#I'm not looking in any tags where I could come across it

[waynes-multiverse]

Polaris – Chapter 8

Series Summary: When Beau Arlen moved to Montana, he left behind a past he wasn’t proud of. But when a series of murders requires the FBI’s help, Sheriff Arlen‘s ghosts come back to haunt him one by one. With a wrong turn waiting at every crossroads, it’s hard to make the right choices and find his way back home – back to you.

Pairing: Beau Arlen x FBI Agent!Reader

Warnings: 18+, fluff, angst, serial killer, Diane is her own warning, Grey's Anatomy & alcoholism, uhm... hard to explain the last one without spoilering. You'll be fine 😂

Word Count: 5.5k

A/N: Oh boy, I'll save you guys long explanations. Life got in the way, so let's just all be glad we're back here 😅 Some of you brilliant sleuths already caught breadcrumbs of my scheming in the last part, so here's The One You've Been Waiting For...

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Chapter 8: Chemical Bonds

“Where is she?”

Your boot soles thudded on the floor as you dashed inside the station, your questioning look aimed at Jenny, who leaned against her desk with crossed arms and a stern brow. Beau was hot on your heels, just jogging in behind you. You practically raced him from the car across the parking lot.

“She’s in Interrogation Room 3,” Jenny informed you.

“Is she cuffed?” Beau asked, his voice carrying a hint of anger caused by concern. He had a whole car ride to the department to rile himself up and let his head spin with reasons. None of them soothing; all of them terrifying.

Jenny shook her head. “No. She’s not officially under arrest and hasn’t confessed yet, either. ‘Sides, she willingly came in and just all too happily sat down. She’s clearly playing a game. I’d be careful.”

“Alright, thanks,” Beau said and looked at you. “How you wanna do this?”

“Let’s just go in and talk to her. See what she has to say and what angle she’s playing,” you suggested, and Beau agreed with a nod, both of you falling into step as you headed down the hallway.

“My favorite couple. There you are,” Diane greeted you with a smirk that could only be described as lunacy as soon as you and Beau walked into the interrogation room. “Hope I didn’t disturb your evening.”

“Not at all,” you replied with an easy smile and took a seat across from her, Beau settling down right next to you and leaning back in his chair. “What can we do for you, Diane?”

“Well, I figured I come here before you call in the cavalry. There’s no need for all this drama. I have a feeling you two have enough of that,” she quipped and grinned devilishly at the both of you.

“So, you waltzed in here to confess to twenty-four murders?” Beau arched a disbelieving eyebrow at her.

“Oh, nice try. But I won’t confess to anything until you two have told me a little more about yourself,” Diane announced cheekily. “You talk – I talk. My rules. My game. Let's be honest. You don't have anything to nail me down. Zero, really. You two need this. I'm giving you a win, Sheriff.”

Beau and you shared a look. Neither of you liked this, but you supposed you had to play along if it led to a confession. You nodded at Diane. “Fine, what d’you wanna know?”

Diane grinned in triumphant satisfaction and folded her arms on the metal table, curiously leaning forward. “Look, I think it’s cute you two found each other… after divorce and death, of course. ‘Cause who likes a cheater, right?” she posed theoretically, her smirk getting wider. “I guess, for me at least, it’s just hard to believe there’ve never been any feelings before that. Seems kinda odd to me.”

You smiled wryly. “Well, for me at least, it seems kinda odd and, frankly, hard to believe some psychotic bitch would murder over twenty innocent people just because her husband was a cheating dirtbag. Yet, here we are.”

“Here we are indeed, Agent,” Diane snarked with a pleased smile. “And I’d be wary throwing the word ‘innocent’ around so carelessly. After all, just look at you two. I mean, I’m not saying you’ve planned this little hot love affair, but c'mon! What, no lingering looks? No fluttering hearts, dirty thoughts, or wistful what-ifs?”

You remained cool and held your gaze stern. No quiver of a lip, no twitch of an eye, no flinch of a muscle betrayed you. But Beau must’ve signaled something when Diane’s eyes drifted to him. She tilted her head with a delighted sneer forming on her face. Your heart halted in your chest. You knew she’d locked in on a target like a lioness on the prowl.

“Whoop, Sheriff Arlen, do you have something to tell me? You seem awfully quiet and… shifty,” Diane prodded the tip of her metaphorical knife into his ribcage, prying it open just enough to see inside. “If her husband was your partner, you must feel at least a little guilty for fucking his wife as soon as he was six-feet-under. Did you have feelings for her when they were still married? You did, didn’t you? I wonder what he’d say if he were still alive.”

“Okay, enough,” you snapped and drew a line in the sand, noticing how Beau withdrew more and more upon her words. She was getting to him and enjoying it. “Neither of us has done anything wrong, got it?”

Diane chuckled amusedly. “Sheriff Arlen, you should learn from your girlfriend here. She’s better at acting than you are. Or is it lying?” Her questioning gaze turned to you.

“What d’you want, huh?” you prompted with stern annoyance, hoping to take some heat off of Beau. “You want some weird confession, so you can throw one of us into a bunker?”

She shrugged nonchalantly. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, Agent. We’re just having a friendly chat among colleagues, getting to know each other.” She grinned, her icy gray eyes sparkling with devilish joy. She leaned closer to Beau, circling in on him. She could smell he was close to a breaking point and aimed her sledgehammer at him. “Tell me, Sheriff, were you happy when your partner died? I mean, you must’ve been. She was finally free and all yours for the taking. Is that why your marriage crumbled so soon after his death? Why you followed her all the way to Mexico, leaving your family behind? Be honest, did you lead her husband into that warehouse on purpose?”

“Shut up!” Beau yelled and bristled, his voice trembling with anger as did every single muscle of his. He jumped up from his seat and kicked the chair roughly against the wall before storming out and slamming the door loudly behind him.

Shocked, you rose from your seat as well and threw Jenny a worried look through the one-way mirror. As you followed Beau outside, you could still hear Diane’s heinous laugh.

November 2020

‘¿Recuerdas que en tu infancia creías en cuentos de hadas? En la fantasia de lo que podría ser tu vida. Tu vestido blanco, un príncipe azul que te llevaría en sus brazos a un castillo sobre una colina…’

A knock on your door rattled you and snapped your attention away from the small, old TV in your room. The image was grainy at best, and you were sure the television itself was bought sometime in the early 2000s. Yet, you still managed to hook it up to your laptop and stream a few shows. Drinking and watching television was all you had for entertainment down here whenever you were on the lay-low and had some time off.

Oh, and there was the crying, of course.

You hurriedly blew your nose in one of the tissues in your hand and wiped the tears out of your eyes. Bolting into the bathroom first, you did a quick check of your appearance in the stained, wonky mirror. Well, good enough. Who were you trying to impress? You were a grieving widow. People expected you to look like shit.

Beau blinked at you as the door opened. He offered you a friendly smile, although he could tell you had cried again. You never admitted it, always telling him you were fine and brushing away any and all of his concerns. But your red and puffy eyes were hard to hide and even harder to ignore when he stopped by your room at night. It broke his heart every single time.

“Hey, I know you haven’t eaten dinner yet, darlin’,” he said and tried not to sound too scolding. Since Randy’s death you’d been basically on a grief diet, although you seemed to be more willing to eat since you’d come to Mexico. But Beau had taken it upon himself to ensure your stomach was always full.

“Uh, thanks, but I’m not hungry,” you said quietly and were already keen to close the door to get rid of him again. Sometimes it worked. Most times it didn’t.

Beau frowned and already slid his boot between the door and its jamb. “You know I’m not leaving till you ate. And since you’re being particularly difficult tonight, I’m just gonna have to watch you till that whole bag is empty. Now, trust me. This ain’t fun for me, either. Don’t make me spoon-feed you and do airplane noises. It’s been a while, but I have experience in that field. You wanna hear my lecture about your essential vitamins and minerals again?”

You sighed dramatically and were close to a whine. “Beau, I’m really not in the mood right now. Can you please just–” You stopped when you noticed the man wasn’t even listening to you. With a curiously furrowed brow, he cocked his head and leaned inside your room with a skillful weight shift, his green eyes focusing on the TV.

‘Vamos a domir a tu casa esta noche.’

‘¿Qué?’

‘¿Por qué siempre dormirmos en mi casa? ¿O no tienes una?’

“What are you watching?” Beau had fully stepped inside your room, and you knew your probability of kicking him out again sunk by the second. You sighed once more and closed the door behind you two.

“Grey’s Anatomy in Spanish. I already know the episodes, so I figured I could learn a little. I already forgot most of it from school,” you replied.

“Huh. Never watched this show.” Yet, he sat down on the foot of your bed and seemed hooked. His eyes were glued to the screen, brow lightly creased above the bridge of his nose that showed his interest. If you had popcorn, you would’ve handed it to him.

You rolled your eyes a little but smiled nonetheless. Randy had been the same. He’d teased you for watching till he caught one episode and was immediately enthralled. Afterward, you weren’t allowed to watch a single episode without him anymore.

“You wanna watch with me?” You grabbed the bag of food and crawled onto your bed, leaning against the headboard. You quickly discarded the tissues that were strewn all over your mattress. Luckily, he hadn’t noticed them yet, or you would’ve received a look full of worry and pity.

“Sure.” Beau nodded and smiled at you over his shoulder, happy you had decided to eat, after all. “So, what’s this show about?”

“A hospital in Seattle. But honestly, everyone’s just sleeping with everyone…”

It took a while till you had explained all the intricacies of each relationship to him. Fortunately, this was only the first season. He gasped when you informed him the show had seventeen of it – so far. By the end of the episode, he had joined you by the headboard, sitting next to you as you shared the remaining tacos.

‘Me gusta el helado de café, whisky de malta de una sola destilería, de vez en cuando un buen habano.’

“Ah! Now that’s a home,” Beau declared with a broad and longing smile, raising his beer bottle to the TV. “You know, I’ve always wanted an Airstream trailer exactly like this.”

“Uh-huh. Un remolque.”

His brow quirked. “Is that Spanish for trailer?”

“Yes, he just said it. You need to pay attention,” you chided playfully and took a sip from your beer.

“Hey, look, I’m just glad I can keep up with who’s sleeping with who, alright? Don’t need to add Spanish vocabulary to the mix,” Beau quipped, making you giggle. “I actually almost bought a trailer like that when me and Carla first got married.”

You grinned knowingly. “Lemme guess, Carla said no and almost shot you?”

Beau snorted a laugh. “Ha! Yeah, she definitely came close that time. But Emily was already on the way, so I guess it would’ve been impractical with a baby.”

“Smart choice.”

As your eyes traveled back to the TV, Beau’s gaze landed on you. He watched as your cheeks moved when you laughed with your whole heart. How your pink, full lips sealed around the bottle opening whenever you sipped on your beer. How your shimmering hair fell into your face in waves as you leaned forward and hugged your knees. Lingering looks.

“You wanna open a bottle of tequila with me and watch another episode?” you asked with a mischievous glint in your eyes as you looked back at him over your shoulder.

“Hm? Oh, uh, yeah. Let’s do that,” he agreed, swallowing lightly. A part of him almost felt caught in his shameless staring. But he was willing to do anything as long as it kept you from crying yourself to sleep for another night.

Jumping up from the bed, you sauntered over to the mini bar and bent down, hauling a bottle of tequila from the small fridge you’d stored in there earlier. Beau tried not to stare at the curve of your ass and how tightly those dark blue jeans hugged it. But he couldn’t control his heart as it undeniably accelerated and thumped loudly against its prison. Fluttering hearts.

Four episodes and two Margarita pitchers in, you stretched with a yawn, barely able to keep your eyes open. You glanced at Beau with an amused smile as he was still transfixed by the TV and heavily engaged in the show.

“I’m beat. You mind if we turn in?” you checked and laughed a little when his green eyes blinked at you in surprise.

“Oh, uh, sure. I’ll head back to my room,” he said, nodding. “You, uh, wanna do this every night, maybe? I mean, it’s not like there’s much else to do here… We could hang out and binge-watch, as the kids say. Netflix and chill.”

You snorted. “Beau, that’s not what you think it means…”

His brow furrowed. “Well, what does it mean?”

“Sex,” you said bluntly and watched his mouth open and close. It was rare to render that man speechless.

Beau pursed his lips, his cheeks redder than the desert sand. “Yeah, uh, no Netflix and chill, then.” He cleared his throat a couple of times while you stifled your laughs. “Can I just finish this episode before I go?”

You giggled, getting up from the bed. “Sure. Knock yourself out. I need some bathroom time before, anyways.”

As you sauntered into the small, dingy bathroom, you briefly glanced back and saw Beau’s focus was already back on the sexy doctors. You laughed a little, shaking your head before you began to wash your face and slip into your pajamas, which were just a pair of sweat shorts and an old college shirt of Randy’s. Go Cougars!

Unbeknownst to you, Beau’s gaze didn’t remain on the TV for long. At first, he only caught a glimpse of you from his periphery in the bathroom mirror through the cracked door. For a moment, he stared, unable to tear his eyes away as you shed out of your shirt. But when your bra came off as well, he averted his eyes shamefully back to the TV. His mind, however, still wandered, incapable of shaking the image of you, various unholy ideas gathering for a villainous summit. Dirty thoughts.

‘Así que, elígeme a mí. Escógeme a mí. Ámame a mí…’

“Still hooked, huh?” Amused, you arched a brow at him as you strolled out of the bathroom and saw he was still enchanted by the magic of dramatic television.

“He’s gonna go back to the cheatin’ ex, isn’t he?” Beau asked without looking at you. He sat on the bed with arms crossed and his brow scrunched.

You pressed your lips together as you smothered another laugh. “Oh, no spoilers from me, but it’s a bit of a ride. And we haven’t even gotten to Dr. Caliente yet,” you said, grinning.

You waited a moment for Beau to catch the hint that you wanted to go to bed. But soon you realized it wasn’t going to happen. The man had done a full deep dive into that show, and there was no way of pulling him back out.

“You know, you can stay and keep watching if you want to. I don’t mind. I’ve been sleeping with the TV on, anyways,” you said.

His gaze met yours, brow finally rising with realization. “Oh, uh, sorry. No, I can go. Let you catch some–” His eyes wandered back to the TV before he shook his head and tried to refocus. He blushed. “Sorry.”

“It’s really okay. You can stay. I don’t care,” you assured him with a soft smile and climbed under the covers, resting your head on the pillow. You switched off the lamp by your bedside table, the blue glow of the screen remaining the only source of light.

“Maybe just this episode,” he mumbled, his shoulders deflating as he sunk back into a more comfortable position again.

“This is nice,” you noted with a blissful sigh and closed your eyes. “I kinda hate being alone.”

Beau watched you as you peacefully fell asleep, the TV suddenly forgotten. For once you didn’t cry yourself to sleep. Tears, nightmares, and loneliness gone. And he wondered – what it would be like if he watched you fall asleep every night. What if he was still there in the morning. What if he could hold you as you wore his shirt. Then, the guilt came swiftly like the rising tide and washed those thoughts away. Wistful what-ifs.

“What the hell happened in there?” you hissed as quietly as possible as you caught up with Beau in the lowly lit hallway of the station. Luckily, the other cops had enough sense to stay away and keep their distance while the two of you hashed things out.

Beau dragged a hand over his face, kept his palm clasped on his mouth as he paced in a circle. You were surprised he hadn’t punched a wall yet, judging by the tension in his shoulders.

“You can’t let her get to you,” you reminded him gently, your face softening when you noticed how distraught and upset he really was. What Diane said to him must’ve cut deep.

“You know it’s not true, right? What she said in there? I-I didn’t kill him. I wasn’t… Fuck!” His eyes were brimming with desperate tears, his breathing quick. You could hear his heart race from feet away.

“Of course not. She’s a deranged psychopath,” you emphasized, although you didn’t understand why you had to spell it out for him. He already knew that. “Why are you so upset? Don’t let her get under your skin. She’s thriving off it like a hyena.”

“I know. I just-…” He took a deep breath. “What if she’s right?”

Confused, your brow furrowed. “About what?”

“Me. Us,” he said, not making necessarily more sense. “What if it’s true, huh?” He blinked at you and swallowed harshly, completely out of breath. “Look, uhm… I-I don’t know how to say this. I’ve never admitted it before, but recently, things have become a lot clearer to me…” He paused for a moment, rubbing his mouth with two fingers before he found your eyes again. “I’ve always had feelings for you, you know? There’s always been this… pull. Even back then. Since the first time I met you.”

You inhaled sharply, your lungs incapable of fitting more air as you held your breath for several heartbeats. “Beau, it’s okay.”

He shook his head. “I don’t know if it is,” he said. The tortured tone of his voice pained you. “I mean, I would’ve never done anything. You need to know that, okay? I would’ve never hurt you or Randy. I never would’ve come between you two.”

“I know that,” you assured him. You wanted to take his hands in yours, touch him, hold him. But you knew it would only make the turmoil of emotions worse instead of better, like pouring oil into the fire.

“But sometimes, just for a blink of an eye, I caught myself wondering, you know? What it would be like to be with you… Hell, I wondered all the damn time. Even on your freaking wedding day,” he confessed. “That’s the kind of horrible person I am. And now, that I am with you and so fucking happy, I feel guilty every time that things worked out the way they did. ‘Cause it does feel like I’m happy that I’m with you, and he’s not.”

You let out a heavy sigh through your nose and finally took his hands in yours, intertwining your fingers as you squeezed them. “I know all of that,” you said, his brow rising in bewildered surprise. “In terms of being honest… I guess a part of me always knew you felt this way, but I never let myself go there. And yeah, considering everything, it’s only natural to feel guilty. But you’ve still done nothing wrong. We’ve done nothing wrong. You can’t control how you feel. Neither can I. And I’m not saying everything always was exactly right, and we did everything by the book, but I loved Randy with all my heart. There wasn’t room for anyone else… And now, I love you. But it was never at the same time, you know?”

Beau pulled you into his arms and held you tightly, kissing your crown. “No, I know. Trust me. I know that part.”

“I love you, okay?” You tiptoed to claim his lips, putting your whole heart into the kiss. You didn’t want to hurt him, but you wouldn’t lie, either. “Diane doesn’t get to use that against us. Everything that happened, everything we’ve done right or wrong – that’s between you and me… and maybe God at some point. But surely not that psychotic bitch in there. She’s doesn’t know what we think or feel, so don’t give her ammunition, alright?”

Beau nodded and pecked your lips, his hands caressing your cheeks. “I love you, too.”

Jenny cleared her throat as she carefully snuck up on you. “You guys okay?”

You gave her a soft smile. “Yeah. What d’you got?”

“Well, since Diane walked in and became our prime suspect, the new DA on the case signed a search warrant for her property, office, car, and all her devices,” Jenny informed you.

“Alright, take Pops with you and head to her house first. Call me if you find somethin’ we can burn that witch with,” Beau ordered, putting his sheriff hat back on, jumping into the saddle full-throttle.

“On it, boss.” Jenny gave him a resolute nod and hurried down the hall.

January 2021

“¡Feliz navidad!”

As you opened the motel room door, you found Beau on your doorstep with a giant grin on his freckled face and not one but two bottles of tequila. One in each hand that he joyfully wiggled in the air.

You chuckled, shaking your head at him. “Christmas was two weeks ago, payaso.”

“Yeah, but I wasn’t here, so merry belated Christmas,” he retorted and strolled right in as you held the door open for him. “Can’t believe you stayed here and didn’t go home for Christmas.”

“Meh, wasn’t in the mood to be placated and pitied by my whole family. I know they all mean well, but if I get one more concerned head tilt and a ‘How are you holding up, sweetie?’, tendré que apuñalar a alguien,” you huffed.

Beau narrowed his eyes at you, slightly amused. “I only understood the word ‘stab’, but I think I get the gist,” he joked, laughing. “I see your Spanish is getting better. So, how was your depressing and lonely Christmas without your family?”

“Nice guilt trip, asshole,” you retorted playfully and scoffed. “Great, actually. I went out with the guys from our team who stayed here, too. Got insanely drunk on some Christmas cocktail Ignacio created. And some hot guy taught me how to Salsa dance. He got a little handsy towards the end, which, granted, is the most action I’ve seen in five months, so…”

Beau’s lips thinned as he weighted your words. “Huh, so to recap: you got wasted with five guys in a dingy bar and second base with some stranger. Sounds like Christmas-y fun.”

You frowned slightly, watching him open one of the bottles of tequila. “Alright, there were no bases being hit, Judge Judy. How was your Christmas?”

“Not as fun, I can tell you that much,” Beau muttered and gulped some tequila straight from the bottle.

Your nose scrunched, lips pursed. “You and Carla got into it again?”

“Oh yeah, big time,” he replied. “I’ve only been home twice, including Christmas. You’d think she’d be more happy to see me, but instead I get yelled at for not being home more and criticized like I’m some drunk.”

Your narrowed look drifted to the bottle of liquor tightly clasped in his hands as he plopped down on the bed with a sigh. “Well, you know, not really making an argument for yourself there, gaucho.”

He scowled at you. “Who’s side are you on?”

“No one’s!”

“What, you think I’m some alcoholic?”

You pursed your lips and hesitated briefly. “No… But I do think you have a slight issue with... occurrence and... volume.”

He sent you a small glare. “That’s the same thing, just different words.”

“Look, I get it. It’s not like I’ve been a healthy example these past months,” you said, hoping a softer approach would work. You sat down next to him on the bed. “It’s been hard for all of us. Grief wrecks you. But you have a family to think about. Maybe it’s time you go home… for good.”

His brow drew into creases, green eyes drilling a hole into you. “Do you want me to go?”

Your lips parted for a moment, reluctant to answer as his question hung in the air between you two. “It’s not about what I want. You should do what’s best for you.”

Beau considered your words, his head bobbing. “I wanna stay. I need to see this through. For Randy,” he declared, although it was only partially true. Another part of him stayed for you. There was an electrostatic force, invisible to the naked heart and irresistible to the free mind. A force that kept him in your orbit and bonded his atoms with yours.

Maybe you should’ve told him to go home, been more insistent on making him leave, clearer on what was best. But truthfully and selfishly so, you liked having him around. He was your constant, your little piece of home in a strange land and an even stranger new life. And you didn’t want to navigate this new life alone.

“You sure?” you still asked for the sake of your conscience, but the determination on his face over his decision made your heart sing in relief.

“I’m sure. Just wish things were easier…”

Walking back into the interrogation room, you smiled victoriously as you slapped a folder full of evidence on the metal table in front of Diane. The deputies had found “a buttload” in Poppernak’s words.

Regardless, you knew Diane wasn’t stupid. If the deputies found something, she had wanted you to find it. For some reason, she wanted to be arrested. But you didn’t care what sick game she was playing. Cuffing her meant there’d be no more bodies, no more victims.

She gave you a titillated sneer, glimpsing at the file in front of her before finding your eyes again. She bit her lip, smirking. “Oooh, lookey, what you found there,” she mocked.

“It’s over, Diane. You’re under arrest for multiple murders among a plethora of other charges. But you already know that,” you told her firmly.

Beau’s features were stone-cold. He was pissed, radiating that fire burning inside of him for miles. He made the Yellowstone supervolcano look harmless. “Stand up and turn around. Hands behind your back.”

Diane did as told without any protest. She grinned at you the whole time when Beau manhandled her roughly into her handcuffs, bending her over the metal table as he read her the Miranda rights. You couldn’t shake the eerie feeling in your stomach, though. You had your killer, but somehow this felt far from over. You knew she had an ace up her sleeve and was waiting to lay it on the table.

“But we were just getting started,” she snarled. “Aren’t we having fun?”

