#HE WILL COME HOME. THAT IS A THREAT AND A PROMISE

[callsigns-haze]

A night out

Pairing: Azriel x Reader

Summary: You and Azriel have a really dark relationship where the man literally worships you. While you tease him all night at the restaurant you two are at, he reminds you that at home you're still his.

Warning: Mentions of explicit sexual content, dominant/submissive dynamics, suggestive language, mild humour and shadow daddy Azriel obsession.

The restaurant is stunning—of course it is. Velaris never offered anything less. The vaulted ceiling sparkles with starlight enchantments, ambient music drifting from a corner harp. The entire place exudes class and restraint.

Too bad you’ve never been great at either.

You sit across from your mate at a private table tucked into a shadowed alcove. The lighting is low, intimate. Your heel slowly slides up the inside of his leg beneath the table. His jaw ticks.

Azriel hasn’t spoken in over a minute.

You sip from your wine glass, the picture of innocence. “Something wrong, love?”

His eyes flick up from his menu. Glacial. Controlled.

Dangerous.

But you just smile sweetly, sliding your foot higher under the table, grazing his thigh.

Azriel doesn’t move. But his shadows coil tighter around his shoulders like they’re trying to contain him, to warn him. It only makes your smile widen.

“I’m just trying to enjoy my meal,” he says coolly, voice dark and even. “But someone seems determined to make that impossible.”

You lean forward on your elbows, cleavage just barely dipping over the neckline of your dress—that dress, the one he said should be illegal in public. “Maybe I just wanted to see how long you could last.”

His knuckles go white around his wine glass.

You continue, your voice low and silk-sweet. “It’s been such a long week, hasn’t it? Thought you might want something to look forward to.” You trail your fingers around the rim of your own glass, tilting your head. “You like it when I tease you.”

Azriel exhales slowly through his nose. “I like it when you behave.”

You hum. “No you don’t.”

His hand comes down on the table, quiet but final. The silver ring on his finger clinks faintly against the wood. “You’re on very thin ice.”

“You love it,” you whisper. Then, under the table, you press your foot right between his legs—lightly, delicately, but just enough.

Azriel doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t blink.

He just stares at you with that lethal, smouldering calm.

“You know what’s going to happen when we get home,” he murmurs, voice like shadow-wrapped silk. “You know I’ll ruin you for this.”

You grin like it’s a promise and not a threat. “Then why wait?”

That’s when his shadows crawl across the edge of the table. Subtle. Controlled. Sliding up your thigh like cool silk, invisible to anyone outside your little bubble of candlelight.

Your breath hitches. Just once.

Azriel leans forward, resting his chin on his hand, lips quirking in the faintest, smug curl. “Careful, sweetheart,” he purrs. “You’re playing a game I’ve already won.”

The tension between you and Azriel crackles like lightning through the velvet-dark air, barely contained within the soft glow of candlelight.

His shadows have retreated under the table—for now—but his golden eyes stay pinned to yours. Still smouldering. Still dangerous. One wrong move, one more flutter of your lashes, and this dinner will be cut short with you carried out the door.

And then—

“Two house specialties,” the waiter says brightly, appearing beside the table like he’s just stepped into a war zone with absolutely no armour. “One chocolate ganache torte with violet cream, and one lavender honey custard with sugared petals.”

Azriel doesn’t blink.

You flash the waiter a too-sweet smile, voice syrupy with mischief. “Thank you so much. It looks divine.”

The poor male beams, oblivious to the way Azriel’s shadows twitch, like they’d rather be wrapping around your wrists than letting you eat dessert. “Enjoy, both of you. Let me know if you need anything else.”

Azriel doesn’t even look at him.

You do, though—smiling sweetly as the server walks away, giving him a chirpy, “Will do!”

When you turn back, your spoon already halfway to the ganache, Azriel still hasn’t touched his dessert. His jaw is clenched. His fingers trace the edge of the table like he’s picturing your thighs spread over it.

“You’re in trouble,” he murmurs, low and lethal.

You scoop a bite of torte and place it delicately on your tongue, moaning—just a little.

“I know,” you whisper around the spoon, eyes sparkling.

Across the table, Azriel smiles.

But it’s the kind of smile that promises ruin.

Azriel still hasn’t touched his dessert. His honeyed eyes remain locked on you, burning and unblinking, while you slowly, deliberately take another bite of ganache and moan again—just a little too loud. Just enough to make his knuckles twitch against the tablecloth.

But even as the tension hums between you like a taut string, you lean back in your chair with the ease of someone not the least bit sorry. You sigh, satisfied, swirling the remaining wine in your glass.

“So,” you say casually, like you aren’t sliding your foot along the inside of his calf again, “I spent the whole godsdamned day with Nyx and Gearan after work.”

Azriel’s brow arches. “Both of them? I swear they always drop them off now and never ask.”

You nod solemnly. “Five-year-old Nyx, who now believes shadows are for riding and insists on calling me ‘Shadow Queen,’ and three-year-old Gearan, who bit me because I wouldn’t let him eat a handful of moss.”

Azriel huffs a quiet laugh—just a breath through his nose—but you see the corners of his mouth twitch upward.

You hum thoughtfully, licking chocolate from your spoon just to test his restraint. “You know, Cassian swears he’s going to grow out of the biting.”

Azriel leans back in his seat, finally lifting his fork. “Cassian also once told me wine wasn’t an appropriate drink for toddlers. And yet I’m fairly certain Gearan chugged half a cup of Night Court spiced cider before Feyre noticed.”

You snort. “That would explain the sprinting. He scaled the back of the couch like a bat.”

Azriel finally takes a bite of his dessert, gaze still fixed on you over the edge of the fork. “And how did Nyx behave?”

“Oh, he was perfect,” you say sweetly. “He only destroyed three of your reports.”

Azriel’s fork pauses midair. “Which ones?”

“The ones marked ‘Eyes Only: High Lord and Spymaster.’”

His head tips just slightly, and his shadows curl at his ankles.

“I’m kidding,” you grin. “Mostly. One of them is now a spaceship. The other two are... missing.”

He stares at you for a beat. “I should ground you.”

“You should thank me,” you chirp. “Nyx said I’m better than Cassian because I don’t smell like sweat and war. He also said I look like I belong in a painting.”

Azriel’s mouth twitches. “He has taste.”

You raise your glass in a mock toast. “And Gearan gave me a pinecone. So I’m basically everyone’s favourite.”

Azriel’s golden gaze darkens just slightly as he sets down his fork and leans forward over the table. “You’re my favourite,” he murmurs, voice dropping low. “But if you don’t stop teasing me like this in public, I swear to the Mother—”

“What?” you cut in sweetly, tilting your head. “You’ll punish me?”

Azriel’s smile is all sharp, quiet promise. “No. I’ll wait. And then I’ll make you beg for it.”

Your heart skips a beat. But still—still—you reach for another bite of dessert with an infuriating little smirk.

“Good,” you murmur. “I was planning on skipping sleep tonight anyway.”

Azriel’s jaw flexes as he leans back, arms crossing over his broad chest while his shadows flicker around his shoulders—coiled, tense, like they’re ready to drag you out of this candlelit restaurant and into the first dark corner they can find.

But instead of growling or storming from the table the way you almost expect him to, he exhales a long, slow breath… and smiles.

It’s not a kind smile.

It’s not even a patient one.

It’s the calm-before-the-storm sort of smile. The “you’ve made your choice—now you’ll live with it” sort of smile.

Which only makes your grin widen.

Still, conversation between you flows smoothly, so fluid and effortless it would almost fool anyone watching—if they couldn’t feel the tension vibrating like a live wire between you.

“So, when are you going to tell Rhys that Nyx is absolutely planning a prison break with his cousins?” you ask innocently, toying with the last petal on your dessert plate.

Azriel’s brow lifts. “He’s five.”

“He’s persuasive,” you counter. “He told Gearan he could fly a stolen Illyrian ship if he was brave enough. And then asked me if prison cells come with window views.”

Azriel sighs. “He’s been spending too much time around Nesta.”

You raise your wine glass again, wiggling your brows. “I don’t know. I think it’s more of a ‘nature over nurture’ thing. He’s your nephew. He’s got that little danger glint.”

Azriel’s eyes don’t leave yours. “So do you.”

“Must be contagious.”

He chuckles once, low and quiet, his tongue just briefly brushing the inside of his cheek as he studies you.

Then, as if nothing inside him is vibrating with tension, he says, “Cassian wants to do a family dinner soon.”

“With Gearan and his moss snacks?”

“With everyone.”

You pause, lowering your glass. “At the River House?”

“Or Windhaven.”

Your eyes narrow. “You want to take Nyx, Gearan, and me to Windhaven? Where the beds are like rocks and the baths are always cold?”

Azriel’s shadows curl tighter around his ankles. “I want to watch you try to survive it.”

“Oh,” you breathe, “you’re feeling brave tonight.”

Azriel just smirks, that infuriating, devastating smirk, and raises a slow bite of custard to his mouth. “I don’t need to feel brave, love. I just need to make it through dessert.”

“Mm,” you hum, swiping your finger through the last of the cream on your plate and licking it off. “I wouldn’t count on that. I may ask for a third course.”

His fork freezes midair.

Your smile turns lethal.

Azriel leans in slightly, voice a threat wrapped in velvet: “Make your next move wisely, wife.”

But you? You just lean forward too, dragging your spoon between your teeth as you whisper, “I’m already three moves ahead, mate.”

Azriel lifts one hand without taking his burning golden eyes off you, two fingers raised in a silent signal.

The waiter is at your side almost instantly. Whether he was watching from afar or simply sensed the force of Azriel’s authority, he doesn’t hesitate.

“Yes, sir?”

“The bill,” Azriel says smoothly, already pulling a sleek obsidian-black card from the inner pocket of his tailored jacket. The shadows curled around his wrist retract just slightly—coiling back like they too are done playing games.

But you?

Oh, you’re not.

You slide a folded stack of cash across the table with practiced ease. Neat, crisp bills pressed together and slipped low, slow, toward his hand.

Azriel’s fingers don't flinch from the card.

His eyes flick down once, then back to your face.

And then—with the sort of disdain that makes your heart stutter in your chest—he flicks the cash back at you with a single sharp movement of his middle finger. It’s so smooth, so dismissively dominating, it takes a half-second to register that he’s just told you to shove it and flipped you off in one impossibly elegant motion.

The bills flutter back into your lap like falling feathers.

You blink once.

And then—

“Don’t insult me, woman,” Azriel says, his voice low, rough silk dragged across stone. His shadows swirl tight against his legs now, like they’re holding him back from devouring you right then and there.

The waiter awkwardly clears his throat, blinking between the two of you—clearly unaware of the undercurrents, but smart enough to sense that whatever is happening, he doesn’t want to be a part of it.

Azriel hands him the card without breaking eye contact with you.

You pick the money off your lap with slow, deliberate grace and tuck it back into your clutch, head tilting just slightly. A smirk ghosts over your lips.

“Touchy,” you murmur.

Azriel’s smile is small. Dangerous.

“Careful.”

As the waiter retreats with the signed bill, barely masking the tension in his shoulders, the atmosphere between you and Azriel thickens—not with anger, but with something far more potent. That magnetic, suffocating intimacy only the two of you know how to wield. You feel it wrap around your throat like silk and shadow.

Azriel rises slowly, all lethal grace and quiet dominance, the soft creak of his chair the only sound you register as your heartbeat picks up.

Without a word, he steps behind your chair and slides it back with one hand, the scrape of wood on marble muted by the hush of the restaurant. His free hand moves to your shoulder with firm possession, the weight of it grounding you—reminding you exactly who you belong to.

You look up at him with all the sweetness of a trap laid bare. He only lifts a brow. “Up,” he says, low and sharp as tempered steel.

You rise with a coy little smile, expecting him to step aside and let you lead.

But instead, he shifts into place, extending one strong, tattooed arm slightly to the side in an unmistakable cue. A silent demand: wrap your arm around mine.

You blink once—because it’s unnecessary. You’re his mate. You’re leaving a restaurant, not being escorted through a court.

But the look he gives you? You obey before you even realize you’re moving.

Your hand slides through the crook of his elbow, settling snugly around his forearm, your body folding into his side without hesitation. He doesn’t move right away. He just lets you cling there for a beat too long, like he wants people to see it. To understand: you’re his.

The waiter reappears awkwardly, fur coat in hand. Azriel accepts it with a nod of thanks, not sparing the male more than a glance. Then he turns his attention back to you—unfolding the coat like a sacred offering.

He holds it open with precision, standing close enough for you to feel the heat of him behind you. You slip your arms in slowly, savouring the chill of fur against bare skin—and the burn of Azriel’s fingers ghosting down your arms as he pulls it up your shoulders, straightening it with infuriating care.

His mouth brushes your ear from behind as he leans in, voice pitched for only you.

“That smug little smile of yours,” he whispers, each syllable a velvet threat, “won’t be so cute when I’ve got your legs tied to the bedposts and my shadows stuffed in your mouth to keep you quiet.”

Your knees almost buckle.

He doesn’t give you the satisfaction of reacting to it. He only presses a single kiss beneath your ear and straightens, his palm skimming dangerously low over your waist as he guides you forward, arm still laced through yours.

You don’t look back. You don’t need to.

You feel every eye watching as the two of you walk out—like shadows and starlight made flesh.

Reblogs, comments and asks always appreciated!

credits @tsunami-of-tears to for the dividers!

[kakusu-shipping]

Oh my god please please please would it maybe be alright if you write another Familial Tenna post maybe pretty please I don’t care what you write exactly it can be absolutely anything I just need you to cook again because the Tenna post absolutely destroyed me and I promise on my whole bloodline that post made me shed real, actual tears because of how good it was like you have no idea what you did to me you absolutely broke and healed me both at the same time. I think you fixed my whole life like I’m not kidding right now

Oh. My god??? I'm glad I could???? Affect your life thusly????? I assume in a good way my god my dude. No no no you right a good Parental F/O does do that to a person though.

Speaking of, I got a ficlet for you if you want it.

His Little Star

Parental!Tenna X GN!Reader

In which your dad is entirely too excited to see you, as always.

A swift, strong knock came to Mr. Ant Tenna's office door. You looked up, sat at a comically large desk, with even more comically large writing implements, one of which you held over a review of last weeks schedule, covered in scribbles and doodles

"Who is it?" You asked, pulling yourself up on your knees to see better over the large desk.

The door cracked, and a large boxy head peaked in around the corner, a large smile plastered across the screen.

"It's Daddy!" Tenna beamed, stepping into the room, "Recording's all done for tonight, Starlight, ready to head home?"

You beamed back and nodded, jumping from Tenna's larger than life office chair before crossing the room, where you were immediately scooped into the TV man's arms.

"I'm sorry to leave you alone so long today," Tenna lamented, pressing you to his screen, the static made you giggle, "Mike works Daddy too haard we had to do soooooo many retakes."

As he whined, Tenna walked back to his desk, in significantly less steps than it'd taken you to get to him.

"You must have been so looonely without meeeee," Without eyes he looked down to you expectantly. You giggled and gave a nod to confirm you did miss him. Tenna hugged you tightly too himself and continued.

"I TOLD Mike you'd be lonely, that SURELY some of this could wait till tomorrow, but he just wouldn't listen." Holding you securly with one hand, Tenna slipped the paper you'd been doodling on across the desk and to himself. "What's all this?"

You pulled yourself up to Tenna's shoulders, taking the paper and pointing to each doodle, giving a quick explanation for each one.

They were all rather simple, there was the Pippin who'd brought you dinner, and Mike who'd come to play with you for a while after that, and Ramb who came in after Mike had to go, a couple of Shadowguys playing their instruments, the contestants from tonight's late night recording you'd watched live, and finally,

"Is that ME??" Tenna's voice broke and you could hear the threat of tears in his throat. Next to him, of course, was you, taller than you actually were, or maybe Tenna was just shorter, and the two of you were holding hands.

"Ooooh my little Angel it's PERFECT!!" Tenna squeezed you suddenly to his chest and spun, a flower erupting from the tip of his nose, "My star's such an artist!! so talented so gifted!! We should get this framed! Oooh we should have an art segment on TV time and YOU-"

He stopped spinning and placed you down, kneeling to one knee to join you

"You will be the star! Yes! It's perfect! I have to tell Mike of this right away!" Tenna sprang back up, flinging the door to his office open, still tightly gripping your drawing as he bolted out of the room.

You watched him from the doorway as the larger than life lord of screens ran down the backstage halls of Tenna Studio, stopping to squat to level with any poor staff member he'd come across to force your drawings into their face, before springing back up with a twirl, and taking off again.

You stifled a giggle as you followed him, at a much more leisurely pace. A few Pippins gave you a pitying look as you walked, but you didn't mind. So what if your dad was a bit eccentric? So what if he was constantly over exaggerating your achievements and forcing everyone around you to celebrate them? So what if he was CONSTANTLY trying to greenlight a segment on TV Time you could star in, no matter how many Mike turned down?

At least you knew you were loved. And that nothing could change that.

[dodger-chan]

So I don't know if I have the time/energy right now to turn it into a fully fleshed out fic, but here are the notes I made for @wheneverfeasible 's fake dating post:

Canon adjacent, Eddie lives au. Probably post everything, but maybe just post earthquakes with threat of future Vecna issues looming in the background.

Eddie’s at his and Wayne’s new government funded little house with Dustin and Steve (maybe other party members if needed for set up) when a woman who looks a lot like his mother (and him) shows up. She apologizes, says this was the only address for a Munson listed in Hawkins. Conversation is very stilted. It’s obvious to everyone present that Eddie and this woman (lets just call her Catherine for convenience) are related and just as obvious that they don’t know who the other is. Steve drags a protesting Dustin out of the house (plus any other party members, but they require less dragging) and Eddie and Cath have their talk.

Cath is Eddie’s aunt, his mom’s youngest sister (something like eight years and at least two other siblings between them). About twenty years ago, Elisabeth (I think that’s Eddie’s mom’s name) started seeing Al Munson. Their dad issued an ultimatum: Al or her family. Elisabeth chose Al (and Eddie as she was pregnant, but Cath was a kid and didn’t catch that part). Anyway, mean grandpa had a heart attack and has reconsidered the harshness of his initial stance, or maybe he died and it’s grandma who’s reconsidering. Either way, Cath saw Hawkins on the news, and felt like she needed to reach out before it was too late.

Eddie has to break it to her that she is, in fact, too late.

At some point Steve comes back, because the only way he could keep Dustin from biking back to Eddie’s the second Steve dropped him off was to promise to go back himself and get Eddie to radio Dustin an all clear. So Steve is there when Cath resolves that it may be too late to have a relationship with her sister, but she can have one with her nephew. There’s a family event (grandpa’s 60th? graduation for one of Eddie’s cousins? once a decade reunion? big fourth of july party?) in a few weeks and she wants Eddie to come and to stay with her, her husband, and their two kids (younger than the party, but not babies)

Eddie is kinda wary of the whole thing; he’s never been welcomed by most people and his mom’s family sounds too mainstream to be cool with DnD and metal, too well-off to be comfortable around trailer trash. So he’s coming up with excuses trying to get rejected now instead of later and blurts out that he has a boyfriend. That actually does cause Cath to pause, but only to draw an incredibly incorrect conclusion about Steve before saying that of course coming alone would be hard for Eddie, he should definitely bring his boyfriend along for moral support. Neither Steve nor Eddie have a chance to explain that they’re not dating before Cath goes home, leaving Eddie with directions to her house (four to six-ish hours away from Hawkins), and the dates she expects them to be there, as well as her phone number in case he gets lost en route.

After some discussion with Wayne, Eddie decides to go. Steve tags along in the role of supportive boyfriend.

An incomplete list of things to happen on the trip, in no particular order

Eddie gets told stories about his mom as a kid.

Eddie tells stories about his mom as a mother and how she influenced him.

Eddie worries about having to share a bed with Steve, only to find out that Steve’s sleeping alone on the pull out sofa while he’s sharing a room with one of his younger cousins. Cue mild offense that he’s not supposed to sleep next to his (fake) boyfriend. Once he and Steve are actually dating, he considers joining Steve but decides not to, as he thinks he wants to keep at least some of his new extended family and fucking in their guest room would probably spoil that.

As @wheneverfeasible suggested, an adult relative uses a homophobic slur and Steve decks him. The conversation he and Steve have after is when Eddie finds out Steve is queer, too.

Eddie bonds with one of Cath’s kids over Lord of the Rings. The one he's sharing a room with, so they stay up all night talking about hobbits.

Steve does various athletic things with Eddie’s teenaged cousins, seemingly effortlessly including all the ones who seem interested in some sportsball activities.

Cath becomes Aunt Kitty-Cath to Eddie.

There are fireworks and Eddie has to talk Steve through some panic about them.

It needs a bit more fleshing out, but I think there's the bones of a decent story if anyone wants to take it from here (no promises either way on if I try to take it from here, but I keep thinking about that first conversation between Cath and Eddie so I might try to do something with that scene over the weekend).

[syndrossi]

hi,

*sits down, pulls a cup of hot cocoa to the table and crosses legs*

i’d offer you one but this is virtual. so i’ll just wave.

so i havent been able to read the latest chapter and so tonight i finally get a chance to do so. i dont know if others will get this but like, i need to be in the right Zone, to read stories i like. i reread the previous chaps just to refresh the story, etc. and i keep laughing to myself bc suddenly i have another reason to pause my reading to come here and send you this ask.

and it is:

it’s so funny to me that there eventually may be a moment when the Targs and the Small Council all kinda realize the warlocks Volanteens are only interested in Daemon’s sons. like that has been the goal, solely. idk throw in reports on how the targ dragonspawn stopped ‘disappearing’ around the discovery of the twins. Which led to so many funny interactions in my opinion.

people wondering why it’s Daemon’s kids specifically, Daemon answers very obviously: it’s his kids, duh. Of course they want the best and brightest. No offense to Rhaenyra, but that would be his babies. Price of greatness, he shrugs. Whilst Otto is there in the corner, all angry that Alicent’s sons haven’t even been spared a glance to getting kidnapped, it’s alllll about Daemon’s kids. Even though, huh, he should feel happy that his grandsons are safe from this threat— why is Viserys still talking to Daemon?! What else could they be discussing??

meanwhile, Rhaenyra and Laenor just happy their sons are okay. right?

ok, now imma try to read.

Hope the hot cocoa was delicious! It's 100F here, so I'm somewhat less tempted lol. But I am having pizza tonight because it's D&D night.

I mean, there are only two children whose capture promises a reward equal to the GDP of Braavos (per child). That alone is pretty striking. All of the attempts have focused on the twins thus far, too. It can't be excused as them being "perfect candidates" because they have small hatchlings, either. The same is true of Rhaenyra's sons, all of whom are even younger. (Granted, if you were, say, Jace and kidnapped by Volantis who wanted to use you as a dragonrider, I don't know how much rah rah Volantis propaganda could overcome "but seriously I'm heir to the Iron Throne once my mother ascends and could just...go home rather than be the pet dragonrider of a city." But Luke and Joff are good alternatives.)

On the other hand, there haven't been a ton of opportunities with the other littles yet, so the threat can't be dismissed entirely, even though it's likely that Viserys suspects there may be some connection with the boys' PTWP qualities and the warlocks' interest. Which is good! If Otto is worried about his grandsons' safety, he's more likely to be a good-faith ally against Volantis. But it does seem like Viserys and Daemon are keeping something from him.

