back while leaving one hand in will’s mouth, the other still clutching her phone. she lifts the phone up, getting a wider view of how will is shaking on the bed, legs boneless as they bounce against mack’s thighs every time she thrusts up. with the phone closer to mack’s face, leno hears her let out these breathy little noises, rutting against the base of the strap with each push into will. she sounds nice, leno thinks, maybe when they meet up in person he’ll get to hear more.
mack hums deep in her chest, shark-toothed smile obvious in her voice when she says “is it like this with leonard?” and will’s eyes open, staring right at the camera again, her lips parting around mack’s fingers like she wants to respond. mack doesn’t let her, saying “i know you like when i send him videos afterwards, do you like showing him how good i make you feel?”
will whines around mack’s fingers at that, shutting her eyes tight against the camera lens—against the apparently ever-present knowledge of leno watching her through it, against leno’s newfound knowledge that she knew the whole time—and in his dark and empty bedroom, face lit with nothing but his phone screen, leno thinks that maybe he has died. that maybe the eternal afterlife god decided he has earned with his entire existence is getting to watch will writhe around on someone else’s cock while thinking about his. leno has no time to even consider where that’s landed him judgement-wise, because mack is wrenching her hand out of will’s mouth and grasping her by the jaw. “you gonna tell him how good it feels?” mack purrs.
will tries to answer when mack’s hand leaves her face and slips down out of frame, but then she twitches and settles back, jaw slack. “god, smitty, if leno makes you act like this i’m going to have to try him, right?” mack laughs, and will huffs out an “oh my fucking god, please, mack, fuck,” as the camera pans from her face and chest down to where mack is rubbing at her clit, hand framing the purple silicone still being pushed into her. “you gonna show me how you treat a lady, leonard?” mack says quietly into the phone, zooming the camera slightly as she presses the purple silicone into will until their hips are perfectly flush. will makes this little noise high in her throat and the video ends.
leno almost doesn’t realize the video has ended because he’s already running that last sound will made under mack talking to him all low on a loop in his head. he frantically loads up the first clip to watch again and comes about halfway through, collapsing back into his pillows, the phone in his hand crashing into the blankets beside him. when he’s able to move again, he opens his phone back up to see mack’s stupid bitmoji peeking up from the corner and a chat message. “u enjoyed? 👀👀”
a notification from will pops down and leno clicks it. it’s a chat message saying “also we’re in boston this weekend. when are you free?”
I think @randomartist-draws-stuff @k3echie @sewing-threatx3 will want to see this
Idk if i should tag Kai or not if anyone decides that this deserves to be shown to them - tag them in a reblob
Alright enough yapping time to get to a different kind of yapping
It all started with candy.
Candy he kept leaving at the train station.
Just for her.
Every time he came back.
The candy was gone.
Signaling that she has seen it and took it.
He thought of those as a little gifts.
Just for fun!
He had never thought she has grown attracted towards him.
He had never noticed how she stalked him from the vents, watched him pass by, talked to him with so much emotion.
All these hazy gazes
Gasps
Accidental touches
Her always sticking around...
He should've seen it coming
Yet he didn't.
Until one day.
It all clicked.
The day
She has revealed everything. The day she has offered herself to him...
And he took her.
He was coming back to check the candy, expecting to see it disappeared.
But what he found
Was her
Standing right where he left the box.
"Yatta? What are you doing here?"
"H-hi there! I-i just" She moves her hands as if to cover herself. He has never seen her so unconfident.
"You've been leaving candy here for a while now... i took it every single time. I... couldn't resist. Yet, you kept leaving it there... as if for me to take. I..."
Deep breath. Awkward shift of stance. She's so nervous.
"I began thinking that... you cared for me... i started to feel... stuff... when i'm near you... my heart flutters... i... think i'm in love."
Her sentence ends with a ragged gasp, as if these words took her a lot of effort.
"Yatta..."
Everything clicked. Everything slided in place. Now he understood.
"S-so i came here to ask one question..."
A surge of confidence. She steps forward. Just one step.
"Do. You. Love. Me?"
A hard question, almost a statement. She barely noticeably recoils, suddenly aware and afraid of her outburst. She stands silently, fidgeting her fingers, waiting for an answer.
He can't break her heart.
"Yatta, i..."
He mustn't.
He gently hugged her. He felt her fur against his palms. He felt her body, almost weightless, fall onto him. He held her tight... realising that he didn't want to let go.
"I... love you too."
A lie. A lie for the greater good. He couldn't break her heart.
She hugs back, her head resting on his chest. She's crying. He gently holds her.
"Shhh... it's okay... it's okay."
Slowly. Very slowly she calms down.
"T-thank you..."
"For what?"
"F-for accepting me..."
"How could i not accept you?"
She nuzzles into him.
He gently pats her on the back. He is not used to this, he doesn't know what to do.
But he definetly likes this.
She raises her head. Takes a look at his eyes. He sees longing for the connection, begging him to stay and not go. She pulls even closer, her mouth almost touching his.
"Can i?" She asks, uncertain and hesitant.
"Yes" he replies.
And she proceeds. With a kiss. Right on the lips.
They both give in quickly. It's long and passionate. She pours in everything she has pent up in these days. All the longing, the love, the need to be close. And he... accepts it. Because it's the best thing he can do for her.
At last, she pulls back.
"That was..."
"Perfect."
"Yeah, Perfect."
Maybe he wasn't so indiffirent to her after all. Maybe he can be the lover she deserves.
They keep standing, holding onto each other, not wanting to let go.
A few minutes later, he pulls back.
"It's getting late... we should probably go to sleep."
"Y-yeah... can i... uhh... sleep? With you?"
"... sure."
They go over to his bedroom. It's quiet, most toons are asleep by now, their slumber peaceful. However, one sneaky gal is still up...
Connie watches them from afar. She's delighted with what she sees, it'll be lots of nice gossip to discuss with Gigi or Flutter.
But back to our couple.
They went to Dyle's room. She instantly swept herself under the blankets, curling up. He soon joined her, crawling into the bed and under the blanket. He hugged her carefully, and she had hugged him back.
"This is nice..." he murmured.
"Yeah" she replied, nuzzling into him.
And just like that, they both slowly fell asleep, holding each other in a tight, happy hug.
In the morning, he woke up first. He sat, recalling the events of the past night.
"Was it a dream?"
Judging by the big colorful furball resting against his side, it was not. He gently pet her, and she emitted a quiet purr. It stirred a smile, both on his face and inside his heart.
"I am definetly in love" he declared to himself while sinking back into the bed and hugging her tightly. She purred beside him sleepily, still not awake.
Much, much later she finally stirred, blinking heavily. As she came to her senses, she noticed him lying beside her and smiled warmly. He smiled back.
"Yuuji went out because I invited him," Gojo says simply. The red in Sukuna's vision is back. "I put him on the mission file. He's a student, so you'll have to get used to Yuuji holding his own. I wanted to assess where he was."
"You sent him out to die."
"No, I sent him out with Megumi."
today on, "why is sukuna itadori having a bad day?" beyond his significant lack of mood stabilizers, there is: megumi fushiguro and his almost-fight with his father, dinner with a half-curse, and of course, attempting to kill satoru gojo, picking fights to keep from feeling things, and possibly losing grasp of reality