“Fun usually looks a little different for me,” Beau retorted and forced her back onto the chair as soon as she was cuffed.

“I bet it does, Sheriff,” she purred with a flirtatious glimmer in her gray eyes. “I think I’ll wait with my confession till tomorrow. Let you two lovebirds enjoy your last night together.”

Beau and you shared a wary look at that. But deep in your heart, you knew there was nothing that could tear you apart. And you hoped Beau knew it, too.

“Look, bitch, I don’t care what you think you’ve planned, but it won’t drive a wedge between us. All it’s gonna do is piss us off more, got it?” you threatened and leaned forward on the table with an angrily knit brow.

Diane chuckled. “Confident. I always liked you, Agent. Aren’t you even a little curious what I’ve got in store for you?”

“No,” you replied without hesitation. You looked up at Beau and rose from your seat. “Let’s go. She’s not gonna talk tonight.”

Beau nodded, putting his hand on the small of your back, leading you outside the door. And just as your hand reached the handle, Diane decided to play her ace of hearts.

“It’s about your husband,” she noted innocently. You could hear the satisfaction in her voice as your whole body stiffened, muscles freezing. Beau felt it, too. His heart began to race. “Dead husband, of course. I always forget that part. Silly me.”

Beau’s hand on your back gave you a soft caress, telling you it was okay to turn around and find out. You didn’t want to care. And most of all, you didn’t want Beau to see that you did. But as you met his forest-green eyes, they were full of understanding.

“What about him?” you asked bravely, your chin held high as you faced her.

Her grin widened before her gaze wandered to Beau. “It’s in my pocket. Mind giving me a hand, Sheriff? You can even touch. I know you have a hard time keeping those hands to yourself,” she taunted.

You scoffed exasperatedly, rolling your eyes. “I’ll do it.”

“Oh, c’mon, Agent. Let me have a little fun. I’m about to be felt up by enough women,” she quipped.

You ignored her, hauling her to her feet by her elbow and holding her in place as your other hand dived into her back pocket. Your brow furrowed as your fingers identified a small plastic stick. Your frown deepened as you pulled out a familiar thumb drive. It wasn’t the first one you had received from her.

Twenty-five.

Had she taken another victim before giving herself up? What was so special about this one? What did it have to do with Randy? Did he ever cheat on you? Did Beau know?

You found that quite unbelievable. In fact, you knew there was no chance in hell that was true. But that did nothing to ease your conscience.

Your hand trembled in sync with your palpitating heartbeats. You tried to steady it as best as you could and keep your jumpy nerves in line as you slipped the small drive into its designated outlet on your laptop, not wanting the team that had gathered around and behind you to catch on to your unnerving emotions.

As you clicked on the MP4 file, your heart came to a standstill when a video popped open in the player. Pressing Play, you sucked in a breath and then forgot to breathe at all.

It only took you a glimpse to die inside.

“Oh God…”

It felt like suffocating. Like jumping off a steep seaside cliff and drowning. Your body hit the ocean rocks; your heart split open.

It only took Beau a second longer to catch on. The horror in your voice had put him on immediate alert before he recognized the figure on the screen, too.

As your head spun and your stomach turned upside down, you couldn’t find any words and bolted outside. You needed fresh air. You needed to breathe. And you needed to goddamn puke.

“Beau, what’s going on? Who’s the guy on the video? You know him?” Jenny asked, her gaze worriedly flashing in the direction you had fled.

Beau swallowed the thick lump in his throat, forcing the name out that had haunted him all those past years. “It’s Randy.”

Chapter 9: Marooned – NOVEMBER 29

Dun, dun, dun... The dead have risen in Montana! This is where it becomes a Walking Dead crossover (at least if you ask Donno 😂). Did you call the little resurrection action beforehand? 👀 Lemme know all your wild thoughts in the comments! 💭

So happy to be back with y'all! 🤍

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[fitzselfships]

So crazy how I can go from having a great day to all of a sudden remembering an upsetting dream I had last night and it just. Instantly ruins my mood </3

[joelsgoldrush]

“you can use my skin to bury secrets in” | 6.8k

old man!logan x f!reader

SUMMARY: Saliva floods his mouth as you rise to your feet, looking down at him from above. Gracefully angelic, and yet— “I know what I’m asking for,” you continue, your voice descending to a low murmur that scratches pleasantly against some dark and remote corner of his brain. Then you lower yourself onto his lap, your thighs bracketing his waist. You repeat your question: “Can I help you?” OR Logan had always known your generosity would get him in trouble. WARNINGS/TAGS: mdni smut 18+ cursing. drinking. pining. mentions of alcohol. dirty talk. age gap (reader's in her late 20s). logan’s POV. angst/self-deprecation (he just needs a little loving). religious imagery. feelings. petnames. chauffeur!logan. oral sex (m receiving, tiny bit of f receiving). sort of dom!logan. doggy style. unprotected p in v. creampie. A/N: i could say i'm sorry for this, but i'm not. love love love this old man (#needthat). heavily inspired by the song "i know" by fiona apple. @lubdubology my partner in crime who keeps putting up with me, tysm!!! hope you all enjoy it <3

The line between being a good and bad person is thin. So thin, in fact, that Logan finds himself stepping back and forth across it constantly.

Rescuing a kitten from a tree? Good.

Punching a guy at a bar because he didn’t feel like being acknowledged? Bad.

Saving countless lives from mass destruction? Good—heroic, even.

But killing others to do it? Bad—condemnable, scum of the earth.

Where does that leave him? Which side has laid claim to his soul? He’s long accepted he’ll never see the pearly gates.

When the day comes that his body can no longer take it, and he only grows wearier, he’s pretty sure there’s a special place in hell with his name on it, etched in some grave awaiting to be filled.

Maybe Satan’s already counting down the days until he shows up at his door, who knows?

Yet, the more time passes by, the less afraid he is of what lies beneath the surface. He’s learned to coexist with the darkness, with the kind of pain and loneliness that would crush most men.

He doesn’t know how, but he survives it—the agony, the memories, the solitude that hits him from time to time.

And still, he doesn't lose himself entirely. He’s tempted, of course, to linger in the past—it’s always easier to drown there.

If he could go back, he knows he wouldn’t be alone in choosing that path. Some days, it feels like the only option.

But there’s no you in his past.

Logan inhales sharply when your tongue teases his slit, lapping at the precum pooling there. You hum at the taste, your hand resting on his bare thigh, fingers pressing into his skin. Your other hand lazily strokes the length of him, working the inches your mouth can’t take.

It’s clear you’re enjoying this. He can tell from the way your lashes flutter each time he thrusts a little deeper into your slick warmth. A win-win situation.

Letting a girl like you do this to him? That’s bad. Very bad. Red flags all around.

He meets you when he least expects it.

It’s a night like any other. He’s been driving for God knows how long. His joints ache from being in the same position for hours, and a part of his left knee he didn’t even know could hurt begins to throb.

It takes everything in him not to call it quits for the night, not to turn around and head home like a coward.

When exactly his life fell into this monotonous cycle, he’s not entirely sure, but it happened somewhere along the way. Now, it’s all the same: taking care of Charles during the day, catching an hour or two of sleep, then gripping the steering wheel with white-knuckled intensity, driving through endless stretches of road, resisting any attempts at small talk from the passengers he chauffeurs around.

They all try—every single one of them. They think if they can crack his harsh and bitter exterior, he’ll open up, reveal something, anything to make their eyes go wide.

But why? Why do they insist on breaking through his shell? What do they hope to discover?

No one really cares what’s going on in his mind. They just want to feel good about themselves—like they’ve been kind, amiable, empaths intending to fill some empty and obscure corner of their own lives.

Logan refuses to be the person who grants them that satisfaction.

You slip into the backseat of his limo, closing the door with a soft click. The night clings to you, the scent of the bar still lingering on your clothes. The music is loud enough for him to hear from outside, and he sees the people lined up at the door, willing to cause a fight if it means securing a good time.

There's a slight frown tugging at your features, your lips pulled downward, though your voice is still polite when you blurt out your address.

Five minutes into the drive and you haven’t said a word. Internally, he’s savoring the silence, so happy he could jump on one foot.

This kind of peace is rare. He’d grown unaccustomed to it. The tension in his shoulders eases as the city lights blur past.

But, all good things come to an end, because—

“How’s your night going?” you ask, fiddling with the seatbelt to have something between your fingers. Logan glances at you through the mirror, his eyes catching yours just for a moment, long enough to see the faint, apologetic smile you offer him. He allows himself a heartbeat more to take you in before focusing back on the road.

You click your tongue, a soft sound of disapproval ringing in his ears. “Well, thank you.”

He lets out a quiet huff, grinding his teeth together. “I’d prefer if we stayed like we were before,” he mutters, his voice rough and gravelly. His attention flickers between the passing cars and the occasional glimpses of you that startle him every time he searches for the mirror. Cars. You. Cars. You. You. You. “Y’know, not talking.”

“But that’s no fun at all,” you retort, sliding more to your left, nearly positioning yourself in the middle of the backseat. It gives him a better view of you—whether intentional or not, he can’t say.

The lipstick on your lips is still flawless. A sparkly necklace glints just above the neckline of your dress, and matching earrings dangle from your ears. Wrapped in a leather jacket, you look effortlessly alluring.

This entire sequence is enough to confirm that by no means is he going to heaven. Straight to hell, he thinks, allowing his gaze to trace over each detail of your frame. Straight to hell.

You don’t give up. “Your aura is off.”

That prompts a crooked smirk from him, a shake of his head as he mumbles under his breath: “M’sorry, my what’s off?”

“Your aura,” you clarify, motioning toward him with a light jingle from the many bracelets adorning your wrist. “It’s the energy that surrounds you.”

Logan snorts, amused for a brief second. “Well, you weren’t exactly a beacon of life when you got in either.”

You chuckle softly, leaning back against the seat and looking out the window. “I’m much better now.” A pause before you continue, your tone shifting, losing strength. “My date stood me up. Last-minute cancellation.”

It’s not anger, nor is it disappointment, that laces your words. You seem more resigned than anything else. He’d have expected you to sound at least a bit more conflicted.

“I should’ve seen it coming. He’d been asking to move it forward for a while.”

Does he look like the type of driver who doubles as a therapist? He wishes he could understand why you're telling him all this.

“That sucks,” he still responds, because even though he hasn’t gone out with a woman in what feels like centuries, he understands that sensation all too well. “First time meeting him?”

Listen up, everyone—he’s genuinely engaging in conversation with another soul. This doesn’t happen often.

He hears you hum, eyes still trained on the outside world. You sigh, crossing your arms over your torso. “Would you mind rolling your window up? I’m kind of freezing here.”

“I’d mind that very much,” he says, his voice carrying its usual gruff edge. He fights the urge to grin, but then you unbuckle your seatbelt, leaning in closer to him. Your body is wedged between his seat and the passenger’s, and he perceives your stare boring into his side profile. “Put your seatbelt back on.” 

“You’re fucking with me.” Your finger taps his shoulder once, twice. “First, I get all dolled up for an idiot who bails on me, and now you have the nerve to make fun of me? Give me a break.”

Your eyes stay on him, a smile plastered on your face, anticipating any possible answer.

Crack, crack, crack—you intend to break through his shell, watching him from the front row, waiting for the moment it gives way.

Before you can say more, he cuts you off. “Seatbelt.”

It’s a command, an instruction, and you comply without hesitation.

Warmth pools and stirs low in his gut as he notes how quickly you obey him. 

Would you still look at him like that if you knew the blood he’s scrubbed off his hands? The flesh that his claws have shredded? The names of the lives he’s taken?

Would your warm gaze turn cold, filled with dread instead of curiosity?

Maybe this is hell. Are you the Devil in disguise, tempting him to cross a line he won’t be able to come back from?

A few minutes later, he pulls up to your building. A really nice one, he notes. You announce you live on the sixth floor. He doesn’t need to know that, does he? Why would you tell him that? Why give that piece of information to a complete stranger?

You linger in the backseat, as though you’re expecting him to turn and look at you. And he does, though not for the reason you might expect. “You got everything?”

Eager and full of life, you nod, clutching your purse to your chest. You avert your gaze to read his ID tag, the one that contains his personal details. “James?”

“Glad you can read,” he utters, pulling out a small bottle of liquor from under the seat. He drains it all in one go, savoring the fleeting burn as it slides down his throat, which is enough to keep him going. “C’mon, kid. I already charged you.”

“You drink while you drive?”

“Keeps me entertained,” he says dryly. It’s the only thing he knows how to do. Raising the empty bottle in your direction, he arches a brow. “Goodnight, darlin’. Leave me a good review on your way out.”

You roll your eyes at him, silent as you exit the vehicle, closing the door behind you. While fumbling for your keys, four words escape your mouth. Casual yet devastating, they ruin him: “I’ll see you around.” 

For a couple of days, you don’t bother him again. Bother—notice the implication of the verb in question.

He’d be lying if he said he didn’t think of you after that drive. Each time his phone buzzes, a small, restless part of him hopes it’s you, asking for his services, wanting him to be the one you seek out.

And it happens. The best things seem to occur when the moon hangs high and bright.

You: Hi.

He stares at the message, recognition washing over him. He knows it’s you; he can see the other texts you exchanged that night he took you home.

You: Are you working tonight?

You’ve got to be kidding him.

Logan: Why are you texting me?

He types the words with frustration, his thumb hovering over the screen longer than usual. 

You: Why are you answering me?

Oh, you’re smart. 

Logan: Take my advice. Talk to a guy your own age.

You: Damn. Already jumping to conclusions. I was just going to ask you if you wanted to have a drink with me.

Logan: I’m busy.

You: Well, what time do you get off?

Logan: I work all night.

You: Can’t even make a quick stop? I swear it won’t take you more than twenty minutes.

An impulse to throw his phone out the window surges within him, but he manages to restrain himself.

Then, as if on cue, the device vibrates again—of course, it’s you.

You: The drinks are on me. Let me know if you change your mind.

Do you think he’s going to let you pay for him? Absolutely not. 

What surprises him more than the message is how easily he remembers your address. It appears to be ingrained in his mind.

He cancels his next trip, scheduled for ten minutes from now, his new destination being your building.

Once he pulls up, he does what feels most natural: he honks. Multiple times. Maybe he’s lucky and you’ll tell him to fuck off.

But you don’t. You’re laughing as you make your way over to the limo, sliding into the backseat in the same way you did a week ago. Your plan had succeeded—you had him exactly where you wanted.

Far from hiding it, you make it evident, obvious. Your heartbeat thrums in the air, and Logan can hear it loud and clear, like the bass in one of those funky songs he likes.

There’s no room for mistakes. He won’t deny it. Even if the feeling is mutual, he can’t shake the idea that he’s doing something wrong.

In his eyes, you’re the forbidden fruit—irresistible, the ultimate temptation known to humankind, camouflaged in the fur of a pretty woman.

You, his paradise on earth, could only lead to one thing: a longing for a chance with you, which he should never be granted in the first place.

He’s diving headfirst into disgrace, and the more he realizes it, the worse it feels. If he were to be scolded like a child, maybe he’d feel relieved, but he’s no kid. He’s a grown-ass man who should be able to resist.

Yet, self-restraint is like sand slipping through his fingers��never lasting long enough.

“You came.” Astonishment. Uncertainty. Amusement. Blinking your eyes at him, you sit very upright, and you don't even bother fastening your seatbelt. “Honestly? I thought you were going to block me.”

I can’t, he thinks. I wouldn’t be able to. I’m not that strong.

“What happened this time? Another failed date?” he inquires, still not starting the car. A look of perplexity appears on your features, puzzled about why he’s not moving. “Ain’t you forgetting something?” He tugs on his own seatbelt for emphasis, the fabric snapping back into place against his coat.

Once again, you follow his lead. “I don’t need to get stood up to want to see you,” you say, placing your hand on his shoulder for balance—or so he tells himself. It takes him all his willpower not to collapse right then and there. “Besides, I’m not bad company. I’ve been told I can be pretty funny.” 

“I see…” he trails off, catching your gaze through the rearview mirror, not shocked in the slightest to find you waiting for him to look back. “Where to?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, you should. You invited me.”

How easy it is to make your chest rumble with laughter, the genuine sound bubbling up, pure and unrestrained. He feels like some amateur comedian who has just realized his real passion is to cause this type of response in others.

Except, it’s not just anyone’s laughter he insists on provoking—it’s yours, and yours alone.

An unsettling sensation envelops him the second you retrieve your hand, not before squeezing his shoulder in a friendly manner. “There’s a bar I go to with my friends sometimes,” you suggest after a beat, shoving your phone in the pocket of your jacket. “We could try that one.”

The moment he steps inside, regret washes over him. Why is everyone here under forty? He feels ancient, like fucking Fred Flintstone.

A fossil out of place, meant to dwell in the shadows, not in a scene like this.

When he freezes in the middle of the bar, your fingers intertwine with his, tugging him along, and he follows after you like a lost puppy. The only thing he’s missing is the leash.

You’re met with his quirked eyebrows as you peer into his eyes over your shoulder, a toothy grin threatening to shake the floor beneath his feet. “You know, people usually sit down before they start getting shit-faced.”

“I’m not getting drunk tonight.” Logan exhales a deep breath, trying to hide his discomfort, his eyes scanning the room. “And neither are you,” he practically yells in your ear trying to make himself heard above the pounding music and incessant chatter. He wonders if you even hear him at all.

The two of you eventually settle at the counter, drinking in silence. Logan half-expects one of your comments to pierce through the quiet, but you delight in proving him wrong.

Instead, your head sways gently to the rhythm of the song playing in the background, and you take a trial sip of your beer.

He’s acutely aware of the stares from the rest of the patrons. He can pretend to be oblivious, but the weight of several pairs of eyes burning holes into the back of his neck doesn’t go unnoticed.

Being watched has never been his favorite pastime, and somehow, it feels even more uncomfortable with you by his side.

He knows what those looks imply, can nearly taste the hidden implications behind each fleeting glance.

What’s a girl like you doing with a man like him? A question that makes no sense.

Does he have money? A well-endowed reputation? Did he recently inherit any properties?

Are you truly that desperate for human contact?

Is your bed so cold that you decide to go for the first guy who can string ten words together?

Logan doubts whether this whole experiment is part of the community service you must be doing. Maybe he should look up your name online to see if any criminal records come to the surface.

Now that he takes a moment to ponder it, you certainly fit the mold of the criminal type. The kind who gets what she wants when she wants it, leaving a trail of intrigue on her wake.

His fingers circle the glass so tightly he fears it might shatter into a million shards. You notice his tension, nudging his arm with yours, aiming to meet his eyes.

When you do (because, as he said, criminals have their own ways), you smile, and he internalizes that gesture as something familiar, something he feels he’s grown used to. Something rankled in his memory.

It’s as if he’s known you for a lifetime.

“Thank you for coming,” you say softly, and he may be going down the path of hallucinations,  but your attention remains a little too long on his lips. Then, just as quickly, it flickers back to the rest of his face, and you lean back to drink from your beer once more.

Straight to hell, he thinks, tasting the remnants of whiskey on his tongue, for ever daring to believe himself worthy of even a moment of your precious time.

You’re probably the first person to have his full, undivided attention. And that’s… well, that’s saying something.

Most days, you’re pretty talkative, a steady stream of conversation, your words pouring out in an endless flow.

You tell him about your family, your career, that pet of yours that died when you were six years old. You mention a friend you no longer speak to, and the events that led to the downfall of your friendship.

There’s also that dish from your all-time favorite restaurant, the one you buy at least once a week because it never fails to comfort you.

Nonstop, you talk and talk, and Logan doesn’t mind one bit. Soon, he finds himself becoming an active listener—asking follow-up questions, chuckling at your jokes, even when they’re not funny at all.

He sincerely cares about what you have to say.

This whole situation with you is beyond his comprehension. Before he realizes it, you start wanting to spend more time with him.

Sometimes, you ride along in the passenger seat while he drives aimlessly through the city.

Sometimes, you invite him over, cook a meal, and he always takes the leftovers with him, as if a part of you goes with him when he leaves.

Sometimes, you come over to his place, and the roles reverse—you’re the one with the mic, asking the questions, fully aware that you’re treading on holy ground. 

Logan’s got a sign on his forehead that reads ‘Stop: do not enter.’ It’s rough around the edges, hardened by the years, all capital letters in stark blank ink. But in the end, you just take the sign and set it aside.

He never goes into too much detail. Not because he doesn’t trust you—it’s just that there’s too much to unpack, and you don’t need to know all of it. You’ll be better off not carrying the garbage he does.

Yet, you’ve got him by the throat, encouraging him to cough up disjoined pieces of his life, bits of his day, his thoughts, his feelings. It sounds stupid to him, but you make him feel alive. 

You never judge him, never flinch when he brings up stories from his past. As he sits at your table one afternoon, you look at his hands, his claws fully extended, and you don’t shy away. You rub the pad of your thumb across the rough skin of his knuckles, right where the adamantium tears through his flesh.

You don’t care that he’s a mutant, that he’s killed people. You don’t try to deny who he is or what he’s done. Oddly enough, you just wish to be by his side, staring off into the void with him. 

“But why?” he asks, partly flattered, partly frustrated. This could be compared to learning a new sport from scratch—he can’t figure you out, can’t understand why you haven’t run the other way yet.

He likes your company, though he’s always bracing himself for the inevitable day you find a better hobby and leave.

Your reasoning defies logic, and he’s afraid that at any moment, you’ll grasp the gravity of your choices.

Almost as if you could feel the turmoil brewing in his mind, you simply say: “You’re nice to be around.”

Nice. Nice. Nice. He’d cackle if he were alone. That word reverberates through him. When was the last time someone called him nice?

Bad-tempered, sure.

A pain in the ass? Definitely.

But nice? Not a term people employed to describe him.

It’s a quality reserved for you, with your endless charisma and kind heart, but not for a man of his kind.

He’s nothing more than a chauffeur, a driver, someone who does and says what’s necessary to survive. Does that make him nice? 

When he tells you he’s probably going to hell, you don’t try to make him feel better. Anyone else in your position might try to soothe him, to offer some hollow reassurance.

Your intention isn’t to change him, for him to pretend to be something he’s not. “Then I’ll meet you there,” you mutter, your shiny eyes searing into his. Under the table, your hand finds his, tender fingers grazing over his knuckles, and for once, he doesn’t pull away.

Could it be that an afterlife catching fire doesn’t sound so bad after all?

As much as he likes to admit how easily you can shift his mood, today is not one of those days.

He’s had a nightmare—nothing new, but this one had been… different. The empty bottle on the nightstand hadn’t been of any help; it never does when they visit him in his sleep.

The ghosts of those who used to be his friends, his family, tiptoe around his dreams in the form of shadows.

Blood. Screams. Shouts of his name. He can’t save them all. Walking through the wreckage, he dodges the bodies of those he couldn’t protect, the knot in his throat tightening with every step, not allowing him to breathe.

Wherever he turns, there’s death, destruction. Sadness. Did he save them all?

It’s always the same routine. He wakes up, screaming, chest aching from the effort. His lungs burn, and he has to remind himself that the limbs attached to him are his own and not the remnants of an immobile corpse.

Sweat clings to his skin, pooling at his temples and nape. He wipes it away with the back of his hand, rubbing at the soreness in his neck.

His phone rings somewhere in the distance, pulling him from his dizzy state. He scrambles to his feet, accepting the call just before it hits voicemail.

It's you. Despite it being late, he swears he feels the gentle kiss of the sun over his brow. Your sweet voice chases away the lingering shadows of his dreams, replacing the bitter taste in his mouth with something real—a reason to get up, to start moving.