We don't actually know whether the kidnapping targets reflect what the warlocks want or what Volantis itself wants. Definitely the warlocks want to get their hands on the twins. Would Volantis settle for Joff + tiny Tyraxes if the opportunity presented itself? I don't think they'd be as happy given that the warlocks claimed their dragon eggs were special and the twins ended up with them.

[dokoni-mo]

this is a very specific question i think, but if say bunny and michael get into a massive argument and william is nearby, and michael says smth rlly hurtful or fucked up, is william the type to come in between them to stop it, or is he the type to comfort bunny later??

anon you got my writing juices flowing so i wrote a little blurb about this its below the cut LMAOO

tws: William being terrible, as usual (swearing, threats, etc.), Michael being mean

Michael and (Y/N) had been upstairs far too long for William's liking. His son had brought them home unannounced, something about that damned Atari system again. William should have never bought that dumb boy the stupid thing, but (Y/N) seemed to like it quite a bit whenever they came over. That was the only silver lining. Seeing them again and again.

The muffled sounds of his son's conversation with (Y/N) grew louder and louder as the hours grew longer and the sun began to set, and William's jaw was beginning to hurt from how hard he had been clenching it. That damned Michael. He didn't realize how lucky he was, able to be around you all the time without a care in the world. The brat didn't deserve it. He couldn't take care of you the way William could; make you smile and laugh and happy as he could. William tried to remain as cool as he could, but the stack of cigarettes in his ashtray grew larger and larger, and there were only so many newspapers he could read before getting tired of them.

Listening in closely, the loud conversation seemed to start to die down, turning into muffled tones. This caught the brit's attention. Why weren't you laughing any more? Why didn't it sound like you were having a fun time? Damned Michael must have messed everything up.

Again.

Stubbing out his current cigarette, William took it upon himself to investigate. Silently, the climbed up the stairs of his home up to the landing, walking down the hallway until he was greeted with his eldest's door. It was ajar, just like William expected of Michael, so it was much easier to eavesdrop on the conversation, his back pressed against the wall.

"(Y/N), come on! Are you serious?" William heard his son say, clearly frustrated. His brow furrowed, and he stepped closer to Michael's door. He knew why Michael was on edge; all the double shifts he had him run at the diner. But that wasn't any reason to be rude.

Not to you.

"You promised that you'd go with me! You can't just back out now!" Michael continued.

"I'm doing my best, Mike!" You said back, clearly trying to defend yourself but also keep the mood light and fun. "I've got a lot of classes to keep track of, and I need to keep up my grades if I wanna keep my scholarship. I'm not trying to flake on you, I just need to pass that mid."

A few beeps and sound effects came from the speaker in the TV, and they couldn't mean anything good in terms of the little game you were playing. Michael groaned sharply, and his voice lowered.

"This is why you don't have any fucking friends."

Silence stretched over the room, and William could just tell that you were hurt. It made his blood boil, Michael thinking he had the nerve to say something so horrible to you, and imagining your adorable little face with a frown. He knew he had to step in.

William took in a deep breath and waited a few moments before softly knocking on Michael's door, pushing it open with is best rehearsed gentle smile. Immediately, you looked up at him along with Michael, and it made his heart hurt seeing the saddened look on your face.

"Oh, my, looks like you two are having fun, yes? Hate to ruin the party." William chuckled gently, and Michael's eyes rolled.

"What do you want, dad?" Michael hissed, "I told you to leave us alone."

A muscle in William's jaw twitched, but he held his tongue.

"Right, well, (Y/N), I'm afraid it's time for you to return home, love. Michael and I need to open the diner early tomorrow, but you're welcome to return any time you like."

Michael's brow furrowed in confusion, but you were already nodding with a little half-hearted smile.

"It's alright. I understand." You said, putting down the atari controller and gathering your belongings. William held the door for you as you walked out of Michael's room, and followed you down the stairs to see you off.

"Thanks again for having me, Mr. Afton." You said as you stepped out of the front door, looking back to say goodbye to William. He felt his heart warm. "I'm sorry if we were, like, loud or whatever."

The brit chuckled, "Oh, not at all, darling. Thank you for keeping that boy of mine entertained. You get home safe, yes?"

You nodded your head before turning to leave, and William shut the door gently behind you. Behind him, he heard that brat walk down the stairs, confusion in his voice.

"You said I could have tomorrow off." Michael said curtly, his arms crossed over his chest. William's brow furrowed as he turned to face his son, his jaw set and shoulders stiff.

Slowly, coldly, William walked up to Michael, stopping just inches away from his face. William's grey eyes were dark as he stared down Michael from the bridge of his nose, his tone low. Dangerous. Fucking pissed.

"Speak to (Y/N) like that again, and I'll gut you like the ungrateful son of a bitch you are." William growled lowly, and he watched the color drain from Michael's face. "Do I make myself clear?"

Michael opened his mouth like a dying fish before gulping, nodding his head hard enough to make his feathered hair bounce.

"Y-Yes, father."

William gave Michael one last glare before walking off, heading to the door to his basement workshop.

"You work another double tomorrow. If you're late again, I'm cutting your pay in half."

[madamechrissy]

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ Satoru Gojo Long Fics ˚୨୧⋆ ˚｡⋆

All of my Satoru Gojo fics over 20k

Time after Time- Finished- Wc: 103k- (Ao3) CEO Gojo x fem assistant reader, you're his lead assistant and you put in your two weeks notice, because your boss is a grade A ASS- so Satoru Gojo pulls out ALL the stops to keep you. Is he who you thought he was, or more? Smutty/fun/sweet - my first Gojo fic

Take Me Home Tonight - Finished-Wc: 136k- law professor Gojo/x law student (A03) you hook up with a sexy white haired man at a club after passing your bar, only to be in his class two months later!?!? How can you handle falling in love with your professor, and can you both keep this a secret? Very witty/lots of banter, law setting-smutty and sweet

Fractured Desires - Finished- explicit- wc 95k (angsty/ toxic/smutfest) Ao3 You're Suguru Geto's girlfriend, and he decides to 'share you'- which becomes a fkn MESS, when you find out that Satoru has wanted you all along, and Suguru isn't who you think he is. (Starts off as Sugu/reader- Extremely explicit-yandere asf, Evil suguru, psycho Gojo)

Silent Serenades - Finished- wc 152k - You are promised to marry the handsome Duke Gojo, you're the diamond of the season, after all. Only thing is, he HATES you, and has no intention of being faithful. Now you're stuck in a loveless marriage that eats you from within, but you won't let him break you down. Angsty arranged marriage AU, love triangle, toxic- set in the 1800s- cruel Duke Gojo- AO3

Healing Hearts -Dr. Gojo/intern-ongoing- 70k You're an exhausted intern, living with your three friends, Maki, Toge and Yuuta, and you just so happen to be Dr. Gojo's intern. - or as you soon call him 'Dr. Hojo' he seems perfect, but he's hiding a dark secret. The two of you couldn't be more different, is there any hope? Hospital setting - angsty Ao3

Baby You're a Star - you meet Satoru Gojo at a wild Hollywood party, the two of you hit it off, but he is the top pornstar there is. You don't sleep around, soon Satoru can't get hard without thinking of you, and you get over curious, and join a livestream of the boy you like. Just how will that go for you both!?- explicit, super fkn angsty- shy/Demi reader w/Pornstar Satoru- it's gonna be a long oneee- explicit- ongoing 67k Ao3

Just Friends!? - Nerdjo x popular reader- based on the movie 'Just Friends'- Satoru left his old life behind, leaving town, moving to the big city of LA- Everything about him is different, aside from those pretty blue eyes and the sweet grin, but is he still your sweet best friend deep down?- lots of angst and feels, friends to nothing to lovers- ongoing- 49k Ao3

Veiled Secrets- you've been set to marry the new emperor Satoru Gojo, but he wants nothing to do with all of that, he doesn't even come to your first meeting - rude! No, he must bathe with his concubines, but when he sees you for the first time and doesn't even know you're his wife? Everything shifts, but it turns out he doesn't know that you're not happy to be here either. Angst/smut- 22k wc ongoing

Mini Series

Brooklyn Baby - you've got the opportunity of a lifetime for an audition for Julliard, your dream, but there's just one problem, the hotel in New York has booked your room and has nothing available. Good news, your dad's best friend Satoru Gojo shows up, bad news - you both want each other, and it cannot happen - ongoing, 3 parts - pts 2/4 out - 20k wc - ao3

Losing Control Now- Mafia AU, notorious mobster Satoru Gojo becomes obsessed with you, the pretty bartender at his favorite club- but he finds you have your own secrets, threats to your life, and plans to save you at all costs. Lots of smut, Satoru being obsessed, mafia themes - sweet Gojo- explicit - ongoing-38k Ao3

Took You Like a Shot - You and Satoru Gojo (fratboy/fuckboi Gojo) have been rivals for all of college, right up until the last day of school, where you end up under him and... pregnant somehow!? shit. But have you two actually hated each other, or are you both lying to yourselves? Can a party boy raise a kid? Fluffy, fun, has a lot of humor/pregnant reader- FINISHED - WC- 42k - Ao3

Would you come with me? -You have been Satoru's best friend forever, and one day he asks you a really big favor- marry him. But have you been in love all along!? Three parts, fluffy and hella smutty, friends to lovers- Finished- three parts 22k Ao3

Drabble Series

The Last Mad King - you're the bride of the mad king Satoru Targaryen, can you come out of it alive!?! - yandere psycho ass toru lol, 2 parts

Escort Gojo Mini Series- FINISHED! - You're a rich CEO who hires a handsome escort, with a five star rating, who has one rule- no kissing. But will he break this rule? cute/sweet and light angst. WC- 15k

୨୧˚ Satoru Gojo Oneshots ˚୨୧

୨୧˚ Satoru Gojo Drabbles/ Headcanons ˚୨୧

[emmyrosee]

Katsuki just left, and your phone is already ringing with his contact.

You know what this is about. You smile and click the phone to answer, pinning the device between your shoulder and your ear. “Yes, baby?”

“You think you’re so fucking cute, don’t you?”

You giggle briefly before clearing your throat to gain some composure, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t play that shit card with me,” he snarls, but his voice holds no venom. Truly a bark with no bite. You continue to spread the jelly on your toast, waiting for him to finish his rant. “I don’t even have to open it to see the chaos you’ve caused. Is this why you wanted to take the car yesterday? Alone? Fucking brat.”

You stifle a giggle and you hear him try to fight his own laughter. “And fucking Hello Kitty? Really?”

Covering his dashboard in stickers wasn’t something you’d planned on doing, but when TikTok inspiration strikes, who would you be to not answer the call?

You’d covered everything: the dash board, the side panels, the steering wheel, the stick shift, center console, everywhere within his driver and passenger seat is covered in stickers of assorted Sanrio characters.

You pout, “it’s not just hello kitty, there’s some Kuromi’s in there for you.”

“How. Generous.” You laugh at his expense, and he lets you, but he doesn’t fool you for a second- he’s hiding his laugh. “So, you gonna come take these shits off?”

“No.”

“HAA?!”

“No!” You repeat. “Because what if you pick up your side pieces in your big expensive car and kiss them? Hmm? They won’t kiss you if they know you have a pretty, perfect, amazing pookie wookie bear at home.”

“My pookie wookie bear is going to get suffocated with a pillow,” he growls. “Now come take care of this!”

“No,” you sing. “I’m sure you’ll figure it out.”

“Swear to god-“

“Bye babyyyy!”

“Don’t you fucking-“

You’re quick to hang up the phone, giggling and going back to your toast with a satisfied smile spread on your cheeks, and you-

Immediately, you hear footsteps coming up the stairs of your home. Panic grips your heart as your eyes flick to the doorway of the kitchen.

The front door opens. He’s running.

“You’re so fucking dead.”

You scream.

The payback for sticker-ing his car might’ve been intense, full of tickling fingers and bites and threats turning into promises of payback.

But it was worth the new memory with your man.

[lady-luckk]

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ what did you expect?

# pairings: yandere sugar daddy harem x sugar baby reader

# synopsis: eight obsessive lovers think they’re the only one—until their secrets collide. now, you’re trapped between devotion, danger, and the illusion of choice.

# warnings: this will contain dark themes such as obsession and possessiveness. if you are uncomfortable, please block me. viewer discretion is advised. minors DNI

# notes: reblogs, likes, and comments are appreciated!

# parts: part 1 𖤓 part 2 𖤓 part 3

# tags: @hopingtoclearmedschool , @yawnzzx, @hasty-desert, @enchantingarcadecreation, @cannyyyyy, @lianobody, @bokkito, @lordkhrisangel, @kiyo123456789, @iris-arcadia, @sleepycow21, @agustdxjiminx, @theangxz, @plus-ultra-girl, @slowlyswimmingmoon, @whiteoakoak

you don’t move.

you don’t breathe.

you just listen.

the front door handle jiggles. the back one, too. your apartment is small—too small for this. for two men who shouldn’t know each other to be reaching for you at once, calling you baby like it means something different on their tongues.

you back into the wall, calculating. the money. the gifts. the lies. the men. you’ve always kept it separate—clean, compartmentalized. eight lives. eight masks. never crossing. never slipping.

but something’s cracking.

“just open the door,” says one—closer now, coaxing. elijah? no—lucas? they blur together in the panic.

“i saw the light on,” the other murmurs through the rear entrance. “you home, sweetheart?”

you inch toward the hallway. your mind races through excuses, through escape plans. one of them is going to see the other. one of them is going to know.

and then what?

the front door knocks again. harder. louder. not a request, now—a warning.

your phone lights up on the counter.

eight missed messages.

three voicemails.

your name repeated like a prayer and a threat.

they’re closing in, and they still think they’re the only one. still think you belong only to them.

but if this is the night the truth comes out—

you might not get to leave.

your phone lights up again.

another message:

“i know you’re in there. don’t make me wait.”

you don’t recognize the number. but the tone is familiar. possessive. low. someone who thinks waiting is beneath him.

your throat tightens.

the front door handle clicks. the back one rattles. your apartment feels like it’s shrinking, the walls pressing in with every second.

you don’t even have time to figure out which one is standing where.

all you can think about is the second bedroom elijah wanted to fill. the silk robe nathan said you’d grow into. the prenatal vitamins matthew left like it was the most natural thing. the way kai stares too long at your stomach. how xavier whispers to it like there’s already something growing inside.

your stomach twists.

you never agreed to anything. never promised forever. you gave them smiles and touches, laughter and attention—and they gave you gifts. trips. jewelry. money. enough to live comfortably, to stay just out of reach.

but now they’re all reaching.

the back door knob jolts violently. a voice, clearer this time: “you’re not answering. why aren’t you answering me?”

your fingers dig into the edge of the counter. your heart is racing. this isn’t normal. this isn’t love.

this is a trap.

a cage lined with velvet and diamond-studded handcuffs.

another message buzzes through.

“i saw him. who was he?”

your blood runs cold.

they’re watching. maybe more than one. maybe all of them.

you inch toward your bathroom, silently lock the door behind you. your fingers fumble for the window. it’s too narrow to crawl out of, but you crack it anyway—for air. for escape. for the illusion of safety.

your phone vibrates again.

“we were supposed to be forever.” “you lied to me.” “i’m outside. don’t make me do something you’ll regret.”

you slide to the floor, curling against the tub, breath shaking in your chest.

you’ve played this game so well.

smiled through dinners. laughed at their jokes. let them believe they were the only one. and maybe, for a while, it was fun.

but now?

now the game is over.

you’ve always known how to lie. how to perform.

but tonight, you’ll have to survive.

because one of them has found out.

and maybe—just maybe—they’ve told the others.

your knees press into cold tile.

somewhere outside, voices blur into one another—soft at first, like murmurs carried by wind, then louder. firm. insistent.

you don’t breathe.

two voices. not yelling. not yet. but the fury simmers beneath every word, masked only by the fact that they think they’re alone with you.

they don’t know about each other.

not yet.

and that window—the sliver you thought was escape—is now the perfect peephole. one of them paces by it, a familiar silhouette cloaked in tailored wool. you recognize the glint of his watch in the moonlight. lucas.

composed. deliberate. terrifying.

he’s not supposed to be here.

none of them are.

your phone buzzes again. and again. and again.

a dozen names. a dozen new messages.

where are you? are you avoiding me? i saw your lights on. i’ll wait all night if i have to. come outside, baby. please. i miss you. don’t make me come in.

a shiver rips down your spine.

you open your texts, hands trembling. a photo loads. grainy. zoomed in. taken from across the street.

it’s you. earlier today. unlocking your front door.

you never saw him.

another one loads. this time, through your bedroom window. you’re changing. your back to the glass.

you slam your phone face down.

this is spiraling.

they’ve been watching. waiting. marking time.

and now, they’re slipping. losing patience. showing teeth behind velvet smiles.

a soft knock—again. back door.

“i brought dinner,” someone says. sweet. calm. too calm.

matthew.

he always brings food. always watches you eat, like he’s studying your habits, waiting for signs. now, you wonder if he’s been dosing it.

your stomach flips.

you think of the vitamins. the tests. the new toothbrush that just appeared one morning in your bathroom—same brand as his. the silk sheets that mysteriously matched the ones in leo’s house. the second toothbrush. the tracking app you didn’t install.

your name echoes from the hallway.

not a question. a command.

“open. the. door.”

you flinch.

they don’t know they’re all here. yet.

but if they find out—if they see each other—what happens next won’t be about love. or even possession.

it’ll be war.

and you?

you’re the trophy they’ve all convinced themselves belongs to them.

you inch toward the closet. pull back the false panel you had installed months ago—just in case. it’s small, meant for shoes. cash. secrets. but it might buy you time.

you crawl inside the space.

the sound of a door opening echoes through your apartment.

but you never opened it.

you never said a word.

someone just let themselves in.

you press yourself into the farthest corner of the crawlspace, knees to chest, breath held so tight your lungs ache. the door creaks open—slowly. deliberately. like whoever entered doesn’t need to hurry.

your phone vibrates once more against your thigh.

you don’t look.

you already know.

footsteps now. one pair. deliberate. heavy. someone confident.

they don’t call out.

don’t ask for you.

they already know where you are.

floorboards groan. the closet is close.

you clamp a hand over your mouth. heart jackhammering. one wrong move and they’ll hear you breathing.

and then—

a pause.

no movement. no voice. just silence so thick it buzzes.

until another sound slices through it.

“they’re not answering you either, huh?”

a second voice.

your stomach drops.

they’re both inside.

“maybe they’re out.”

“they’re not.”

silence again.

“how do you know?”

“because their phone’s still here. and the lights are on.”

lucas. that calculating edge in his voice.

and elijah. smoother, but colder. too calm for someone this angry.

“who the fuck are you?” lucas asks, voice low, sharp.

“funny. i was about to ask you the same thing.”

you hold your breath.

“you’ve been watching them.”

“so have you.”

“don’t play dumb—why are you here?”

“same reason as you. they belongs to me.”

something slams. hard. a chair? a table?

you flinch.

“you don’t even know them.”

“i know everything i need to. and i know you’re in my way.”

they’re circling each other. measuring. two wolves in the same cage.

you stay frozen.

silent.

until—

another voice.

“both of you need to shut the hell up.”

matthew.

“they’re not a fucking toy you get to bicker over. they’re ours.”

the temperature in the apartment drops.

“ours?” lucas repeats, cold.

“you think they belongs to us?”

a pause.

“no,” matthew says. “i know they do.”

another voice. softer. hesitant.

nathan.

“…what’s going on?”

four.

four of them now.

you bite down on your knuckles to keep from making a sound.

the walls are closing in.

“they’ve been lying to all of us,” lucas says, sharp and sure. “don’t you get that?”

“and yet you’re still here,” elijah snaps. “so are you really mad? or just jealous?”

“jealous?” matthew scoffs. “i’ve already planned our future.”

more footsteps.

another knock.

“hey,” kai says from the hallway. “is something wrong?”

“you too?” lucas hisses.

you hear a breath hitch. kai.

“…wait. you’re all here?”

“no one invited you, kid,” elijah says, voice like steel.

“they didn’t invite any of us,” lucas snaps.

the air goes still.

“they’ve been playing all of us,” someone whispers. maybe nathan. maybe damien. maybe someone new.

“you shut your mouth,” leo growls. sudden. vicious. “don’t talk about her like that.”

“why?”

“because they’re still ours.”

“you really think they wants any of us?”

“they don’t need to want us,” damien finally speaks. “they need to understand.”

“understand what?”

“that this ends tonight.”

your blood turns to ice.

they’ve stopped talking.

and now?

now they’re moving.

together.

you hear the footsteps draw closer. eight sets. slow. united.

no longer fighting each other.

they’ve made a choice.

and you’re the one they’ve chosen.

your phone lights up one more time.

you should’ve picked one of us. but now we’ve picked you. all of us.

your breath catches.

you can hear them in your room now. feet shuffling. drawers opening. your closet door creaks.

you press yourself deeper into the hideaway, heart slamming against your ribs.

then—

a hand brushes the panel from the other side. gently.

and a voice.

“there you are.”

you don’t scream.

you don’t move.

you just stare as the panel starts to shift open—slow, deliberate.

but it’s not just one hand.

another one grips the edge from the other side.

and another.

and another.

different sets of fingers. different grips.

they’ve all found you. at once.

and for the first time all night, they’re not fighting each other.

they’re working together.

the last thing you hear—before the panel gives way completely—is a chorus of voices, soft and smiling, overlapping in perfect, practiced harmony:

“we forgive you.”

darkness falls as the panel opens.

and they reach in.

[swordgrace]

❝ 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐨 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐣𝐮𝐥𝐢𝐞𝐭 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐨𝐜𝐨𝐥. ❞

┊ 𝐫𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: by anonymous — amidst the avengers feud, you and joaquin are going steady in your relationship. you decide to sneak him into the watchtower while the team is away on a mission.

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: joaquin torres x fem!thunderbolts!reader.

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 9.4K (long one!)

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: smut (mdni), smut/fluff, established relationship, sam wilson cameo, inexperienced reader, making out, body worship, mild dry humping, oral sex (fem!rec), lots of praise, unprotected p in v sex, missionary position. aftercare + cute ending.

𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫’𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: my brain is filled with joaquin torres, I’m in love with him sm !! this was so, so much fun to write, I hope you all enjoy! 🫶

“You’re thinking about something.”

Sam’s inquiring statement sliced through Joaquín’s thoughts like a hot knife, tinged with an underlying jolt of humor.

Sitting sideways on the couch, the both of them were in his apartment — bunker, more like. He affectionately took to calling it the ‘Cap Cave’, which Sam always groaned at.

Swiveling around in his chair, Joaquín blinked owlishly, brows lifting in surprise. “I’m always thinking about something,” He counters, seemingly perplexed. “Are you saying I don’t think?”

On the coffee table, Sam’s got a stack of files, names of enhanced and non-enhanced individuals to recruit for the Avengers.

He’d gotten Jennifer and Shaun onboard with restarting the Avengers Initiative — he didn’t care about Fontaine’s new group running around. Sam pretended not to be bitter, but it still hurt anyway.

It stung knowing that people out there still didn’t think him worthy of the mantle, and worse, knowing that Bucky was there, too.

“Nah, I’m not saying that,” Sam mused, perusing through files. He was still waiting on a response from Shuri, who’d assumed the mantle of the Black Panther. “You look like a guy who’s thinking about a girl.”

Joaquín gawked, idly rolling the chair from side-to-side, palms getting sweaty. He was definitely thinking about a girl. “What if I am? You can’t police that, Sam.” He muses.

There’s a lapse of silence as Sam contemplates, brows pinching together. He knows it’s about you, and Joaquín’s face gives everything away.

He found out about the relationship unwittingly one morning, when Joaquín had come home at four o’clock, all cheery and stealthy like a teenage boy.

It wasn’t an intelligent move on his part — it was dangerously reckless, Joaquín knew this, but he couldn’t help himself.

“Joaquín, you gotta be smart about this,” He starts in with a fatherly tone and a certain sternness that makes Joaquín wither. “She’s in Fontaine’s pocket, and I know you’ve been sneaking over there to see her.”

“I’m being careful,” He vows, staring down at his lap to avoid the scrutiny of Sam’s stare. “I don’t think she’s in with Fontaine like that, man. She doesn’t seem that way.”

With a begrudging sigh, Sam doesn’t attempt to refute his claim or dissuade him. He can’t stop him from seeing you, even if he thinks it’s a bad idea.

Unconvinced, silence fills the momentary gap between the both of them, and Joaquín is swift to defend your honor; and you aren’t even here.

“She’s different, Sam. I want you to meet her sometime — she’s unlike anybody I’ve ever met.” He sighs, and Sam can practically hear the swooning in his tone.

“Whatever you do, don’t get involved in Fontaine’s business,” It was more of a precautionary measure than a threat. He didn’t want Joaquín to be taken hostage or something worse. “Got it?”

“I got it, Sam. I promise.” Swearing up and down, his phone vibrates in his pocket, catching both of their attention. His smile is light as he spins back around in the chair.

“If you’re gonna talk to her, take it to your room, Romeo.” Sam chuckles, and despite the circumstances, he’s being cordial about everything.

He didn’t want to heighten the tension if Joaquín couldn’t see you. Sam didn’t know you, but he knew how his partner talked about you — like you were the sun, the center of everything.

If you made him happy, he wasn’t going to interfere.

Flashing a smile, Joaquín clamors from the chair when he sees your name flash on his phone, and he waves in-passing. Sam scoffs and grins, but he doesn’t make any lasting remarks on the matter.

Admittedly, Joaquín hadn’t intended for all of this to happen in the way that it had; it just did.

He’d gone to the Watchtower about five months ago with the mission of trying to talk to Bucky, wanting to do right by Sam. He managed to get past the extensive security measures before it all came crashing down.

He met you.

Joaquín still remembered how you looked that day, wide-eyed and curious, wearing a shirt two sizes too big and floral-patterned shorts. You were eating from a bag of grapes, and you called him Falcon.

From then-on, you’d formed an unexpected friendship, and two months ago, he got the stones to ask you out.

Despite the newness of the relationship, he was loving every second of it, even if you couldn’t see one another as often as you wanted. It was all meetings in neutral places, at first — the park, going out to dinner, a museum.

Then, he started using his new suit to fly over to the roof of the Watchtower after you dismantled the surveillance system. He taught you how to do that, too.

The both of you started to get bold with how far you could test the limits of him “coming over”. The rooftop escapades merely scratched the surface.

It turned to midnight dates on the helipad, shooing him away when the others got back from a mission. It turned to him getting as far as the common room, giggling on the couch together at two in the morning.

Tonight, it was turning into your room.

Typically, Joaquín was the one pitching all of these ideas, and the both of you were all giddy, sneaking around like two teenagers. Now, it was really getting serious when you posed the idea of smuggling him into your bedroom.

The plan was all set, laid out to perfection, and the timing couldn’t have been more perfect.

Team’s gone on a mission, Bob included — no one else in the Watchtower except you and him. That got him excited; maybe a little too thrilled about the whole thing.

You planned on dismantling the surveillance systems beforehand, knowing that if Bucky went back and checked, he’d probably find evidence of your house-guest.

He scuttled into his room, kicking the door closed when your text popped up.

YOU (my girlfriend <3): hey joaq :) are you still wanting to come over tonight?

JOAQUIN: you’re really asking? I’m still coming over! coast still clear?

YOU (my girlfriend <3): yes, still clear! talked to lena today, said they won’t be back for two days! means we have tower to ourselves 😚

Joaquín huffed a laugh at the emoji you used, nose wrinkling with amusement. He had no idea what he did to get so lucky, other than break a few dozen rules and hijack the New Avengers headquarters.

In his eyes, no one could hold a candle to you; you were so beautiful, so kind, full of a liveliness that brightened everything around you.

The both of you were mutually understanding of the whole feud between two Avengers teams, and as long as that remained intact, everything would be perfectly fine.

JOAQUIN: do you think I could get away with spending the night?

Maybe a little brazen of him to say, or even assume, but if your teammates wouldn’t be back for a few days, he decided to take his chances. Sam wouldn’t be happy about it, but he’d apologize later.

YOU (my girlfriend <3): like a sleepover? lol! I think you can :) don’t want sam to be mad at you, tho!

JOAQUIN: if I text him and tell him what’s going on, he won’t be as mad 😇

On the other end of the phone, you were giggling at your screen, perched along the edge of your mattress. Your relationship with Joaquín was going splendidly, especially with it being a secret — from your teammates, anyway.

He’d blown his cover with Sam awhile back, and you were grateful that he was relatively amiable about the whole thing.

A hush had fallen through the Watchtower with the absence of the team, save for some folk ballad you had playing from the speakers in your room. It was late afternoon, closer to evening.

YOU: don’t think you can bat your eyelashes out of this one, joaq 😭 also gonna order carryout tonight! what do you want?

JOAQUIN: it only works on you ig 😏 the beef and broccoli with noodles :)) thanks babe!

YOU: very funny! come over around five? will disable cams on helipad for a sec

JOAQUIN: sounds good miel :) can’t wait to see you tonight, missed you a ton 🥺

A soft snort escaped you when you caught the emoji he’d tacked onto the end of his text, heat curling around your spine. He made you feel so special, beautiful — you weren’t used to having that constant in your life.

When you closed your eyes, you pictured him on the other end, grinning at his phone, black curls framing his temples, a hand pressed against his jaw. It filled your stomach with butterflies.

Hopping off of your bed, you made sure to send another quick text, springing towards the shower. It was a little reckless, having him over like this, but love had made you a little stupid, too.

YOU: missed you more! ❤️ text me when you’re near the helipad, falcon :)

Joaquín grins at his phone, shoving it into his pocket before rifling through his wardrobe. He wants to find something nice to wear, something to fit under his Falcon suit.

The cologne he haphazardly throws into his overnight bag is a scent you’ve complimented him on before. Anticipation twists into knots in his stomach, excited to see you.

He does get some thrill out of all of this — of sneaking off to see you, getting smuggled into the Watchtower. He figures that all of this good luck is bound to cause whiplash, eventually.

His phone buzzes in his pocket as he gets his stuff together, attempting to be quiet about packing.

CAPTAIN AMERICA: Do not wear the Falcon suit over there or I’ll lock it up for good.

Deadpanning at the screen, he lets out a sigh, figuring you’ll have to disable lobby cameras, instead. Joaquín groans theatrically into a bunched-up shirt, brows furrowing together.

JOAQUIN: You got it, boss.

It’s four-thirty when you get a text from Joaquín.

JOAQUIN: so no helipad, had to ditch the wings :( lobby safe to come through if cams are off?

YOU: let me disable on main system and come get you! give me ten ❤️

The clothes you wear are modestly comfortable, a pair of leggings with a baggy shirt thrown over, showered and smelling like a flower shop.

After you slide on your slippers, you make your way to the Tower’s mainframe system, disabling cameras in the main lobby and in the elevator, too. It’s simple to turn them off temporarily with the access code — you’d stolen it from Bucky.

Giddy, your ride down the elevator shaft is riddled with excitement and a constant bouncing of your leg. Outside, the New York cityscape begins to ignite with an eclectic nightlife, between the glow of skyscrapers and the hum of cars.

Downstairs, the lobby is polished, corporate — there’s banners of the New Avengers strewn over the walls, massive and theatrical.

Pale tile clashes with the dark furniture that had been set up to resemble something modern, business-like and suave. Valentina had a knack for making everything look very sterilized.

Joaquín is lingering just outside, waving at you with a pearly smile and a bouquet of flowers. Bursting at the seams, you jog over to let him inside, putting in your clearance code before the door slides open.

“Joaquín!” Overjoyed, you’re nearly leaping into his arms as soon as he crosses the threshold, feeling him wrap you up in a tight hug.

A laugh bubbles from his chest, warm and inviting, curling over your bones as he cradles you against his chest. He presses a kiss to your crown, catching a whiff of your perfume; you smell incredible.

“Hey, pretty girl,” He hums, peppering your face with a myriad of kisses, pulling a soft laugh from your mouth. “I missed you.” Joaquín’s got a lovestruck look in his eyes, akin to a puppy.

“I missed you too,” Draping your arms around him, the closeness is something you’ve craved, absorbing his warmth as if he’s his own sun. “No wings? Did Sam clip them or something?” You tease, nose wrinkled.

Embarrassed, he lets out a begrudging groan, features tinged with a scarlet hue as he shrugs. “He didn’t want me using them to come over, figured I’d respect his wishes.”

“He’s nice enough to let you come over here, given the circumstances,” You point out, gaze drifting toward the bouquet of brightly-colored flowers he’s carrying. “You brought flowers?”

“I know. I want you to meet him sometime, I think he’d like you.” Joaquín stands a little taller, resolute as he presents you with your gift. “It’s an apology for not seeing you in a while.”

“You’re sweet,” Flustered, you accept the bouquet with a beam on your face, feeling his lips press against your cheek. “Mm, move your mouth an inch or two to your right.”

“Yes ma’am.” A smirk spreads across his mouth before he kisses your lips instead. He’s enthusiastic yet disarmingly tender, kiss infused with an underlying passion.

Joaquín leans down, closer to you as he slings an arm around your hips, heartbeat stuttering beneath his sternum.

You make him nervous sometimes, in a good way — you make him want to be the best man he can be.

As the kiss slows to a crawl, he draws away with a contented hum, lips still quirked into a grin. “I want more of those, please.” He muses, hand lingering over the small of your back.

“There’ll be plenty more, I promise.” You laugh, tugging on his hand as you make for the elevator. The door bears the Avengers emblem — slightly modified, but the spirit is still there.

Once the both of you are inside, Joaquín peers around in awe, never having seen the whole interior of the Watchtower before. He’s been as far as the common room.

“You got your own superhero banner?” He remarks, brows lifting with amusement. He wished he got his own Falcon banner — maybe Sam could get the new team one, once he finished recruiting.

“Yeah. Valentina wanted it to be marketable and palatable for people who were reluctant about the whole thing,” You shrug. “I still use my old suit. The one she had made for me is uncomfortable.”

With a click of his tongue, he stifles a mischievous grin. “You look really good in it though, miel,” Joaquín lets out a low, playful whistle before you smack his bicep. “Seriously!”

Shooting him a sideways glance, he’s all smiling and chipper, attitude never dimming. It was something you really loved about him — he was good at his core, selfless and wickedly intelligent.

“Thanks,” Another laugh tumbles through your diaphragm. “Maybe I can get you one to hang up in your room back at the Cap Cave.”

He swallows the slight lump in his throat, biting back the urge to make a raunchy remark. Filtering himself, he plants a kiss against your cheek. “Yeah? Shit, I’d love that.” He murmurs, sly as ever.

“You’re bad,” You counter, and he holds one hand up in surrender. As you reach the main level, the elevator chimes open, and you’re greeted by the sprawling floor of the common area. “Here we are.”

The evening glow spreads through the windows, sunlight whispering over dark tile, bathing your features in downcast embers.

Joaquín refuses to look away, gaze reverently tracing across visage as you coax him into the Watchtower’s main room. He swallows, and the sudden coil of nerves settles in.

“I thought we could eat dinner here, or in my room,” You propose, but he’s thoroughly distracted, breath hitching when he absorbs your beauty. Time slows to a crawl the longer he lingers, lips parted. “Or we can eat on the helipad.”

Uncharacteristically hushed, he doesn’t answer you right away, dark lashes kissing the skin beneath his eyes as he blinks. It’s slow, and he’s too busy ogling you, mesmerized; he can’t believe that this is real.

When you catch him gawking, he awkwardly clears his throat and straightens up, mumbling a low apology. “Sorry. You’re so gorgeous, and I can’t stop looking at you.” He states, straightforward.

Surprised, you become smitten almost instantaneously, fingers toying with some of the plastic wrap curled around your bouquet. “You’re so sweet,” You mumble. “Thank you, Quín.”

With a suave smile, he nods, a hum snaring within his throat when you rock up on your toes to kiss him. He doesn’t recoil, reciprocating your kiss with one of his own, passion overwhelmingly obvious.

The smile that spreads over your mouth is palpable when you kiss, and he drops his duffel bag, wrapping his arms around you fully.

Lips meld together seamlessly, fitting a perfect mold, bleeding with passion. He’s rather charming about it, endlessly confident; he knows he’s suave, and it has you hooked.

He kisses you again after you reciprocate, peppering his lips all over your face. The sound of your laughter makes it all worthwhile, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“Are you hungry?” Giggling against him, he plants another kiss to your brow, smoothing his hands across your hips.

“Yeah,” Joaquín bats his eyelashes, dialing up the swagger as he draws you close, chest-to-chest. “Not for beef and broccoli, though.” He remarks, kissing your jaw with a smirk.

“Joaquín,” A sharp gasp punctures your lungs, and you’re burning with embarrassment. Gentle lips continue to string along your jaw, over your chin, around your neck. “Easy there, Falcon.”

He laughs, and it sounds like sunshine; like everything warm and comforting about the world. “Okay, okay,” There’s still a shimmer in his eyes, one of ardor. “I am legitimately hungry.” He concedes.

“It’s in the fridge,” You muse, lips gracing his jaw before you untangle yourself from him. He’s all grinning and happy, chest puffed out, retrieving his duffel bag from the floor. “I’ll reheat it and then we can go to my room.”

“Deal,” Joaquín follows you to the open kitchen, letting out a low whistle. He’s in awe of everything — the Cap Cave is cool, but the Watchtower is incredibly advanced. “This is impressive.”

He follows you closely, hovering beside the island, bag still slung over his shoulder. “She wanted it to be ‘top of the line’ for investors.” You shrug, removing white containers of Chinese takeout from the fridge.

Admittedly, you still felt like you didn’t really belong on the team, unworthy of the mantle — you were inducted at the wrong place, wrong time.

Like Bob, you had superpowers; not as powerful, but enough for people to take an interest, look at you like a curious object.

Joaquín never looked at you like that, but he looked at you with something else; in awe, as if you’d moved mountains and hung stars.

He tapped a hand against polished granite, a smile toying at the corner of his mouth. “Thanks for smuggling me in, by the way,” He murmured, tone warm. “I know this isn’t ideal.”

Scooping the contents of each container into large bowls, you reheated a bag of egg rolls too, lobbing a pair of colorful forks onto the island.

“It’s okay,” Smiling, you met his gaze, affectionate as you placed everything into the microwave. “You’re worth it, Joaquín — you’re worth everything.” Your cadence softens.

Typically, he’s the smooth one; flirtatious, coy, and always coming in with the suave remarks. It was his turn to blush, and he can tell that you’re genuine, sincerity bleeding from every syllable.

“Baby,” He mumbles, a touch flustered before he rubs at the back of his neck. “You’re perfect, you know that?”

Smitten, you quietly remove a steaming bowl of beef and broccoli, wincing when the ceramic burns your palm. “I don’t know,” Cheekily, your brows lift in amusement. “Remind me again.”

Joaquín laughs, the noise bright enough to light up a room, and you’re falling hard. When the bowl begins to cool, he picks it up, following right behind you with your food, too.

“So your room is on this level?” He asks through a mouthful of seasoned beef, making noise when he realizes it’s still too hot for him to eat.

“Mm-hm. I share a floor with Bob and Ava, the rest are on two. The training room is up there, too.” As the both of you make your way toward the sleek labyrinth of corridors, Joaquín clears his throat.

“You guys got a training room?” He wants to see it, but he also isn’t expecting a fully-fledged tour as part of your date night. “What else did Fontaine put in this thing?”

“I think Alexei is trying to vouch for a pool,” A huff of laughter escapes you. “But there’s a debriefing room, a lounge and a bar, extra rooms, a medical ward, and a laboratory.” You name it all off like an extensive list.

“I should ask Sam about getting a bar.” Joaquín grins, nipping at your heels as you turn a corner into a long, hushed stretch of hallway. Outside, it’s nearly twilight, concealed by tinted window-panes.

Stopping in front of your door, you enter in your code before it hisses open, revealing a rather expansive, lived-in bedroom.

It smells like you; floral scents intermingled with everything saccharine, strung with hanging lights, comforter wrinkled over a queen-size mattress, bathroom door ajar.

Everything is warm, blanketed in a low, orange glow that swallows the room whole, a fluffy chair draped over with a woven canopy. It was relatively tidy and organized, but comfortable — it all felt organic.

“Sorry if it’s messy, I tidied up before you got here.” As you settle down on the edge of your mattress, Joaquín nudges his duffel bag onto the fluffy rug below, bowl in-hand.

“Messy? Babe, this room is pretty spotless,” He snickers, watching you bat your eyelashes before eating a forkful of noodles. “Food’s delicious, by the way. Where’d you order from?”

“Takeout place down the street,” Your mouth is full when you answer, prompting you to clear your throat. “Eggroll?” Wax paper crinkles within your grasp as you offer it to him, still-warm egg rolls inside.

“Thanks,” Joaquín immediately placed it into his mouth, halfway wedged as the other half fell unceremoniously into his bowl. “Hm, s’good.” He mumbles, watching as you stifle laughter.

Silence trickles in between the both of you, eating within a comfortable silence, occasionally stealing glances at one another.

He smiles, countenance one of tenderness as he clears his throat, lodging another hefty bite of beef and broccoli into his mouth.

“Want to watch a movie afterwards?” You hum, legs tucked beneath you, squinting through the waning sunset that trickles in through the windows.

It isn’t anything exciting, but basking in his presence matters most to you. There’s something gentle and clean about your relationship — you know he’d do anything for you, be anything for you.

You don’t want him to change — he’s perfect the way he is, and that’s more than enough.

“Yeah,” Through a light cough, Joaquín swallows, fork scraping over empty ceramic. “What are we thinking? You know what I’m gonna say.” He muses, nose wrinkling.

“Fast and Furious?” Sharp, your mouth quirks into a grin before he lets out a theatrical groan.

“Second choice,” His smile never wavers; he’s so handsome, something warm and ebullient, incandescently bright. “Interstellar.”

“That’s a long movie,” Another laugh leaves you when he shakes his head, scraping the remnants of his food into his mouth. “We can watch it. I know you think it’s amazing.”

“One of the best movies of all time, right next to The Princess Bride,” Joaquín chuckles, his laugh light and effortless, teeth glinting through glimmering sunshine. “You’ll love it.”

“I’m trusting you.” Teasingly, you finish up with your food before motioning to take his bowl. You stack them right outside of your bedroom door, assuming you’ll circle back in the morning.

“You mind if I change?” He asks, grabbing his duffel bag from the ground. “I brought you some stuff, too.” Dragging the zipper down, he tugs out a few old t-shirts to give to you.

“You brought me your clothes?” Delighted, you’re visibly ecstatic when he hands you three shirts, two of them old Air Force tops, the other an oversized Nike hoodie.

“I know you like wearing them to bed,” Joaquín plants a kiss to your brow, fingertips tracing over the small of your back. “You’re so beautiful, you know.” He hums, tone lowering.

“You are too,” You mumble, and you catch him blushing, lips parting. He huffs a laugh, mouth carefully tracing across your face, buried against your soft skin. “Very cute.”

“Gonna change, babe.” Joaquín hums, planting another kiss against your cheek before grabbing a bundle of clothes, including something you can’t make out.

After he disappears into your bathroom, door clicking with a soft thud, you scramble into something else. Tugging off your leggings and shirt, you slide into his hoodie; it smells like his cologne, like sandalwood and whiskey.

You’re applying a spritz or two of perfume as if you hadn’t layered enough on already, switching on your flatscreen before fumbling with the remote.

On the other side of your bathroom door, Joaquín is furiously brushing his teeth; he’d already brushed them before he left, but it’s a precaution. A hand is roaming through his dark curls, trying to push them into place.

It’s boyish; it’s something extra, valiant attempts to impress you and not ward you away.

Scrolling through streaming services, you locate Interstellar, settling down into bed as you wait for Joaquín to come back out. You can hear water running, shuffling fabric; it piques your curiosity.

When he comes out, cool and collected, he’s wearing loungewear, glint of a silvery chain dangling around his neck. A rosy flush settles into his face, and he’s still smiling.

It wavers when he sees you — no more pants, just his sweatshirt, sitting cross-legged in your bed. His heart stutters, mouth dry as he attempts to form words, ogling you.

“Everything okay?”

The sound of your question nearly makes him jump, lashes fluttering as he hastily clears his throat. He looks a little dazed, jaw unhinged before he waves your concern aside.

“Yeah, yeah.” He coughs, too busy wrapped up in the sight of you, especially as you sprawl out. The hem of his sweatshirt kisses your thighs, and he’s hyper-focused, tongue darting over his teeth.

Joaquín joins you, mattress dipping slightly as he crawls over, feeling you curl up against him. He’s more than happy to hold you, propped up on a mound of pillows, arm draping over your side.

His biceps flex beneath the material of his spandex shirt, sun-kissed like warm caramel, and your mind derails entirely.

“I’m really glad that we could do this,” You hum, tracing your fingers over his chest. “I know I’m breaking a thousand rules, but I missed you a lot, Joaquín.” Those words alone break open a barrier inside of him.

Admittedly, he’s been clinging to restraint as soon as you were kissing in the kitchen; he wants you so terribly that it hurts, and your perfume doesn’t make anything easier.

“You’re my light,” He’s quick with a reply, voice honey-thick and a touch husked, fading into you. “You mean a lot to me, miel — you’re perfect, inside and out.” As he lays on the compliments, you find yourself enamored.

Interstellar suddenly seems so inconsequential when his mouth is ghosting over yours, hand drawing circles into your ribs.

“Can I kiss you?” He whispers, hot breath fanning over your lips, unwilling to budge until you’ve given him consent. When you do, nodding fervently and unable to catch your breath, he doesn’t hesitate.

It’s sparks, tension brewing beneath the surface when you kiss him, palm splayed over his chest. The other rests comfortably near his neck, fingers toying with the necklace he wears.

For weeks, he’d been all wound-up over the thought of you — not being able to see you all the time had made him unbearably needy.

You can feel it rippling beneath his skin when he kisses you, coiled-up want knotted into something he wants to untether. You want it too, but part of you fears your own inexperience.

Joaquín kisses you as if you’re the only one he’s ever wanted, drawing a tremulous exhale from your lungs, making you shiver. His hand finally settles over your thigh, idly massaging your skin, fingers teasing the hem of your sweatshirt.

“Still want to watch the movie?”

It’s you who asks him, attempting to gauge his reaction, like a deer in the headlights. His kisses slow to a crawl, and he pulls away enough to catch your smile, obviously smitten.

“Would you be upset if I said no?” He murmurs, mouth quirking into a slight grin. His tells are so easy, but he owns up to it — he’s not ashamed to admit he wants you.

“Mm-mm,” Shaking your head, you curl closer, hand wandering until it steadies atop his bicep. He flexes for you, chuckling when you get all flustered; you’re easy to rile up. “You’re unbelievable.”