He holds onto every second of the brief call, replaying those thirty seconds in his head as he steps into the shower. When the cold water shocks his system, it pulls him fully back to consciousness. He has to get ready.

Even though you insist on getting a taxi, he refuses. He doesn’t mind the drive. His gas tank does, his wallet maybe, but Logan? He just doesn’t.

At the end of the day, he’s protective by nature, and who knows what kind of men are roaming the streets at night?

God forbid they’re anything like him—eager to prompt a smile from you, trying too hard to impress you. He arrives at the conclusion that he’d rather lose fuel and money if it means orbiting around you for longer.

You make him feel better, and tonight, he needs it more than ever. He needs you.

(Now he’s driving. He honks five times when he pulls up to your building. You get on the limo, giggling as you say: “My neighbors must hate you.” He grins. You kiss him on the cheek. Subtle. Not the first time. Still, it doesn’t get old. He feels the faint residue of lip gloss on his skin. He doesn’t wipe it off.)

Not in the mood to cook, you declare as you step into his place. The mouth-watering aroma of the Chinese food you bought fills the air, but when he reaches for the bags, you insist that he sit and relax.

Sure, he can take a seat. But to expect him to relax with you around, playing this intricate game? That’s simply impossible. You’re asking for too much. He’s a player at heart, drawn to the thrill of the chase, and he will play along.

What seems inconceivable is the expectation that he can act as if nothing is happening between these four walls.

His attempts to focus on you are futile, as his mind betrays him tonight. All he hears spilling from your lips is pure and plain gibberish. Your very presence is no longer enough to anchor him.

Already immune to your charm, Logan eats his noodles, occasionally nodding when your voice rises at the end of a sentence, indicating a question.

But he nearly chokes on his drink the moment he registers your serious expression, having never witnessed you like this before.

“Are you even here?” you ask, shoving your food aside with a swift motion of your wrist.

What should he answer? What is it that you want to hear? Of course! I’m here, listening to you. It’s a delightful night. Should I start by telling you about my most recent nightmare? Quite the entertainment!

There’s a shake of his head as he lowers his gaze, escaping your concerned expression. “M’sorry.”

“Don’t be. I’m not trying to make you feel guilty.” You tug your chair forward, claiming a piece of his personal space. You know he doesn’t mind. “Want to talk about it? Did something happen?”

“My brain is just… off today.”

“Many thoughts at the same time.” Not a question. Have you completely figured him out?

“Yeah.”

He remains still, dragging his plastic fork across the now-cold steamed veggies, which have lost their appeal.

How amusing—your knees bump against his, drawing his attention. “Can I help you?” It’s new, the breathy tone you’re using, a whisper of agitation weaving through your calm demeanor. 

“Can you erase my memory?” he shoots back, attempting to smirk through the wave of memories that flash behind his eyelids. When he looks into your eyes, the siren in his head blares.

Your pupils are dilated, blown wide, chest rising and falling rapidly. Sweaty palms that you wipe on your jeans. Tongue darting out to lick your lips. Your heartbeat accelerates, drumming wildly like the fluttering of a hummingbird’s wings.

He hasn’t been with a woman in ages, but he knows how they react when they see something they like—or, in this case, someone.

“Logan.” His name rolls off your tongue once more, tinged with an unmistakable need. The thought of checking his temperature dances through his mind, but the heaviness in his limbs roots him in place. He feels feverish. “I want to help you.”

Oh, no. No, no, no, no—

“What—what are you on, sweetheart?” Get up. Find your keys. Drive her home. “You don’t even know what you’re sayin’.”

Saliva floods his mouth as you rise to your feet, looking down at him from above. Gracefully angelic, and yet— “I know what I’m asking for,” you continue, your voice descending to a low murmur that scratches pleasantly against some dark and remote corner of his head. Then you lower yourself onto his lap, your thighs bracketing his waist. You repeat your question: “Can I help you?”

He’s no longer in control of his actions. His right hand crawls up your knee, palming the fabric of your pants. It’s numbing: a lapful of you, your rich smell, your quickened pulse.

Tempting. So fucking tempted to take you right now, just like this, without the need for words. Your bodies can communicate in a language of their own, one that transcends spoken phrases. 

I want you, he lets you know through the way he gropes your breasts over your shirt, squeezing them together. He’s always been good with his hands. But what the hell am I supposed to do with a sweet thing like you?

His patience teeters on the edge of a precipice. “Tell me what you want.”

“I asked you first.”

“You’re gonna pretend you don’t know the answer?” He thrusts into the air, grinding against your clothed core, and you close your eyes. He’s rock hard beneath you, the bulge in his jeans shockingly obscene, bordering on grotesque. “We both know what I want, but I’m no telepath, baby. Need you to speak up.”

Twisting the locks of hair at his nape, you press your lips to his neck. “I want to make you forget, to focus on this moment. I want you to live in the present, Logan.” A bite on his earlobe sends shivers down his spine, and he grips your hips with a primal growl. “I can do whatever you want. Just tell me. Tell me, and I’ll do it, please.”

Please? He’s spiraling. Please? That’s it—he’s doing it. He’ll grant you your plea, which aligns perfectly with his own desires.

Once his back meets the mattress in his room, you get to work. With delicate precision, you pull down his pants, sliding his boxers off until only his thick thighs and the crown of short curls adorning his cock remain in sight. Your fingers tremble slightly before you wrap them loosely around his length, and it springs to life in your grasp.

Your gaze pierces into his, mirroring the intensity of his own. But something holds you back, prompting you to reach for his hand.

At that moment, it all clicks into place. Logan urges your head down onto him, and he’s welcomed by the slick warmth you provide.

Indeed, he’s very much alive.

“That’s it. That’s—fuck. There you go.” 

His fingers dig into the mattress, clutching the cotton sheets, stopping himself from thrusting into your mouth. It’s not that he doesn’t want to—God, he does—but tonight, he’s on his best behavior.

He wipes the trail of drool from your chin, smearing it gently across your cheek, his thumb lingering as he watches your nostrils flare with a strained, muffled gasp.

Bringing his thumb to his mouth, he tastes the wetness on it the same way you’re sucking him: greedily, without any trace of mercy.

This proves I’m going to hell, he thinks, enraptured by the sight of his cock disappearing between your parted lips. Straight to hell.

You draw him back to the present, nuzzling your face against his thigh, your humid breath teasing his thick shaft, pulling him from a deep reverie. Your glossy eyes roam, exploring until they find his, and you gift him an authentic smile. Wrecked and blissed out, it’s as if the lights are on, but no one’s truly home.

He would’ve never guessed how much you reveled in sucking cock, radiating enthusiasm with each of your movements.

“Am I doing it okay?” you wonder aloud, hovering over the tip, swirling your tongue around the velvety head. He’s no fool, and neither are you; deep down, you know you’re doing more than just okay. Actually, you’re giving him the best blowjob of his long, long life.

Each panting, airy praise he huffs fuels your eagerness, making you even more receptive to his desires as the words slip past his lips.

“Fuckin’ amazing, honey. Got me so hard, y’see?” His tone is heavily charged with carnality, gripping himself and smacking the tip against your mouth, the wet sound echoing like music to his ears.

He pulses against your tongue, and you seize the opportunity to trace the thin veins scattered along his length. Gulping, with his gaze fixed on you, Logan notices how you’re still wearing your clothes, wiggling your hips against the mattress, rubbing your thighs together to get something in return. “Are you wet?”

Humming against him, you suck in shaky breath. 

“Words.”

“I’m—I’m wet,” you rasp, voice hoarse. You try to guide him into your mouth and fail miserably, because his grip only tightens, stroking himself instead. “Logan,” you keen, stretching your neck in a silent plea, “don’t be mean.”

“Not mean. Just enjoyin’ myself,” he replies, pulling the foreskin back to expose the head, arching his eyebrows. His fingers curl around your chin, drawing your face nearer to his girth, fascinated by how your eyes flutter shut the more you surrender to the pleasure. “C’mon. Be polite.”

Blame him for it—he believes he’ll never get tired of this game.

“Please.” You whisper, returning to your begging while tenderly rolling his balls, staring at him through your lashes. And then you say it again: “Please.”

Your gaze burns a hole through his crumpled heart. He lets you have it, eager to give whatever you may ask him for. You dive back into it, engulfing his length and bobbing your head up and down with fervor. Hushed whines escape your lips, savoring another bead of his precum.

Logan almost loses it as you hollow your cheeks, instinctively cradling the back of your head. “Easy, baby. M’not going anywhere. Take your time.”

Whenever he feels himself approaching that long-awaited release, he forces his mind to conjure thoughts that will stall his impending orgasm.

The water stains from flooding on the walls.

The supermarket list.

The rising price of gas.

The—

“Fuck. Slow down,” he groans, utterly captivated by the way you point your tongue to draw imaginary patterns along his cock, seemingly memorizing every detail. “Don’t go too hard on me, remember?”

You mumble something under your breath, and at first, he can’t quite make it out. “What is it?”

“I said I want you to fuck me.”

Under no circumstances is he surviving this night.

“Really, doll?” Logan seeks the reassurance he desperately needs, fearing that this is all a dream from which he’ll awaken the moment he properly touches you. “You sure you want this old man to fuck you?”

You’re a rambling mess, murmuring Yes, Logan, please, until he maneuvers you to lie on his chest, his glistening cock sliding against your clothes, leaving a trail of dark spots. A whimper dies on your tongue as you brush your lips together, your hot breath enveloping him. “Give me a kiss at least.”

Tilting your head up, he connects his mouth to yours, growling as he detects the dull, sour tang of what must be him. He sucks your bottom lip, hardly aware of what his hands are doing until he shifts your positions, pinning you down.

Logan tugs at your clothes, peeling them away with urgency, his fingers dancing over your nipples until you’re grinding against his thigh, quivering beneath him. With a nip at your damp skin, his eyes flutter open as he studies your expression, casting you a glance that seeks your permission.

A ripple of desire courses through him when you dutifully turn over beneath him, pressing your face further into the pillow. He runs his knuckles along the curve of your ass, his throat going dry as you follow after his touch, arching your body in response.

Unable to resist the temptation any longer, he licks a long, slow stripe up your wet folds, keeping his tongue flat against your clit for a brief moment. Your arms give out and you stumble forward, stuttering as you mewl his name, fully consumed by the feeling.

So he does it again, and again, and again, flicking the sensitive bud, even though you’re already beyond soaked. It’s a pleasure he indulges in simply because he can.

Straight to hell, he thinks, coating his length with your arousal, teasing your entrance while pushing in only the tip. That motion alone is enough to make him draw a trembling breath before he continues, gradually feeding you his cock, inch by inch.

Straight to hell, the voice in his head utters as he buries himself to the hilt deep within your body, his heavy balls resting against your ass.

Like an intruder in your territory, he’s free to do as he pleases, and you let him have his way with you.

If only this moment could stretch into infinity—he longs for time to relent and never draw to a close. 

What will happen after? Will you spend the night? Does he—

“L-Logan,” you mumble, having adjusted to his size. You rock back into him, impaling yourself even more on his cock. “Please, move.”

The pace he establishes is brutal. Your warm, inner walls exquisitely massage him, and the earth as he knows it stops spinning. Fire pools low in his abdomen, his hands holding you by the flesh of your hips to keep you anchored, each thrust driving you closer to the headboard with an intoxicating urgency. 

“You wanted it from the very start, didn’t you?” He doesn’t know if a response will ever come, but these kinds of thoughts are impossible to contain. He’s just a simple man, powerless against the allure of a tight cunt. “Just got in my car and knew it would end like this?”

You roll your eyes at him, silent as you exit the vehicle, closing the door behind you. While fumbling for your keys, four words escape your mouth. Casual yet devastating, they ruin him: “I’ll see you around.” 

His next thrust punches a whine out of your lungs. Even as you clench around him, stuffed and filled to the brim, you beg for him to fuck you harder. He would’ve laughed at you were he able to catch his breath.

With a more deliberate rhythm, he rolls his hips, jackhammering your most sensitive spot, pulling you closer as he wraps an arm around you. When his fingers find your clit, drawing slippery circles, a cry escapes you, and your body merges with the mattress under you.

Your release takes him by surprise, urging him to continue as you reach back, encouraging him to chase his own climax. He knows all too well the struggle of bringing you to this point without succumbing to his pleasure too soon. Your nails graze along his thigh, leaving delicate marks in their wake, and somehow, the passion and bliss he’s been nurturing ignites into a fiery crescendo.

Shortly after, he goes completely rigid inside you, pressing his forehead against your back as he bites down on your shoulder to muffle his groans. His hand squeezes your breast tightly, riding out his high, blood buzzing in his ears, continuing to spill into you. You spam around him, milking him until the last drop of his seed, his release painting your insides with his warmth.

Logan tucks you under his chin as his vision returns to clarity. You nose his jaw, your fingers softly tracing the contours of his beard. He pulls you closer into his chest, gliding his hands up and down your back.

Half a minute of dreadful silence, then: “Can I stay?”

Oh, yes—pillow talk. He’s not great at this either. Despite that, his eyes soften, snapping to your face.

Logan pauses for a moment. “Sure,” he retorts, dragging his fingers along your shoulder blades. He’s a one-word kind of guy. Just perfect.

Tell her you like her. Tell her you don’t want this to be a casual fling. Tell her it’s more than just sex for you.

Or maybe don’t. Get ahold of yourself, will you?

“Logan?” you ask, resting your palm against his heart.

“What is it?”

“I know.”

You do?

Try as he might, he can’t deny it. He might care about you more than he ever realized.

dividers by: @/cafekitsune thank you!!! <3

[gothghostiie]

Hey! I've just had a thought that could be fun. What if, as a joke, reader steals the 141 boys (any/all of them) dogtags and then, after a few days starts wearing them in front of them? I feel like there would be repercussions

oh there are most certainly repercussions

cw: mention of spanking, poly!141 at the end

Soap gets straight up mad when he can't find them - fussing for days because he swears they were just on his dresser and he has no idea where else they could be. grumpy until he sees them around your neck. you can barely even register it when he pulls you aside the next time you're alone, cornering you. he grabs the tags with 3 fingers, chuckling lowly and shaking his head. "think you're funny, dontcha?" all that leaves your lips is a little chuckle before he pulls you in by the chain and kisses you.

Gaz is rather calm at first. notices the next morning and checks everywhere, going to have breakfast when he doesn't find anything. but when you take a seat across from him, dogtags dangling from your neck he takes a closer look; chuckling when he sees they're his. shaking his head amd biting his lip slightly. "you're unbelievable.." he chuckles, giving you a look that undeniably tells you to come to his room later; and you sure as fuck do - you're about to find out how they look dangling from your neck instead of his.

Price is suspicious - he does tend to misplace things but he usually finds them again; not this time though. he's in his office, still wondering where the hell they went as he does paperwork - but his confusion is immediately cleared up when you walk in, wearing the tags around your neck. he leans back in his chair, crossing his arms as he eyes you over. let's you speak what you wanted before motioning for you to come over with one finger, tapping the metal with it. "naughty, stealing from me like that. should put you over my knee for that.

ghost definitely knows someone took them. he only takes them off to shower, if at all and he knows it couldn't have been a lot of people. but the second he sees you walk past him he sees the tags, scoffing in amusement unfer his breath as he follows after you. grabbing you by the back of your neck with his big hand, grip just tight enough to make you gasp softly. he keeps walking with you, redirecting you to his room while leaning down slightly to whisper in your ear. "little magpie, ain'tcha?"

but when you do it to all 4? jesus. I'm thinking you'd do gaz and soap first, they don't quite bat an eye at you. they think they just misplaced them at the same time. however when you steal price's they get suspicious. they don't necessarily think it was you, but it is a little strange that 3 have vanished by now. when ghosts goes too they know something is up, and when they see you wearing them they know what happened. I hope youre prepared, cause when you're called into the next meeting it sure as fuck won't he just talking.

[verareids]

feel the same - s.r. x bau!reader

spencer misunderstands a conversation he overhears between reader and derek. tags/cws: misunderstandings, confessions of feelings, use of 'y/n', gn!reader, fluff, mild angst, derek morgan has big brother energy wc: 1708 (much longer than I thought lmao) a/n: I'm truly obsessed with season 1 spencer as of late so I HAD to write a fic with him in mind. <3

also posted on ao3

“You know Pretty Boy likes you, don’t you?”

Spencer had been trying to get some sleep on the flight back after working a case that had drained all his energy when the sound of Morgan’s voice caught his attention. Without opening his eyes, he knew exactly who he was talking to. Spencer had never outright admitted to anyone that he had developed feelings for you but it was getting harder to deny. Once Derek had started pointing out the way he’d look up when you entered a room or the way his eyes lingered as you walked away, he was becoming concerned that this crush was more obvious than he’d like it to be. 

He’s been trying to ignore it, telling himself it’s unprofessional when really it’s because he believes there’s no way you could possibly feel the same. There’s a myriad of reasons why he wished Derek would keep his big mouth shut but honestly – that was probably the biggest.

“Likes me? How old are we?” The smooth sound of your response makes Spencer smile to himself in spite of the current situation. 

“(Y/N), come on…” Derek chuckles and is immediately met with a long stretch of silence. Spencer can picture the death glare he knows he’d see on your face if he were to look at you in this moment. “Look, you know he’s never gonna ask you out himself so maybe you should just–”

“Derek.” You interrupt with an evident sternness in your tone. “I’m not having this conversation with you. I’ve told you, it’s not happening.” Ouch. Spencer had never allowed himself to dream that you would reciprocate his feelings but he definitely wishes he had been asleep for that one. With that, he forces his eyes shut tighter than before and takes in one deep, slightly shaky breath and decides to try to go back to sleep, if only so that he doesn’t have to hear you reject him even harder.

~

Spencer wakes up as the jet is landing and he quickly gathers all of his things, walking out and across the strip with much more urgency than usual. This detail doesn’t go unnoticed by you, not much does – especially where Spencer is concerned – and you make a mental note to check in with him later. He had caught your eye the first day you met him which must be, what? Half a year ago now? And he had been on your mind ever since. You had bonded quickly as friends, being the two youngest members on the team. About a month ago you had finally allowed yourself to acknowledge the fact that you had developed feelings for him. You’d sit next to him at any given opportunity, listen to his infamously long rants much longer than anyone else would, spend just a little too long staring at his lips as he talked you through his theories. It didn’t take long for people to notice. Elle had her suspicions, JJ made a comment every now and then, but Derek – he wouldn’t let it go. He teases you about it constantly. You haven’t given him the satisfaction of admitting it, you haven’t been able to deny it either.

When you eventually make your way into the building along with the rest of the team you notice that Spencer had already left. It’s only then you start to be concerned. It’s unlike him to leave in such a hurry, even more so to not even say goodbye. You rack your brain trying to come up for a reason for this strange behavior. Is he sick? Upset about something? Was it you? You begin to go over every interaction you’d had with him recently when you have to stop yourself before you spiral. He’s just tired. If it was serious he’d tell you… right?

~

The next morning you walk in to find Spencer at his desk working on the report he didn’t write last night before he had basically ran away.

“Morning, Spence!” You greet him, making an effort to sound cheerful as you lean on his desk. He doesn’t look up, like he’s trying extra hard to look busy.

“Morning, (Y/L/N).” He replies without looking up. His tone seems normal, his use of your last name is what sounds the alarms in your head.

“Hey… are you feeling alright?” You ask tentatively, not wanting to pry too much in case you really had done something wrong that you clearly weren’t aware of. “I noticed you kind of left in a hurry last night.” He finally looks up and meets your eyes, easing your nerves slightly. His eyes shift away and then back to yours before a soft smile graces his lips, one that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“I’m okay.” He responds after a while in a way that sounds like that’s not all he wants to say. You go to reassure him, make sure he knows he can tell you anything, but stop yourself when you notice the way he tenses when you place a hand on his shoulder. Retracting your hand quickly, you begin to fidget with your fingers before running them through your hair nervously.

“Spencer… I–” You start and stop and Spencer feels a little guilty as you seem to stumble over your words anxiously. “Is it me? Did I do something? Because if I did I–”.

“(Y/N).” Spencer cuts off your panicked rambling. You take a steadying breath as he slowly rises to stand in front of you, your eyes trailing up when he towers over you. He looks around the room and sighs before focusing back on you. “Can we go somewhere to talk?” You nod and begin walking towards a storage room with Spencer following close behind, quickly checking that there's no one in there before stepping inside.

“What’s going on with you?” You break the silence as Spencer closes the door behind him. “You know you can talk to me about anything.”

“I’m sorry if I’ve been acting weird.” You notice the way he dodges the question. He can’t meet your eyes anymore, his gaze shifts around the room and he smiles awkwardly at you.

“Spence, that’s not–” You interrupt yourself, trying to find a way to put your thoughts to words without overwhelming him. “I only want you to be okay. You’ve been acting differently since last night… If there’s something going on I want to be there for you.” When you say that he smiles sadly. He looks down in thought as if he’s considering something.

“I heard you talking to Morgan…” He mumbles, still staring at his feet – wringing his hands together. You furrow your brows in confusion. Talking to Morgan? “On the jet on the way home…”

“Oh.” This isn’t happening. You figure you should’ve known Derek’s relentless teasing would be your downfall. He must know you like him now. There’s a reason you never wanted him to know how you felt. You couldn’t stand the thought of anything ruining your friendship. Spencer visibly deflates even more in front of you at your lack of response. You begin scrambling to come up with a way to get out of this horrifically embarrassing situation.

“Look, I– I didn’t mean to make this awkward…” Oh god. The way he’s stuttering and tripping over his words. You stare blankly at him, then duck your head, bracing for the impact of his rejection. “It’s not like I thought you would feel the same way I just–” Wait what? Your head snaps back up to see his face, eyes widened, which seems to startle him a little. “I wasn’t going to say anything but I guess I just got really in my head about it.” He begins to look a little panicked. “I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable, I’m sorry if I did.” You just keep staring up at him, mouth agape in disbelief. “(Y/N)?” He says your name with a sad desperation and it reminds you that you should respond.

“Sorry, I–” You say slowly while shaking your head. “Are you saying that – Do you like me?” Now it’s Spencer’s turn to look confused, but it was all starting to make sense to you. You had thought he was acting weird because he had found out about your feelings, when in reality, it was the other way around.

“Yes?” He replies hesitantly.

“I like you too.” You say simply with a shy smile but Spencer looks completely taken aback. 

“You do?” The way his eyes light up with a subtle excitement was adorable. Soon after, that look was replaced with skepticism. “But I thought— you told Morgan you didn’t like me.”

“I told Morgan to stop teasing me about you because I didn’t think this…” You gesture between the two of you. “Was ever going to happen.” Spencer let out a sigh of relief and smiled bashfully.

“You could have just told me.” You feel his eyes scanning your face as if he were still looking for proof that you weren’t messing with him.

“You didn’t tell me either.”

“I thought there was no way…” You make eye contact as he trails off in thought. “I guess it doesn’t matter now.” Spencer takes a tentative step closer to you but doesn’t move to touch you in any way, so you reach out to take his hands in yours, lacing your fingers together.

“Well… maybe if we don’t have to fly out for a case today, we could go to dinner tonight?” You’re staring down at your intertwined hands, squeezing once before looking back up. When you see his face he’s still looking down with a big dopey grin on his face and you can’t help but smile right back.

“Yes— definitely.” You giggle at his obvious enthusiasm. 