Joaquín smiles, planting a kiss against your jaw. “I know,” He murmurs, inhaling a gust of your scent, perfume sizzling through his senses, through his resolve. “But I’m yours.”

His hand continues to knead along your thigh, savoring the feeling; you’re too beautiful for him, and he knows it. You angle yourself enough to turn inward, face-to-face, lashes fluttering in rapid succession.

Mouths entangle with one another, each kiss deepening, blurring the line of desire. The more it progresses, the more you don’t want to stop — and he doesn’t want to, either.

Digits trail through his dark curls, stroking along the nape of his neck as you adjust yourself again, nearly slotted in his lap. An excitable noise bubbles from his throat, hands finding your hips.

A hush blankets your bedroom, save for the sounds of labored breathing and the subtle groan of the mattress beneath you.

Your palms climb higher, both hands gathering to perch atop his shoulders, feeling sinewy muscle tense beneath your fingers. Lips continue, unhindered, charged with a wave of passion.

“Hey,” Joaquín mumbles, his smile one of amazement as his kisses slow to a crawl, nose brushing against yours. “I don’t have any expectations for tonight.”

Stilling, you sit back for a moment, allowing yourself some composure. “Me neither,” You assure, gooseflesh crawling over your spine. “I want you, Joaquín — I do, I just … I’m not exactly experienced.”

With a tumultuous past and enhancements, your life was anything but normal. You didn’t get to live like everyone else until recently.

Intimacy was something you’d experienced in slices — never the whole thing, and never with someone who saw you in the way that Joaquín did.

When you tell him that you want him, he blushes; maybe he wasn’t expecting it, or it took him by surprise, but his need only continues to burn. It’s burning so hot that it’s scorching him, searing his bones.

“We’ll never do anything that you aren’t comfortable with, miel,” He assures, kissing at the inside of your wrist, lips akin to a warm brand. “I don’t want you to feel any pressure. We’re going at your speed.”

That makes you want him even more.

“I want to,” The cadence of your voice softens, pitched with something breathy, exhilarating. “There’s no one else that I’d ever want this with.” You murmur, and his heart stammers.

Joaquín nods, dazed and yearning, dark lashes kissing the skin beneath his eyes. “Me too,” He confesses, hands rubbing circles over your hips. “You’re it for me.”

A smile spreads over your face, dazzling as you ease yourself into his lap, slotted over one of his thighs. The closeness smolders, and his pupils dilate enough to warrant your attention.

Slowly, he cups your jaw, rough digits stroking over silky skin, bringing you in for another kiss. It’s agonizingly sluggish, intended to savor as your chest brushes against his.

Peach-ripe sunset pools into your bedroom, giving way to the first inklings of twilight. It strikes you at the perfect angle, leaving Joaquín stunned, absorbing your features, committing you to memory.

Each kiss is deep, passionate; you move in an idle dance, and you shiver when his hand slips beneath the hem of your sweatshirt. He finds your back, caressing along your spine.

You aren’t wearing a bra underneath, he realizes, and that makes him flustered. He doesn’t know why, but it does — he’s itching to see you.

The pressure of his muscled thigh wedged between your legs fills your body with a muted buzz, and when you shift, it makes it worse. Pinpricks of bliss shoot through your belly, however slight.

Lips tangle together, again and again, and he feels your body roll into him, flush against one another. He steadies you, hand skirting from your spine to your chest, lightly kneading at your breast.

It’s gentle, a feather-light touch that starts as experimental, testing the waters. You shiver from the contact, skin to skin, kissing him one more time until he untangles your lips.

Instead, his mouth finds your jaw, kissing a trail from the delicate bone to your throat, the pad of his thumb brushing over your nipple.

“Joaquín,” A soft, throaty moan slips past your mouth, hips rolling forward, gathering friction against his thigh. He handles you so tenderly, as if you’re some precious gemstone or artifact.

“You’re so pretty, cariño,” He mumbles into your throat, lavishing kiss after kiss there, occasionally suckling at patches of skin. “Can’t believe you’re mine.” It’s partially disbelief; like he’s still realizing how lucky he is.

It’s more than just sex; it’s intimacy, the closeness, the delight of euphoria you find in one another, hearts twining together.

He wants you in ways that transcend physicality — he wants your future, wants to be the person you wake up to in the morning. Joaquín doesn’t know how badly he wants it all until he’s looking at you.

When his sweatshirt rides up to pool around your hips, his gaze catches on your thighs, over the soft plane of your body. His hand still kneads into your breast, drawing out another moan from your lips.

Sheets ruffle beneath your bodies, and he’s shifting enough to peel his shirt off, leaving you visibly flustered.

He’s beautiful; a chiseled adonis whose muscle is raw and well-earned, something he’s worked tirelessly for. His skin turns warm, like melted caramel dusted with freckles, silver chain glinting around his neck.

He’s got a tangle of scars on the right side of his throat, a few peppered across his abdomen. You want to kiss every single one, tell him how perfect he is.

“You’re gorgeous,” You murmur, listening to the subtle hitch in his throat. Delicate digits trace the lines of his musculature, drinking him in, lashes fluttering in rapid succession. “Just perfect.”

Preening beneath your compliments, Joaquín doesn’t shy away from the scarlet flush that slithers around his face. Instead, he kisses your neck fervently in response.

His other hand drops to skirt beneath your sweatshirt, holding onto your hip, palm still kneading at your breast. “You look so good in my clothes,” He murmurs. “Mind if I take this off?”

“Mm-hm.” With a soft hum, you adjust your arms, letting him peel off your sweatshirt with ease, draping it toward the foot of your bed. His tongue flicks over his teeth when he sees you.

God, you’re perfect; everything about you is beautiful and he can’t help but drown in you.

Pastel-hued cotton clings to your hips, the last article of clothing that covers you. A slight draft slithers over your hot flesh, goosebumps following suit as your mouth returns to his.

A husky groan stirs in Joaquín’s chest when you shift against him, friction producing a heat that settles within his stomach. He kisses you back, passionate and needy, hands touching you everywhere.

He caresses you with rapture, reverence; it’s a reminder of how he sees you, how much he loves you. Mouths entangle, and he slyly lets his tongue trace over your bottom lip.

There’s another shift when he begins to ease you back onto your mattress, over soft sheets and pillows. Your legs part for him without a second thought, letting him stay there.

“Damn, you’re so beautiful,” Joaquín murmurs against your mouth, nestled between your thighs. He props himself up on one forearm, the other stroking across your ribs. “Can’t get enough.”

He catches a whiff of the perfume clings to your flesh, an amalgamation of something saccharine and fresh; he loves it; drinks it in.

His mouth wanders over your jaw, layering endless kisses over your skin as he climbs toward your throat. A low moan fizzles past your lips, leaving you wanton, desperate for more.

The cold metal of his necklace grazes your collar, a bite of ice, knees squeezing at his hips. Your line of sight drifts toward the soft tent in his sweatpants, causing you to lick your bottom lip.

Joaquín is relentless, wanting to map every inch of your skin with his mouth, tongue; he kisses fervently toward your collarbone. Fingers tease the waistband of your panties, feather-light and gentle.

Warm lips graze your sternum, dipping toward your right breast, kissing your chest with a thinly-veiled passion. “You okay? Can I keep going?” He asks, tone husked and pitched with affection.

“More than okay,” You huff, squirming slightly underneath him, hands drifting to rake through his dark tresses. “Please keep going.” After vocalizing your enthusiasm, he’s more than happy to continue.

With a nod, he starts to take your nipple into his mouth, kissing at the sensitive bud, hand skirting to grope at the other. A moan escapes you, jaw slack and mouth agape.

He’s so gentle; there isn’t a single rough or harsh movement, everything concentrated with an oozing affection. Ardor is laced into every kiss, every caress of his hand, every stolen glance.

Arousal pools between your thighs, hot and honey-thick, slick cooling along your core. Hips grind together, and the friction is enough to elicit pleasured sounds from the both of you.

Exploratory, Joaquín commits all of you to memory, letting you sink your talons into the deepest parts of his mind. Your perfume gets on his skin, and he doesn’t want it to come off, either.

He briefly teases your nipple with pearly teeth, planting wet, open-mouthed kisses around your breasts before he descends.

“Joaquín,” You moan, hips jolting forward, absently grinding against the swell of his erection. He lets out a low groan in-turn, lips carving a path along your body. “Feels so good.”

When he peppers kisses across your stomach, you suck in a sharp breath, knowing exactly where he’s going.

He mumbles something in Spanish, and it scratches something raw inside of you, belly twisting into a coil of excitable knots. Reaching the waistline of your panties, he looks at you again.

You’re already nodding several times over to tell him it’s okay, and you catch the little stutter in his exhale, pupils dilating.

“Yeah?” He whispers, breathless when you nod again, shivering when his fingers curl into the thin elastic. Easing your panties down, he looks like a man starved, razed by affection and desire.

Joaquín crawls down, head settling between your thighs as he guides your legs onto his broad shoulders, palms kneading their way toward your haunches.

As your panties leave your legs, he kisses hot brands to your calves, stringing them along your knees, cresting over your thighs. The exhilarated wobble in your exhale makes him excited.

“Been thinking about this,” He confesses, and it floods your insides with molten heat. There’s something effortless about the way he says it — you know he means it. “Wanna taste you, miel.”

His gaze is incendiary, staring at you as if you’re the prettiest thing he’s ever seen, tongue absentmindedly swiping over his bottom lip.

“Please,” It’s all you can manage to squeak out, legs flexing beside his face, fingers fisting at the sheets. “Please, Joaquín.”

Steady hands hitch beneath your thighs, holding steadfastly to your hips, haunches braced on top of his shoulders. He caresses near your waist, fingers stroking in repetitive motions.

“Look at me, pretty girl,” Joaquín murmurs, and it’s merely a suggestion, not a demand. When you do, it’s him who blushes, lips kissing a trail to the slick coalescing over your pussy. “Gorgeous.”

The sweetly-spoken praise rips through you, sending waves of pleasure throughout your body as his tongue laps at your slit.

Pleasure sizzles through you suddenly, hot and wanton as his mouth explores your cunt. He’s tender, painstakingly passionate when he strings kisses over your core.

Maintaining eye contact is something that has you squirming, lips parted, heat curling over your bones like wildfire. Joaquín’s stare doesn’t waver, mouth buried deep into your pussy.

His tongue is vigorous, flicking from your entrance to your clit, causing you to quiver. Wordlessly, he reaches for one of your hands, keeping them interlocked atop your hip.

He eats you out like he’s deprived, hungry for you; for all of you, body, heart, everything.

Your thighs twitch, curling around his head, stomach twisting into knots. Arousal coalesces heavily between your thighs, oozing onto his tongue.

Mouthing at your pussy, he slows to a crawl, taking his time to savor every inch of you, feeling your legs quiver. He groans, musculature shaking, gaze eclipsed with desire.

You say his name as if it’s a prayer, the only words worth memorizing. A shiver traces through his spine, joined hands squeezing tighter, and you feel your pussy clench around nothing at all.

With a broad stroke of his tongue, he raked hot embers over your core, hands steadying you, eager to please without an ounce of hesitation.

The bridge of his nose ghosts over your slick folds, causing you to tremble. There’s a fire in your belly that demands to be extinguished, nerves set ablaze, a fervent buzz humming in your skin.

“I’ve got you, baby.” Joaquín sighs, hot breath pluming over your cunt. His tongue is a thing of beauty, working through you in the way that you deserve.

Eager lips kiss their way along your pussy, from your aching entrance to your clit. Your thighs tense, twitching when he stimulates that clutch of nerves, listening to you moan.

He tries again, using his tongue this time, slowly working it over your clit in languid patterns, intended to savor.

You want to melt, back arching, hips jolting forward as you grind into his face. Joaquín welcomes it without recoil, groaning as he eagerly laps over the clutch of nerves.

The sight of you razed, jaw slack and visage one of bliss, body on-fire for him; it’s picturesque, an image that’s emblazoned in his mind for the rest of his life. He can’t imagine anyone else like this.

Through the low glow of your bedroom, he strings kisses around your clit, tongue circling afterwards, one hand caressing your thigh. You let your free hand drift to run over his scalp, and he hums.

When he focuses on teasing your clit, your hips jerk again, prompting you to whine out a breathy apology, but he doesn’t seem to mind.

“That feel good? Want more?” Gruffing from between your thighs, your boyfriend ensures that you’re getting everything you want and more.

“Y—Yes, Joaq, please,” You moan, and the use of his little nickname makes him preen. He shuffles closer, tongue deep in your pussy as he begins to lightly suck at your clit. “Right, mm — Right there!”

He provides without question.

His lack of hesitation makes you all hot and bothered as that coil in your stomach begins to unfurl, dragging you toward the edge.

Each pulse of his mouth sends shockwaves of ecstasy hurling through your bones, hot and blissful, like static surging in your brain. You begin to see stars when he keeps the pace, throat ragged with another moan.

To relieve his own arousal, his hips rut helplessly into your mattress, finding some reprieve, but it’s slight. He’s too busy wrapping himself up in your own pleasure, and it outweighs his own.

It’s how he wants things to be, focusing on you, ensuring that you’re taken care of before it ever comes down to him. His cock twitches when you squeeze his hand again.

White-hot spots float through your vision as he brings you to your peak, lips lightly stimulating your clit even when your legs rattle.

His tongue eagerly laps across your throbbing cunt, cleaning you up, the taste of you ambrosial, intoxicating. Joaquín’s brain is filled with static as you grind your hips into his mouth a time or two.

“Joaquín!” A pleasured whine rips through your diaphragm, lungs stinging as you catch your breath, euphoric high still rippling through your body.

He works you through it, stringing kisses over your pelvis, flush against the inside of your thighs, over the crook of your knee. A rosy pallor clings to his features, chest tight with excitement.

“So pretty when you cum, cariño,” Joaquín hums, kissing up along your body as he slots himself between your legs, his erection firm against your aching core. “Did so well.”

The praise makes you preen, a lackadaisical smile floating across your face as you arch forward, shyly wiping your slick from his chin.

“You’re so handsome,” You sigh, and he’s kissing your jaw, letting you feel what you do to him. He’s painfully hard and ready to feel you, hand shifting to tug at his sweatpants. “Need you, Joaquín.”

“You’ve got me,” He murmurs, his suave cadence dripping with adoration, and the look in his eyes rips the air from your lungs. It’s clean, gentle love — loves you so much. “Always.”

When he discards his sweatpants, the spandex of his boxers leaves little to the imagination, and it makes you swallow.

Lips find one another, and you taste yourself on his tongue, drawing a moan from his chest when you’re eager to savor it for yourself. Your hands trace over his biceps, perching around the nape of his neck.

“Still want to keep going? We don’t have to.” Joaquín is incredibly reassuring about everything, and it makes you want it all the more.

“I do,” You swear, fingertips tracing patterns over his hot skin, over freckles and now-faded scars, over the plane of his muscles. “I want you more than anything.” His breath hitches when you say it.

He nods, planting several kisses along your throat, feeling your legs constrict near his hips. There’s another light scuffle of fabric, and he adjusts himself enough to kick his boxers off.

They join his sweatpants, scattered somewhere along the foot of your bed. Joaquín stares down at you with wide eyes and a slightly nervous smile, as if you’re the center of his universe.

A shiver passes through the both of you when the flushed head of his cock nudges against your slick folds. He swallows, beautiful through the sienna glow, lashes fluttering a time or two.

You’re perfect — beautiful beneath him, breathtaking in every way imaginable. The lapse of silence lasts for a moment, with him adjusting himself between your legs.

A shiver grips his spine when his hips fall flush against yours, cockhead splitting past your folds, still oozing with precum.

“Ready?” His voice is low, pitched with want as he attempts to keep composure. Splintering at the seams, Joaquín stifled a groan when you moved against him, wanton.

With a nod, you give him your consent, trembling from exhilaration as his hips push forward. There is mild resistance at first, tip of his cock prodding against your entrance.

He’s sluggish, making sure that you’re comfortable first before progressing. “I’m okay.” You assure him, the sensation stinging yet blissful.

Shifting closer, you suck in a sharp inhale as his hips urge forward, cock sinking into you. It takes a moment of adjustment, cunt clenching around him with ripples of ecstasy.

Halfway inside of you, he stops to let you feel it all, every twitch, every muscle-deep quiver. Joaquín swallows a groan, forehead pressing against yours as he kisses your lips.

“Good, s’good.” Reassuring, you want him to continue, nearly clawing out of your flesh to have him in you completely. His cock is perfect — it’s pretty, as if it were molded for you.

“Yeah?” He huffs, mouth messily tangling with yours. Again, you’re nodding, spurring him on as his hips sink forward completely, cock fully buried inside of your pussy.

You’re tight, and it’s driving him crazy in the best way possible. He’s head over heels, so desperate for you that he might’ve been a beggar.

There’s a moment of hesitation from his end, and before you can comment on it, he begins to pull his hips back, and push forward. He’s disarmingly tender, making love instead of fucking you.

Sighs of passion tangled together, hot and fervent, breathing in the sweet air of one another. His cock kisses your pussy with each drawn-out thrust, dragging over your walls.

His chest burns with a string of needy grunts, holding you tightly, feeling your skin flush against his. Braced on one forearm, the other hand moves to hold yours, pinning them into the pillow.

Muscles flex, taut and sinewy, and you’re momentarily distracted by him; all of him.

Pupils dilate with desire, amber hues turned molten by the low light, jaw loosened, features flushed. He’s gorgeous like this, when he’s all over your mouth and needy.

Each rock of his hips is meaningful, cock buried into your tight heat. He’s good at it — makes you feel wanted in every way imaginable, like you’re something worth worshipping.

“Joaquín,” You pant, and the sound of your voice makes him buckle, trembling above you. Delicate fingers stroke over the nape of his neck, reaching into his tresses.

“You’re perfect,” He groans, inhaling a gust of your scent, hips stuttering slightly before regaining their confidence. He’s exceptionally passionate; not rough, not harsh, just desirous. “So pretty.”

His cock kisses your walls with each thrust, well-timed and intentional, driving himself into you. Your arousal makes it all easier, hips rolling over one another, friction simmering.

The silvery glint of his necklace dangles from his throat, mouth ajar, inhabiting a host of low, throaty groans. He’s vocal about how much he’s enjoying this, savoring every second of it with glee.

He smooths a hand over your thigh, gripping at your haunch to angle himself, joined hands squeezing beside your head.

The slow, drawn-out thrusts make your body melt, succumbing to heat. Sometimes he can’t believe that you’re real, that this is real; you’re a vision, a fantasy made flesh.

Joaquín doesn’t change course — he’s steady, passionate as he continues to rock into you, letting you feel everything properly.

Digits wander from the nape of his neck toward the silvery chain that dangles from his throat, hitching a finger in to drag him down.

A tremulous moan splits your diaphragm, shuddering as your cunt pulses, clenching around his cock. Lips collide, and you’re moaning into his mouth.

Each kiss makes your head dizzy; it’s all passion, bleeding heat that coagulates in the pit of your stomach, coil wanting to unfurl. His cock continues to slip inside, and then back; a push and pull.

Hitching your leg around his hips, it gives him leverage, a new angle to thrust into. He never gets rough or invigorated, letting passion override everything else.

Foreheads press firmly together, noses ghosting the other, mouths still joining in slow, needy kisses. “Mi amor,” He sighs, causing your cunt to clench around him. “Gettin’ close.”

There’s a slurred pitch in his voice, drunk on desire, drunk on the feeling of your body flush against his, on the sensation of you.

Pleasure floods your insides, the coil within your stomach having unfurled, treated to the loving thrusts of his hips. His cock moves deeper, kissing your walls, pulling another moan from your mouth.

Something tightens in his abdomen, pulled as taut as a bowstring, threatening to snap into two. Joaquín’s thrusts tick up in speed, just enough to make his head go static with desire.

Hot, breathy pants escape him, feathering over your mouth, and your noises spur him further. He keeps pushing, motions languid and loving, dragging out each thrust so that the both of you shiver.

“Joaquín!” A low, shaky whine tumbles from your lips, mouth pressing against his jaw as you lavish him in kisses. He shudders, teeth clenched as he gently fucks into you, again and again.

He’s there, and it’s euphoria — he groans, countenance contorted into bliss, chest shaking with low, pleasured sounds.

Hot ropes of cum flood your pussy, the aching sensation crawling through your skin. His movements begin to stutter and slow, hands twined together, his knuckles turning white.

Your name rolls from his tongue a time or two, dark curls tousled, wisping over his temples as he loses his composure.

For a moment, his thoughts are blank; the only thing he wants to think about is you.

With a drawn-out exhale, his hips shift, cock beginning to soften inside of you. He looks thoroughly pleased, razed and delighted, flashing a pearly smile at you.

“You okay?” Joaquín mumbles, leaning in to plant a kiss against your brow. Perspiration glitters over his skin, bitten by scarlet, muscles beginning to unravel the tension.

“Yeah,” A smile spreads over your face, and it makes his heart buzz with something warm. “That was amazing.” You don’t have much to judge it off of, either.

“Amazing, huh?” A twinge of playful cockiness creeps into his tone, characteristically upbeat. “That’s gonna go straight to my head.” He muses, kissing at your shoulder.

“I’ll revoke my compliment,” The faux threat makes him laugh, followed by your fit of giggles. It’s that sound he clings to — it’s everything. “You’re so perfect, Quín.”

There’s a sparkle in his gaze when he meets yours, swimming with affection. He’s always strived to prove himself, be better; to you, he’s flawless, sunshine in living flesh.

“Mm-mm,” He kisses your jaw. “That title belongs to you, miel. You’re everything I want,” There’s a sudden sincerity that saturates his tone. “Got my heart in your hand.”

A hitch forms within your throat when you realize how serious he really is about you. You aren’t used to it, accustomed to only pain and misery, of being isolated.

You lose that fear with him in ways that you never thought possible. Unable to keep from smiling, you kiss him again, hands squeezing at his biceps.

“Maybe we can make breakfast in the morning,” You suggest, and he’s already over the moon about the idea. “Lena said something about tomorrow night, so we’ve got time.”

“I’ll make you breakfast,” Joaquín insists, all doe-eyed and dazzled, showering you in another playful barrage of kisses. He moves off of you not long after, wanting to help you get comfortable. “You a pancake type of girl?”

Laying on his back, he gently grabs your hips, pulling you into his chest, propped up against your heap of pillows. He’s smiling still, painfully handsome as continue to stare.

“French toast, actually,” You muse, and that stumps him. His nose wrinkles slightly, arms still cradling you close. “What’s that look for?”

“Nothing,” He chuckles, warm and tender, fingers drifting to cup the nape of your neck, thumb tracing along your jaw. “I’ll learn how to make french toast tomorrow.” Joaquín won’t back down, either.

“You don’t have t—” Before you can finish your sentence, he’s kissing you, affectionately squeezing at your hip. “Joaquín.” You mumble, visibly flustered.

“Making you breakfast,” He insists, kissing your mouth again, a second time, and then a third. “My beautiful girlfriend deserves it.” You know there’s no protesting him.

“Your girlfriend wants to take a shower,” Giggling, you’re moving off of him, body sticky with perspiration and the aftermath of your escapades. “And you’re coming, too.”

Visibly excited, he huffs a laugh, swift to scramble after you, hastily grabbing a bundle of clothes in the process. As you move off of the bed, you give your phone a quick glance.

There’s a new text that’s popped up, one you didn’t notice while you were with Quín.

YELENA: Nice of you to ask if we wanted any takeout. Tell little Falcon we said hello :)

[anghimalaaynasapuso]

HYENA JOHNNY

sfw + nsfw. rut. knotting. premature ejaculation. service top!johnny (?)

you meet johnny at a bar.

the place is old but well-kept, a place that’s obviously seen its share of rowdy nights and heavy pours but still holds its charm. dark wood, polished by time and restless hands, stretches beneath your fingertips. liquor bottles line the shelves behind the counter.

the air hums— conversation rising and falling in waves, punctuated by the occasional burst of laughter, the sharp clink of glasses meeting in messy toasts. the dim lighting catches on old brass fixtures, scuffs on the floor telling stories of countless nights just like this one.

and behind the bar, johnny.

he moves like he owns the place, because, clearly, he does. he reaches for bottles without looking, flicks open the tap with a smooth twist of his wrist. the other bartenders glance his way for cues. it’s plain that johnny doesn’t just work here. he runs the show.

and it's that experience that has him spotting you immediately.

“what’ll it be, sweetheart?” the words roll off his tongue, practiced but not indifferent.

"a mocktail.”

johnny pauses, processing, then snorts. “that’s tragic. you say that like you mean it.”

"i do."

he clicks his tongue, shaking his head, the motion loose. “waste of a perfectly good night, that.”

"i’m the designated driver," you shoot back, somehow feeling like you have to defend yourself, jerking a thumb over your shoulder.

your friends are deep in it— half-dancing, half-stumbling, belting lyrics to a song that isn’t playing. one of them throws their arms around another’s neck, nearly taking them both down in the process

johnny follows your gaze, lets out a low whistle. “ah. the shepherd of the drunk.” his tail sways behind him, amused. “a noble role.”

"someone has to get them home alive."

he drums his fingers against the bar, eyes flicking between you and the mess unfolding on the dance floor. “you sure you don’t wanna let natural selection do its thing?”

you huff a laugh, shaking your head. "tempting. but i’d rather not explain to their mothers why they woke up in a hedge."

he grins. “fair enough. guess that means you get a drink that doesn’t kick back.” he rolls his shoulders before reaching for bottles. “what’s the call, then? fruity? sour?”

"surprise me."

johnny hums, tilting his head, eyes narrowing slightly like he’s sizing you up. “dangerous words,” but he’s already moving, rolling up his sleeves as he reaches for a shaker. “hope you like a bit of bite.”

"that a threat?"

“nah,” he says. “just a promise.”

you watch him work.

his hands move fast, sure, an efficiency that only comes with time and muscle memory. bottles tip, liquid pours in smooth arcs, ice clatters against the tin before he seals it with a sharp tap. he doesn’t fumble, doesn’t second-guess— he moves with a rhythm stitched into his bones.

and he’s a hyena. no mistaking it.

the broad grin, all sharp teeth. the spots dusting his forearms, darker markings trailing up his skin where his sleeves are shoved back. but more than that, it’s how he carries himself— as if he was built to be here, to take up space without hesitation.

he shakes the tin with quick jerks, wrists rolling, muscles shifting under skin.

“so,” he starts, barely looking up as he strains the drink into a glass, “you always this responsible, or is this a special occasion?”

"i like knowing i’ll wake up in my own bed."

he hums, dropping a garnish into the glass with a flick of his fingers. “can’t argue with that.” then he slides the drink toward you, tapping the rim lightly with one claw. “still. shame to waste a night like this on sobriety.”

you lift the glass, taking a slow sip. citrus, something tart, something fizzy at the edges, a hint of spice lingering at the back of your tongue.

"not bad," you admit.

johnny leans in slightly, bracing his forearms against the bar, grin widening. “’course it’s not. you think i’d serve you shite?”

"i've known you for all five minutes. forgive me if i didn’t know what to expect."

he chuckles, head tilting, ears flicking forward. “stick around, sweetheart. i’ll raise those expectations in no time.”

"confident, aren’t you?"

“damn right.” his eyes flick over you. “why? that a problem?”

"just wondering if it ever gets you in trouble."

his grin turns wolfish— if a hyena could pull off wolfish. “constantly.”

you don’t take him home that night. not because you don’t want to— because you do, god, you do— but because you’ve got a job to do.

instead, you spend the next hour wrangling your friends, guiding them into overpriced rideshares, confiscating a stolen pint glass, and prying one of them away from a very ill-advised conversation with a married senior executive.

by the time you finally collapse into bed, your jacket still smells like whiskey and citrus, your ears still ringing with laughter.

you tell yourself you won’t think about the bartender with the easy grin and the voice that curled around your name like it belonged to him.

you tell yourself a lot of things.

the work gala arrives like an obligation dressed as an opportunity. the invitation promised networking, an open bar, and a celebration of months of labor.

but you don’t want to go.

you doubt anyone does, but it’s not really a choice. the project your team has spent months sweating over is finally seeing the light of day, and the higher-ups need their captive audience. they need applause, nods of approval, praise whispered over crystal flutes of overpriced champagne.

so you go.

you let yourself be swept inside, past sleek decor and halfhearted compliments, past handshakes that mean nothing and conversations that mean even less. the champagne is crisp and the hors d'oeuvres bite-sized and forgettable.

the work gala is everything you expected.

the kind of event that looks dazzling in photos but feels hollow in person. the chandeliers glisten, the glasses are always full, and the music hums soft and unintrusive, a backdrop for corporate egos to stretch their legs. it’s all smiles that don’t reach the eyes, laughter that’s a beat too polished, and conversations that carry the distinct flavor of ambition disguised as small talk.

the dress helps, if anything. a deep color, clean lines, the kind that turns a glance into a second look. a little armor against the monotony of handshakes and careful smiles.

you last about ten minutes before you seek out the bar.

and that’s when you see him.

johnny.

standing behind the counter like he owns the place, despite the fact that he very much does not.

his sleeves are pushed up, forearms bared, and his tie is hanging loose like it barely survived a halfhearted attempt at professionalism. he looks like someone who should be on the other side of the bar, drink in hand, making people laugh too loud. but he’s here, somehow, and he’s already watching you.

he leans into the counter, the soft golden glow of the pendant lights casting sharp shadows across his grin— and it looks suspiciously like he’s been waiting for you to notice him.

and of course, you do. how could you not?

johnny isn’t just attractive.

that would be too simple. attraction is easy, common. but johnny is something else. something loud and impossible to ignore, the kind of presence that bends a room around him, that demands attention without asking for it.

you stop short, fingers tightening around the stem of your glass. “johnny?”

he grins. “last i checked.”

your eyes flick down to the neatly pressed vest, the gleaming bar, the expensive bottles lined up in perfect order.

then back to him.

“what the hell are you doing here?”

johnny reaches for a glass, inspecting it against the light before setting it down with a soft clink. “servin’ drinks, apparently.”

your brow lifts. “you own a pub.”

“that i do.”

“so why are you working here?”

“money’s good.” he shrugs, as if that’s a reason.

you give him a look. “you could’ve sent someone else.”

his smirk twitches into a grin. “could’ve.”

you narrow your eyes. “but?”

johnny leans in slightly, resting his forearms on the bar. “but then i wouldn’t have run into you, would i?”

heat pricks the back of your neck. “you expect me to believe you took this job on the off chance i’d be here?”

“nah,” he says easily, reaching for a bottle, twisting off the cap with practiced ease. “but it’s a hell of a nice surprise.”

you exhale, shaking your head. “unbelievable.”

“what’s unbelievable is that you’re still holdin’ that same drink,” he says, nodding toward the half-full glass in your hand. “startin’ to think you don’t trust me.”

“i barely trust this event,” you say dryly. “let alone the bar staff.”

johnny places a hand over his heart, mock-wounded. “cut me deep, sweetheart.”

you roll your eyes, setting your drink down. “fine. impress me.”

he moves to prepare your drink and soon enough a drink slides across the bar. he taps the rim lightly with one finger. a challenge.

his grin turns sharp, all teeth. “dangerous thing to ask.”

you take a sip.

pause.

lick the taste from your lips.

his smirk lingers, watching. waiting.

“…damn it.” you exhale. “that’s actually good.”

johnny laughs, pleased. “you plannin’ on apologizing for that remark earlier?”

your pulse jumps.

“and how exactly would i do that?”

he tilts his head, considering. “stick around. drink somethin’ strong. keep lookin’ at me like that.”

and just like that, you’re in trouble.

you don’t mean to get drunk. you came here to be seen, to endure, to let your boss soak up the credit for your work while you nod along. but then johnny makes you a drink, and when you finish it too fast, he makes you another.

responsibility starts as a whisper.

drink slower. be professional. don’t plant yourself at the bar all night.

then he tilts his head just so, watching you like you’re a puzzle he intends to solve and the whisper fades.

you order another.

somewhere around your third drink, your laughter turns ease. johnny’s grin mirrors it, fingers working effortlessly over glass and steel as he keeps the drinks flowing.

fourth drink, you tell him he has unfairly nice hands. he nearly spills a cocktail laughing.

five drinks in, you go for a napkin, miss entirely, and send a row of garnishes tumbling. staring down at the mess, you seriously debate the logistics of picking them up without falling under the bar.

johnny exhales, tossing a rag over his shoulder. "i think that means you’re cut off, sweetheart."

"you think a lot of things," you mutter, blinking up at him, heavy-lidded and unbothered.

his laughter softens, turns fond. "and i’m usually right."

you pout at him until you sway a little too much, and the world tilts just slightly before a hand reaches over the bar to steady you.

he exhales through his nose, shaking his head, muttering half-amused, half-exasperated, "jesus."

for a moment, johnny considers just throwing you over his shoulder and dealing with the consequences later. he’s a hyena, after all, and hyenas take care of their own. you’re his, in some loose, nebulous way, and it wouldn’t be difficult to make sure you got to a home safe. yours or not.

but even in your current state, he figures you wouldn’t be thrilled about waking up in a stranger’s bed with no memory of how you got there.

so, he does the next best thing.

he steals your phone.

you don’t even notice, too busy playing with the condensation on your glass, and he sighs as he tilts the screen toward your face.

the lock screen slides open instantly.

"oh, sweetheart," he murmurs, shaking his head. "you’re makin’ this too easy."

he scrolls through your messages, scanning over names he doesn’t recognize until he finds a group chat that looks promising. lots of emojis. lots of inside jokes. someone had typed in all caps at some point about a brunch reservation, so yeah— this’ll do.

he thumbs out a message: “your friend is very drunk. come get them before she pukes over my bar.” and attaches the location.

and then, because he can, because he wants to, and because some part of him already knows he’ll be seeing you again, he puts his number in your contacts, too.

you wake up to a headache and a mistake.

the headache, at least, makes sense. it splits through your skull the second you shift, a dull, relentless throb pulsing behind your eyes, pressing into the backs of your sockets like a vice tightening around your brain. your mouth is dry, tongue thick with the stale aftertaste of liquor, and your body feels like dead weight, limbs tangled in sheets that are too warm, too heavy. everything is stiff— your neck, your shoulders, your stomach twisting in protest as the memories of last night flicker back in fragments. a bar. dark wood. golden light. laughter that lingered low in your chest, warm and sweet, and—

him.

your stomach flips before your brain can even process why.

you groan, rolling onto your side, pushing your face into the pillow to block out the morning. you want to sleep, to bury yourself beneath the covers and pretend none of it happened— whatever it is. but your body betrays you, instincts dragging your arm across the mattress, fumbling blindly for your phone where it must’ve slipped from your hand sometime in the night.

your fingers brush cool metal. you blink blearily at the screen.

the glow cuts through the dimness of your room, soft and insistent, illuminating the single notification waiting for you.

a new contact.

johnny ;)

your stomach twists harder.

you blink at it.

once.

twice.

the emoji taunts you, cocky even in pixels, a playful little wink that makes something hot curl at the base of your spine. the name itself is bad enough— too much of a reminder of how his mouth quirked up when he poured your drink, and the warmth of his fingers when brushed against yours as he slid it across the bar.

your pulse ticks up. you hesitate, thumb hovering over the screen, torn between the impulse to check and the ridiculous urge to just not know.

but you already know you’re going to look.

you swipe, and the screen shifts.

one unread message.

johnny: still alive, sweetheart?

your first instinct is to throw the phone across the room. your second is to type something back. something quick, something effortless, something that won’t make it obvious that your pulse just stuttered in your throat.

you fail spectacularly.

you: barely. might never recover.

his response is immediate, and it makes you wonder if he was already waiting.

johnny: tragic. if i’d known, i would’ve given you a proper sendoff

heat prickles at the back of your neck. you stare at the message for a second too long, then lock your phone and press it flat against your chest as if that might do something about the way your heart is suddenly working overtime.

and just like that, it starts. small things, at first. quick, snappy messages.

johnny: remind me to never let you near tequila again. i don’t think you’d survive round two.

you: bold of you to assume i wouldn’t win.

johnny: bold of YOU to assume you won anything last night. you begged me for water.

you: lies. slander. i demand proof.

johnny: aye, sweetheart, i’d send the security footage, but i think the sight of you poutin’ at me over a glass of water might be too much for your fragile ego.

you don’t have a response for that. you lock your phone, toss it onto your bed, and roll onto your stomach, groaning into your pillow.

but the messages keep coming.

johnny: how’s the hangover? or should i start gettin’ that funeral procession in order?

you: surprisingly not dead.

johnny: pity. i would’ve made a great eulogy.

it’s easy, too easy.

he starts asking about your day. you start telling him.

johnny: how’d the deadline go? survived it?

you: took three cups of coffee and some questionable life choices, but it’s done

johnny: questionable life choices, huh? do i even want to ask?

you: if you must know, i impulse bought a croissant the size of my head. no regrets

johnny: i admire the dedication. although i’d be more impressed if you could finish it.

you: challenge accepted

he keeps talking to you. keeps pulling you in, coaxing conversation out of you and somehow it all feels natural, effortless.

he makes fun of the salad you regret ordering for lunch.

you: i don’t know what i expected. it’s lettuce.

johnny: truly a tragic meal. if you die from boredom, i promise i’ll give a heartfelt speech at the funeral.

you: that’s the second time you’ve threatened to monologue at my funeral. should i be worried?

johnny: just bein’ prepared, sweetheart. never know when tragedy might strike.

he complains about a difficult customer but immediately follows up with “not that i'm whinin'. boss can’t be seen whinin’."

the more he texts, the worse it gets.

you catch yourself checking your phone too often, waiting for his name to light up your screen. you start carrying your charger everywhere, the battery never allowed to dip low, just in case. when he texts, you answer too fast. when he doesn’t, you fight the stupid urge to stare at your phone, to wonder if he’s busy, to think about what his hands might be doing instead.

somewhere along the way, the teasing shifts into something else. something a little slower.

johnny: long day?

you: feels like it

johnny: go easy on yourself, sweetheart. tomorrow’s just gonna show up and make a mess of things all over again.

your fingers hover over the keyboard. something about it makes you pause, makes your stomach do that stupid little thing where it twists up in knots.

you: that’s bleak

johnny: nah. just means there’s always another chance to make somethin’ good out of it.

you don’t have a response for that either.

turns out you don't need one because then he follows it up with a—

johnny: what are you doin’ friday?

your stomach flips.

you: depends. why?

this time, the response doesn’t come immediately.

you watch the typing bubble appear. disappear. reappear.

johnny: takin’ you out. that’s why.

your breath catches. your hands hesitate over the keyboard, mind racing, running in circles. you type something and delete it. type again. delete. finally, you settle on—

you: at your pub?

his reply is fast.

johnny: christ, no. my staff would never let me leave alive.

you: fair point. so where, then?

johnny: you’ll see ;)

you are, without a doubt, in trouble.

johnny is ready. more than ready. too ready, if you ask his staff.

he’s been buzzing since you said yes, practically vibrating through the walls of his pub, too restless to stand still. his staff have been suffering through it for days— watching him plan the date down to the minute, pick out the restaurant, polish his shoes, practice his stories in the backroom mirror with an alarming level of dedication.

“you’re a grown man,” gaz mutters at one point, rubbing his temples as johnny rehearses a joke for the fifth time. “not a schoolboy with his first crush.”

he’s taken people out before, sure, but this— this is different. his fingers twitch when he thinks about it. his pulse kicks like it’s trying to outrun him. he shoves it all down, tells himself to act normal, be normal, but his body betrays him at every turn.

and then, just as he reaches your door, just as he lifts his fist to knock—

his rut slams into him like a sledgehammer.

hyena ruts are brutal.

unlike wolves or big cats, they don’t creep in slow, don’t build over days like a fire waiting for kindling. no, hyenas go from zero to hundred in the space of a breath— one second fine, the next wrecked by an all-consuming need, by instincts that don’t care for reason or timing.

johnny staggers, barely catching himself before he hits the wall, his shoulder slamming into brick with a dull, shuddering thud. his claws scrape at his own arms, blunt nails dragging hard enough to leave welts beneath his fur, but it doesn’t help, nothing fucking helps. his body isn’t listening. his breath stutters, fast and uneven, catching in his throat like he’s choking on something thick and hot. sweat beads at his temples, slicks the back of his neck, soaks into his shirt despite the night air.

his stomach knots, muscles pulling tight, something twisting low in his gut like a wire wound too far. his mouth hangs open, his tongue thick, saliva pooling behind his teeth like his body is preparing for a bite, for a kill. his canines throb, the dull ache settling deep in his jaw, instincts curling sharp beneath his ribs, thick and hungry and dangerous.

and fuck. fuck, he’s so hard he can’t breathe.

his cock strains against his trousers, the fabric pulled taut over the thick, aching line of it, every throb so deep it rattles in his bones. he shifts, trying to ease it, trying to will it down, but the movement just grinds the swollen head against the seam of his fly, drags coarse fabric over his leaking tip, makes him hiss between clenched teeth. his balls are tight, drawn up so high it’s like they’re trying to retreat into his body, his whole system locked down, caught in something primal and unforgiving.

he clenches his fists, claws digging into his palms, every muscle in his body coiled and trembling with the effort of staying still, of not grinding down against something, of not reaching between his legs and squeezing his own cock in his fist just to take the edge off.

and then he fucking whimpers.

the sound wrenches out of him, cracking at the end. his breath stutters, catches in his throat, his body too hot, too tight.

johnny's head tips back, knocking against the brick, his hips twitching forward in a broken little jerk, chasing nothing, his cock pulsing angrily, trapped and swollen, sensitivity that borders on pain. he squeezes his eyes shut, teeth grinding, sweat rolling down his spine, but it doesn’t help. nothing helps.

and then— the door creaks open.

he flinches, his whole body jolting, his breath shoving out of him in a ragged, shaking gasp.

you’re there.

crouched beside him, close enough that he can catch your scent, something grounding and unbearable all at once. your hand hovers near his arm like you’re about to touch him.

no.

“no-” it breaks from his lips before he can stop it. “no- back inside-”

his fingers barely catch your sleeve before slipping off, his limbs weak, useless. “call-” he tries again, panting through clenched teeth. “call for help- call for- fuck-”

but you don’t move. you don’t go back inside. you don’t slam the door shut. you don’t listen.

you reach for him. and he folds.

the second your fingers brush his skin, johnny's whole body caves, shaking apart under the weight of whatever the fuck is happening to him. his forehead knocks against your shoulder, a shuddering noise ripping from his throat as he clings to you, his fingers fisting into your shirt like you’re the only solid thing left in the world.

“oh, fuck-” his cock aches. throbs. pulses against the stiff, unforgiving line of his zipper.

he grinds against nothing, every twitch of his hips sending another spike of sensation shooting up his spine. his balls are heavy, swollen, so full it’s like they might burst, like they might spill just from the way his trousers dig into them, the way his body is wound too tight, too fucking close to something he can’t control.

he needs. he needs.

fuck, but he shouldn’t.

“i-” he tries to pull back, tries to put space between you, but his fingers won’t listen. instead, they curl tighter, dragging you in, his body betraying him in real time, his cock pressing flush to your thigh, the heat of it scalding even through layers of fabric.

a noise breaks from him, sounding dangerously close to a sob.

he can’t. he can’t.

“fuck-” he buries his face against your neck. “m’sorry- m’sorry, just-just a second-”

he’s trembling, breath stuttering, little whimpers breaking past his lips no matter how hard he tries to choke them down.

you say something and he barely registers it through the thick haze clouding his head but your warmth weight, and the press of your body against his—

it helps. just a little.

and you— well, you know exactly what’s happening.

you don’t waste time pretending this is something johnny can just ride out alone. you grip his arms, drag him inside, shove the door shut with your heel and twist the locks tight. then the deadbolt. then the security chain.

your fingers are practiced, muscle memory guiding you through the steps of securing the space.

just in case. just in case someone else nearby is in rut or heat, just in case some poor bastard catches wind of johnny’s scent and decides to come sniffing around.

(he smells good. too good. sharp and heady, the scent of him curling in the air, thickening with every ragged breath he lets out. you, even you, feel your own instincts stirring, muscles tensing in awareness, your body recognizing his rut and urging you to stay close. to soothe. to let him take what he needs.)

johnny is shaking against you, his whole frame shuddering with the effort of keeping himself together. his breath is hot against your skin, slipping out between the low, broken whimpers he can’t seem to bite back

“fuck-fuck, m’sorry,” he stammers, voice catching. “didn’t- didn’t mean-”

his claws twitch against your arms, not quite gripping, afraid to hold on too tight.

his tail flicks behind him, anxious, ears pressed flat against his skull. his pupils are blown wide, swallowing up the blue of his eyes, his whole expression caught between shame and need.

“wanted this-” his voice cracks, something dangerously close to a whine. “wanted this to go well. wanted- wanted t’please you.”

johnny shudders, forehead knocking against your shoulder as another tremor rolls through him. “wanted you to- to see me. see me as a good mate. confident.”

he breathes in, sharp, and his whole body locks up for a moment, every muscle going taut— then a full-body shiver wracks through him, cock pulsing hard enough that you feel it, even through his trousers, even through your own clothes.

your throat goes dry.

you reach up, smoothing your fingers through his fur, brushing a hand along his back, trying to offer something— some kind of grounding touch, reassurance.

“johnny,” you murmur, voice steady, firm. “it’s not your fault.”

his breath hitches.

“i really don’t mind,” you say again, softer now, pressing the words into the shell of his ear.

a noise catches in his throat, something small, choked and helpless, and he drags his face away from your shoulder, tilting up to look at you properly.

his pupils are still wide, expression still hazy, but he searches your face with almost terrifying seriousness.

his tail flicks again when he seems to find nothing or what he was looking for.

“…can i make it up to you?”

your brows lift.

his ears twitch, jaw flexing, uncertainty plain with how his teeth catch on his lower lip, his eyes flicking down to your mouth and then lower, dragging slow over the curve of your body.

you shift, tilting your head. “how?”

johnny's tail twitches again then stills. he swallows hard, nostrils flaring, then lifts his gaze back to yours, something new burning in the depths of his expression.

“…can i lick your pussy?” he’s puppy-eyed and pleading, expression screaming with ‘please let me- please let me take care of you- please, i need this.’

his breath ghosts warm over your lips, fingers flexing where they’re still curled weakly around your arms.

he’s trembling, cock leaking. and you—

you nod.

his ears twitch, breath shuddering out in a sharp little gasp, grip on your thighs tightening. fingers hook into your waistband not a moment later, and he yanks, dragging your pants down, underwear with them, his movements are frantic, almost clumsy in his eagerness. he groans, wrecked and relieved, the second you're bare in front of him, pupils blown, tail wagging, whole body thrumming with ‘please, please, please.’

and then—

oh.

his tongue is warm.

hot and wet and wide, the rough texture of it dragging over your slit in a slow, open-mouthed lick, firm and eager like he's trying to taste every inch of you.

your breath stutters, hands flying to his head, fingers curling into his thick fur as he groans against you, the sound vibrating up through his tongue, sending sparks of pleasure shooting through your spine.

and he doesn't stop.

doesn't hesitate. doesn't tease.

no, johnny dives in, pressing his face right up against your cunt, burying his nose in the soft flesh of your inner thigh, mouth sealing over you like he's starving.

his tongue flicks, curls, scoops into you, lapping up your slick with these obscene little slurping sounds, breath coming fast and desperate through his nose.