You both stay in the storage room for another couple minutes, mostly just staring starry eyed at each other. Eventually you both decide that you should get back to work. You try to hide whatever was now going between you as much as you can but like always, Derek Morgan figures you out within minutes and he, along with the rest of the team, teases you relentlessly. (You wouldn’t have it any other way.)

[opheliawhodrowned]

a fox cries; never howls (1/3)

simon riley x fem!reader | masterlist | AO3 | navigation

you're a stranger across the counter. you want so desperately to crawl back over, but it can never be the same anymore.

cw: mafia!au, non-con/rape, pedophilic undertones, forced prostitution/human trafficking, abusive relationships, abduction, forced medical practices/treatments, self harm, suicide attempt, mention of abortion, mention of pregnancy, reader is described as having long hair for plot reasons (can be natural, braided, etc), Simon is not the abuser in any of these tags, whump with an eventual happy ending.

*note: this universe is based off of a story that's no longer available (In Limbo). I'm turning it into an original fiction, but you do not need to be aware of the previous story to understand this one. This was posted previously on my other blog, but I am moving it here, so if it seems familiar that is why!

Each time it happens, you tell yourself it’ll be different, but it never is. 

Broken promises lay in glistening shards around the heels strapped to your feet as you grit your teeth through the pain. No matter how much you beg and plead, it’s always the same. That visceral ache shooting through the core of your being still brings tears to your eyes the same it did the first time. It will continue to plague you. Haunting your cheeks in messy streaks as it drips onto the counter your hands so desperately palm at. Each tear that splatters by your fingers shimmer with black flakes. Running mascara. It stains everything it touches—especially you.

You’re prettier that way. Ruined. At least, that’s what you’ve been told. 

Always pretty on your knees; bent over; looking up; crying; pleading; beg; beg for it; and keep crying; yeah, just like that. 

Your skin is scarred, marked in the shape of greedy lips, and it stings like the wound is fresh. Words seep into the soft tissue where it continues to fester. Burrows its spindly roots until it can bear fruit. You could pull at the stem all you like, but you can’t escape the fact that it’s now a fundamental part of you. The only thing keeping your bones from crumbling. This mantra. This throe. 

“Not tryna hide, are you?” 

Avaricious fingers dig into the firm cartilage of your throat as you’re yanked back and forced to look at yourself in the mirror. The ripples of your defilement echo throughout your body—and you’re forced to watch it. The bounce of your breasts and the smudged makeup dripping along your cheeks. In some odd way, you are a masterpiece. You’re sculpted of nothing but obloquy yet carved just like if you were made of stone. You would close your eyes if you thought you could get away with it.

But Marco likes when you watch. Savors the tremble of your lips as your eyes find him in the mirror. Pristine teeth glint in the pallid light. Perfectly white and straight. He always takes care of himself—of his appearance. It shows in the carefully carved muscles that flex in his abdomen as he pistons into you; in the well groomed locks of his dark hair. This is the sweetest liquor he could ever indulge in—enjoying not only destroying you, but of making a show of it. 

He must always be the performer and the audience; having his cake and eating it too. 

A fury of grunted whispers slice straight through your ear drums. It’s a hardly comprehensible slurring of English and Russian, and though your fuzzy brain can’t make sense of it, you know what it means. Marco teeters close to the edge, hands dragging your body back against him as he holds himself flush against the crux of your ass. Hot warmth spills into you, and despite the hand around your throat, you’re finally able to breathe. This impiety does not offer you comfort in your tainted skin, but it offers you the one commodity you rarely seem to come by: rest. 

That incessant ache lurks deep in the pit of your stomach, even as Marco pulls out, but it’s quiet. Doesn’t demand your attention. You feel the dull throb that harasses the raw tissue of your cunt, and you try not to wince as you feel his seed spill out. Chuckling, he releases your throat in favor of wrapping his fingers around your hair, bunching as much as he can into the palm of his hand. It’s overgrown. Messy and dead. But he refuses to allow you to cut it. 

Nothing about you gets to change without his permission—not even your appearance. 

“Look at you, my sweet little girl,” he coos. Sharp teeth nip at the side of your jaw and you wince. You’re surprised his mouth doesn’t unhinge; that he doesn’t shove you into his maw and swallow you whole. “So goddamn perfect. Can’t get enough of this pussy. Christ.” 

When Marco backs away, you swear your knees will give out. Without his puppeteering hands to hold you up and bend you to his desires, you’re nothing but mush. A disgusting mess of smeared eyeliner and dripping cum. You can hardly stomach the sight of your body in the mirror. Neck littered with faint teeth marks, body bare and on display—used and abused to his content. You’re abhorrent. A pathetic creature you can’t stand to behold. 

Marco’s belt clinks just as a knock rattles the door. Your heart thuds loud enough in your ears that it nearly drowns out the sound of his heavy footsteps crossing the glorified dressing room. You attempt to steady yourself as you back away from the mirror, but the straps of your heels dig into your toes. They’re the only article of clothing you’re allowed. Marco says he likes the way they make your legs look longer. Likes the angle it gives him when he bends you over to fuck you.

When you turn to face him, he’s already sitting on the loveseat shoved into the corner of the room. A fresh bottle of mead sits on the tray next to him, and he pours himself a generous amount before knocking it back for a sip. The soft amber liquid overflows and dribbles past his lips, soaking his bare chest. His verdant eyes find you as he collets the drink on the tips of his fingers, then sucks them clean one by one. 

“Didn’t you hear that knock? You have a guest,” he says, tilting his jaw toward the door. 

With each step you take, you feel Marco’s seed dribble down your legs. It makes a sticky mess between your thighs, and you know he wouldn’t have it any other way. This is how he marks you. How he makes sure everyone knows who you belong to before he lets them take a piece of you home. 

A stranger with a thick neck stands at the door when you open it. His eyes are an odd shade of grey that sends a shiver down your spine as he looks you over, greedily drinking in the sight of your bare body. The chill of his gaze gets worse as the door closes behind him. He begins to crowd you and the sharp stench of vodka fills your nose. There’s something familiar about him. Every man in this club is familiar to you, in some way. Always hazy. Too fuzzy to place a name to. You think it’s your brain’s way of protecting itself. Of purging the bad things done to you as best as it can, lest you crumble in the palm of Marco’s hands. 

The sharp point of your heel catches on the plush rug that sprawls out in front of Marco’s feet, and you squeak as you nearly lose your footing. Both Marco and the stranger chuckle. The cacophonous tone grates against your eardrums, but you hide your discomfort as you stare at the ground. You wait. For the exchange. For the banter. They speak in Russian with one another through laughter as cash is passed to Marco. The air is still cold, and your thighs are still soiled, but the stranger looks at you like he would never dream of having any other meal than you. 

“Well, go on then,” Marco prompts. You look up at him with dull eyes. He swirls the mead in his cup as he tilts his head. “On your knees, babe. Wants to use your mouth tonight. Be a good girl, now.” 

Comply. Listen. It’s all you can do. So you sink to your knees like the well behaved girl you always are. Resting on your haunches, you look up at the man with a tight throat. He smiles, and your stomach drops. Roils and screams as he begins to unbuckle his belt. As he fishes himself from his trousers, you remind yourself all things are temporary. Especially pain. 

Nothing lasts forever—though, it often feels like it will. 

When it’s all said and done—when you’re thoroughly used—Marco walks you to the door like a gentleman. Hastily adorned clothes hang from your body as you pull your jumper tight around your core. Your cervix still aches from the virulent abuse it had taken earlier, but you attempt to ignore it as he opens the exit. Your only reprieve from this nightmare is that he didn’t parade you throughout the club like this; looking like a whore for hire. Tonight, he allows you to take the back exit far away from prying eyes. 

Cool night air cuts through your scanty clothes, and you stare out at the vast space of the car park before you. Weekdays bring little business and customers to Makarov’s club. Most of the strippers who work for him end up lazing around in back rooms and closets, getting drunk or high enough that they can forget all about their shitty night. 

You wish you had that luxury. 

“Hey,” Marco hums, grabbing your wrist. You turn to face him. Dim shadows from the flickering hallway lights cast his face in darkness, but the glint in his eyes is unmistakable. “See you tomorrow, babe.” 

He sends you off with a kiss. Sloppy and wet—he likes messes. Savors making one out of you. Sweet mead and mint seeps into your mouth as you kiss him back with a tight jaw. When his hands caress your cheeks, pulling you closer, you wonder if he can taste the brine and bitter cum that lurks in the back of your throat. If he relishes in feeling every single way in which you’re destroyed. 

“See you tomorrow,” you murmur. 

Breathing only comes easy the moment you’re locked in your car. The movement is fluid—that gentle expanding of your chest—but it’s still agonizing. Diaphragm seizing with the sobs you fight back, it’s another reminder that you’re alive. As long as you draw breath, you don’t belong to yourself. 

Hot tears sear down your cheeks as you turn the key in the ignition. A gentle rumble follows as the engine hums to life. It’s a smooth, quiet purr. A car that’s much more expensive than you deserve. A lovely gift from Marco. It’s not at all uncommon for him to give you things. Expensive things. A car; an apartment; clothes—you’ll pay it back eventually. The numbers just add up to the big debt that’s hung over your head since you were sixteen. It ebbs and flows but not enough to save you. Not enough for you to belong to yourself again. 

As you bring the heels of your hands up to wipe your eyes, a gentle glow catches your attention. It moves. Dances and swirls in the numbra of the car park. Blinking, you focus on it. Golden yellow embers flicker and fade as life is breathed into them. It’s faint, but it reminds you of the well adored fireflies in America. Squinting, you can make out the outline of a car. It sits patiently and silent, but the windows are cracked. Faint smoke swirls through the openings where it climbs into the dull night sky and dissipates. 

Someone sits inside of the car, puffing away, but when your eyes lock onto the fingers pinching a cigarette, they freeze. Glowing embers quickly smother and die somewhere inside of the vehicle, and you’re left with nothing. You stare into the darkness, and it stares back. You feel its gaze tingling along your spine. Sniffing, you look away from that void. Be it man, or be it monster, you know nothing ever happens to you without Marco’s permission. 

That sentiment is equally as terrifying as it is comforting. 

When you arrive home—to the apartment paid for with your own body—you shower. No amount of water and soap is enough. You can lather yourself in all of Marco’s favorite scents, but the mint on his tongue still follows you everywhere. As you exit the bathroom, you leave feeling just as disgusting as when you entered. Nothing but some sordid creature that hardly knows how to take care of herself. 

Looking at yourself in the mirror, you feel sick. Golden glitter still stains your eyelids, and the teeth marks on the side of your throat have only grown more noticeable. Still, nothing is worse than the mark on the back of your neck. Though you can’t see it, you feel it. It makes your skin itch and crawl, and you find your fingernails tearing at it. As if you could rip it off like a bandaid. But it stays. Festers and embeds itself deep inside of you. 

Swallowing, you try to forget it as you continue to dry off. This is your brief moment of comfort, where you’re too far out of reach and well out of sight. Your only reprieve before you spend another night rotting as a trophy of glitter and bone. 

Weekends are better, but only marginally so. Wide eyed men fill Makarov’s club to the brim with wads of cash and twitchy fingers. Lingering gazes and hands brush against the crux of your ass and the back of your neck as Marco parades you through the crowd by your wrist. With your strappy golden heels and matching exiguous outfit, you’re flashy merchandise. Something soft and sweet he flaunts in an attempt to make a quick quid or two as a way to fund his means of pleasure and keeping control of you. While you’d normally spend most nights on your hands and knees, on busy nights, Marco allows you to earn your living in an honorable way—

—dancing. 

Sharp heels tap on soft mahogany as your hips and arms sway, practiced and repetitive, atop a round table. Dull music thrums and shakes the dust off your bones as the men on the crescent sofa surrounding you chat and laugh the night away. Marco’s in the mix of them all, cold glass resting on his knee as his foot taps against the floor. A hazy film covers the spring green of his irises as the liquor settles deep into his marrow. Each time you rotate his way, you watch his pupils dilate. A vast forest covered by the smokey darkness of that void, he licks at the alcohol on his lips as he stares at your clothed cunt. 

His fantasy fills your mind before his own can even make sense of it. Every spare glass and bottle that litters the table around your feet would be thrown on the floor in an instant just to put you on your back. To open your vulnerable stomach. To tear off the little clothing protecting your feeble dignity and truly put you to work. He’d spread your limbs and pin them like a specimen to a board, and he would cut and slice until you have nothing left to hide. Until there is nothing left of you at all. 

“Babe!” 

Marco’s voice cuts through the discordance of the crowd, and pulls you out of a nightmare and back into the present. Your terrifying reality. Slowly, you turn to face him, and he looks up at you with a grin on his face and a card stuck between his fingers. That sly haze still obscures his vision as he offers you his hand. Numb to the feeling of his skin against your own, you take it and allow him to help you down from the table. He wastes no time in dipping his fingers into the strap of your lingerie where he secures the card beneath the band. 

“Looks like you’ve got work to do,” he teases. 

Warm hands settle on the curve of your hips as he guides you to turn around, faced away from him. Then, they wander up. Greedy fingers brush along the line of your spine before they find purchase in your hair, grabbing it as if he were trying to help you put it up. You hate how long it’s gotten. That he won’t let you cut it. He doesn’t care if it’s straight, curly, braided—anything. Marco wants it long. Uses it like a leash in which he keeps you bound to him with. 

“I know you’re a good girl, so I’m sure you won’t forget, but a little reminder never hurts,” he coos into your ear. Intoxicated breath fans across the side of your face as he leans closer to breathe you in. A shiver prickles across your skin as he kisses the back of your neck, and your throat involuntarily contracts at the sensation. It’s as if he’s marking you again. Branding you. “If this… patron wants more, I get to watch.”

Swallowing, you nod as best as you can with his fist gripping your hair. “I know.” 

Chuckling, he relinquishes his grip on you before stepping back. “Of course you do, smart thing you are. I’ll be waiting here for you.” 

You wait until you’re well away from Marco and his friends before you fish out the card he stuck beneath the strap along your hip. A pitched ringing plagues your ears as you enter the VIP section of the club. Things are quieter. Less crowded and the speakers don’t blare as loud. But the silence allows something malevolent to burrow inside of you. It festers as incessant tinnitus and broiling nervosity in your stomach. A wordless, desperate prayer breathes past your lips as you approach the room in which your patron awaits you. 

You pray he is kind. You pray that he wants nothing more than to hold you and vent his problems, like others have. 

When you open the door and step into the threshold that always makes your palms sweat, you think for a single fleeting moment that you are lucky. The room is abandoned. Dim lights illuminate the dull leather of the couch in front of you and yet there is no man sitting there for you to serve. Gentle music drones over the wireless speakers, giving the impression that there should be someone here with you. The attendants even set out the ice and whiskey for his drink. It now thaws on the tray, water nearly overspilling in its decay. 

Brows furrowing together, you look down at the card to ensure you haven’t misread it in your haze. The attendant’s handwriting is chicken scratch. He always manages to make a nine look like a zero, but you’re certain this is a six. The door clicks shut behind you as you sigh, too defeated and confused to make sense of this confusion. A pit forms in your stomach at the thought of slinking back to Marco with some saturnine cloud hanging over your head. 

If you can’t find work tonight, he’ll make some for you. 

That pit quickly becomes a gaping hole the moment a fat palmed hand clasps over your mouth. Cardstock flutters out of your fingers like dainty butterfly wings, and hits the ground just as your back collides with an immovable chest. You don’t scream, but your heart nearly stops when you feel the cold press of metal against your throat. You are stuck in a vicious cycle. One of fear and sharp blades you’ll never wield yourself. 

“Not a fuckin’ word.” The voice that growls in your ear rattles your spine as the words erupt in his chest. Faint tobacco stains his fingers. Its earthy aroma seeps into your nose as your hands tremble against his tattooed forearm. “Don’t wanna hurt ya, so make this easy and listen to me, yeah?” 

Marco has taught you plenty well enough that the word no should be expunged from your vocabulary, so you nod. 

“Good.” 

You’re as stiff as a board when this stranger releases you. No amount of curiosity can get you to turn around and face the violent truth, not even as a thick jacket is tossed over your shoulders. The fabric is warm. Freshly removed off of the man behind you and placed on you as if it were a blanket. He presses his hand on your lower back and despite his caution, you still jump. 

“We’re going for a quick drive. Easy now. You’ll be home before sun up. C’mon,” he mutters. 

There is no such thing as saying no. There is no such thing as fighting. 

The knife vanishes from your sight but it’s all you can think about as this stranger leads you through the haze of the club. Everything blurs around you as you’re escorted to the nearest exit through quiet hallways that reek of cheap perfume. The only thing you can focus on is your feet. The glittery heels that match perfectly with your pedicure. You want to trip. To fall forward and hit the ground. Cry out and demand attention. The hand on the small of your back is all too grounding for you to make any mistakes. 

You approach and exit through an emergency fire door and the alarm doesn’t trip. Night air hits your skin like razor blades as you’re escorted across the car park. He shoves you into the back of a black car, and you only squeal a little when he slams the door behind you. When he situates himself in the driver's seat, the car hums to life and quiet lights flicker on just enough to scarcely illuminate his face in the rearview mirror. His eyes are dark. The darkest you’ve ever seen. 

“There’s a blindfold in the seat next to you. Put it on,” he orders. Stuck on autopilot, you do as he says. It’s a thick scrap of cloth, something you hastily tie around your eyes and knot at the back of your head with trembling fingers. It only touches your skin for a fleeting moment before it’s soaked in briney tears. “Don’t even think ‘bout takin’ it off.” 

Not even your morbid curiosity can convince you to peek from between the threads. The word no is not in your vocabulary. Neither is disobeyment. 

Each turn the man takes as he brings you to some unknown destination has you swaying in your seat. Every pule that leaves your lips is smothered behind the palm of your hand as you wipe snot along the ridges of your knuckles. You do well to keep the aftermath of your fear to yourself. Even though this man has abducted you — something that was all too easy for him to do as you fawned. You’ll surely pay for this when Marco finds you again — you do not want to ruin the coat around your shoulders with spit. 

Of course you think of escape. You always do. It’s a self soothing daydream that florescences in the neurons of your brain. Unlock the door. Open the handle. Jump out. It’ll hurt. It always does. And it’ll hurt when you’re caught, but it always does. 

You don’t move. Freedom is just a dream.

Despite the knife he greeted you with, this man is surprisingly gentle. His touch is soft when he eventually parks the car, and his fingers do not dig too terribly into your skin as he helps free you from the back seat of his car. You do not trust his softness as he leads you into a room that smells like alcohol and cigarettes. Nicotine burns your nose as you’re settled into a plush seat, and for a fleeting moment you think you were only driven around the block before being thrown right back into Marco’s maw. 

That theory is proven terribly wrong when your blindfold is ripped from your eyes. 

A man with impressive tepidity sits across an antique wooden desk. Rich red walls close in on you. Crushing. Looming. Smoke blurs the space between the two of you as he puffs away at a thick cigar, blue eyes scanning a single piece of paper. He’s dressed nicer than you anticipated. A dark button up shirt, neatly combed hair and groomed beard—he hums to himself as his eyes scan the page in front of him before they land on you. You look away as if his gaze has burnt you. Instead, you focus on your nails and the manicure Marco made you get last week. Baby pink gel; his favorite color on you. 

“It’ll take more than crocodile tears to tug on my heartstrings, love,” he hums. 

The climate in your mouth suddenly becomes sere. All the snot and saliva that had built up before seems to vanish at his words. He’s nonchalant; terrifyingly so. 

“I don’t… uhm,” you attempt. 

“No need to explain yourself,” he interjects. “I understand. We all need to make a living.” Pausing, his eyes flicker back to the paper in his hands. “You’re Marco’s girl, aren’t you?” 

Thick obloquy heats the pit of your stomach as your fingers twitch. That term—that title. It fills you with more shame than you can name. You attempt to swallow down the cotton-like dryness in your mouth as your hand paws at the back of your neck. Expertly manicured nails scratch at the skin, and you wish nothing more than to peel back the layers of your epidermis and toss them aside to rot. 

Stiff, you nod. 

“John Price,” he introduces. 

He drops the name like it bears weight. As if it should crush you with each heavy letter that it carries, yet it doesn’t add on to the anxiety raging in your stomach. Your hand falls back into your lap as you dare to look at him once more. His eyes are sharp, as if he’s using his gaze alone to cut back your layers, but there is nothing to show for it. No secret except for a sour ignominy that you’ve carried for so long it imprints in your very skin. 

“Has Marco not told you about me?” he asks. He’s not upset; or if he is, he hides it well behind curious eyes. 

“No,” you answer truthfully. 

John chuckles. “Thought the man would’ve at least told his benefactor about me.” 

You blink. “...Benefactor?” 

“No need to play dumb. Like I said, it takes a lot more than faux tears to get me to feel sorry for you.” 

Your fear and confusion grips you so relentlessly that you don’t even feel it anymore. It’s wound so tightly around you, restricting blood flow to your body, that everything tingles if it is not numb. This man—John Price—gives you no chance to rest or fix your muddled thoughts. He tosses the paper in his hands across the wooden top of the desk, and your eyes nearly cross at the numbers printed on the pristine sheet and the amount of commas between them. There’s math. Addition and subtraction. Transactions of a bank account with a name at the top: 

Marco Anatolijus Smirnova

Funny. You’ve never seen his full name before. He’s only ever been Marco.

You’ve only ever been his girl. 

While you stare at the numbers, John throws question after question at you, none of which you know how to answer. He asks about transactions. He asks about what they’re for. Each and every time he’s met with the same answer. You are just as clueless as him. Marco does not concern you with his real work. The work that gets him enough money to have a bank account as padded as the one you’re looking at currently. 

His finances make the sparse contents of your stomach curdle. The amount of money you owe him for your unfortunate existence is trivial compared to what he already has. So minuscule it would hardly budge his savings. Marco has been making you work half your life away for something akin to a mere couple quid to him, and it stings just as bad as it always does. Seeing it at face value just how trapped you are—how Marco owns you and always will. 

“Don’t get coy with me.” John’s getting frustrated. Each question he presents you with is met with the same carking response of I don’t know. It’s nothing but the truth, but he seems to be informed otherwise. You’re significantly less important than he believes you to be, but the man looming behind you doesn’t help in settling your nerves enough to explain your situation properly. “Word on the street is Marco’s girl supplies him with his spending money. You’re tellin’ me I heard wrong? Or are you too daft to ask him what he’s using his finances on?” 

You swallow. What a polite way to put it—the things Marco does to you. 

“He… He makes money off of me but I… I don’t know how much or what he uses it for,” you choke out. “Well, I… I know a little bit but it’s not, it’s not like, whatever you’re asking, it’s just… it’s stupid things, it’s like, my housing or… it’s not… important.” 

There’s a quiet beat that settles between you and John, and you feel whatever vexation he harbored for you previously quickly evaporate in the air. He’s silent for so long that you force yourself to look up at him. You’re expecting curiosity, even the most morbid of iterations. John Price is not curious. You can tell by the way his jaw unclenches and eyes soften that he finally understands what you’ve been too inept to say. 

“How long have you been workin’ for him?” he questions, softer this time. 

“Since… I was sixteen,” you reply. 

“Sixteen?” He’s appalled. Repeats the word like it’s the worst taste he’s ever had on his tongue. “What’s he making you do for work? Dance?” 

Shame sears the back of your neck, leaving nothing but wounded, marked skin in its wake. You palm at the burn. Try to will it away with desperate fingers, and the movement causes the coat resting limply around your body to slip off your shoulder. This is the first time you’ve considered lying to John. Omitting the truth just to save the small shred of dignity you still have left, no matter how imaginary it might be. 

“Yeah. I… dance on stage but he… has me do private sessions too but he… sometimes he-” 

A hand brushes against the side of your arm and you flinch so hard your teeth nearly pierce through your tongue. Weathered wood squeaks beneath your weight as you freeze after nearly jumping out of your skin. This well meaning hand that startled you so terribly is well meaning. It pauses in its endeavor to cover your body once again with this stranger's coat, and instead lets it fall. You had almost forgotten all about him—the strange man who stole away Marco’s favorite toy from right under his nose. 

John and the stranger share a look as you retreat back into yourself. Hands folded over your bare lap, you didn’t feel naked until they finally understood who you are—what you are. Pristine nails dig into your palms as you swallow back the bilious vomit that threatens to spew free. 

“If we take you home, will you be safe there?” His eyes land back on you, but you can’t bring yourself to give him the same courtesy. 

You shake your head. “He’s going to be so mad. He… he pays for my apartment. I don’t have any money of my own. I don’t have a phone. I… There’s nothing. I have nothing. Marco’s provided everything for me and I never… he never gave me the chance to…” 

“I understand,” John interjects, carefully quelling your rambling. He waits for a moment before leaning back in his chair, retracting every bit of malice he exuded while interrogating you. “I’m sorry, love. Should’ve done our research better.” 

“It’s okay… Marco didn’t leave much of me to find.” 

John’s eyes darken in a way that would leave most men with their tail tucked between their legs. You’re too busy making yourself small to notice. “We’ll fix that.” 

In the next few hours, your life changes drastically. It’s sudden and feels just as violent as everything always does, yet it is intimidatingly soft. The gazes that are cast your way scream pity instead of lust, and you are handled with so much care you’re convinced you’ve become nothing more than a tchotchke. At least these men treat you with fragility rather than flippancy. 

You learn the man who took you from Makarov’s club is named Riley. You’re able to get a better look at him without the blindfold and terror willing your vision elsewhere. He’s intimidating. Arms drenched in ink, it’s almost enough to smother the scars that map the story around his body. It can’t shroud the ones on his face. The thin line that dissects his eyebrow, or the one on his nose which only makes the curve of the bridge more dramatic. His eyes are darker than anything you’ve ever seen before—so empty and yet full at the same time; nothing but a contradiction as he watches you pull his coat tighter around your shoulders. 

It is decided that—for your safety—you are to live with Riley until it is determined you are out of Marco’s reach. 

Despite your apprehension, you can’t say no. 

Riley’s house feels like a den. Well guarded but comfortable, the plush cushions that cradle you on the couch feel false. Fake. Everything does, but it’s mostly you. Your hair. Your clothes. Your skin. Nothing about you is tangible, not even to yourself. 

You’re still swaddled in Riley’s coat by the time he tells you that your room is ready. Really, it’s his room. You want to tell him you’d rather sleep on the couch than in some stranger’s bed, but you can hardly bring yourself to speak a single word to him. He scares you, but not in the way people usually do. It’s not the fear of pain that he riles within you, but rather something light. Something that flickers and sputters, waiting to grow. You smother it as he hands you proper clothes to change into. You don’t know where he got them from or why they fit so well, and you don’t care to ask. 

His room is… what you expected of a man like him. Plain walls, sturdy wardrobe and bed. A wristwatch ticks on the nightstand. It laments quietly, so much so that you only notice it when you sink into the mattress. He’s changed the sheets and pillowcases for you, but it’s not enough to snuff out the faint scent of tobacco. You like it, you decide. Or rather, you don’t mind it. Grounding earthy notes are much better than the synthetic chemicals Marco soaks himself in. 

Sleep comes about as easy as you expect it to. A TV drones on quietly in the living room as you toss and turn among unfamiliar sheets. Dull anxiety claws within the cage of your chest, but it holds itself at bay better than you anticipated. Or rather, you are just too numb to fully appreciate the pain. You should be afraid. You know it, and it’s lurking there even if you can’t fully feel it yet. 

It manifests suddenly as you feel the ghost of Marco’s hands on you. His teeth digging into your skin, demanding flesh. He wets his maw with your blood just as he wets his cock with your cunt. It sears. Rips through you in the brutal way it always does. Raw. Sinew on bone. And you don’t cry because it’s what he wants. He wants that brine and that sapor and he’ll claim it with claws and a smile. 

His mantra pants. It sweats and drips. It’s wet on your ear. 

There’s no escaping him.

You wake just after the sun does, and it is only then that you cry. 

Grief is the quintessence of escape. You’ve crossed the threshold—you were dragged beyond it—and now there’s no way back to the way things were. Your life wasn’t good, and it was far from comfortable, but it was familiar. You only know how to navigate things when bound. Chained to an unforgiving master. How are you supposed to live with free hands? 

What happens when Marco yanks your leash and finds no tension? 

What becomes of his favorite toy—Marco’s girl—then? 

By the time you finally gather the courage to leave the room, you find Riley in the kitchen. It’s what drew you out of your hiding spot originally; that scent of freshly cooked food. Sizzling meat and steaming eggs. He works at the stove with his back turned to you, arms dancing above the heat as he fries up a breakfast that should make your mouth water, yet it fails to do so. 

“Morning.” He hears you before he sees you, but he pauses with a spatula in hand to look at you from over his shoulder. He gestures to the island in front of you—something you suspect was only built to compensate for the lack of counter space on either side of the stove—then hums to himself as he turns his attention back to his work. “Breakfast’ll be finished soon, if ya wanna grab a seat.” 

There’s a stiffness that plagues your limbs as you sit on the high top chair Riley pointed to. It rolls off you in waves. Taints the air; souring it with your presence. You are not comfortable in this place—with this man. His palm haunts the chapped skin of your lips the same way his chest haunts your back and you can’t help but wonder what he and John would have done to you had they deemed you guilty. If they had looked at Marco’s girl and saw an opportunity rather than a pitiful creature, would you be sitting here now? 

Breakfast is a quiet affair of scraping plates and muffled chewing. Riley doesn’t sit next to you. Rather, he stands on the other side of the counter with a bowed head as he shovels egg and bacon into his mouth as if he’ll starve if not. He tries to rest his elbows on the counter, but it’s too low. It curves his spine uncomfortably, and he shifts as if standing on hot coals. 

Hunger does not pull at your stomach. Nervosity fills you to the brim—too full to consume something other than the ache. 

“I’m sorry ‘bout last night.” Riley’s nearly finished with his food by the time he speaks, prompting you to look up at him for the first time since you sat down. All you’ve managed to do for the last few minutes is drag the tip of your fork around your scrambled eggs. “Boys really thought you were dangerous. That you were workin’ with Makarov and Marco. Shouldn’t have grabbed you like that.” 

Dull teeth dig into the wet flesh inside your cheeks. “It’s okay.” 

“It’s not okay,” Riley argues adamantly. “But I am sorry.” 

It’s difficult to discern the purpose of his apology. Is it to make himself feel better for what he did? For dragging you out of that club and into John Price’s office? To interrogate you until your innocence was proven? Does he say sorry to comfort himself, or you? To prove he’s not as monstrous as he looks with dark eyes and tight lips. He is, after all, awfully kind for a monster. You have yet to meet a beast that knows how to apologize without digging their teeth into you afterwards. 

Perhaps his apology is truly for you. To settle fried nerves. To make you feel safe. 

You know better than that. 

You were safer in the clutches of Marco’s jaw than you are now. 

“Riley, can… can I ask something?” 

A cheeky remark bubbles along his tongue. You just did. He takes one look at you and decides to bite it back. “Course.” 

A noisome lurch pulls at your stomach, embittering the sparse bites of food you were able to force down your throat. Thunder roars in your chest as your heart attempts to break free—leave your body behind to rot while it escapes. 

“Would I… Could I get the pill?” you ask. 

“The pill?” he repeats. 

“Yeah, like… the… the morning after pill?” 

His silence doesn’t surprise you, but it stretches long enough to be concerning. Looking up from your cold food, you’re met with soft eyes. They’re the softest ones that have looked at you for what feels like ages. Gentle. They don’t greedily rake over your body to soak in every twitch of your skin—rather, he reads you. Between the lines and and in the margins, he devours every word. 

For the first time in your life he makes you feel more like a victim than a toy, and you’re not sure if that feels any better. 

“Will you be alright by yourself if I go buy it for you?” he asks. There’s no judgment; only pity. 

You nod. 

Riley mulls it over as his tongue swipes along the back of his teeth. When he straightens, he brings his plate with him as he steps back and hums. Your attention is quickly brought back to your hands as he sets the dish in the sink to be cleaned later. 

“Alright.” You try not to choke as he motions to your plate. “Should eat. I’ll be back soon, yeah?” 

Once again, you nod. “Okay.” 

Not a single morsel has been consumed off of your plate by the time Riley returns home, and you are not in your seat. Disappointment buzzes at the base of his skull, but he’s not surprised. He knows what it’s like to be too full to eat—to be plagued with something not even hunger can triumph. He sets aside the pill box to clean up after you. Food in the bin. Plate in the sink to be washed later. 

It’s quiet. It’s never this quiet. Not even when he’s home by himself, which he usually is. Riley stands in the kitchen with furrowed brows as he looks around the room like he’s misplaced something. His keys. His lighter. 

God, he could use a smoke. 

Heavy feet cause old wood to creak as he pokes his head into the bedroom. An imprint of your body still dips into the mattress from this morning, but it’s gone cold. He was going to stay politely stationed in the doorway until the thought flickers across his mind that you’ve left. Got too scared of the brute whose home you’re trapped in and ran off. Away. Hiding from the world—from Marco. 

There’s little reprieve to be found when he notices the light shining through the crack of the bathroom door, but it’s smothered the moment he hears you crying. They’re pathetic, stifled pules. Ones you attempt to desperately hide, yet they bleed out of you anyway. He wants to leave you alone, to let your emotions wash over you, but he can’t. 

Even with your crying, the house is too quiet. 

“Everythin’ alright?” 

Both his voice and knock startle you, and your sobbing swells. Breathing out of control, he can hear you choke on the snot flowing through your sinuses. You’re panicked, and he realizes that this is more than grief. More than anxiety. More than fear. 

You’re terrified. 

You’re standing in the bathtub like a scared cat when Riley opens the door. Tears stream down your face. Relentless. They nearly glisten as bright as the kitchen knife in your hand. 

You told yourself it would be easier for him to clean up the mess of your corpse if you killed yourself in the bathtub. Blood festers and rots in the smallest of crevices, but there’s none of that to be found in the ceramic that surrounds you. However, you’re having trouble getting any blood to flow at all. You’re not sure if it’s you or the knife, but you’re hardly able to break the skin on your wrists. The crimson blood that flows through your minor cuts feels trivial. There needs to be more. 

It’s not enough. You’re scared that you might have to stab yourself. Spill your guts in the tub. Witness your offals for yourself before you fade away. Something. You want to die, but you don’t want it to hurt. 

You don’t want it to hurt, but you need to leave. 

“Hey. Hey, easy now.” Riley feels as if he’s talking to an animal. Some feral cat poised to bite and scratch if he’s not cautious. He approaches you with his palms faced out in surrender, and the walls around you seem to close in. “You don’t wanna do this sweetheart. Give me the knife.” 

“You don’t understand. I can’t. I can’t do this. You-You don’t know what he’ll do to me. Marco he... It’s- I- fuck, I can’t. I can’t do this, please just let me do this.” 

Each word is muffled. So far from your ears that it hardly reaches you. Still, they spew along with your cries. It doesn’t deter Riley from closing in on you. Swallowing the spit building on your tongue, you hold the knife with both hands. A simple kitchen blade, now brandished like a weapon. It’s nearly laughable. You couldn’t even kill yourself. How can you expect to hurt him? 

“I know it doesn’t feel like it, but it’s gonna be okay. We’ll make it okay, but I can’t do that if you’re not here.” His words feel stupid in his mouth, but he knows he has to try something. “Please. Give me the knife. I don’t wanna hurt you. Hey, give- fuck.” 

There’s a lunge. Grabbing. Blade on skin. Blood on tile. 

Riley meant it when he said he didn’t want to hurt you, but you still cry out as he yanks you out of the tub. Once again, your back is against his chest. You are enveloped by him as the two of you sink onto the bathroom floor, held down by his weight, and it is then that you truly can no longer hold yourself together. Vision darkening, chest ceasing; you panic. It rips through you with shaking hands and writhing legs, causing your feet to kick at the dull kitchen knife at your feet. 

For a moment, you are lost. Consumed by overwhelming grief and fear, and still Riley holds you through it all. You feel his heart beating against your spine, feel the exhale of his lungs dance on the top of your head. It’s a flicker in the darkness. In the primal fear of knowing you are still somehow chained to the man who has abused you for countless years. 

Dread transcends physical space. Marco planted it inside of you the first time his lips found the quiver in your throat. 

“Breathe, sweetheart. I’ve got ya.” 

Riley’s voice fades in like radio static. Disconnected and muffled, yet growing evermore clear. Then, it hits all at once. The slight sting of your wrists and the ache in your leg. Did you trip? You feel the growing bruise pulse and throb on your shin, and another one in your hip. It’s hardly bearable, but neither of them are as uncomfortable as the warm, sticky mess seeping into your shirt. 

It takes several seconds for you to realize it’s blood. 

“There, good. It’s alright,” Riley whispers. His voice is thick—heavy enough to make your stomach sink. 

“Am- Am I bleeding?” you stutter. 

“No, you’re alright. Don’t worry ‘bout the blood.” 

But you do. You worry about it because you don’t want it to hurt, you don’t even think you want to die anymore—you just want it gone. For it to dissolve around you, or for you to waste away into dust. Your chin rests against your chest as you look for the source, scouring your own body for the wound. Your wrists, your arms your legs—

—the wound is on Riley. 

Blood gushes through a gash on the top of his forearm, obscuring your view of the damage. It’s just as steady as every stream you ever used to jump over as a child. It slices through the meticulously crafted ink that graces his skin, and you feel as if you’ve cut through the canvas of a painting. Ruined something good. Something more useful than yourself. More than that, you hurt him. 

“Oh my god, your arm,” you gasp. 

“It’s nothing,” Riley attempts to assure. 

“There’s so much blood, I-I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to.”

“It’s nothing,” he reiterates. “Just a cat scratch, sweetheart.” 

His cat scratch takes twenty minutes to patch up. You count the time on the ticking of his wristwatch as you lay in his bed. Body too weak and afflicted with malaise to make something of yourself, you stare at the ceiling as you listen to him hiss and grunt. It’s the blood, you’re sure. Despite the flow, he manages to smother it to nothing more than a scab beneath pristine dressings. 

It takes him another ten minutes to clean you up. He assesses the wounds you left on yourself—shallow horizontal cuts along the delicate skin of your wrists. You stare at them as he cleans and bandages them, and you tell yourself the sting from the antiseptic is what makes your eyes water. 

You’ve created a mess for nothing, and Riley is the one paying for it. 

“There.” He secures the last piece of tape on the gauze. It feels unnecessary. Band-aids would have sufficed, and you tried to tell him as much only for him to mutter something about infections. “Not too tight?” 

You shake your head. “It’s fine.” 

Content, he hums as he steps away from the bed, gathering up items off of the nightstand. You watch as his fingers swallow rolls of tape, forearm flexing beneath his own dressings. Teeth digging into your bottom lip, your heart lurches, as the guilt pierces through you like a blade. You’re not sure why it lurks. Is it because you hurt him? Because you tried to leave a corpse for him to come home to? 

“I’ll get you some water. Ought to take that pill sooner rather than later,” Riley says, turning to leave the room. 

He only makes it a few steps before you stop him. “I lied.” 

Pausing, his eyes find you with more confusion than you expected. “Yeah?” 

“I lied about… needing the pill. I just said it so you would leave,” you admit. You push yourself up from the bed, legs swinging over the side of the mattress to sit and properly look at him. “When… I first… Marco used to make me take birth control. Like, the actual pills. I got pregnant anyway. Made me get the IUD after that. It’s more effective, so I don’t think I’ll really need it. I mean, I’ve never needed it before, so…” 

Listening, Riley nods as you bare the raw parts of yourself. It’s impossible to share without that warble in your tone—that pain that always leaks into your voice—but in some strange way, it feels good. Refreshing. You’re airing out an old, festering wound that hasn’t ever seen the light of day. 

“You got a kid to take care of? If they’re with Marco-” 

“No,” you interrupt. Riley’s words die on his tongue. “No, he… he made me get an abortion, too. It’s for the best, really. Kids shouldn’t be around that monster anyway.” 

Again, he nods. The house feels loud. Every inch of the four walls around you seems to buzz with an energy you’re not privy to. 

“Well, some water wouldn’t hurt. Food wouldn’t either, since you never finished breakfast,” he continues as he turns. “Want anything specific?” 

He’s so… casual. Nonchalant despite the trauma you subjected him to. He should be angry with you. Furious at having made a mess; at having hurt him. His entire life was turned upside down the very same moment yours was—he should hate you for it, but he doesn’t. 

“Whatever’s easiest.” The floorboards are loose by the door. They squeak as he crosses the threshold, and you feel your stomach lurch. “Riley?” 

Pausing, he turns on his heel as his head pokes back into the room. “Yeah?” 

So calm. So patient. 

“Thank you. For everything. I just… Thank you, Riley,” you choke. 

For the first time since he caught you in that club, he smiles; small and kind. 

“Just Simon to you, yeah?”

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[wholoveseggs]

Kinktober - {Day Seventeen}

{<- kinktober masterlist}

18+ ---- {Masterlist} {Tag-List} {Kinktober}

{Daemon Targaryen x F!Reader} Request {Anon}: Daemon and a super innocent reader with 13, 7, 8, 19 & a small bit of 22????

♡♡♡ Anon you understand me so well... ♡♡♡

2.6k words - Kinks: squirting, breeding kink, size kink, daemon being possessive, mild mild dubcon, virgin!reader & inexperience...

Your eyes were drawn to the darkening sky outside your window as you finished getting ready for bed, the first few stars beginning to appear on the horizon. You could see the distant outline of the Great Sept of Baelor, lit up against the dark city, where your wedding ceremony was set to take place the following day.

Usually the sight of such a place would put you at ease, but you were too nervous about the events of the following day. A day you never thought would come, but now it had and you were scared.

You were to marry Daemon Targaryen. A man you only knew by reputation, one that left you feeling unsettled every time his name was mentioned. You heard tales of how he enjoyed bedding virgins and whores alike, how he was ruthless and dangerous and a Targaryen in blood and spirit.

You considered yourself to be pious, you prayed often and did everything your father told you to do. It was improper to speak of such things, and you had dutifully avoided any conversation about what happens in the marital bed. But now, you regretted your ignorance, the unknown act of sex was all the more terrifying to you now.

"My lady."

The voice had you jumping and spinning around in surprise. Your betrothed stood near the entrance to your balcony, wearing a dark cloak, the hood covering his silver hair.

"Prince Daemon," you said, bowing slightly. "What are you doing here?"

He chuckled at your formality, the way his eyes ran down your body making you feel more exposed than the thin nightdress you were wearing.

"My apologies, my prince," you quickly grabbed a robe and wrapped it around yourself, "I did not expect any visitors,"

His silence made your nerves rise, especially when his gaze lingered on your covered form for a long time before his eyes met yours again.

A slow smile spread across his lips and he looked away from you, out into the night, his expression becoming blank as he stared at the Great Sept.

"Is there something you wanted, my prince?"

"Daemon," he corrected you without looking away from the window.

You felt your cheeks warm, embarrassed at your mistake. An awkward silence filled the room, and you wondered what it was that he was expecting from you.

He glanced back at you, and then pulled off his cloak and threw it over a chair. The dark tunic he was wearing stretched over his chest and you looked away before he noticed you staring.

"Get on the bed for me," he said softly, the sudden command catching you off guard.

You glanced up in surprise, finding his eyes watching you with an intensity that made your stomach twist. He wanted you to get on the bed? Why? You had been taught that no one was allowed to touch you, especially not until you were married.

"I... That's quite improper, pri- Daemon," you said quickly, your voice barely a whisper.

He stepped closer, towering over you in a way that should have been intimidating, but instead it sent a rush of heat through you. You swallowed nervously as he reached a hand out, brushing his thumb across your cheek and down your neck.

"I will be your husband tomorrow," his words were gentle, but the firm grip of his hand around the side of your neck kept you in place, his eyes searching your face, "I want to see what I'm marrying,"

Your heart pounded as his thumb stroked over the delicate skin of your neck. You felt vulnerable, exposed under his scrutinizing gaze. You thought you had one more night before this happened, and you weren't prepared to give yourself over so easily.

"If we wait until tomorrow, I-"

He silenced you with a kiss, his lips soft against yours. His hands came up to hold your face as he deepened the kiss, his tongue slipping into your mouth. You tried to pull away, but he held you in place, and a soft moan escaped you.

When he finally broke the kiss, your cheeks were flushed and his eyes were dark, a smug smile on his face as he watched you.

"Get on the bed, sweet girl,"

You swallowed nervously, and stepped backwards towards the bed, his eyes tracking your movements. He moved slowly, like a predator, and your breath caught in your throat when the back of your legs hit the edge of the bed.

"Take off your robe,"

You did as he commanded, removing the garment and setting it aside. You were suddenly very aware of your near nakedness, your skin heating under his hungry stare.

He smiled, tugging at the ties on his tunic, pulling it off to reveal his bare chest and abdomen. You couldn't stop the way your eyes trailed over his toned body, his broad shoulders and chest covered in scars.

"Like what you see, little dove?"

You snapped your eyes back up, finding him smiling knowingly. You turned your face away from him, trying to ignore the flush spreading across your face and chest.

He stepped closer, and you could feel the heat of his body against your skin. He gently pushed you onto the bed and climbed over you, his eyes never leaving yours as he settled between your legs.

"Now," his fingers brushed down the front of your nightdress, sending goosebumps over your skin, "let's see what we have to work with,"

His hands pushed up the skirt of your nightdress, exposing the smooth skin of your legs. His calloused hands caressed your thighs, his strong body holding you down.

You let out a shaky breath when his fingers grazed the damp fabric of your smallclothes. He rubbed a finger over your clothed cunt, a smirk on his lips as he watched the effect his touch had on you.

"Is that all for me?"

You whimpered when he pushed aside the cloth and slid a finger along your slit, his touch gentle but firm. He teased you with soft strokes, his thumb barely touching the sensitive nub at the top. You squirmed in his grip, your body reacting to his touch even though your mind was telling you it was wrong.

"Don't look so frightened, this is what we're meant to do," he whispered.

He lowered his head to kiss the inside of your thigh, then he pulled down your small clothes and tossed them aside. You squeezed your eyes shut when his breath fanned across the most intimate part of you.

"Oh," his voice was low, sending a shiver down your spine, "look at that pretty cunt,"

You bit your lip, embarrassed by the way he was looking at you, the hunger in his eyes making your heart race. You couldn't bring yourself to look away, entranced by the way his hands touched you.

He leaned in and kissed the apex of your thighs, his stubble tickling your skin as his tongue flicked over the swollen bud. You gasped, the sensation strange but not unpleasant. He licked and sucked at the sensitive little bundle, his hands gripping your thighs tightly as he held them apart.

The heat building inside you was growing, a warm tension coiling in your lower belly. Your hands tangled in his hair, urging him closer, his tongue sliding over your cunt, his lips sucking and kissing the soft skin.

You were panting, a soft cry escaping your lips when his tongue slipped inside you, pushing deeper into the wet heat.

He pulled away, his mouth wet with your arousal, and his eyes dark. "Quiet, little dove, or else someone will hear us."