"fuck," you gasp, hips jerking, but he just growls, arms wrapping around your thighs, locking you in place.

his tongue drags up, then circles your clit, flicking once, twice before sucking it into his mouth, lips sealing around it with wet, sloppy pressure.

a sharp, helpless sound breaks from your throat, fingers spasming in his fur, tugging hard, but he just whines, pushing closer, pressing his face deeper between your legs, like he wants to drown in you.

his tail thumps against the floor, hips shifting, rutting, desperate little movements like he needs the friction, like eating you out is wrecking him just as much as it’s wrecking you.

johnny’s tongue works you open, the rough drag of it lighting up every nerve in your body. he’s sloppy with it, messy and eager as a puppy, sucking and lapping and groaning like he can’t get enough— like he won’t get enough, not until you’re shaking, not until you’re breaking apart in his hands.

his nose presses in, nuzzling against your clit as he angles his tongue deeper, the slick heat of his mouth sealing around you, sucking, devouring every drop of slick that spills from your pussy. his grip tightens, claws pricking your skin, grounding you against his face as he buries himself in your cunt, breath ragged.

his ears twitch at every moan, every gasp, tail wagging, thudding against the floor in frantic, jerky movements. his hips roll, little ruts against nothing, cock straining in his pants.

and fuck, the way you’re squeezing around his tongue, the way you’re whining, the way your fingers are tugging at his fur, yanking him closer, using him for your pleasure—

it’s perfect.

his tongue flicks against your clit, so fast he feels like his jaw is gonna cramp and your whole body locks up, muscles tensing, thighs clamping around his head as your pleasure slams through you.

"johnny-!"

you break, back arching, fingers spasming in his hair as your orgasm rips through you, cunt clenching.

and johnny loses it.

his hips snap forward, grinding down against the floor, cock pulsing in his pants, the thick length throbbing in time with your orgasm, so turned on with how you’re gushing into his mouth.

"fuck-” johnny’s body shaking, arms tightening around your thighs as his own climax crashes into him, his whole frame jerking with it.

his tail spasms, ears flicking wildly, and he ruts with mindless abandon, his tongue still lapping at you as he comes, soaking his trousers, thick spurts spilling out in his underwear, making a mess of himself, of the floor beneath him.

johnny’s breath stutters, his tongue slower now, softer. he whimpers against you, his hips giving these tiny, involuntary twitches, pleasure still rattling through his system, buzzing under his skin.

he’s a mess. ruined. wrecked.

but he’s still got his mouth on you. he’s still hard.

even after all that, after coming in his pants like a desperate thing, he’s still thick and straining against the damp fabric, the outline of his cock pressing against his zipper, a dark stain spreading where his release had soaked through.

but he’s smiling up at you, lazy, hazy-eyed satisfaction, ears flicking, tail giving a slow, contented thump against the floor. he looks pleased with himself, looks like he just had the best meal of his life, tongue flicking out to lick the last traces of you from his lips.

you swallow, your gaze flicking down, heat curling in your stomach.

"johnny-" your voice comes out soft. "do you- do you wanna fuck me?"

his ears perk up. his breath hitches.

"fuck," he gasps, pupils blown, hips giving a helpless little jerk, grinding into nothing. "fuck, yes- yes, please-”

your voice comes out soft, barely above a whisper, but he hears it like a gunshot.

"fuck me..."

johnny whines. he’s so happy, so relieved, so thrilled that his hands are already moving before his brain catches up— grabbing at your clothes, tearing them off your body, dragging fabric down your arms, over your hips, tossing them aside like they offend him.

you barely have a second to breathe before he’s fumbling with his own clothes, his pants sticking to his skin, soaked through with his release, and he growls under his breath, impatient, frantic, tearing at the fabric.

you hear the sharp rip before you see him, and by then, it’s too late.

his hands are on your hips again, tugging you back against him, the heat of him pressing up behind you. bare now, nothing between you, and—

oh.

oh.

there is a lot of him.

you don't see it, but you feel it, the weight of him pressing against you, the head of his cock nudging at your entrance, leaking precum against your folds. your brain catches up in a single, dawning moment of realization.

"u-um- johnny, wait-"

he doesn’t wait. he pushes in.

your mouth drops open around a soundless scream, arms giving out beneath you, sending you down onto your hands as your body stretches around him.

"hnnngh- fuck-”

johnny groans, hands locking around your hips, fingers digging in, holding you still as he sinks in deeper, his fat length forcing you open, your walls struggling to accommodate the sheer size of him.

his cock is thick, veined, hot as a brand against your insides, his knot still deflated but already pressing against your entrance, teasing the stretch that’s still to come.

"s’good- fuck- so warm-" he babbles, hips twitching. rolling. driving him deeper. deeper. deeper.

you can feel every ridge, every pulse, the wet sounds of your slick mixing with his precum, making everything so messy, so hot, so unbearably good.

your fingers curl against the floor, nails scraping for purchase, breath coming in ragged gasps. you can barely speak, but you manage a single, broken sound—

"johnny-"

he whimpers, hips jerking forward, sinking the last of himself inside.

he’s so deep you swear you can feel him in your stomach.

he snaps his hips forward, slamming into you with a force that knocks the breath from your lungs.

again.

again.

again.

it’s feral. frantic. mindless. his claws dig into your hips, keeping you locked in place as he fucks into you with the wild, unrelenting pace of an animal.

"fuck- fuck- fuck-"

he’s babbling now, every noise ripped straight from his chest. he’s gone, lost to instinct, breath ragged, panting against your back.

and you— you’re drooling.

your mouth falls open, a string of spit slipping past your lips, eyes hazy, unfocused, body pliant beneath him. it’s like you’re the one in heat, like his need has infected you, sinking into your skin, making you just as desperate, just as mindless.

his knot isn’t even swollen yet, and still— still— it feels like too much, like your body is barely keeping up, like you’re caught in the eye of a storm and all you can do is take it.

and he’s loving it.

“s-so good-" he whimpers, his voice shaking, thick with pleasure, his ears twitching. "s’takin’ me so well- fuck- made f’me, yeah? made t’be bred-"

his teeth graze the back of your neck, not quite biting, but close, breath hot against your skin.

"tell me- tell me y’need it-"

his hips snap forward, hard, cock grinding against the deepest part of you.

"tell me, bonnie-“

you somehow managed a choked moan of his name which seems to please him enough. “j-johnny!”

"hah- hah- hah-" his panting is ragged, tongue lolling out between sharp teeth, drool slipping past his lips, dripping onto your back. his claws dig into your hips, dragging you back onto his cock with every thrust.

you're reduced to a mess of slick and sweat and open-mouthed moans. your vision swims, breath stuttering, drool slipping past your own lips. your cunt grips him tight, sucking him in, slick coating his cock, dripping down his balls, wetting the base of his knot as it starts to swell.

"pretty..." johnny fucking giggles. it’s breathy, boyish, downright giddy as he snakes a hand down between your legs, fingertips dragging through the sticky mess between your thighs, rubbing over your swollen, aching clit.

"pretty clit… so soft... s’cute like this, all swollen f’me..."

he snickers to himself, his other hand coming up to your lower belly, pressing down, feeling the bulge his cock makes inside you. his hips snap forward hard, pressing down at the same time, making you feel every inch of him.

"fuck-" he whimpers, laughter breaking into a moan, tail flicking wildly behind him. "y'feel that? s’me, bonnie- deep inside- fuck, s’good-”

your orgasm crashes over you like a tidal wave, your body locking up, cunt milking him as you shake. your mind goes hazy, all-consuming pleasure buzzing through your nerves, and you barely register the way his rhythm falters—

until he gasps, breath catching, his whole body trembling, hips stuttering against you.

but he doesn’t push his knot in.

his cock throbs, leaking, twitching inside you, but his knot— still swollen, thick and pulsing at your entrance— doesn’t breach. he was too caught up, too lost in you, and now.

well, now it’s too late.

"fuck- fuck, bonnie, ‘m sorry-" his voice is frantic, hands shaking where they grip your hips. "i was s’posed t’ knot you, i- fuck, i know it hurts-”

and it does.

the ache of being left open, empty where you should be full, the throb of your walls still pulsing around nothing.

johnny knows.

he knows it hurts to push his knot in if you’re not distracted by your orgasm. he also knows the second the high fades it’s going to leave you aching, needy, sensitive in a way that burns.

"i got you, bonnie-" he murmurs, voice soft, affectionate even as he drives into you again, already chasing another orgasm from you. "gonna make it up t’you, promise-"

he grabs your hips, yanking you back onto his cock, fucking you harder, faster, desperate to fix it, desperate to make sure you don’t feel the pain.

his fingers find your clit again, rubbing quick, his touch clumsy, eager. “fuck- ‘m sorry, s’gonna feel so good, swear it-"

and he’s right.

your body can’t fight him, can’t deny him, the overstimulation pushing you right back up that peak, another orgasm slamming into you not even a minute later.

your walls clamp down around him, milking him, and he chokes on a moan, his whole body tensing. "fuck, fuck, that’s it- thass it, bonnie-"

his knot swells, stretching you wide, pushing in finally, locking him deep inside you—

and then he comes.

he fills you, cock pulsing, spurts of cum pouring into you, stuffing you full. his hips twitches, grinding against you, voice breaking on your name.

johnny's arms wrap around you, hugging you tight, chest pressed to your back. "s-sorry," he breathes, still panting, nuzzling against your shoulder. "s’never gonna happen again, promise-”

oh but it does. it happens multiple times, in fact.

you don’t know how long it’s been. you lost count after his fifth load. time has lost all meaning, swallowed up by the relentless rhythm of johnny’s rut.

he’s insatiable. a desperate, panting mess, rutting into you over and over, knotting you again and again, rolling his hips even when he’s still locked inside you, grinding his over-sensitive cock against your walls like he can’t stop.

his hands won’t let go of you, always grabbing, always holding— your hips, your waist, your thighs, your wrists. pulling you back onto him, keeping you flush against his sweat-slicked body.

johnny's all heat, burning up against you, whining your name in between frantic, slurred murmurs of "so good, so good, my bonnie, mine-"

but eventually— finally— the first wave of his rut starts to fade.

he slows. his thrusts lose their urgency, grip loosening, breath evening out, the feverish need in his eyes softening into something dazed, exhausted.

you take your chance.

"johnny-" you murmur, shifting slightly beneath him. "you need to drink some water, love."

he doesn't seem to really hear you, nuzzling into your neck. "mmm… later…"

"no, now," you insist, stroking a hand through his sweat-damp hair. "you’ve- we've been going for hours- we need to hydrate, okay?"

he grumbles, but when you finally manage to untangle yourself from his grasp and sit up, he whines, reaching for you again, ears flattening against his head.

"no- bonnie- come back-"

"drink first," you say, grabbing the water bottle from your nightstand and holding it out to him after you've had your own fill. "then I’ll cuddle you."

he pouts but takes the bottle, chugging down greedy gulps, tail flicking sluggishly behind him.

you press a granola bar into his hand next, watching as he blinks at it, then at you, before finally taking a bite.

he chews slowly, brows furrowing like he’s thinking about something, the fog in his brain is clearing just enough for rational thought.

and that’s when you pick up his phone from the mess of clothes, phoning his emergency number.

a guy nicknamed 👻.

you hesitate, fingers hovering over the call button.

johnny tilts his head at you, ears twitching. "whatcha doin’, bonnie?"

"calling your emergency contact," you say, glancing at him. "someone needs to know you’re in rut."

johnny groans, flopping back against the pillows, rubbing a hand down his face. "oh, fuck me-"

"i did," you deadpan. "for hours."

he snorts, but his face is already going pink. "fuckin’ hell… he’s never gonna let me live this down…"

you press the call button. the phone barely rings twice before a gruff, sleep-roughened voice answers. "this better be important, mactavish.”

"uh- hi," you say, gripping the phone tighter. "this isn’t johnny, but i feel like i needed to call his emergency contact so..”

there’s a pause. a sharp inhale. then— "…what happened."

you glance over at johnny, who’s sprawled out on the bed, still naked, still flushed, body twitching with the last remnants of his latest orgasm. his tail flicks, ears pinned back, eyes half-lidded and dazed.

"he’s in rut," you explain. "we- uh- handled it. but he’s still got waves coming, and i don’t think i can keep up with him forever."

"fuck," the guy mutters. there’s some shuffling on his end, the sound of movement, a door creaking open. "how long’s he been at it?"

you hesitate, looking at the clock. "uh… at least five to six hours?"

"jesus fucking christ." more rustling. "i’ll drop some suppressants off. you got any blockers up?"

"yeah, doors are locked, everything’s secure," you say. "no one else has caught onto his scent. hopefully."

"good. last thing we need is someone else getting ideas."

you nod, happy you're both on the same page.

"i’ll be there in twenty," he continues. "keep him calm, get some fluids in him, and don’t let him knot you again unless you wanna be stuck for another hour."

you open your mouth to answer, but before you can, johnny groans, rolling onto his side, tail swishing, his voice petulant.

"is that ghost?"

"is that his name? i mean, i guess so-"

"tell him he’s a fuckin’ cockblock," johnny whines, pouting up at you. "cannae believe this- rut suppressants? really? yer ruining all my fun, mate."

"oh, fuck off," ghost deadpans. "you’ll thank me when you’re not dead from dehydration and a broken dick."

johnny grumbles, burying his face into your thigh, huffing dramatically. "don’t wanna suppressants. wanna keep fuckin’ my bonnie-”

ghost sighs, long and heavy. "jesus christ. twenty minutes."

the line goes dead.

[dilf-docs]

Atta Girl

old jackson!joel miller x younger fem!reader

summary: joel miller discovers the world, yes, the same world that has gone (been for a while) to shit, can still have surprises. like you, his sweet naive unexperienced girlfriend, being everything but that.

warnings: 18+ (minors dni), age gap (old joel miller my GILF!), smut, sighs this is pwp who am i lying to, inexperienced!reader (yet for some reason she's a pro sucker lmao i'm a virgin don't come at me besides this is a fanfic who gives af if it's realistic or not), dirty talk, fingering, breast play, pussy pronouns, oral (m. receiving) (need that geriartric cock inside my mouth), some fluff bc we gotta balance this thing or i'm going to hell (okay he's not mean i baited y'all. mean jackson joel miller piece is still in draft dungeon)

word count: 4,722 words

side note: hell-fucking-o????? 2K CITIZENSHIPS APPROVED!?! ,, ok gonna be honest when i started writing in here and my first fic (an old man logan one, do u guys see a pattern?) flopped, i never thought i'd make it this far and it's all thanks to you my lovely citizens :,) you may think this is silly but your support means a lot to me (especially comments n' rb I'M A WHORE FOR THEM). now, yapping aside, as promised, this won the poll for the celebratory piece, so here you go !!! ദ്ദി ˉ͈̀꒳ˉ͈́ )✧

Joel Miller is a man hard to surprise.

Years of weariness, trust and spirit broken by things that would kill anyone else, and overall, just surviving, you'd think that a man that was hardened by a rough past and of his age had seen it all.

Joel liked to think he was prepared for whatever life threw at him. Enter Ellie: how she had managed to break his shell, from cargo to soothing balm to heal old open wounds he refused to even speak of. But he was ready to burn the world for her, picking guns and taking lives to bring her to a home. His home. He settled, filial terms silent but felt, ready to take the second chance life had given him. Until the bond that united them turned fragile, loose ends tensing the silver string of found family.

He fell down the path of a familiar ache he hadn't felt in a long time, dormant, waiting for him to fuck up to show again with it's dull and hollow torment. He always did. So now he's spending too much time at the Tipsy Bison nursing a glass that could have his name by now, all to avoid going to a eerily quiet home where the room at the end of the hallway lies empty.

And then life decides to startle his track, albeit destructive, with a third chance: you.

Just thinking about you brings a certain tingle that an old rugged man like him should be embarrased about. One he shouldn't even feel.

But Joel loves you, he thinks. From the moment you showed up on his front door, rambling about some reparations at the school, were you volunteered.

"They were all scared of you" your sweet voice had said, some of that unreasonable fear laced within it, "so I came"

He scoffed at Jackson's ridiculous antics. Rumors spread fast in the small town, and suddenly, the hanging threat of who he was followed him everywhere like a shadow, which, given the dark nature of his now put to rest violence, seemed a proper description.

"They sent 'cha?"

You were clearly intimidated, given your shaky frame despite spring and the light tremble in your tone. But you were still here, gaze set on him as a determined child who wants to win the best prize.

"No. I chose to come"

His stomach does a flip at the stillness of your words, security etched in the statement as if you hadn't been in the verge of stuttering seconds ago.

Like you wanted to show him this is what it is, and whatever that was, you weren't running. But he testes the water, skin prickling intensely.

"And you ain't scared, kid?"

He laughed, the type of laugh that shakes your body with unease, but the one that shot across you didn't come from a place of distress, rather a more hidden one, between a pulsing press between your ribs, like it'd swallow you whole if you kept thinking about it too much.

"I am" you answered truthfully.

Something about your quiet admission made him falter the tiniest bit. Maybe it was how you had no problem voicing out loud any of your thoughts, or how you weren't afraid to be seen for what you were, the quiet of your answer out of a gentle place and not dread.

"Then why are ya' still here?"

Brows furrowed, like he, for some reason, expected you to yell at him for all the sins that colored his calloused hands red. Instead, you had looked at him as if he had all the answers in the world, big sparkling eyes staring deep into his tainted soul.

"Because I need you"

Yet, when you said it, Joel felt you weren't talking about the creaky drawers and old stairs anymore, but of the anchor you just found for yourself in the shape of Jackson's most respected and troubled resident, unknowing that, in that moment, he had chosen you too.

So, Joel may have forgotten about what feelings that feel too before world-ly feel like, but the quiet steady beat of his heart, mingling into a peaceful symphony with each soft breath past your rosy lips, head laying over his rising and falling chest, warm, feels exactly like love is.

He knew from the very first time you were his. Yeah, he loves you.

Joel just wants to give you the world, his world: the quiet afternoons, his rough limbs and aching joints, his face covered by spots and sun kisses that compliment his wrinkles, hair that gets curlier and softer and greyer, every figure he makes in his little shop and, of course, his bed.

Your Joel isn't exactly a pleaser, used of doing what he deems best without asking, yet, the moment you uttered those three words, he knew it was because he hadn't met you.

"Be my first"

He remembers the surprise on his face, how it grew red as the silence stretched on. The door bursting open, bed creaking under combined weight and your giggles. He too remembers the sweet cries past your lips, your taut muscles, the little strained breath you let out when he slipped inside of you. It all belonged to him because you let him, and that day, Joel Miller became the luckiest man in the world.

And yet, he still hadn't been as surprised as he was today.

The routine was the same from the past year: pick you up from the school after he was done at the office, taking some minutes to watch you with the toddlers, making voices as the same tender hands you used to jerk him off booped noses and carried children who made him think of getting one of your own, one with your grace and beauty, getting him painfully hard at images of filling you silly and your body changing to carry his seed. Fuck. He was a psychopath for such lewd thoughts on a place destined for education and infancy innocence, and here he was, cock uncomfortable inside his pants.

But then your mouth gets too greedy when your sickenly honeyed voice whispers his name, robbing him of air and only pulling away when his lips get swollen and his face a little flustered.

"Need help down there?"

There's always that problem and you're always the solution.

"Let's go home, sugar. Then ya' can help 'tis ol' man fix it"

Walking back home is always a hassle, hands intertwined, Jackson seeing a cute couple. But you're both aware of the throb that settles in between you like the tension, nobody noticing how hard you're trying to not just fuck on the middle of the street like two eager bunnies.

It's his fault, he thinks as you push the door of his house open, for making you like this.

The truth is, after taking your virginity, Joel's taught you things your unexperienced mind couldn't even imagine, and this past six months, you've complied with that sweet disposition that clung to you like the floral of the soap you used. And Joel loved that: how, despite having his dick stretching your tight pussy, you looked at him with those big eyes from the very first night, still round and innocent, like a doe and not a siren.

Which was surprising, because Joel, in a way, had corrupted you. Tainted the naive angel. And still, it was like he couldn't get rid of quiet shy you. Worst of it all was, instead of filling him with shame from robbing pieces and pieces of your integrity everyday, the older man felt some wicked sense of satisfaction and pride, to see how, despite his age and your soft nature, he was yours as you were his, and that he had taught you exactly how to enjoy that.

He knows you like the palm of his hand and the littered scars across his chest. The pattern you call stars, holding into a beauty only you see in the ugly marks, yet make him feel with each delicate trace, making such blunt and rough marks a galaxy; exorbitant. The same ones he thinks hide behind your adoring warm eyes. Joel just knows you, so even when things go the same way they have for a while, he's aware something is different when your fingers fiddle with his belt, trembling hands now struggling to free his aching cock.

He knows better than to think it's your arousal and impatience. No, this is something else.

"Sweetheart..." he warns. "Somethin' wrong?"

You shake your head, hands ready to take his underwear down.

"I'm fine"

He won't take that clipped sentence for an answer. Instead, his hands slowly remove yours from his hips before going to grab you by your chin, fingers pressing not enough to bruise but to make a point. His thumb presses lightly over your mouth, your bottom lip tugged down, parting your lips. You let out a little sigh, closing your eyes, eyelashes kissing your cheekbones. What a damn sight, he thinks.

"Talk to me"

"I want to suck your cock"

He almost chokes on nothing. Joel coughs a little, red painting his cheeks as a surge of lust and desire crashes through him. His eyes go wide at your bold and eager request, because one: it wasn't like you to talk like this, and two, you had never done it before.

Sure, you had jerked him off so many times he's lost count, but your lips wrapped around his length, mouth swallowing his aching cock? Just the image of it going past your pretty lips, the sensation of your spit mixed with his liquids... He already has a special place in hell, the blood rushing to his already hard member.

"Fuck, sugar. You wanna have this dick 'nside y'r mouth so bad? That eager and needy y'are?" he asked, voice reduced to a low rumble.

You nod, a little too excited as he sits in the edge of your shared bed, letting out a huff of effort. Old man sounds, you would tease. But not today, it seems, when your eyes are too busy looking at the pulsating silhouette under the grey cloth. He smirks, removing the layer, and he swears you begin to salivate like a starving dog.

"Y' think y' can take it?" his hand wrapped around his sensitive cock, giving it a few slow pumps as he watches you with a drowsy gaze. "Ain't it too much for a pretty lil' thing like y'rself?"

Wordlessly, you fall to your knees, looking up to him with those eyes of yours that drove him crazy. You caress his thigh, and despite being the one in control, Joel's eyelids feel heavy, fluttering at your soft and tender touches on his thick muscle, every hair rising at the reverence of your every move. You leave a little kiss in his inner thigh, making his heart skip a beat, breath a little ragged.

"I can" sounding so sure. Oh, his little angel.

"You gon' be a good girl then?" he whispers, voice hoarse and thick, looking down at you.