You clamped your mouth shut, trying to muffle the noises escaping your lips. But as soon as his mouth returned to your cunt, your hands tangled in his silver strands, tugging. He chuckled against you, the vibrations making you moan and writhe. His mouth was skilled, and the pleasure was unlike anything you had ever experienced.

"Daemon," you gasped, his name falling from your lips before you could stop it.

His hand reached up, covering your mouth, silencing you as his tongue moved faster. Your back arched off the bed, muffled cries escaping as you neared the edge. His fingers gripped your thighs, holding you still as he devoured you. The wet sounds filling the room drowned out every thought. You could barely breathe, your entire world narrowing down to the intense pleasure he was giving you.

And then, the tension snapped, and you were falling, waves of pleasure crashing over you, making you cry out into his hand. He didn’t stop, his tongue and mouth relentless, prolonging the sensation until you were squirming, trying to escape the overwhelming intensity.

When he finally pulled back, his lips glistening with your release, a wicked smile spread across his face. He watched you, panting and flushed, eyes wide with lust and wonder.

"Did you enjoy that, little dove?" His voice was low, teasing.

"Y-yes," you managed to breathe out, still lost in the haze of pleasure.

He kissed his way back up your body, leaving soft bites and licks on your exposed skin. He took his time, savoring every inch of you, his eyes darkening with each kiss. By the time he reached your face, you were breathing hard, your chest rising and falling rapidly. He kissed you, his lips soft but possessive, his hands resting on the bed beside your head.

"That was a nice warm-up."

You nodded, mind still fuzzy from the aftershocks. Tentatively, you reached up, your fingers tracing the muscles and scars on his chest. Each touch felt reverent, as if you were memorizing him.

His voice roughened, sending a thrill through you. "Now, I want to watch your pretty face while I fuck you."

"Daemon, I-"

He silenced you with another kiss, his tongue claiming yours before pulling back just enough to unlace his trousers. Your breath hitched as he freed his cock. You had never seen a man's cock before, and the sight was both intimidating and alluring. His smirk deepened at the look on your face, his hand stroking himself slowly, teasingly.

"Will it fit?" you asked, a nervous tremble in your voice.

He chuckled, brushing his lips against yours. "Of course it will, little dove. It’s meant to."

You took a deep breath, trying to relax, though the sight of him had your heart racing. His hand trailed over your thigh, soothing you even as his cock pressed against your entrance.

"Look at me," he whispered.

Your eyes fluttered open, meeting his gaze. The intensity in his eyes was overwhelming, filled with desire, hunger, and something darker. Something that made your stomach flip. His thumb brushed over your bottom lip before he slowly pushed inside.

You gasped, the stretch making you wince. He stilled, his eyes searching yours, giving you time to adjust.

"How does it feel, little dove?"

"Good," you whispered, the initial sting fading into a strange, aching fullness.

He grinned, kissing you deeply as his hips began to move, slow and deliberate. Your fingers dug into his shoulders, overwhelmed by the blend of pain and pleasure. He kept his movements measured, allowing you to get used to the feeling, his restraint evident in the tension of his muscles.

Soon, the pain faded completely, replaced by a growing need. You gasped, rolling your hips, urging him to go deeper. The sensation was too much, too good, and you needed more. 

"Fuck," he groaned, his control slipping as he leaned back to watch you move beneath him, his hand gripping your hip tightly.

You felt a surge of power at the way he watched you, the way his cock throbbed inside you. His expression was pure lust, eyes devouring every part of you. You reached out, wanting to feel his skin against yours, and he pulled you into his arms, pressing your bodies together. His lips claimed yours once more, his kisses rough, needy.

"You'll make a good wife for me," he muttered between kisses. "Soon, you'll be full and round with my child, and everyone will know you’re mine."

His words sent a shiver through you, a mix of fear and excitement swirling in your chest. The thought of being his, of bearing his children, was overwhelming, but the need in his voice, his possessiveness, stirred something deep within you.

You clung to him, feeling his cock buried deep inside, the heat of his body, the smell of him, everything consuming you.

He pulled back slightly, his hand gripping the back of your neck, his eyes burning into yours. "Would you like that, little dove? To carry my child?"

You could only nod, too overwhelmed to speak. His smile was dark, possessive, and it sent a thrill through you. He kissed you roughly, as if sealing a promise, his pace quickening. The room filled with the sounds of your bodies, the wet slap of his cock thrusting into you, his breath hot on your skin.

Your cries were muffled by his mouth as the pleasure built, every thrust pushing you closer to the edge. The pressure inside you was unbearable, too much to hold back. And when you finally came, a rush of wetness spilled from you, your body shaking with the force of it.

"Did you make a mess, sweet girl?" he teased, his voice rough with satisfaction. You buried your face in his shoulder, mortified, but the heat between you only flared higher.

Daemon chuckled darkly, pressing you down onto the bed, his grip on your hips tightening. "Let’s see if we can make it happen again," he whispered, the dark promise in his voice sending another wave of heat through you.

His thrusts were relentless now, each one harder than the last, driving you to the brink again and again. The sheets beneath you were soaked, the evidence of your pleasure mingling with the slick sounds of his cock moving inside you. Every time you felt yourself nearing the edge, he would shift, slowing just enough to keep you teetering, teasing, drawing it out.

When you came again, it was with a muffled cry, your back arching off the bed, the pleasure even stronger this time. More wetness spilled from your cunt, soaking the sheets further.

He groaned, his hips stuttering as he followed you over the edge, his cock twitching as he spilled his seed deep inside you. The warmth of it made you shudder, a strange sense of completeness settling over you.

He collapsed on top of you, his breathing heavy, his body covering yours. You couldn’t move, couldn’t speak, the only sound in the room was the beating of your hearts.

"That was amazing," he murmured, his lips pressing a soft kiss to your neck. "You’re perfect."

You closed your eyes, savoring the weight of his body on yours, the warmth of his skin, the lingering pulse of pleasure in your veins. It felt almost dreamlike, the way he held you, his arms wrapped around you protectively.

For a moment, the world outside didn’t matter. But when he eventually pulled away, standing to dress, the intimacy shifted. You sat up, suddenly feeling exposed, awkward now that the intensity had passed.

"Tonight will be the last time we sleep apart," he said, his tone soft but filled with certainty. His eyes softened as he looked at you, a small smile playing on his lips.

The thought of being his wife was overwhelming, but exciting. You were going to have a family, a life with him, and in that moment, it didn’t seem like such a terrifying prospect.

He gave you one last lingering kiss before walking out. As the door clicked shut, you collapsed back onto the bed, exhausted. Your mind drifted, filled with thoughts of the future. Being married to Daemon didn’t seem so bad, especially if nights like this were waiting for you.

{<- kinktober masterlist}

[pedrospatch]

baby, i’m yours

Jackson! Joel Miller x Female Reader

summary: You remind Joel that you’re his.

warnings/tags: 18+ ONLY, MINORS DNI. READER HAS NO PHYSICAL DESCRIPTION however she does wear Joel’s t-shirt and he semi lifts her onto a counter? sorta but not really? UNSPECIFIED AGE GAP (Joel is in his 50’s but reader’s specific age is not mentioned). established relationship, sort of. consumption of food (if you are allergic to peanuts, i so sorry). angst, Joel and Ellie’s strained relationship is lightly implied, Joel is insecure, it’s implied reader did some horrible things in her past, reassurance, brief smut, unprotected p in v sex, creampie, consider it a quickie idk. apologies if i missed anything.

word count: 2.6k

a/n: this short lil thing has been sitting in my drafts forever. i finished it while i was in ireland and finally had the chance to sit down and do a quick edit and when i say it was quick, i flew through it so i could hop onto my next wip so please excuse any errors! here’s a spotify link to the song if anyone’s curious, it’s an oldie but a goodie although it may not be everyone’s cup of tea.

main masterlist l fic notifs

Joel rolls over in bed, his arm outstretched and seeking the warmth of your soft, naked body.

“Mmph,” a small, sleepy groan falls from his lips as his long, thick fingers feel around on your side of the bed—of his bed. Of course, you have your very own bedroom in the house you all had been placed in when you first arrived in Jackson. Your very own bed to sleep in is just down the hallway, but lately, you’ve been waking up beside him a lot more often than not, especially now that Ellie’s a bit older and she’s gone and made herself her own space out in the garage behind the house. Being under the same roof as Joel did those two more harm than it did good, and while you missed having her around, it was for the best.

“She’ll come around, Joel,” you’d assured him. “I know she will. She just needs a bit of time is all.”

“Hope you’re right, darlin’,” he had murmured sadly in response.

Still lost somewhere in between sleep and full consciousness, Joel continues feeling around for you, but all he finds are the wrinkled sheets, cold and abandoned. Confused, his eyes finally flutter open and with a painful protest from his sore, stiff back, he sits up, blinking furiously as he looks around the darkness of his bedroom. The door’s been left cracked open ever so slightly, and as his vision adjusts now that he’s fully awake, he notices the dim glow of the hallway light that’s peeking through into the room.

He turns and glances over at the old digital alarm clock perched on his nightstand, the obnoxious, bright red numbers practically screaming at him that it’s a quarter past midnight. With a small, tired grunt, Joel switches on the lamp beside the clock and swings his legs over the side of the mattress, goosebumps erupting across his flesh the instant that his bare feet meet the cold, hardwood floor. He stands and fumbles around for his clothes, which he’d tossed carelessly somewhere over his shoulder hours earlier when he’d been lost in the heat of the moment with you. He finds his faded, navy blue sweatpants strewn across a chair next to the door and pulls them on over his naked lower body before searching for his t-shirt. When he doesn’t immediately see it, he doesn’t bother, figuring that it’s just going to come back off when he climbs back into bed with you.

Padding out of his bedroom, he makes his way down the hallway, heading towards the staircase. As he draws closer, he hears it—the soft music that’s coming from downstairs.

Baby, I'm yours

and I'll be yours until the stars fall from the sky

yours until the rivers all run dry

in other words, until I die

He’s led towards the kitchen and that’s where he finds you.

Joel wants to be annoyed. 

Fuck, he tries to be annoyed. But he can’t help the way that the corners of his mouth threaten to turn upwards when his eyes take in the sight before him.

You’re standing at the center island slowly swaying your hips from side to side along to the beat of the song that’s playing from the record player perched next to the instant coffee maker on the counter behind you. He’d nearly wrung your neck when he found out what all you had traded just to get your hands on it, but you loved that thing more than life itself it seemed, so he couldn’t stay mad for very long. You’re making yourself a peanut butter and jelly sandwich—the peanut butter you’d learned how to make yourself with the old food processor he found deep in one of the kitchen cabinets, and the strawberry preserves you had picked up from the market earlier that week. Clad in nothing but his t-shirt, you’re singing along quietly to the lyrics as you finish making your late night snack.

Baby, I’m yours

and I’ll be yours until the sun no longer shines

yours until the poets run out of rhyme

in other words, until the end of time

Joel leans against the doorframe, his arms crossed over his bare chest as he watches you carefully lick the remnants of peanut butter off of the knife you’re using before setting it down on the counter. You then pick up the two pieces of bread and slap them together—you’d also learned how to bake homemade bread using some old nineties cookbook you had found in the commune’s library. Your sourdough is the reason he had to go up a notch in his belt.

Sandwich in hand, you do a little spin, humming happily as you take your first bite.

Joel loudly clears his throat from the doorway.

Startled, you whirl around and freeze, your eyes wide.

“Enjoyin’ yourself there, darlin’?” He asks amusedly as he approaches you.

“Jesus Christ! You scared me, Joel!” You hiss at him. You then realize what time of night it is and a look of guilt crosses your features. “Oh shit. I’m sorry, did I wake you up? I honestly thought that I had the volume down low enough in here—”

Frowning, you turn around and reach towards the record player to turn the music off, but much to your surprise, Joel stops you. “No, s’okay. I woke up on my own,” he assures you. “I reached over for you and you were gone.” The admission slips before he can even think to stop it. He notices how taken aback you are by what he’d just said and quickly asks, “What’cha doin’ up so late, anyway?”

“I was hungry,” you tell him, sheepishly holding up your food. You always have one hell of an appetite after Joel was through fucking you senseless. You take another bite and offer it to him. “Want some?”

“Sure.”

He accepts and takes a corner of the sandwich before handing it back to you. His fingers brush against yours and his face burns at the contact.

Fucking Christ. 

You’re standing there in nothing but his fucking t-shirt after he had, yet again, made you his in his own fucking bed, and that’s what gets him?

Truth be told, the only time he holds your hand is when he’s inside of you—his fingers lace with your own as he comforts you and praises you for being such a good girl for taking his cock the way you do.

For being so, so fucking good for him.

He’s thought about taking your hand in front of others. Particularly when he notices the way some of the men in town stare at you. Joel wants to make it known that you’re already spoken for. Only, you’re not spoken for, not really. 

You’re his, but you’re not really his. It’s not that he doesn’t want to take the leap and acknowledge the two of you are far more than just patrol partners, far more than just two people who fought like fucking hell to get some smart assed teenager—and the world’s only hope for a cure—across the country.

He feels undeserving of it. Of you and your heart.

Several seasons had come and gone since you’d both arrived in Jackson with Ellie in tow, and somehow, Joel still can’t fathom what you’re doing by his side. She’s out of the house now and there’s nothing tying you to him, so why are you still here?

He’s so much older. Closer and closer to being on his way out, while you still had your entire life left ahead of you. He’s worn down, hardened from the post outbreak world. And you, you hadn’t lost any of your softness, your sweetness. Not even after the things you’d been forced to do to survive because of him.

You could meet someone younger, someone closer to your own age. You could marry, even start a family. You could be with someone who could give you a good life, the life you deserve.

The life that he’s too fucking broken to give you.

“Joel?” Your voice breaks into his thoughts. “Hey. Are you okay?”

“Yeah. M’fine.” He gestures to the record player with a nod of his head. “Y’know, this song’s older than me. By a few years. Came out in the early sixties.”

Joel half expects you to make some wisecrack joke and tease him over his age like you have done in the past—especially when the kid would get you going. Instead, he watches you set what’s left of your sandwich down and brush the crumbs from your hands before holding one of them out to him.

Confused, he stares at it for a moment before his dark eyes meet yours. “What are you doin’?”

“Dance with me,” you say, smiling at him.

“You’re fuckin’ kiddin’ me, right?” When he realizes you’re being serious, he shakes his head. “Y’know I don’t—I can’t dance.”

Dropping your hand back down to your side, you turn around and flip the record, starting the song over again before whirling back around and taking Joel’s hands in yours.

“Just follow my lead,” you tell him as you place them on your waist. Your own hands settle themselves on his broad shoulders, his skin warm beneath your fingertips. “Don’t overthink it.”

“You’re fuckin’ ridiculous,” Joel grumbles underneath his breath, however he finds himself moving along with you without further protest. Subconsciously, he pulls you closer against him as the two of you slowly sway from side to side along to the beat of the music. He chuckles, “Y’know we gotta be up at the asscrack of dawn for patrol, right?”

“And your point is?” You rest your head on his shoulder and exhale a soft, contended sigh.

Joel’s lips threaten to pull down once more.

Could it be that you’re actually content with him?

Head still on his shoulder, you sing along softly with Barbara Lewis. 

“I’m gonna stay right here by your side

do my best to keep you satisfied

nothing in this world can drive me away

‘cause every day you'll hear me say…”

It quickly becomes too much for him. Joel’s hands leave your waist. Taking your wrists, he tugs your arms from around his neck and gently pushes you away from him. “Why?” he finally asks the question that’s been hanging off the tip of his tongue for the better part of the last three years. “Why me?”

You stare at him, puzzled. “What?”

“Why me?” he repeats himself. “Why me when you can have anyone else—”

Your reply is prompt and you say it so simply.

“Because I don’t want anyone else.”

“You deserve better.”

You peer at him curiously. “I deserve better?”

“You do. Ain’t got no business being with someone like me. After all the terrible shit I’ve done—”

“I did the same exact shit, Joel. Sometimes I did even fucking worse.” Somehow, softness laces your tone. You have never been angry with him and you weren’t about to start now. “What makes my hands any cleaner than yours?”

Joel begins to sputter. “M’older than you. Much older. Should’a been a lot more careful. Should’a done more so you didn’t have to do those things.”

His hands still curled around your wrists, you reach up and gingerly cradle the sides of his face. He winces, but then quickly melts into your touch, the very same touch that could heal his wounds, if only he would allow it.

“I made my own choices,” you remind him, quietly. Neither of you realize the music has stopped. “Quit acting like blood doesn’t stain my hands too because it does.”

His lips press into a tight line. “Blood stains your hands ‘cause of me. S’my fault. I was responsible for you. I was s’pposed to take care of you. I didn’t protect you the way I should’ve.”

You sigh.

“When are you going to stop blaming yourself, Joel?”

The muscle in his jaw ticks as it clenches. He averts his gaze, his eyes falling to the floor. He doesn’t answer.

You stroke the scruff of his beard lightly with your thumbs. “When are you going to stop thinking you’re not good enough for me? What’s it going to take for me to prove to you that you are all I could ever need and want?”

“You’re just wastin’ your fuckin’ life on me, darlin’. S’the truth and you fuckin’ know it as well as I do.”

Pulling your wrists out of his hands, you pivot on your heel and suck in a sharp breath, stubbornly blinking back the tears stinging your eyes. You’re frustrated.

It cuts you to your very core to know the man you’ve grown to love more than anything and anyone else on what’s left of this fucking planet can’t see that he’s enough. He’s more than enough.

Joel bites back his own frustrated sigh. He knows he can’t rely on you to tell him, rely on the reassurance—he needs to do his part and believe it. If he keeps trying to push you away, he just may very well succeed one day. He will lose you.

After a moment, he walks up behind you and wraps his arms around you, his lips lightly brushing your neck. “M’sorry,” he mumbles, his own voice thickening as a lump forms in the back of his throat. He’s quick to swallow it down. “Jus’ have a hard time believin’ you’re mine. S’almost like my mind is lookin’ to prove me wrong.”

“But I am yours, Joel. I’m yours, I’m fucking yours.”

It’s more than just reassurance. It’s an oath, one you’ll honor for the rest of your life.

He holds you tighter. “Yeah?” He nips at the delicate spot right below your ear, his teeth scraping along tender flesh. “S’that right, baby? You’re all mine?”

“All yours,” you confirm breathlessly as his hands slowly begin trailing down the length of your sides, his fingers skimming the hem of his t-shirt.

Joel swiftly turns you around in his arms and slips his hand between your thighs. The next thing you know, he has you backed up against the counter and he’s shoving his sweatpants down, freeing his hard, thick cock. With one of your legs hooked around his waist, he buries himself into the warmth of your cunt and begins to deliver smooth, languid strokes.

“Say it again, baby,” he rasps into your neck. He coaxes your other leg up and around his waist and his large hands curl securely underneath your thighs as he bucks up into you. He’d deal with the back pain later. He pants, “Need—need to hear you say it, my sweet girl.”

You hold onto the countertop behind you as he fucks you, your fingernails digging into the laminated wood. “Fuck, I’m yours,” you moan into his shoulder. “I’m all yours, Joel. Oh fuck—”

You say it over and over again and he believes it.

He finally fucking believes it.

Sweet nothings fall from his lips with each thrust.

“S’lucky you’re all fuckin’ mine.”

“My beautiful, beautiful girl.”

“Gonna keep you for the rest of my fuckin’ life.”

When he spills into you, there’s no regret on his part nor yours. You’d always wanted to feel him come inside of you—secretly, so did he. Joel’s deep, guttural groans bounce off of the kitchen walls as your pussy fills with him, with all of him, taking as much as it can before he begins leaking out of you and down the insides of your thighs.

“Jesus,” he exhales. He dips his head for a kiss. “You’re all messy now, baby,” he mumbles against your lips. “How’s about we go upstairs and get back into bed so I can clean you up?”

Giggling, you mimic him and remind him of what he’d said earlier. “Y’know we gotta be up at the asscrack of dawn for patrol, right?”

Joel grins. “And your point is?”

You laugh again as he leads you out of the kitchen and back up to his bedroom—to yours and his bedroom.

[runnning-outof-time]

The Brother That Always Wins | Tommy Shelby x Reader

Request: yes by @kpopgirlbtssvt

Pairing: Tommy Shelby x reader, with hints of John Shelby and Arthur Shelby trying their hand at flirting with the reader

Summary: (Y/N) is oblivious to the fact that three of the most powerful men in Birmingham are interested in her. When it's all said and done though, the brother that always wins, wins.

Warnings: language, drinking, terribly written flirting

Word Count: 4350

A/N: this story turned into an absolute ride, one that I enjoyed much more than I thought I would. It’s a bit of controlled chaos…I hope you’re ready for it. Enjoy! :)

I’D LOVE TO KNOW WHAT YOU THINK! YOUR COMMENTS & REBLOGS HELP ME WRITE!

Comment/Message Me if you’d like to be tagged in future stories similar to this one!

"The fuck are you grinnin' for?" John Shelby asked as soon as his brother, Arthur entered the snug. He couldn't help himself, his older sibling's grin was able to be seen from a mile away.

"I just helped the most gorgeous woman I've ever seen in me life," Arthur proudly answered, his chest jutting out slightly as he spoke.

"Helped in what way, eh?" Tommy questioned, his one eyebrow raised. He'd been reading the newspaper and keeping to himself, only half-listening as John talked away about whatever, but he couldn't deny that he was interested in what Arthur had to say.

"I bet you he just stood there and gawked at her!" John chimed in before Arthur could respond, a smug grin on his face.

"I did not!" Arthur snapped back at his younger sibling, sending a glare his way, "I had a bloody conversation with her and all!"

"What happened?" Tommy asked another question, slowly losing his patience as he waited.

"So she was walkin' with a box, right? A big ass box...one that's too big for a lady like her to be carryin’. But she was walkin' with it. And so I was watchin' her from across the road, because she was goin' the same way I was. We must've walked for some time, how long I don't remember. Anyways, she gets to this one stretch and she trips...loses her fuckin' balance or something. All of the things in the box go flyin'. So I did what any man does and ran 'cross the street to help her. We put all the shit back into the box and then when she looked up at me, I thought I was gonna die on the spot. She was so fuckin' beautiful, lads. Shy, and sweet, and just fuckin'...gorgeous. I swear to you that if she would've..."

"Get on with the story, Arthur," Tommy interjected into Arthur's tangent, making him snap out of the attraction-riddled daze that he was quickly slipping into.

"Yeah, right," Arthur nodded, shaking his head slightly as he tried to recall where he was. "She was actin' so shy and thankin' me for helpin' her clean the stuff up that I couldn't but just be, fuckin'..."

"Arthur," Tommy said in a warning tone.

"I'm gettin' on with it," he brushed his brother off before continuing, "I couldn't help but not want to leave her. So I asked her where she was goin' and she said to the school. That was out of my way, but I didn't fuckin' care. I carried her things to the school she went on with thankin' me again. She was so fuckin' gorgeous and...shit, boys, I think I might be in love," he finished up his story, continuing on with it despite the scoffs or stiffled laughter coming from his brothers.

"You said she was going to the school?" John asked a question once it was clear that Arthur was finished with his story.

"Yeah...she's a fuckin' teacher, mate. Even better," Arthur grinned.

"Did you get her name?" John asked another question.

"Course I did!" Arthur responded like it was obvious.

Silence fell in the snug then, the three men looking between each other. John waited on bated breath for a few moments before it became obvious that Arthur wasn't going to say it without being prompted. "What was it?"