You nod, slowly.

"Let me taste it" you murmur, voice soft and breathy.

Your tongue darts out, licking a slow stripe up his shaft. You savor the salty taste of his arousal, moaning softly at the flavor. Joel's brown eyes darken in seconds.

"Quit 'da teasin'. 'M too damn old for that"

You smile a bit. "Impatient"

"Minx" he replies, voice thick.

It is indeed big, especially now that it was hard, and you do wonder for a second if you're biting more than you can chew.

"Y'asked for 'tis" like he can read your mind, "don't grow shy on me, doll"

He groans when your hand wraps around his length, stroking him slowly, teasingly as you always do. He feels the heat building in his gut as you work him over, letting out a little groan.

"F-feels so good, sugar" he voices out, strained. "But I need'a know if y'r made fo' 'tis. C'mon, princess. Show me what'a good lil' cock slut y'are"

You lean in, warm breath ghosting over the sensitive head of his big cock, making him shudder.

"Let's see what y'r pretty mouth can do" while tracing your lips, idly.

For the first time ever, the warmth of your mouth takes him. He can see it dissapear past your lips, stretching around his girth. Joel can only watch with a breath he forgets to take how every inch of his thick cock is gone past your lips. Entranced, like this was a magic trick of some sorts.

"S' that all?" he lets out a tense chuckle. You narrow your eyes, feeling a bit of a gag and spit drool past your lips. "Don't worry, princess. I can be of help on that"

He moves a bit, groin almost on your face as he's dangerously close to fucking your face. Instead, you feel how it reaches the back of your throat, making you pause at the feeling of your eyes watering slightly as you adjust to the intrusion.

"S'okay, sweet girl. I know ya' can take it deeper" he encourages, one hand coming up to tangle in your hair. "Relax, baby. You're doing so good-" his voice cuts off with a strained grunt. Then, he voices out in a more huskier tone. "Use y'r throat and take my cock like'a good girl"

You push forward, taking him deeper until Joel feels the head of his cock bump the back of your throat. He throws his head back, curls combed slicked now starting to dampen and fall disheveled, drops of sweat sliding down his forehead, muscles of his thighs taut with trepidation.

You gag slightly yet quickly recover as if to prove something.

"That's right. Why did we wait s' long to do 'tis? Fuck, baby, ya' were born for 'tis. Keep goin'. Y' mouth's drivin' me crazy"

Joel groans as you take him deep, nose pressing against his groin, his fingers tightening in your hair. Your throat constricts around him all while you fight your gag reflex. Then slowly, you pull back, lips sliding along his shaft until just the tip remained in your warm mouth.

"Don't be such'a tease" his voice reduced to a hoarse rasp. You just give him what appears to be a shrug and an apologetic smile, right before diving back in, taking him to the hilt once more. His hips rock involuntarily at the feel, your head bobbing. A guttural moan cuts through his throat, the only other sound in the room aside the wet sounds of your suckling. "S' real bad girl, hun. Wouldn't think a docile lil' doll like ya' would be s' mean"

But he watches you with such adoration in his eyes, completely captivated as you work him over, that you know his words carry no malice behind them. Without a word, he takes your hands, guiding them to pump what you couldn't fit in your mouth.

"Let's give 'em somethin' to do, don't 'cha think?"

Suddenly, the pressure ties his stomach in knots, his belly strained under his flannel shirt, slightly protruding in the middle, buttons as tense as his muscles. Joel feels his legs become shaky, chest heaving as he catches his breath. He looks down at you, taking in the sight of your sweet disposition. If he wasn't one lucky man.

"Y/n" he gasps your name in a choked breath, followed by a strangled grunt, his release building fast as he doesn't dare to . "I'm gonna..."

Joel tries to pull off, thinking having you wrapped around his shaft is enough sin for the day, but then your hands find their way to his legs, keeping him grounded. His eyes widen slightly at the insistent glaze in your determined eyes.

"God damn, doll. What're ya'-"

He doesn't get to finish, his words dissolving into a low, animalistic growl as his orgasm crashes over him. His cock jerks and pulses in your waiting mouth, spilling thick ropes of hot, salty cum down your eager throat, painting its back white.

"Baby, don't" Joel says through a worn down rasp, trying to pull out, but you, his sweet little girlfriend, grips his thighs with an unknown force, keeping him buried deep as you greedily work to milk every last bit of his cum.

"'S 'tis what ya' want, huh? You dirty dirty girl" his voice grows lower, a filthy snarl as his eyes darken a bit more. "Swallow it, then. Take all ma' fucken seed"

He holds your head in place, fingers tangled in your damp hair as he rides out the intense waves of his release. Joel's so inside of you, he can feel your throat working, gulping down every drop he had to give.

Finally, as the last spurts of his climax taper off, he releases you, his chest heaving with exertion. You pull back, a strand of saliva and cum connecting your bottom lip to the tip of his spent cock.

"Like that, dirty girl?" he grabs you by your chin, thumb wiping some of your saliva and his cum off. "Did ya' like the taste f' ma' cum?"

You lick your lips, savoring the taste of him. "I did"

"'S that right? What happened to my angel?"

You laugh, the sound tired and hoarse. "I'm still here"

He pats his thigh, so you sit in there, wrapping your arms around his neck. With a free hand, you remove some curls that have fallen over his worn face.

"Hard'a believe"

You click your tongue. "You were never a believer, Miller"

He lets out an exhausted chuckle. "I believe in you"

Joel revels in the delicate pink hues coating your cheeks. He's so weak for you.

"Now, doll. Be honest with y'r ol' man" he brushes a stray strand off your face, tucking it behind your ear with a delicacy so contrary to the roughness of his hands. "I know when ma' girl's goin' through somethin'"

You seem to grow shy all of the sudden. "You'd be right"

Needless to say, he's intrigued now.

"Care to tell?"

You hide your face on his shoulder, inhaling his sweat and natural odor, even the faint traces of soap. He combs through your hair, lazily.

"Promise you won't laugh" you say as you pull back, to face him.

He raises a hand, expression curious.

"I'd never make fun of 'cha, doll"

"I want you to cum inside me"

The room grows quiet for a minute, an by each second of silence that stretches so is the red across your face. Joel blinks slowly. Once and twice. By the third time, the crease between his brows has become prominent.

"What?"

Your face grows hot as you try to run away, but he stops you.

"Woah, hey. Where ya' goin'?"

"I told you you'd laugh" you pout your lips, flustered.

"I ain't even let out a goddam laugh" he defends himself. "'M just tryna process in here"

You huff. "What's so hard to understand?"

Joel looks at you like you've grown a second head. "Y' really gon' ask me that?"

"Maybe I want to try different things" you play with your fingers, avoiding his gaze.

He obligues you to look by taking you by your chin, gently. A small warm smile adorns his face.

"Different's good"

You reciprocate his smile. Maybe it's that or the fact he can still see his cum glistening your lips, or the thrill of his seed seeping out of your tight walls. Either way, Joel surrenders.

"Ya' know I'll give 'cha anythin' you want" he says, voice low. "Just say da' word"

You gulp. "Yes"

Joel lets out a low, animalistic growl at your breathy acceptance. It was all the permission he needed. He crashes his lips against yours in a hungry, desperate kiss, pouring every ounce of his pent-up desire as he grabs you by your hair, right at the nape of your neck, pulling you closer and tighter. His other hand roams your body greedily, slipping under your shirt to caress the smooth, warm skin beneath.

"We gotta take 'tis out"

He shoves the fabric up and off, breaking the kiss just long enough to pull it over your head and toss it aside.

"It's my shirt"

"It's a nuissance"

He pauses for a moment, drinking in the sight of your naked torso, the swell of your breasts rising and falling with each anticipating breath.

"Told ya'" he murmurs, voice rough with desire. "'S fuckin' perfect to be hidin' all that"

Joel leans down, capturing one rosy peak in his mouth. He swirls his tongue around the sensitive bud, suckling and teasing until it pebbles under his touch. You let out a breathy choked moan, loving the wet of his tongue against your warm skin. Then, his hot breath ghosts over as he utters a simple word that has your core clenching at nothing.

"Mine"

His hand slide down your stomach, slipping under the waistband of your jeans. Joel can feel the heat of you, the damp patch that had formed on the fabric of your panties. He groans against your breast, his fingers sliding lower, brushing against your clothed sex.

"Can tell she missed me. That ya' weren't lyin', baby. She's fucken wet" he rasps, his voice muffled against your skin.

Joel's fingers slip under the fabric of your panties, feeling the slick heat of your arousal coating his fingertips. He groans, his cock hard again, throbbing almost painfully against the confines of his jeans.

"Fuck, sugar" he mutte4red, his voice rough and low. "S' ready for me already"

He circles your clit with the pad of his thumb, feeling it swell under his touch.

"Ain't she know me s' goddam well..."

Then, he dips a finger inside your tight, clutching heat, groaning at the way your walls flutter around the intrusion.

"God, you feel s' good" Joel says, voice strained. "S' fucking tight and perfect. I can't wait to feel ya' wrapped 'round my cock, doll. Can't wait any damn longer fo' y'r sweet lil' cunt"

He pumps his finger in and out, thumb still circling your clit. He can feel you getting closer, your hips starting to buck against his hand.

"That's it, baby" he encourages, his voice a low, filthy rumble. "Fuck yourself on ma' fingers. Show me how much ya' want it"

He adds a second finger, then a third, making you yelp as he stretches you open.

"Relax, doll. We've done 'tis before. 'M just preparing her to take ma' dick. You gon' be a good girl and stop fucken squirmin'?"

You nod, pliant, your body starting to tense.

"'Tis ya' reward. Come on ma' fingers like a good girl, and then I'll give 'cha what ya' really want. I'm gon' fill 'tis greedy cunt with my cum an' pump 'cha s' full of it 'til 's drippin' outta ya'"

Joel curls his fingers inside you, rubbing that all too well spot that brings you to tears. He feels you clench down hard, crying out as you come undone. Your orgasm crashes over, body convulsing as your pussy clenches rhythmically around his fingers. When he pulls his fingers out, he's bringing them to his lips, sucking off your essence from the digits, groaning at the taste of you.

"'S sweet as always"

After that, Joel is quick to shed what's left of his clothing, nearly tearing the old flannel in his haste. He lays you down on the bed, covering your body with his own, his tummy pressing lightly over your abdomen, his weight sinking you down on the mattress.

He then looks down at you, taking in the sight of your flushed cheeks, glistening parted kiss-swollen lips, and heaving chest.

"I love ya', sweet girl" Joel blurts out, eyes are dark and intense.

He settles between your thighs, the thick head of his cock nudging against your slick entrance.

"Say y'are mine" voice a low, demanding growl. "Say ya' belong to me, y/n, baby. Say it"

He pushes forward slightly, just the tip of him slipping inside your tight heat. He groans at the feel of you, at how your walls stretch to accommodate him. You let out a small whimper, yet still unable to form coherent sentences.

"I want to hear you say it, angel" Joel presses nonetheless, his voice strained.

He rocks his hips slowly, pushing a little more of his thick length inside you with each thrust. He can feel you getting wetter, core glistening as if your body yielded to his.

"Please, y/n" he begs, voice rough and desperate. "Please, baby... say it. That 'am your first an' last. The only man who ever fucks 'tis sweet cunt"

"I'm yours, Joel" you choke out. "Only yours"

With a final, hard thrust, he buries himself to the hilt, his eyes nearly rolling back in his head at the feel of you, letting out a long low groan.

"Fuck, doll" he gasps, hips starting to move, pistoning in and out of you. "She's just made f'me, ain't she? Gon' make ya' feel good. Give ya' what y'asked for. Lemme take care of it. I like to take care of's mine"

He hooks your legs over his shoulders, nearly bending you in half as he pounds into you. The bed creaks under you, headboard slamming against the wall with each thrust.

"Take it, sugar. Just like ya' wanted. 'Tis dirty mouth n' greedy pussy" Joel growls. "Take ma' cock like a good little girl. Fuck, y' were made f'r 'tis. Made't be fucked hard and deep and full of my cum"

He feels the tight coil of heat in his gut winding tighter and tighter; knows he won't last long.

"Please, Joel" you mewl, desperately clinging to him.

Joel lets out a feral growl at your plea, hips snapping forward with renewed vigor. He can feel you clenching down around him, body trembling as another orgasm builds deep inside you.

"Ya' want my cum, baby?" he snarls. "Want me t' fill her 'til it's drippin' down y'r legs?"

You nod, too eager.

"Look at that" he chuckles, pounding harder into you, forgetting for a moment he's sixty one. "Such a slut, beggin' for me to flood 'tis sweet pussy with ma' load. 'M gon' give ya' s' much you'll be leakin' for days. Gon' fill her up nicely. I know you gon' make sure not'a single drop goes to waste"

Joel reaches down, his thumb finding your clit, rubbing the sensitive nub in tight circles.

"Come with me, doll" he demands, growling. "Come on my cock like a good girl n' milk every last drop 'f cum. Show me just how much ya' want it"

With a final, brutal thrust, Joel buries himself balls deep inside you. He throws his head back, a guttural roar tearing from his throat as his orgasm rips through him.

"Take it, baby. Let me make ya' mine" His cock jerks and pulses inside you, spurt after spurt of hot, thick cum painting your insides. "Atta girl"

He collapses against you, hips still rocking slightly as the aftershocks of his release roll through him. He can feel you coming around him, pussy clenching and milking his spent cock, trying to pull every last drop of his seed deep inside you, just like you asked for.

Joel's chest heaves as he struggles to catch his breath, heart pounding against yours as he cradles you close.

"Not so bad for an old man"

He snickers, rolling onto his side, pulling you with him until you're tucked against his chest, head pillowed on his arm.

"Brat"

He wraps his other arm around your waist, holding you close as he nuzzles into your hair, traces of lavender up his nose.

"But you love me"

Joel sighs softly, pressing a tender kiss to your forehead, then temple and finally shell of your ear. In that moment, he knows he'll never let you go.

"That I do"

You softly comb his hair, his eyelids fluttering.

"I love you too, Joel"

A beat of silence goes by.

"So..."

"So?"

Joel offers a tired smile, glint of mischief laced somewhere.

"Any other ideas ya' wanna say outloud?"

cr: divider @kodaswrld / gif @iamasaddie

[rafesangelita]

so anyway I was thinking about something about bitchy!Kook!reader (since she's my ultimate favorite)

maybe rafe has gifted her a promise ring at some point in their relationship, and despite all their highs and lows, even in their worst nights, she has NEVER taken it off

and maybe they are in a heated argument and they're mad at each other (but not broken up, just mad) and they are attending a party and he notices that she isn't wearing it, so he loses his absolute shit and drags her somewhere, making a scene and telling her how much he cares about her (in his own way, ofc) and how hurt he is until she simply smirks and tells him that she's taken it off because she's getting it cleaned up

-🦉

warnings: arguing, slight angst, light fluff

a/n: join my private community for girly talks! ♡ you can comment under this post, send me a message, or leave something in my ask box for an invitation!

“can you fix your face? ‘at least try to act like you want to be here with me right now?” rafe whispered in your ear, a slight pinch of irritation lacing his tone. you swallowed thickly, flashing him a glare as he wrapped his arm around your shoulders so he wouldn’t draw any unnecessary attention towards you two. “i told you i wanted to leave a long time ago and instead of wrapping things up, you disappeared for another drink. i’ve been sitting here on this couch with you for over two hours now, listening to your idiot friends talk about their latest escapades. how about you fix your fucking face?”

rafe looked around to make sure no one caught any of the words that just left your mouth, his jaw clenching as he gripped you by the back of your neck. “is that how you’re gonna act right now? that’s what we’re doing?” at this, you trailed a hand down rafe’s stomach, your nails digging into his flesh hard enough to make him hiss and let go of you. “grab me like that again and i’ll leave your ass in front of everybody.” rafe knew that wasn’t an empty threat, considering you’ve already done it before and topper still hasn’t let him live the embarrassment down.

rafe gave you a curt nod, his eyes raking down your form before they rested on your bare fingers. “what the fuck?” he spoke out loud, the group conversation coming to a halt. without another word, rafe got up, dragging you along with him as he guided you two outside to his truck. “oh, now you wanna go home?” you scoffed, managing to pull away from him before he hoisted you into the passenger’s seat, his body wedged between the door as he took ahold of your hands. “i know we’ve been fighting a lot recently, and i’m sure we get on each other’s nerves all the time, but taking off your ring? are you fucking serious?”

your eyebrows knitted in confusion, your mouth barely opening before rafe started going on a rampage. “i bought you that ring to uphold a promise to you, y/n, and i’ve kept it. through all of our bullshit, through all of our problems, through damn near everything; you’ve never taken that ring off. even when we were close to leaving each other once and for all, you were still wearing it. that ring saved us, and now? you’re just giving up like that?” rafe sounded pained, his voice dropping slightly as his chest rose and fell in uneven breaths. “rafe—” you tried to interject again, but still he continued.

“i love you, and i know i fucking suck at showing it, but you know i do. you’re the only person who puts up with my shit and still loves me as i am. you work with me even though i make it really hard, and you don’t throw my mistakes in my face every chance you get. you’re patient with me when i least deserve it.. i could go on and on about everything you do for me.. please just put your ring back on.” you weren’t expecting rafe to pour his heart out to you, your anger from earlier dissipating into nothing as your gaze softened. “i can’t—” rafe groaned, kneeling down onto the step bar of the truck as he held your hands to his chest.

“why?!” you couldn’t help but laugh, your resolve crumbling as rafe looked up at you desperately. “what’s so funny? i’m literally about to have a panic attack right now.” you laughed harder, shaking your head. “rafe, i’m getting my ring cleaned! i’ve been trying to tell you since you dragged me out here but you kept interrupting me.” your boyfriend let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding, his shoulders falling in relief. “when did you take it?” you helped him off his knees, rolling your eyes as he pulled you into his embrace. “remember, i told you i was going to the mall with chanel? i dropped it off there and i’m supposed to go back for it tomorrow..”

rafe nodded, his hands running up and down your back. “well, we better get you another ring for when you’re getting the other one cleaned. i can’t have you giving me heart attacks like that.”

[darkbluekies]

Til death do us part

Yandere!mafia oc x reader

Summary: A summer romance turns dark as Silas can't accept that you've married someone else

Warnings: kidnapping, murder, blackmail, threats, Silas belittling darling, violence, isolation, jealousy, possessiveness

Word count: 5k

He’s everything you could have ever wanted. He’s sweet, caring and works at a bank. He can provide for you. He’s from a good family. Everything about him is perfect, everything you could ever have dreamt of. You could never have imagined that you would find a man like him after what happened last summer. 

You had met a man on the way home from dinner with a friend, someone that had helped you after the grocery bag you had bought food in on the way home. He had introduced himself as ‘Silas’ and had walked you home, carrying the groceries for you. You had thanked him. Silas had asked if you wanted to meet for coffee sometime, and you had agreed, innocently thinking nothing of it. You had gone out with him multiple times. Never actually becoming a couple, but acting like it. It was harmless, you thought. You kissed, went on dates and you knew that if things continued like this, you’d fall for him. 

But you noticed that something was weird about him, and it made you feel cautious in his presence. He never told you anything about his life and when you asked, you noticed that something shifted in his dark eyes. As if he tried to come up with a lie. It creeped you out somehow, because why couldn’t he tell you? Maybe you shouldn’t have trusted a man who tried to cover up his tattoos.

You finally got to know the truth at the end of the summer. A friend who had seen the two of you together had recognised him from a newspaper. He was a criminal, a leader of a mob, who was more dangerous than you could have anticipated. You had cut contact with him and moved away so that he wouldn’t be able to find you again. 

But he did. Somehow, he did. 

Letters have been piling up in your mailbox during these last few weeks, addressed to you and written in red ink. Your heart had stopped when you read the first one. 

“Y/N, I’ve missed you. I’ve missed you so terribly much. My heart bleeds and aches for you. You left me because you were scared. I get that. I get that very well, this is a world you should be afraid of, but I will protect you. I will take care of you better than that man ever could. Yeah, I know that you’ve found someone new. I know that you’re planning to get married. Quite quick, don’t you think? You haven’t known him that long, and now you’re getting married? Silly Y/N, you’re so cute. Do you really think you love him? Are you trying to reassure yourself that I’m a part of your past that will never return? Or are you trying to make everyone around you believe that you’ve gotten over me and moved on? I know you still think of me. I know you want me. And I want you too. I have never wanted someone other than you. You and me are meant for each other. Don’t marry him. Come back to me. It’s you and me til the end.”

You hadn’t shown your fiance, but he had noticed that something had been wrong with you. You had become silent and distant. Letter after letter came to your mailbox and he realized that something serious had happened. You had no choice but to tell him about Silas and your past with him, the present he doesn’t want to let go of, and the future he demands. Your fiance had promised that he wouldn’t get to you, and that he was only trying to scare you. 

You had been expecting to see Silas at your wedding, but he wasn’t there—or at least you didn’t catch a glimpse of him. Maybe your husband was right? Maybe he was just trying to scare you?

The start of the honeymoon is set to be on the SS Anastasia, a proud liner with three yellow funnels, a solid superstructure and a great reputation. It is set to take the two of you to Spain, where you have decided to have the rest of your honeymoon, away from all eyes and to be with no one but each other. 

A steward welcomes you on board. You thank him and give him a smile. He lets you know that your luggage, which you left down at the terminal, will be delivered straight to your cabin, a suite in first class. Only the best for the newlywed couple.

“I’m so excited to see the room”, you admit as the two of you navigate the ship to find the mani staircase. 

“The agent said that it would be nice”, your husband replies and chuckles. “Now, if we only could find it …”

You laugh. It takes you nearly ten minutes to find the right door among mazes of identical white doors. The suite is divided into three rooms: a bedroom, a sitting room and a bathroom, all decorated with expensive materials and fashionable colors. Polished dark wood and electric lights. 

“This is so nice”, your husband smiles, letting his eyes wander around. “I think we’ll have a good time here.”

You hug him and he chuckles, hugging you back. 

“I can’t believe I married you”, he says. 

Me neither, you think. 

Your mind drifts back to Silas and you feel your heart sink down to your stomach. You won’t be able to relax until you know that the ship has left harbour. There’s a constant, heavy feeling in your chest that you can’t explain. But you tell yourself that it’s just that; a feeling. Nothing more than old worries that haven’t been able to come up to the surface before now. You squeeze the man tighter, sighing out. You’re going to be okay. You’re going to be safe. 

You have been promised a fantastic dinner, and the food delivers to your expectations. Everything is tasting like gold, served on a silverplatter. Sitting in the first class dining hall has given you an excuse to dress up. Everyone around is wearing their best clothes, and it is a silent competition in who looks the best. You look around, discreetly admiring everyone else’s attention to detail. You wonder how many of them have spent the entire day in their cabin, doing everything to look their absolutely best. The first night is usually relaxed, but a first time impression will always be remembered. 

“What would you like to do after?” your husband asks and sips on his wine. 

“I think I need to take a walk”, you joke. 

“Oh, yes, the night sky must be so beautiful out on deck. I reckon that you’ll be able to see the stars much easier out here. No city pollution.”

You walk hand in hand down the promenade, looking up at the starry night sky, pointing at familiar shapes. 

The next morning, after breakfast, the two of you walk to the lounge, deciding to take a calm day. Well deserved after planning a wedding and executing it. The lounge is cozy, reminding you of a simple living room rather than a first class room on an oceanliner. Maybe to make the passengers feel more at home.