"(Y/N), I think it was," Arthur recalled, his answer making John choke out a weird sound, one that seemed to be a mixture of a scoff and a laugh. "What?"

"She's Katie's fuckin' teacher, mate!" John exclaimed, his declaration making Arthur's eyes widen. "She is fuckin' gorgeous, I'll tell you that," he then agreed with Arthur, a wide grin now plastered across his face.

John and Arthur then went about talking about her after Arthur prompted his younger sibling to tell him all that he knew about her. Tommy sat in his chair, half reading the paper and half listening to their conversation. He couldn't deny that he was intrigued by his brothers' stories, and everything they said about her made him want to go and meet her for himself even more.

"Can I help you?" (Y/N) (Y/L/N) asked the man that she swore appeared in her doorway out of nowhere. He was dressed in an expensive looking three-piece suit with an equally as expensive looking overcoat over top of it, as well as a peaked cap atop his head.

"I'm looking for (Y/N)," the man answered.

"You found her," (Y/N) smiled, setting her book down on the desk to give the man her full attention. "Is there something I can help you with?"

"I was directed to you by the front office. They said you're in charge of the donations?"

"That depends...if you're looking to donate to the building, you'll need to speak with our headmaster, but if you're looking to donate directly to the children, you can speak to me," she explained with a smile. She was proud to have been named the head of the board that made sure the children in the school had the tools they needed in order to thrive in the learning environment.

"I'm looking to donate to the children."

"Then you're in the right place," she chirped, "you can come over here and we'll get into the details of it," she said then, waving him over to her desk.

He finally entered the room, and as he walked over, (Y/N) felt the commanding aura that swirled around him. It wasn't one that made her scared, but rather one that filled her with intrigue.

"Can I have the name for the donation?" she asked once she had a piece of paper and a pencil ready.

"It's Thomas Shelby," he answered her, watching as realization sparked in her eyes. He couldn't help but think that Arthur was absolutely right - for once in his life...she was absolutely gorgeous.

"Shelby? I have a student whose last name is Shelby."

"Katie?" Tommy questioned, even though he already knew who she was talking about.

"Yes!" (Y/N) happily answered, "Katie's such a lovely girl. Who is she to you?" she couldn't help but ask.

"She's my niece," he shared, his words making her nod in understanding.

"What sort of donation would you like to make, Mr. Shelby?" she asked then, the pencil ready in her hand.

"I'd like to make it so that all of the children in the year you teach have whatever they need to excel in their classes," he answered, speaking in a nonchalant tone.

"Oh...my goodness," she gasped, stopping what she was writing as the weight of his statement finally clicked in her mind.

"Is there a problem?"

"No, it's just that..." she trailed off, unable to put her thoughts properly into words, "no one has made such a generous donation before."

"I like to make sure that others benefit from the wealth I've gained," he told her in an assured tone. Well that was one of the reasons why he'd made such a donation.

"I...uh, goodness, I don't even know where to start," she confessed, still genuinely baffled by his generosity. "Usually I'd go through with the person donating and we'd make a list of where the funds can be allocated, but with your overwhelming donation, I'm not sure I know what to do first," she added, a sheepish smile present on her face when she looked up at him again.

"It's nothing you'd need to have done in a hurry," he told her, showing that he wasn't upset by her unsuredness.

"I'd hate to waste your time now and make you wait..." she trailed off, biting on the end of the pencil as she tried to think of some ways his funds could be used.

Spending time with you would not be time wasted, Tommy thought to himself just as an idea came to mind: "what if we go for dinner at the end of the week? You can have time to think of ideas and you'll share them with me then," he proposed, his eyebrows raising slightly as he awaited her response.

(Y/N) took a moment to think about his proposition. It'd certainly be a good idea for her to have more time to think about it, and she couldn't say that she'd be opposed to having dinner with this man. "Dinner sounds nice," she gave her answer after a few moments had passed, "I'll come prepared with good ideas," she assured him with a smile.

"I'm sure whatever ideas you'll bring will interest me," Tommy told her, nodding once before he took a step back towards the door.

"Thank you, Mr. Shelby. It's a great pleasure to have you working with us," (Y/N) smiled, still truly overwhelmed by his generosity.

"The pleasure's mine, (Y/N)," he couldn't help but let a smile break onto his lips as he looked over her one last time. They said their goodbyes then, and Tommy exited the school. He was genuinely pleased with the fact that she'd agreed to have dinner with him. It was certainly a step in the right direction with her.

John Shelby entered the school that his children attended two days after his brother did. He was unsuccessful in finding someone who could help direct him to the room he wanted to visit, but thankfully found the woman he was looking for as she walked towards the main doors from down a hallway.

"Miss (Y/L/N)!" he called to her, hoping to get her attention.

To his luck, she heard him. "Can I help you?" she asked with a smile, one that made John feel like he was going to go weak at the knees.

"Yes. You're my daughter's teacher. Her name's Katie Shelby. I wanted to ask how she's been doing in class," he told her the reason behind him being there. Truthfully he couldn't care less about Katie's performance. School wasn't something he was ever interested in, but if it meant he'd be able to talk to an utterly gorgeous woman, he'd give the performance of the century.

"Oh Katie!" (Y/N) answered, her smile growing wider as she recalled one of her students, "she's amazing...such a pleasure to have in class. She's always working hard and staying on top of her assignments," she then gave him a run down on his daughter's performance.

John nodded as she spoke. He had no shame in the fact that he was only half listening to her answer; being too preoccupied with drinking in her appearance. Silence fell between them then as that topic of conversation passed quickly. John didn't want her to leave just yet, so he scrambled for another talking point. "I heard that you met my brother, Arthur, the other day," he said then. It wasn't his best choice of topic, but he hoped it would keep her around. His hopes fell when a look of confusion formed on her pretty face. Shit, John...save yourself here! "He, uh...he told me that he helped you with one of your boxes...?" he ended his statement like it was a question, hoping that she'd show some sort of recollection.

Realization did appear on her face, but the sentence that accompanied it was one that left John confused: "oh...it seems I've met two of your brothers," she informed him, effectively making him wear the same expression she had moments ago. She took the time to explain then: "Thomas came in a few days ago to arrange a generous donation to aid the children who come here."

Fucks sake. John couldn't help but sigh internally. Tommy had already sunk his paws into the territory John thought he'd have a leg up in. "Oh he did?" he decided to play it cool, hoping that his aggravation didn't bubble up to the surface.

"He did. The other teachers and I are all so thankful for the contribution," (Y/N) answered, her smile telling John that he was doing well at masking how he was really feeling.

"Well I'm happy to hear that," John stated, running a hand over his face as he tried to think of a way to divert the conversation away from Tommy. "I can't say enough how happy I am that my daughter has a wonderful, smart, caring teacher like yourself," he said then, deciding to go the compliment route. There were many other things he wanted to include while referring to her, but he didn't want to overdo it.

"Awe thank you, Mr. Shelby. As I've said before, Katie is such a pleasure to have in class," (Y/N) accepted the compliment with grace, a bashful smile forming on her face.

Silence fell around them for a few beats before John spoke again: "you're probably wantin' to get home, so I should probably go," he stated, nodding his head back towards the main doors of the school.

"Oh yes, it's certainly been a long day," she answered with a nod.

"I'll see you around sometime then," John began to say his goodbyes.

"You certainly will," (Y/N) sent him one last smile before John turned and exited the school.

John was thankful to see the majority of his family sitting around the main table of the betting shop when he entered it that evening.

"Where've you been, John Boy?" Arthur asked, everyone's eyes following John as he made his way to an open chair.

"I just left the school," John answered, his face straight as he spoke.

"The school?" Arthur questioned.

"Something happen with one of the children?" Polly asked, her brows furrowed.

"No, everything's fine with them," John quelled her concern.

"Why were you at the school then?" Polly asked another question.

"Ah I know...you were tryin' to see the hot teacher, huh?" Arthur chimed in before John could answer, a grin now present on his face.

John shot a glare in his brother's direction, slightly annoyed by the fact that he was a little too anxious to know. But with all of the eyes in the room on him, he figured he may as well give up. "Yeah, I went to see her."

"Did ya talk to her?" Arthur eagerly asked.

John didn't miss Polly's eyeroll before he answered his brother: "yeah, I did...and I was told that Tommy already went and talked to her." He couldn't help but glance at Tommy from the corner of his eye, seeing if his statement roused any type of reaction from him.

"Why would you have gone to talk to the childrens' teacher, Thomas?" Polly was the one to ask, her eyes now zeroed in on him.

"She told me that he wanted to make a donation to the school," John offered more information, a sour tone still present in his voice.

"Tommy," Polly sighed, bringing her hand up to her forehead.

"We've arranged to have dinner one of these upcoming evenings to discuss it further," Tommy nonchalantly shared more details of his meeting with (Y/N).

"Bloody hell, Tommy," Arthur grumbled, a frown on his face as he shook his head. He'd have no chance in hell with her now.

"Why was this not brought up in a family meeting?" Polly asked a sensible question, seemingly unaware of the brothers' reason behind their responses.

"Because I have decided that we need to start putting back into the city," Tommy answered, an authoritative tone laced into his voice.

"And you thought that the school would be the most logical place to start?" she quirked an eyebrow.

"Why not?"

"You're putting yourself into places you shouldn't be...if this blows up in your face, I won't be here for it," Polly spoke in a firm tone, showing her distaste for his decision.

Tommy held his gaze on her, an uninterested look present in his eyes. He didn't quite care what his aunt had to say about this, he was going to continue on how he saw fit.

Polly held his gaze, waiting for him to say something. When he didn't, she rolled her eyes and let out a scoff before turning and stalking over to the door. She stopped before she could grab the handle, abruptly turning to look at the three men sitting at the table. "If any of you make her cry or so much as hurt a single strand of hair on her head..." she paused, pursing her lips as she shook her head slightly, "you will have hell to pay." Her voice was flat, but her tone was serious, and she let no one respond before she opened the door and exited the betting shop.

"Ms. Gray, it's so nice to see you again," (Y/N) said with a smile as she found the older woman standing in the doorway of her classroom. "Is everything ok with Katie? We missed her in class today."

"Katie's fine," Polly quelled the teacher's worry, "she was feeling ill so she stayed home."

"Oh, ok. I hope she gets better soon," (Y/N) offered her regards with a smile, one that Polly reciprocated. "Is there something that you need?"

"Yes," Polly didn't beat around the bush, "my nephew, Tommy, came to speak with you the other day..." she began, trailing off in hopes that (Y/N) would continue.

"Yes, he did!" she took the bait without question, "he made a very generous donation, and then suggested we have dinner to work the smaller points of it out."

"And how did that go?" Polly asked with raised eyebrows.

"Very well," (Y/N) smiled in response, "the children are already benefiting from the money he's given. It was very kind of him to do this."

Nothing Tommy Shelby has done was done just for the sake of 'being kind', Polly thought to herself as she mentally scoffed at the younger woman's statement. "I'm happy to hear that the children are benefitting from it," Polly said in response, keeping her thoughts on her nephew's intentions to herself.

(Y/N) smiled in response, completely overjoyed by the kindness of the Shelby family that she was oblivious to even the mere thought of Tommy having other intentions behind his decision to donate. Nothing else was said then as the women exchanged parting words.

(Y/N) smoothed out her dress as she reached the doors of the establishment. She hoped that the outfit she chose didn't make her over, or under, dressed for the occasion. With a deep breath, she grabbed the handle and opened the door, the sounds of chatter and music smacking her in the face. She entered the pub with a smile, hoping to quickly find a familiar face.

Of course one of the Shelbys quickly found her at the door. It was their re-opening party after all, and a beautiful woman like (Y/N) was most certainly not going to go unnoticed.

"Oi, you came!" Arthur was the first of the brothers to spot her, and a big grin was plastered across his face as he moved over to greet her.

"Yes! This place looks lovely!" she answered, smiling as she looked around the room.

"We made sure to get the best of the best," he boasted, his grin still present. "And speakin' of the best...can I offer one of the best women I've seen a drink?" he smoothly transitioned, his one eyebrow raised as he looked at her.

"I'd love one, thank you," she answered, smiling at his kindness.

"Come on then," he stated, offering her his arm so that he could lead her to the bar.

She accepted it, walking over to an open seat so that he could go around the bar and get her a drink. She thanked him again when he set it down in front of her, and just as he leaned up against the bar, ready to chat with her, Isiah came to him with a matter of business. He left her with a slight frown and an 'excuse me, love,' before going off with the younger man. (Y/N) sat by herself, sipping her drink and enjoying the revelry around her. She wasn't alone for long though.

"(Y/N) (Y/L/N)...I didn't think I'd see you here," shock was present in John Shelby's voice as he came up beside her.

"I decided to stop in and see what all of the talk was about," she smiled at him.

"Well we're certainly happy to have you here," he grinned at her, trying so hard not to give her a once over. "Say why don't you come and share a dance with me?" he suggested.

"Oh, I couldn't," she turned down his offer, her shyness creeping in.

"Come on...a quick dance wouldn't hurt," he didn't quite give up hope.

"I'm rather terrible at dancing."

"You've not seen me dance then."

(Y/N) bit her lip to conceal her giggles, surprised with how forward he was.

"Come on..." John coaxed her, hand outstretched in her direction. She was hesitant, but accepted it, allowing him to lead her to the floor. "Just follow my lead and you'll be fine," he said, assuming the position before he began to lead her in a similar dance to what the other partygoers were doing.

(Y/N) couldn't help but smile as she danced around the floor with John. She certainly was having fun, not really thinking about what she looked like or what others thought. John couldn't believe that he was dancing with one of the most beautiful women in the room.

They danced for about two songs before (Y/N) excused herself, wanting to go have a seat. John allowed her to go, deciding that he'd go into the snug and check on Finn - who he knew was sneaking stronger drinks than what his brothers originally told him he could have.

(Y/N) found a newly opened seat at the bar as soon as she came to it. She was bummed that her drink had been lost, but she didn't need to worry about that for too long.

"You made it," Tommy Shelby's voice came from her left, making her turn slightly to see him approaching her from behind the bar.

"I did, thanks for inviting me," (Y/N) smiled at him, "this party's amazing!" she commented, glancing around the room.

"It is," Tommy agreed once she focused on him again, "can I get you something to drink?"

"Please," she smiled kindly at the offer, watching as he went about grabbing a bottle from the shelf. "I wanted to also thank you, again, for the dinner and the donation. The children have already gotten some of the supplies that we've received, and they're loving them," she shared some information once he came back with a glass for her.

"That's good news," he nodded, taking a drink from his glass then. "You know I was thinking maybe...maybe you and I could have dinner again, without the need to talk about the donations this time," he proposed, watching her intently as he waited for a response.

(Y/N) couldn't stop her eyes from lighting up at his suggestion. She had a lovely time with him at their first dinner. "I'd like that," she answered with a smile.

"Figured we could get to know each other better."

"That would be lovely," she agreed, giggling slightly at the fact that he was practically reading her mind.

The two then went about planning the dinner, agreeing on a time and place. (Y/N) couldn't help but feel giddy when he suggested a restaurant that was far more classy than the first place they'd met. If she wasn't excited before...she certainly was now.

As they spoke more, Polly Gray kept a close eye on them from across the room. She'd been watching the brothers all evening as they tried their hand at her. It became clear to her, though, that Tommy had ended out on top as she watched them converse at the bar. She could easily tell from how (Y/N) was invested in their conversation, giggling and leaning closer to him when he'd speak, that what he was doing was being received well. John and Arthur wouldn't have much of a chance now.

-One Year Later-

Slowly, Tommy lifted the veil up to reveal (Y/N)'s smiling face. He draped it over her head and let his eyes dance across her features, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips as he felt the joy radiating from her.

"We are gathered here today to witness the marriage of (Y/N) (Y/M/N) (Y/L/N) and Thomas Michael Shelby," the officiant began, commanding the attention of everyone in the church.

Ever since the evening of the party at the Garrison, (Y/N) and Tommy found themselves wrapped up in a whirlwind of a romance. Tommy proposed after five months of them being together, knowing that he wasn't going to find another woman like her. They spent five months being engaged and doing a great amount of traveling - it was the summer holiday for (Y/N), so she was able to follow Tommy wherever he went. Now they were standing at the altar in front of a great number of guests who were anxiously waiting to see them pronounce their love for each other.

Well...two of the guests weren’t exactly anxious. John and Arthur sat on Tommy's side of the church, watching as the ceremony commenced. Both were happy for their brother, but they'd be lying if they said that they weren't bummed that it wasn't them up with (Y/N).

Everyone stood up and celebrated as the officiant pronounced Tommy and (Y/N) 'man and wife', and they shared their first kiss as a married couple.

"As always..." John started, elbowing Arthur in the ribcage as they both clapped for their brother, "Tommy gets the girl, and we've gotta sit back and watch."

Arthur couldn't help but snort as he heard what John had to say. "You're right, John boy," he agreed, shaking his head but nonetheless continuing clapping.

No matter what happened, or how hard John and Arthur tried to get ahead, Tommy would forever be the brother that always wins.

Tagged: @mystcldydrms @the-anxious-youth @cloudofdisney @look-at-the-soul @elenavampire21 @mrsalwayswrite @julkaamazing @evita-shelby @lilyrachelcassidy @notyour-valentine @shelbydelrey @onlydeadcells @peakyswritings @just-a-blackhole @watercolorskyy @strayrockette @peakyduchesss @alexxavicry @captivatedbycillianmurphy @yummycastiel @dark-academia-slut @tommystargirl @stevie75 @lyarr24 @signorellisantichrist @zablife @anotherblinder @midnightmagpiemama @cillmequick @rangerelik @dandelionprints @letal-y-poetica @itscheybaby @gypsy-girl-08 @insanitybyanothername @depxiety @raincoffeeandfandoms @dragons-are-my-favorite @acewritesfics @forgottenpeakywriter @cljordan-imperium @areyenotfondofmelobster @little-diable @thomashelbyswife @iambored24601 @shaddixlife

MASTERLIST

[cas-backwards-tie]

Chapter One: News Crashing

Poly!TaskForce 141 x Omega!Reader

The Omega Pack Plan Masterlist

Summary: A change in procedure around base causes you to spiral as your world comes crashing down. There's only one way out of this and it starts with telling the truth.

Words: 4.4k

Warnings: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Anxiety, Existentialism, Misogyny, Dismissive Attitudes, Angst, Rage

Mentions of: Medication,

A/N: Honestly, I'd been inspired by a few series (Standard Emergency Protocol and Pantry Solutions) I've read those and it caused me to want to write my own ABO COD AU, so I started this as a sort of funny fic awhile ago. I'm haven't entirely plotted out the whole story, but I have some ideas for the first few chapters. I was finally inspired to finish and post it because @cringeycookies liked the snippet I posted in a wip tag game. So thanks to everyone who inspired me, and a special thank you to @penelopepine for helping me with the dialogue and Price's reaction as I try to begin writing for them.

"I'm sorry, Ma'am," the nurse responds, "we're no longer authorized to refill suppressants of any kinds for any purpose." With a push of the empty orange pill bottle back across the counter in your direction, she offers you an ugly forced smile.

"Is there really nothing we can do?!" You complain incredulously, "Nothing at all? What am I supposed to do with this?!" Taking the emptied bottle into your hands, you stare at the nurse with widened eyes and a wild look.

"There is no 'we'..." she rolls her eyes in response, focus returning to the papers before her. "But if you insist, you can always bring it up with your CO, or the Base Commander." She scribbles something out on the page, but you can hardly focus when your world is virtually crumbling apart around you. "Now if you don't mind, some of us actually have work to do around here."

Still stunned, you can't help the way your breathing picks up as your heart begins to race. About a month ago now there was a base-wide meeting where they'd finally cracked down and implemented a new program the government is trying out: OPP. The Omega Pack Plan. While it's uncommon for Omegas to even be recruited into the military to begin with, such a thing does exist. Regardless, the Base Commander gathered everyone in the Auditorium for a presentation to talk about the new program and how the army would implement it into the troops. Luckily, considering you're on an elite Task Force, it doesn't apply to you. At least... it didn't.

"What the hell is this?!" You yell, tossing the orange bottle in his direction.

He'd heard the stomps all the way down the hall and smelled you coming, so he's neither surprised by your appearance, nor startled by the toss of the bottle. John swiftly catches it in his hand as he looks up at you. "What?" He inquires, finally glancing down to examine what he's caught. "A pill bottle?"

"Captain, it's empty! They won't refill it- I can-"

A groan tumbles past his lips as he drags a hand down his beard. "Look, Panther-" referring to you by your callsign, interesting move. "There's nothing I can do, it's over my head now. I wish I could do something, but I can't." Sitting back in his leather chair, Price places the bottle on the desk; a faint rap of the plastic hitting the wood is the only sound between you momentarily before you hurriedly shut the door.

Panic begins to flood your system as you're not sure how to handle this. It's your turn to freak out. You know how this goes, you know the story now; ever since they'd implemented and dispersed the Omegas into the troops, they'd started implementing them into the Task Forces, and now they have to do so with the One Four One. Fingers curling in and out of shapes as you try to process your next move, you speak before you can even begin to plan what you're going to tell him.

"I- I'm- I..." You're pacing his office now, the heavy gaze of your Captain upon you as you try to prevent yourself from hyperventilating. The thing is, you're usually good with pressure- really good. It's your job to be good. It's just... this is different. This is your life, your livelihood at stake, the livelihood of all your future generations to come.

A sigh resounds throughout the office before you hear the low timbre of his voice. "Dove," he calls out with a gentle tone, "I want you to take a deep breath for me. Alright?" With the calm and even sound of your Captain's voice and the assured look on his face, you comply. Exhaling the last of your breath, you close your eyes and focus in on the deep intake of air through your nose. With the parting of your lips you slowly release it before giving yourself a moment.

When you open your eyes he gestures to the seat before his desk, though you know he won't take offense if you decline. Hesitant, one hand finds its way to the other, wrapping around your arm as you listen to him speak. "Now, can you explain what has you in this state? I assure you that there's nothing that can't be dealt with." You want to trust him, you know him--John Price--your Captain. He's always had your back, always made sure you felt comfortable in the Taskforce, always made an effort to check on you after things got rough.

You nod. Licking your lips, you search his blue eyes as you tentatively take the seat across him.

"Whatever it is, we'll deal with it, alright? I can guarantee you that unless you're trying to tell me you're an Omega, nothing you say is going to shock me that warrants the amount of panic you're putting yourself through," Price chuckles. He's obviously joking, trying to break the tension with humor. Lips drawn upward into a small smile, the Captain stares at you expectantly.

"What if I am?" You whisper, eyes unable to tear from his visage as you try and gauge his reaction. Unexpectedly, silence fills the space between you and feels deafening in the small space. The growing comfort of his office these couple of months now feels like a cage you're forced to stay in, under watch, as you stare down your superior on the brink of a battle to the death. And that's what you do. His blue eyes bore into yours, skeptically shifting between your left and right as he seems to try and get a read on you.

All of the sudden you jump at the smack of his hands hitting the desk in front of him. He laughs at you.

He's laughing at you.

And you're sitting there with your guts spilled out, dread eating away at the pit in your stomach... and he's laughing. It feels like forever is passing you by as you stare at him in shock, this moment between the two of you frozen in time as nothing else persists.

"I understand what this was now," Price explains, still chuckling to himself as he shakes his head. There's a warm smile on his face that feels eerie considering the dire context of the situation at hand. "You got me! I fully believed you for a second there, too."

Eyebrows furrowing in dark realization, you can't help but stare at him wildly. "Wha-" You begin to question him and his line of thinking, but he cuts you off.