Your husband takes the opportunity to indulge in a newspaper, finally having the time to sit down and actually read it.

You let your eyes wander around the large lounge, enjoying to admire the small details that give the room it’s cozy feel. But the feeling is quickly switched once your eyes land on someone. A man sitting in an armchair on the other side of the lounge, dark eyes feasted onto you, a small smirk playing at his lips when he notices you noticing him. You can feel your body go numb, feel yourself sink through your armchair, through the floor and through the ship’s metal. Feel yourself sink down to the bottom of the pitch black ocean. You forget how to breathe, head going blank. 

He found you.

You glance towards your husband who’s still invested in today’s news. Silas raises his eyebrows testingly as you look back at him, as if to say “yes, I’ve noticed him, you think he compares to me?”. 

Suddenly the air in the lounge seem to lose all oxygen. You need air, or else you will faint. 

“I-I have to get some fresh air”, you hear yourself mumble. 

“Are you okay?” your husband asks and looks up from his newspaper, eyes full of worry. 

“Yes—”

“Do you want me to come with you?”

“N-No, I’ll be fine, I’ll be back soon.”

You need to get away. 

You hurry out of the lounge and out onto the enclosed promenade. The fresh air hits your face harshly. You grab onto the wall to support yourself while trying to find a way to breathe that doesn’t feel like needles poking through your throat. 

“You thought I wouldn’t find you?” 

You feel your heart stop. Quickly, you spin around, seeing his face way too close to yours. He tilts it, almost mockingly. You back away, stumbling over your feet and hitting your shoulder against the wall. Silas corners you, stopping you from escaping. 

“What do you want?” you breathe out shakingly. 

“Didn’t you get my letters?” he asks. “Or did you simply not read them?”

“Leave me alone. I-I’m married now.”

He smirks, tilting his head back and putting his hands into the back pockets of his suit pants.

“Indeed, you are”, he says and sighs out. “But do you really think that’s real?”

“What do you mean?” you almost stutter. 

Silas meets your eyes. He’s smiling. 

“Don’t you think I could have taken you whenever I wanted?” he asks. “The only reason you were able to marry that boring son of a bitch is because I let you. But, in the end, you belong to me. Isn’t that right?”

You don’t answer. You turn your head away, look out over the endless sea, and feel your eyes fill with tears. He wipes your tears with his thumb and you push his hand away. 

“I don’t”, you say, wondering where you have gotten the sudden bravery from. “I don’t belong to you. I belong to him.”

You show him the ring on your finger. Silas clenches his jaw and grabs a hold of that hand, forcing it closer. He pulls of the golden ring, scoffs at it and throws it overboard. You gasp and try to run forward, hoping to catch it before it falls too far, but he pushes you back against the wall. 

“Don’t ever say that again”, he warns you. “You don’t belong to him, how could you? I met you first. I claimed you first. He will have my seconds. Everything you do to him, you’ve done to me first. And he will never do anything as good as I did.”

“I left you because of this!” you hiss, reminding him. 

“No, you left me because you were scared. You don’t understand that you are in more danger if you aren’t with me. I’m the only one that can protect you. I didn’t want you to know about it because I know you’d be scared, but—”, he cups your cheeks, forcing you to look at him, “—but I won’t hurt you. You’re so special to me. I love you so much. You did read my letters, I can see it in your eyes. You know how much I love you.”

“Let me go”, you plead. 

“No. It’s you and I til the end, don’t you remember? I’m not letting you go again. I’ve been letting you have your fun for too long now. It’s about time I take you back. I’m not going to hurt you.”

“Don’t hurt him either.”

You can see his eyes darken, his jaw clench. “You decide if it’s going to be violent or not.”

You freeze in his hold. 

“You can choose to come back to me, quietly and easy”, Silas starts and caresses your cheek. “We will be happy and your boy will be left alone.” He traces your jaw with his finger. “Or … you reject me and I take out my competition and take you with me once we reach Spain. No one will see you again.”

He seems to tell that you’ve stopped breathing, because he sits you down on one of the sun chairs and massage your throat. Your eyes are stuck onto nothing, empty. 

“I will give you until nine”, he whispers in your ear. “If you’re not outside my cabin at nine, A-30, knocking on my door, I will kill him.”

“You’re a liar”, you breathe out, voice barely audible. “You’ll kill him either way …”

Silas shrugs simply. “Maybe, but don’t you want to take your chances? You might save him.”

Silas stands up. You sit frozen. 

“Oh, and Y/N?” he says as if remembering something and looks down at you. “If I were you I wouldn’t tell anyone. You know, for obvious reasons.” 

He gives you a small, teasing smile before walking back inside. You sit still, not daring to move. Worried that if you move you’ll break down and realise what’s going on. You can feel your heart pound in your ears. No. No, this can’t be happening.

“What are you doing out here?” you hear a familiar voice ask. “You’re going to get sick!”

You feel your husband hang his blazer over your shoulders. The warmth, the familiar scent from him makes your heart hang heavy in your chest. You can’t help but feel like you’ve betrayed him, as if you’ve cheated your relationship, thanks to Silas’s threat. But if you cheat on it, you might save the love of your life. Can you cancel out a bad thing with a bad thing? Is it really a bad thing then? Can you be excused? 

You can’t tell him about it, but if you did, would he understand you?

“You don’t look well, actually”, he says and helps you stand. “You’ve probably already gotten sick. You should go lay down and rest.”

He helps you, slow and steady, to your suite. You lay down in bed and he tucks you in. 

“Should we ring for a steward?” he asks worriedly. “Ask for some tea and some medicine?”

“No, I’m fine”, you reassure him dimly. “I just need to be alone.”

“I’m worried about you. Something happened to you. I can help you.”

No, you can’t.

“Do you want to be left alone?” he asks. 

What if he gets killed?

“No, stay in here”, you wish. 

He nods. You hold his hand as you lay with your eyes closed, trying to think of what to do. He was clear; whatever you do, you’ll end up with Silas. The only thing you can choose—maybe—is to save the man holding your hand and whispering reassurance to you. The nicest you can do, in this situation, is to give in and beg Silas to leave him alone. You can’t be prideful and let him kill him. 

You find yourself outside cabin A-30 with your head spinning. You don’t want to do this, but what choice do you have? Your first is heavy when you lift it to knock, the sound of your knuckles hitting the polished wood seeming to echo throughout the entire ship. You can hear his footsteps on the other side and see him tower over you when he opens the door. His smirk sends a wave of nausea over you. 

“So, you came in the end”, he says cockily. “Good girl/boy.”

You lower your eyes to the floor. Silas steps aside and gestures for you to walk in. You do, on heavy, unresponsive legs. He closes the door behind you, locking it. You gulp. He lingers around you like a snake and you wait for him to put his fangs into your neck and shoot his venom into you. 

“You should rest”, Silas says softly and wraps his arms around you from behind, resting his chin on your shoulder. “Let’s go to sleep.”

He leads you to the bed and lays you down, lying down behind you. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t do anything that could scare you. You try to keep it in, but your body fails you. Sobs, quiet at first, leave your body. Tears run down your face. You hold your hand over your mouth, but Silas is close enough to hear you. He hugs you carefully and you can feel him rest his face into your shoulder. 

“There’s no need to worry”, he whispers. “You're back where you belong.”

It only makes you worry more.

“Your crying makes me so sad”, Silas whispers. “Everything will be okay, little thing. You're back now.”

You don't fall asleep that night, and you're sure Silas doesn't either. His grip on you remains tight and controlling, showing no sign of drowsiness.

The sun rises outside the porthole, and you're as wide awake as ever. Silas gets out of bed and starts to dress for the day. You remain in bed, feeling too empty to move. Your eyes fall onto the tattoos on his back and arms, wondering where he got them and what they represented. But something in you tells you that you don’t want to know.

“My darling”, Silas sighs and crouches down in front of the bed, caressing your face. “You don’t need to look so sad. You and me will have fun. We can do more than you ever could with that boy of yours could. My credit card never declines.”

“What are you talking about?” you ask, frowning. 

“Oh? You didn't know?” His cocky face is getting on your nerves. “My men did some digging into him, and it seems like he spent a fortune on this honeymoon of yours. Barely anything left in his bank account. Poor thing was really trying to impress you, but the illusion would be all gone once you came back home. I, on the other hand, have all the money in the world.”

“Your money’s dirty.”

“Money’s money. I could launder it, and it’d be clean, but you wouldn’t accept it anyway. Which is why you’ll never get money from me. You’ll get jewelry, food, clothes—anything you want—and all you need to do in return is submit yourself to me.”

You sigh and look away. 

“We don’t have to talk about this now”, Silas says and stands up. “But you will submit to me, I know you will. Get dressed now, my love, we’re going to eat breakfast.”

Food is the last thing you want right now. 

“I’m not hungry”, you say. 

“Do you want to stay in?” he asks. “I can go get you breakfast that you can eat later.”

You nod, whatever will make him leave you alone for a while. Silas gives you a comforting smile and pets your head before leaving the cabin. You take the time to cry, when you know that he can’t see you, planning to stop before he returns, but failing. 

“Crying when you think I won’t notice?” he asks and scoffs, just a little bit amused. “Do you think I wouldn’t notice?”

He sets down a tray on the table in the room and walks over to the bed, crouching down and wiping your tears. 

“You’re mine”, he says. “Crying about that boy won’t change that fact.”

You don’t answer.

“Will I have to stay in here the entire time?” you ask coldly.

“No”, he says. “Not all the time, but if you want to leave the cabin, you will be by my side. If I were you, I wouldn't try to run away from me or try to tell anyone, because the ship is filled with my men. You don’t know who they are, and they won’t bother you if you behave, but the second I tell them to keep an eye out for you, they will.”

You glare at him.

“But you wouldn’t do that, would you?” Silas asks. 

“And then what?” you counter. “When we're in Spain?”

“Oh, we're not staying there. I'm not allowed there. My second in command is waiting for us there and will take us back to America as soon as we arrive.”

Oh …

“I don’t want to go back. Not with you.”

“Well, life's not fair, little thing. You should eat now. I got you all the things you told me that you liked.”

He takes you to the table in the cabin and starts to feed you the bread, the coffee and fruit. You eat, just you comply, too tired to fight with him. Fighting with a wall would be easier. A wall wouldn't talk back. A wall wouldn't threaten you.

“See how much easier it is when you obey?” Silas says.

You give him a quick gaze. He traces your cheek with his fingers. 

“I look so much forward to having you all to myself”, he mumbled. 

His words send icy shivers down your back. 

You stay in the cabin the coming day. You wonder what your real husband is thinking of your disappearance. Sure that Silas has already done something to make him stay away … or worse.

“You're so down, baby”, Silas says. “How about we do something, hm? We have a whole ship to our amusement. There is a game room, a pool, a library, and a squash court. How about that? Why don't we play some squash?”

You nod, just to get out of the cabin. Maybe you can figure something out. Maybe you can hide.

“That's my boy/girl”, Silas says and takes your hand. “Let's go.”

Walking out with him, hand in hand, made you feel horrible. He looked so proud, so cocky. 

He took you down to the squash court. He picked up a racquet and bounced a few balls. 

“I hope you know the rules”, Silas said with a chuckle. “Or else I will win.”

A man came into the squash court. Silas gave the man a quick, stern look before glancing towards you, and then back at him. This is one of his men, you figure. 

“Give me a second, darling”, he says and takes the man aside. 

They turn their backs to you, whispering. You glance towards the door. As they mumble about something incoherent, you sneak towards the door, opening it silently and sneaking out. You run, but only get a few meters before a hand rips you back. 

“Where do you think you're going?” Silas hisses in your ear.

He slams a hand over your mouth to prevent you from making any sounds and almost you back to the squash court. 

“I apologize”, he mutters to his man. “Seems like my baby here can't behave.”

He holds your back firmly against his chest, hand resting securely over your mouth. “They'll learn soon enough, once they learn the consequences.”

You fight against him, but he doesn't budge.

“Stop fighting”, Silas hisses and turns to his man. “I'm sure it won't happen again, ill make sure it won't, but can you tell the others to keep an eye out for this disobedient little shit? If you ever see them wander around alone, you get me immediately. Leave us now, I need to lecture them.”

The man nods, bows slightly and leaves the squash court. Silas lets you go and you back away from him, but he's quick to corner you.

“You don't get it, do you?” he asks, and sounds a tad bit amused. “You can't escape me. And, come on, trying to do that on a ship? I really thought you were smarter than that. Where would you go? The only place you could flee would be to jump overboard. But you're stupid, not suicidal. And now, all my men keep an eye out. Just accept that your place is here, with me.”

“I want my fucking husband!” you scream. “You aren't my husband, you're a low life criminal!”

Silas’s eyes darken.

“Okay then”, he says, slowly. “If you want him so badly, go look for him. Go find him. If you do, I'll let you go with him. If not, you're mine.”

“Your men will take me back to you.”

“I'll tell them to leave you as long as you don't talk to anyone. Search everywhere. Go to the lower classes, for all I care.”

“What have you done to him?”

He smiles slightly, but it's not one out of genuine happiness, but of mockery. “Do you really want to know?”

You turn around and leave. He follows you. You barely have time to walk down the corridor before a man takes a hold of your arm. A different man from before.

“You're not supposed to walk around”, he says.

“It's okay”, Silas says a few steps behind you.

He wears his chin high, a smirk on his face and his hands in his front pockets. You rip your arm from the strange man's hold.

“My baby is using their brain”, Silas says and reaches the two of you. “We'll see where that gets them. Keep an eye so that they don't talk to anyone. We don't want to encourage talking to strangers, now do we, little thing?”

You glare at him.

“Go, then”, Silas says. “What are you waiting for?”

You don't like how he's changed. Just five minutes earlier he was set on making sure you wouldn't wander … and now he encourages it. Something has happened to your husband and you want to find him as quickly as possible.

You walk away, leaving Silas and his man in the corridor outside the squash court. You're not sure where to start. As soon as you get out of their sight, you stop and sink down alongside the wall. Needing to just catch your breath.

But you don't linger too long. Before you change your mind, you stand up and start to walk. You end up walking back and forth for hours, sure that every eye that lands on you is a member of Silas’s organization, someone being paid to make sure you obey.

You search every little corner on the ship, but your husband is nowhere to be seen. Your suite is empty, but there are signs of struggle. A glass lying on the floor, more than one person's shoe marks on the carpet. You walk over to his suitcase and take out one of his shirts. Crying as you hold it.

“Any luck?” you suddenly hear him say.

Your blurry eyes dart to the open door, seeing him lean against the frame with his arms crossed over his chest. He looks so nonchalant, so careless. How can he?

“There are words for people like you”, you sniffle with a voice draped in hate. “Did you know that?”

“What word?”

“Inhuman.”

Silas scoffs out a small smile. “If only you were as smart with thinking as you were with words, you’d have figured it out by now.”

“What?”

“You haven’t found him anywhere on the ship, and you’ve been looking for hours.”

He doesn’t have to remind you. Your aching feet is enough to make you feel your loss.

“What did you do to him?” you ask weakly.

“I have already told you, if you listened to me, you’d figured it out earlier. I said that there is only one way to escape me.”

Your eyes widen as you dart your eyes to the round porthole. 

“Atta girl/boy”, Silas says, voice smooth as honey as he walks over to you.

“Y-You … y-you …”

“Don’t look at me. I didn’t do it.”

“You ordered it.”

“Are we back to the ‘dirty money’ thing again? Does it matter if I gave the instructions or not? It happened, and even if I said I gave the instructions, you wouldn’t take it.”

You hang your head heavy in your hands, crying. Silas hugs you and you try to fight back, but he doesn’t let you go. He holds you tightly, his rough hands keeping you against his body. 

“Now that he’s gone, you have no other choice than to accept me whole heartedly”, he whispers in your ear. “You have no one else. Only me. Until the end of time, til death do us part.”

You sob in his hold, wanting nothing more than to escape. You manage to glance towards the porthole. 

Silas holds your hand in a tight, painful grip as you walk off the ship, surrounded by a few of his men. People on the dock cheer and welcome their loved ones, but you’re pulled right through the crowd. You can’t hear any of them, your own sorrow drowning out all sounds of happiness. Silas takes you over to a car. A black haired man leans against it, but stands straight when he sees Silas. His second in command. 

“Boss, there you are”, he says with a small smile. “Did you have a good voyage?”

Silas lifts your tightly intertwined hands with a smirk on his face. “What do you think?”

The second in command looks at you up and down and smirks. “Congratulations.”

“I wish we could stay here but if the cops get me I’ll be in trouble”, Silas says and pulls you close. “Let’s go to the yacht before we’re noticed.”

He helps you into the automobile and you’re off, on the way to the ship that will take you back to America. Tears run down your face silently. You shut them, trying to imagine yourself in another place, somewhere far away from Silas and his evil entourage. Somewhere where you had never crossed paths with him. Somewhere where things had turned out different. A bump in the road forces your eyes open again and you’re pulled back into the car that will take you straight to your own personalized hell, with a man who is ready to kill for you. You wish you had never allowed him to carry your groceries. 

[lazysoulwriter]

husband!Pedro ♡

♡ husband!Pedro that holds your hand around the house like he’s scared to lose you between the kitchen and the couch.

♡ husband!Pedro that kisses your temple every morning before you open your eyes, whispering “good morning, baby” in the softest voice.

♡ husband!Pedro that keeps one hand on your thigh during every drive, his thumb stroking lazy circles over your skin.

♡ husband!Pedro that watches you get ready like you’re magic, constantly murmuring “how the hell did I get you?”

♡ husband!Pedro that texts you “come home soon” and includes way too many heart emojis for a man his age.

♡ husband!Pedro that insists on carrying all the groceries because “my wife doesn’t lift anything heavier than her skincare.”

♡ husband!Pedro that lets you steal all the covers and just pulls you closer when he’s cold.

♡ husband!Pedro that gets drunk and rambles about how you saved his life, how young you are, and how much he loves being yours.

♡ husband!Pedro that groans like a sinner when you kiss his neck, and swears you’re going to be the death of him.

♡ husband!Pedro that grabs your chin mid-argument just to kiss you rough and shut you up because he can’t stand seeing your mouth move without tasting it.

♡ husband!Pedro that pulls you onto his lap at dinner parties and pretends it’s casual while his fingers slip just under your dress.

♡ husband!Pedro that can’t keep his hands off you when you wear anything tight, muttering “you’re trying to kill me, baby” as he palms your ass.

♡ husband!Pedro that takes his time undressing you like you’re the most expensive gift he’s ever been given.

♡ husband!Pedro that fucks you slow just to watch you beg for more, praising you with every thrust like you’re his religion.

♡ husband!Pedro that bites your shoulder to keep quiet when you ride him, because the neighbors already know your name.

♡ husband!Pedro that looks at you after sex like he just conquered something holy, whispering “mine” over and over against your neck.

♡ husband!Pedro that makes love to you like a promise and fucks you like a threat.

♡ husband!Pedro that wraps a hand around your throat and says “be a good girl and open your mouth” like it’s just another form of saying I love you

♡ husband!Pedro that keeps a photo of you naked in his wallet, not for the thrill, but because he swears it's his luck.

✎ (❁ᴗ͈ˬᴗ͈) ༉‧ ♡*.✧

[livingmybestfakelife]

Love Rollercoaster

Elias “Stack” x Reader (Pt. 2)

“You hungry? My mama has some leftovers from the fish fry earlier.”

He chuckled softly while shaking his head. “I’m alright….come here”

“Just thought I’d go ahead and freshen up before going back home”

“Whatchu rushing for? The room is still hot and we’re still sweaty, you didn’t even give me a chance to do my finishing move”

You chuckle at his playful but serious complaining, usually you two just laid there, cuddled in each other’s arms fresh after making love, he felt like something was up, and he had a strong feeling of what it might be about.

“Your finishing move will have me paralyzed all day tomorrow, you’ve done enough moves for the night, Elias”

He smirks and sits up further on the bed, gesturing you to come back to bed with his head.

You finally give in and lay back down, your head on his chest. He wraps his strong, warm arms around you and pecks the top of your head.

“You don’t have to run off back to him tonight, ain’t he gone for the weekend?”

“Yeah, on business in the city”

“So that means I have you all to myself”

“El-“

“Soooo that means I have you all to myself”

“Yeah….”

As he holds you tighter. You can hear his heart beat getting faster, his frustration is evident.

“I thought we had an agreement, you and me, remember? When it’s my time with you it’s MY time, that nigga don’t even exist when it’s our time together, ya understand?”

“Yes I understand…..don’t get upset”

You reach up and play with his ear, the way he always liked you to, it always calmed him, even when it slightly tickled at times. His heart beat slows down and he releases a deep exhale, he’s relaxing now, thank God.

“I’m not ladybug, I just don’t like the thought of you forgetting about me, I was here long before that boy walked into your life and I’ll be here afterwards”

You didn’t like the insinuated threat towards Donny.

“Elias….don’t go talking crazy now” you leaned and kissed him to shut him up, he could be a big baby at times.

He pulls you on top of him after your make out session was over.

“You remember what you promised me right?”

“Yes darling….soon okay, just not now, but I am leaving him”

He nods, still having some doubt in your planning, but he doesn’t let it bother him too much, because should you decide to prolong it longer than what you both agreed to, he’d make the decision for you.

[fawnindawn]

Jason Todd is sure he's never met someone as good as you.

In a city as vile as the one he crawled out of, he's gotten near bullseye on the portfolios he makes for every single bastard that breaths and sins in this city. He thinks he's got it narrowed down, and he's all but decided that there isn't a single living person he will ever let his guard down for again- till he meets you.

Technically, you've all but forced yourself into his world. He thinks it's a cruel joke sometimes, how the world forced everything he had out of him, forcing him to forget how to love, how to treat every word as just that and not an underlying threat, how to have a proper relationship with anyone- before they tossed you into his path. Like a whirlwind, it was impossible not to grasp onto you when you were so good, so unlike anything in him.

"I want to be so good for you, baby." He breathes into your skin, wrapping you into his arms and holding onto you, hoping that if he somehow engraves his promise into this moment, he'll hold it forever.

"But you already are." Then, you look at him with that look of yours that reminds him that he's still alive, because his heart near leaps out of his body to land right into your palm. You treat him with such tenderness he couldn't have even envisioned in his dreams. You're nothing he could've come up with. When he looks into his own reflection, he thinks he sees what everyone sees. A failure of a project trying to make some good in this world even when he has nothing good in him. A madman trying to fix what can't be fixed, whether that be the city or himself. Then he looks into your eyes, and he can't see all that through the adoration so evident in your gaze.

Sometimes, you look at him and he thinks that if anything he knows about love, it's all just you. What is love, if not the utter devotion that runs through his blood, night after night where he cleanses the city, knowing that the very next night, some other thug or crook will replace the one he's gotten rid of. It's a never ending process that seems to see no end, but when he comes home to you, and oh god, does the idea of going to a home with you in it push him through everything.

He still struggles to word it, how your existence seems to shatter every concept he's had of the world, how he's never felt hope the way he's had since he started daydreaming about a future with you. He doesn't think the simple word, love, can capture what he sees, thinks, and feels about you. You're everywhere in his fractured mind.

The long-minute hugs standing in the kitchen, the way he goes silent when you rant about your latest discovery on the internet because he's hit with the sudden thought that he's here with you and you exist, the kisses he presses on the indent near your shoulder as he presses himself into that very spot, the way he always finds his way back home to you no matter what because he refuses to leave you afraid and waiting for him to come home. He'll always come home to you, because you are his home.