"This was all a prank, right? The bottle, the hysterics- you really outdid yourself, Sergeant." Leaning back in his chair, he props his ankle up on his other knee. "Because let me tell you, this was good. Better than anything Soap's cooked up in awhile. Did you come up with it yourself?" There's a cheeky grin on his lips. "Ah, I know you did."

Lips opening and closing like a fish out of water, you sit in the armchair across from him pale with a dazed look across your face. He doesn't actually think that this was...

"Well, with your little triumph in your pocket, I say we get back to work, yeah? I've got some new leads from MI6 that've just popped in." With that, the man stands from his desk and rounds it. "Garrick should be back around Tea. I'll see you in the Command Station then," he informs you. It's then that he passes by, a genial clap on your shoulder while he's at it.

Left stunned in silence, you can't help but grit your teeth, consequentially pronouncing your jaw as anger ebbs through your bloodstream. Breath getting heavier, you can't help but loathe the meeting tonight. Your Captain might be satisfied with the conversation, but all you feel is discouraged. He's abandoned you, left you alone in his office with a humiliating sense of betrayal and shattered trust. Almost like you hadn't just told him your biggest secret at all.

Punching the standard heavy punching bag hanging in front of you, you grunt, ignoring the pain that gnaws at your knuckles underneath the reusable hand wraps. Sweat builds on your brow as you continue to unleash your pent up anger on the gym’s equipment. How could he?! When had you ever pulled anything even similar to this? Never! And the fact that you’ve only been on the team for a handful of months only exacerbates the abandonment you’re feeling right now. He’s your Captain! Regardless of your feelings or the situation at hand, isn’t he supposed to be there for you? He’d promised from the get go to help you with whatever you need, and now the one time you go to him for aid it backfires in your face and leaves you without any sort of solution going forward aside from straight up telling the whole team the flat out truth, and God forbid! You can’t even begin to fathom how that’d go.

A pent up and frustrated yell almost akin to something of a growl emanates from you as you tear into another round of swift jabs and punches. Regardless of the situation at hand, you’ve been trying to build up your upper body’s strength and letting out the anger you’d accumulated over this morning’s events seemed like a perfect opportunity to let loose.

The stretches and treadmill routine didn’t take a lot out of you, but the weights, and now the punching bag definitely is starting to take its toll. Sweat beads at your forehead in rivulets that drip down the sides of your neck, down your scalp past your neck and between your shoulder blades. Tank top soaked in sweat, you breathe hard as your heart pumps rapidly in your chest. You would’ve wound up here at some point or another tonight, but the Captain’s discourteous response certainly led to an earlier workout time.

While others sparsely litter the gym’s floor, you pay them no mind and vice versa. It’s not uncommon for soldiers to be found blowing off steam or aiming to beat their highest reps on the weights. Yet, this gym is reserved for higher standing members of the Force, the gym on the far side of the base where there are less people, offices, and considering the regular army men train in the bigger gym closer to their quarters, it’s mostly other higher ranked officers in here.

“Captain’s lookin’ for ya,” Markowski, another Sergeant that you’d come to befriend on base announces from the doorway, having poked his head in after leaving a few minutes earlier. He belongs to a different Task Force.

A groan tumbles out of you as you realize it’s already that time. Just as the door clicks shut, your phone chimes loudly with the alarm you’d set earlier going off. A few quick swipes of your fingers, you turn the alarm off and unlock the device, seeing a number of messages flood your notifications.

Kyle: You hear they’ve bumped up the timeline? 😯

Johnny: “ https://Tiktok/Shattered.Rat567 ” Had me rollin’ 🤣👏🏻 Gotta check it, Bonnie

Simon: You coming to the meeting or not? 🤨

Johnny: Where r u? You’re usually first here 👀 Cap’s getting peeved, watch out

Not looking forward to the inevitable mess of a meeting before you, you don’t bother rushing to join the men. With a wash of your face in the women’s locker room, a speedy bathroom break, and a grab of the items you’d brought with you, you’re heading for the Command Station.

With the time Price set the meeting, you won't get to eat dinner till afterward. You'd be lying if you said you weren't annoyed by this entire situation, your agitation from neglecting your hunger earlier has certainly come to bite you in the backside.

While you don’t have time to respond to their texts, having set the alarm with only enough time to get back to your team’s Command ‘station’ albeit more like your headquarters before heading out. Speed-walking through the orderly halls with a haste perfectly common around here, you navigate with a well practiced knowledge. Though you’ve only been here coming up on six months soon, you’re well acquainted with this part of the base.

Rounding the corner, you’re in the hall, close. Yet, the worry of being late lingers in the back of your mind and adds another layer of annoyance on top of your residual anger buried deep down from this morning’s situation. You’d inevitably come up with your solution. It’s not one you like… but it’s the only logical option. Another turn and you’re striding into the big garage-like room.

“Nice of you to finally join us, Sergeant,” Price calls out to you. Lifting his eyes from the map laid out across your station's table, he glares in your direction.

“What took you so long?” Soap snaps, his brows slightly furrowed as he stares at you from the opposite side of the table, hands lazily wrapped around his vest’s straps.

A look at your watch tells you that you’re not even late, the meeting doesn’t officially start for another minute! But you are usually waiting on them. He’s got you there.

“Yeah, you’re usually the first one here. It’s not like you,” Gaz whispers under his breath as you sidle up alongside Ghost, Gaz standing diagonal to you right beside Price at the head of the table.

“Focus,” Ghost orders the men, his hands tucked in his hoodie’s pocket. You don’t fail to notice the way he subtly takes a step further away from you as soon as they start talking again. Price goes back to talking plans as Gaz is questioning the circumstances of the information the Captain had acquired earlier when he’d had to leave the office.

“Which is exactly why-”

A heavy exhale on your behalf leaves the men frozen as their eyes drift back to you. “Do you have something you’d like to say, Panther?” The Captain questions. Jaw clenched, you tear your eyes from the map they’d settled on.

“We’ve got a big problem,” you announce, cutting off the Captain as you finally raise your gaze to meet Price’s slightly widened blue eyes.

“Well, if you see something that needs changin’ then let’s hear it,” he responds. A ‘hmph’ follows as he crosses his arms over his chest and sits his weight back onto his heels.

“It’s not about the op,” you correct him. Tilting your head side to side you attempt to crack the kinks in your neck while standing a little straighter to appear more engaged and serious.

“And it’s more important than this? What we’re doin’ right now?” Soap questions, his hands dropping to rest on the table as he looms over it, eyeing you with frustration obvious in his irises.

“What is it?” Gaz asks, a quirk of his eyebrow garnering your attention for a split-second. He’s genuinely asking, and there doesn’t seem to be a hostility in his scent as he turns his attention to you. Then there’s Ghost, who you don’t even need to look at to feel his heavy gaze on you, waiting expectantly.

“Actually, it is,” you argue with Soap, anger beginning to boil in your belly, the frustration and angst having been left to simmer all afternoon. “I can’t believe you didn’t take me seriously when I came to you earlier,” you turn your anger on Price. He looks taken aback by the outburst, something you’re not known for.

“Dove,” he calls calmly, hands out in an attempt to pacify.

“Don’t-” you bark, starting to raise your voice without realizing it. “I came to you in confidance! Trusting you when you said you’d be there to help me if I ever needed it! How could you?” Gritting your teeth, you don’t realize how hard you’re breathing as your chest heaves with anger.

“Woah, woah-” Gaz sputters, “What-” holding his hands out to try and diffuse the argument.

“I let myself be vulnerable-” You continue to shout.

“Isn’t this something that shoul-” Soap attempts to dissuade, backing down as he puts his hands out.

“-and tell you the truth, and-” you’re lunging for him across the table. You’re held back by a massive hand on your shoulder. “You laugh in my face?! What the fuck is wrong with you?”

You're suddenly pulled back, off your feet, and shoved into a metal chair that'd been nearby. Your Lieutenant is hovering over you, his cold eyes now tinged with a spark of anger as they bore into you scrutinizingly. There's the sound of commotion behind him, multiple voices overlapping, yet you can't see anything with that utter giant in front of you!

“Does anyone wanna explain what the bloody hell is goin’ on here?” Ghost snaps. It's only then when the man steps aside that you can see where everyone is. With both of you in your respective corners, you simply glare at the Captain from over your crossed arms out in front of you.

“Are you bleedin’ kidding me, ya Scally?” Price grunts as he shrugs Gaz’ hand off his shoulder. “You’re still on about it! When w-"

"That doesn't explain what happened, Cap," Gaz interrupts, stopping him from going off and getting them nowhere.

He groans, running a hand over his face once more before composing himself. Everyone waits for an explanation—you too—he’d been the first to speak, and you’re curious to hear what he comes up with. “She came into my office, bloody cryin’, tossing me a pill bottle, muttering about, saying she’s a-”

You don’t dare let him finish, not wanting him to be the one to finally say it, exposing your truth to the team. "Omega. I’m an Omega, ” you finish his sentence. While you’re scared to meet their faces, you take a deep breath and force yourself to do so.

"Christ," Price curses, fingers coming up to pinch the skin between his brows as he hangs his head.

Ghost's stoicism is nothing unordinary, and in fact, is somewhat a comfort considering you'd expected nothing less from him.

Gaz looks stunned for a moment, eyes flitting about the other’s faces before the serious look on his face morphs. Lips slowly drawing upward, you shouldn’t be surprised when he starts laughing. "Yeah right," Garrick teases, "and I'm actually the Prime Minister."

Yet, it's not just him. The uproarious laughter from your right only adds fuel to the already burning flame as the two other Sergeants laugh like idiots. All as if it's some poor joke with no consequences to anyone's life, and yet... it's the truth. At the end of the day, it doesn't change anything. At the end of the day, your life is still in jeopardy and they're treating it like some joke. Unable to form any sort of retort, you simply blink; stuck in a stupor raw, stung, and with a dumb look on your face.

Soap, rounding the table slaps Gaz on the back, his face flushed red from laughing so hard. "Yer makin' my stomach hurt. God," he eggs the other on between his dying chuckles and attempting to catch his breath.

"You're really just gonna stand there and laugh?!" You finally burst. Anger surely must be coming off your scent in waves, but you don't care. Standing from the chair, you don't flinch as Ghost swipes his arm out in front of you in case you were going for the Captain again. There will be no physical altercation on his watch.

"She already pulled this on me earlier, mind you, and now what? You're trying to pull it over on the lads' too, eh?" Price goads you.

"And I was telling the truth! You're the one who said I was joking," you point out. The volume of your voice is lost on you, partially blinded by the fury bleeding out.

"I suppose you never did admit to it being a prank," Price reasons, fingers grazing his beard as he runs them over it repeatedly in thought. "But how do you expect us to believe that when you clearly smell of a Beta?"

"Even on the battlefield, after everything we've been through-" Gaz starts.

"After yer all sweaty from a workout, too. I think we'd notice, Pan," Johnny argues, illuminating a legitimate point of consideration.

"Oh please," you mutter quietly to yourself. Shaking your head, you can't believe they're really all being this daft right now. "Like you have heard of those Scent Spritzers.”

There are various perfumes on the market specifically designed to alter one’s scent. Most use it smell like an Alpha when they’re not, or an Omega when they’re wanting to seduce an Alpha when going out. But Omegas posing as Betas was rarely heard of. You’re more than sure it happens more frequently than people know of, they just haven’t been caught. And in your line of work? It’s scarce. People are thoroughly vetted, but… you’d been on suppressants for a long, long time. And a Beta perfume only perfected your hiding.

“Did you forget we’re Alphas, love? We’d be able to smell you across the room if you were,” Gaz taunts. There’s a puff of his chest that makes his cockiness even more annoying than usual.

"You really want to be an Omega? Dumb yourself down to some weak fragile thing?” Johnny jokes, nudging Gaz’ arm as he shakes his head.

“A doll who can get whoever she wants? Want to be nothing more than good for knockin' up and popping out pups?” Gaz adds on.

“Are you serious right now?” You test, seething under your skin as your hands ball up into fists. “How could you say that?!”

“It’s what people say,” Ghost comments.

“Nobody would want that and you’re out here lying about it,” Johnny pokes.

“We’re only trying to point out the flaws in your little rouse, Pan,” Gaz says, a smile lighting up his features as he crosses his arms over his chest.

"And what if I was lying, hm? Would that change anything you just said to me? How you feel about Omegas?" You scoff.

“This isn’t about your designation,” Price finally speaks. Fingers still weaved into his beard, his blue eyes lift to meet yours. “I see what this is about now, but there's nothin' to worry about, Dove.” Your Captain takes on a softer tone and all of the sudden you feel yourself start to get emotional as a twinge of sadness, of the hurt bleeding through upon understanding makes you feel seen.

“I know it's intimidating, the thought of having your first unmedicated heat, but we have medics here. It's natural. Heats, ruts, we all have them. And, hey... at least you're not an Omega, right?" Whatever relief you’d momentarily experienced sinks back down in your gut with the speed of a rollercoaster drop. It’s as silent as a stakeout, the only sound being people’s breathing. And the lack of yours.

It takes a moment to gather yourself, everyone’s eyes on you with the serious topic change. While sex and the downsides to a designation are something discussed with the boys, you’d often been left out. And to your comfort. "You know what? I can’t do this,” you retort. Backing from the group, you toss your hands up. “I guess you'll just have to wait and see," you bite back. With a whip of your hair over your shoulder, you head for the door.

The room is silent once more as everyone gawks. You’d never reacted in such a manner, had an outburst like that… this is… certainly different, and something they’re not at all used to.

“It’s because they took away her suppressants today,” Price explains. It might not have been something the group should be privileged to know. A private matter, really… but with the way you acted? He felt the men deserve an explanation, at least.

“That makes sense,” Gaz responds quietly, eyes still on the door you’d gone through.

“That’s no excuse,” Johnny counters, arms crossing over his chest with a scowl on his lips.

"Well... that went better than I thought,” Ghost comments with a shrug. “Back to the plan? We can fill her in later.”

[dhoranbolt]

You don't fool me

A/n: two thing- first this took me forever to write, I kept having to go back and scrap ideas 🥹 second, I did not know just how down bad I was for this man until I had to sit down and write this so.

Also friendly reminder- if your age isn't easily accessible on your profile I will not be tagging you! That said if you'd like a tag in future works let me know and I'll add you to the list!

bestie beta reader: @yukios-medic you are really the best ma'am I appreciate you so much 🥹💙💙💙

Pairing: Sukuna x fem!reader, Yuji pining

cw/tw: minors/ageless blogs DNI, all characters aged up, dub-con that becomes enthusiastic consent, unprotected sex, cream pie, fingering, oral sex (female receiving), oral sex (male receiving), rough sex, dirty talk, threats of killing

Word count: 5k (ish)

This wasn't the first time they'd been paired up and sent off to find and kill a curse, but it was the first time Yuji was weary of the whole thing. They were both strong, that wasn't an issue – he'd been on back-to-back missions for weeks and it was starting to take its toll, that was the issue.

Of course, it didn't help that whenever he was around her, Sukuna would become an even bigger pain in the ass (than he already was).

They'd been sent to a long-abandoned warehouse, falling apart as it was, and radiating with cursed energy. Yep, whatever it was they were after was definitely in here.

"Split up to cover more ground?" She suggested as she looked up at him, but he shook his head.

"We can probably exorcize it quicker if we come across it at the same time, we should just stick together for now." It was a simple enough explanation, not a hint of 'I'm pushing my limits just being here with you' or 'it's easier to know you're safe if you're by my side' detectable.

To her, at least. Yuji chooses to ignore the scoff that resonates in his head as they cautiously enter the building. They walk side-by-side down the hallway, ears and eyes analyzing every detail of their surroundings.

"Must be one pain in the ass curse to send the both of us. I can feel the cursed energy everywhere, I just can't tell exactly where the source is." She filled the silence, wringing her hands together nervously.

"Yeah, I know what you mean. It’s out there, but it's all about the same output. We'll just have to watch our backs." Yuji said with a nod.

"Hey, what do you think Nobara did when she found out Gojo canceled movie night to send us after this one? I can see her practically popping a vein." She laughed softly, moving around a stack of boxes to find any sign of their curse.

"Fushiguro is probably wishing it was you that got left behind right about now." Yuji guessed with a small chuckle, suppressing the thought that he might have wished for it, too. A faint gurgle sounded at the opposite end of the hall, cursed energy seeping into every corner of their bodies as it grew closer.

Yuji covered her mouth with his hand, keeping her scream muffled as he tugged her against his chest and pulled them into the shadows.

"Shh, I think I hear something." He murmurs, squinting in the darkness. He doesn't feel the mouth form on his hand, not until her lips are moving against his palm as she makes a noise.

She's gagging; trying to pry Yuji's hand off her face. And he's going to – until Sukuna's voice rings in his head.

'Pull away and I'll bite her tongue off. Try to keep her quiet while she's drowning in her own blood'

Yuji froze as Sukuna cackled, and she still struggled in his grip, now like iron to keep the curse from making good on his threat.

His name was muffled when she frantically tried to call it, but it only left her mouth open that much more for Sukuna to swipe his tongue along the inside.

If they could conceal their own cursed energy for just a second, then it would keep going on its path to the left of them, and probably wouldn't circle back around for a while. Yuji set his jaw, glaring up the hall as he spoke.

"Conceal your energy, then we'll deal with him. One curse at a time." The only confirmation she gave that she heard him was slightly loosening her grip on his arm.

The curse slunk away and Yuji held his breath, waiting to hear any sign of it coming back. When he was sure it wasn’t, he let out a sigh and threw his head back against the wall. Taking a moment to realize the situation they were still in he looked down at her.

He couldn’t see the blush in her cheeks, but he could feel the heat on his fingers. She shifted her body against his, letting out a whimper at the awkward kiss she was still locked in.

Yuji swallowed hard and took a deep breath. This was so not the time to be letting the sounds she was making go straight to his cock.

'You want her so badly, take her.' Sukuna taunted.

"No." Yuji snapped his response, trying to think of a way out of this (and the boner he was starting to sport against her back).

'Fuck her, brat. Or I'll kill her the next time I get the chance, and I'll draw it out while I make you watch.'

Sukuna knew well what he was doing, keeping this conversation in Yuji's head. She had no clue what he was trying to shield her from. Of course he wanted her, but not like this. Not when Sukuna was all but forcing his hand on the matter, not even giving her a choice.

“I said no! Knock it off!” Sukuna just chuckled, and she turned her head to look up at him with worry in her eyes.

'Or perhaps you’d like me to put us both out of commission. Tell me, just how long do you think she’d last against this curse on her own?'

Yuji’s heart dropped to his stomach. There’s no way Sukuna hated her enough to let her die like this, not with the way he found her so entertaining to him. Not with the way he currently had his tongue down the back of her throat- right?

'No, but if it would cause you everlasting turmoil, I’d jump at the chance.'

Could she ever forgive him for doing this? Would Sukuna even drop this after all was said and done?

Yuji was exhausted, and Sukuna knew it too. It was only a matter of time before he could slip out and swap places.

'I could always assist instead. After all, one wrong move and she’s on her own anyways. Go ahead brat, ask me for my help.' He grinned.

“No, last time I let you out you were a dick.” Yuji snapped, but he was running out of options here. How long until that curse realized where they were and turned back around? He could always make a deal with Sukuna, if he would agree to it was another question though.

At the sound of Yuji’s words her body tensed, blood running cold. There was no way Yuji was actually thinking about letting the king of curses out into the wild, especially when he already had her in this position.

'Tic-toc punk ass, this offer isn’t going to last forever.'

“Promise you won’t hurt her first.” Her eyes went wide and she began to struggle in his grasp again, body going hot. Screaming through his palm and Sukuna’s tongue as well as she could manage in protest.

There is no way he’s about to offer his body over to Sukuna right now, and all she could think about were all the previous times he’d spoken to her – though, at her might be a better word. Everything he’d said up to this point, his promises to absolutely wreck her- all came flooding back. Could they really not handle this job any other way than to bring Sukuna into the mix?

'You humans are so predictable, really fucking takes the fun out of everything. I’ll get rid of the curse. Just say you aren’t strong enough, you need a real man to do your dirty work for you.'

“That’s not-”

'Going once…'

“I don’t-”

'Going TWICE...'

“Fine! I need your help, please.” She was hysterical at this point, thrashing in his grip as much as she could, grinding her ass into him harder every time she moved.

'That doesn’t sound like what we agreed to, try again.'

Yuji groaned, thankful he could use that as an excuse to let out some of his frustrations.

“Sukuna please, I’m not strong enough and need a real man to do my dirty work for me.” Yuji bit out, and she stilled at his words, stomach knotting. Any minute now, Sukuna would be breathing down her neck. Months of sexual tension, mostly from his side - would it finally come to a head now? Or would he leave it and just get the job done, let Yuji take back over when it was safe–

A low chuckle rumbled from behind her, and the sound ran straight through her body to her core. She swallowed, realizing the tongue down her throat had finally disappeared.

Sukuna ran a hand up her chest before resting it on her throat.

“Well, well, this is certainly a turn of events, isn’t it?” She whimpered, frozen in place. What the hell was she supposed to do now?

“Sukuna…” She breathed his name warily.

“Surprised to see me? I did tell you I’d have you some day. So, how was I? It’s been a few hundred years. You’ll have to excuse the fact I’m a little rusty.” Sukuna filled the silence, not waiting for an answer.

“You weren’t too bad yourself; I think I even felt you participating at the end. Care for more?” He whispered in her ear, tongue flicking out to lick her lobe. She bit back her moan, clamping her knees together as she gently rocked back into him. He laughed, moving his hands down her body to grip her hips and pull her in closer against him.

“Oh, don’t be shy now, it’s just us. The brat won’t even know, it can be our little secret.”

“I-” She stammered, face hot. So what if she’d gone back to her room at the end of a long day full of Sukuna teasing her, and closed her eyes while chanting his name under the sheets? So what if being the object of the king of curses’ endless teasing was what she used to push her over the edge some nights? That was all by her choice - she was in charge.

Currently having Sukuna’s painfully rock-hard cock prodding her ass while he held her tight against him? She was so clearly not in charge, and to make matters worse? The realization sent her core gushing.

“I can smell you,” he continued, taking in a long breath. And this time she couldn’t bite back her moan.

“Sukuna!” She gasped, feeling the blush run up her ears.

“I think you should really stop being such a cock-tease, woman. No wonder Yuji can’t help but fuck his fist most nights. I bet he can smell you too, he just spares your feelings by not saying anything.” The fog he’d brought with him was starting to clear, and she tried to pry his fingers off of her.

“Stop! You’re lying!” But Sukuna just threw his head back in a cackle.

“I actually don’t care if you believe me, do you want to know why?” He stepped out from behind her so quickly, shoving her back against the wall, it made her head spin. Looking up at his tattooed face and red eyes only solidified how real this situation was for her - and her mouth went dry. He grinned down at her, gripping her chin to hold her in place.

“I’m going to fuck you through this wall. You won’t be able to look at that stupid brat without thinking of me inside you ever again. And he’ll never know because he’s out cold.” Using his free hand, he ripped off her skirt. She cried out, trying to grip his wrist and stop her panties from meeting the same fate.

“Aww, still shy, are we?” He teased as he examined the red lace, running his fingers down to the ever-growing wet spot on them.

“N-No!” Sukuna just chuckled, watching her face morph from flustered to pleasure at his touch.

“And look, you even wore red just for me. How cute of you.” She moaned, closing her eyes. The physical and mental teasing was too much. If he wasn’t going to kill her, she was going to die of embarrassment. He sucked his teeth, hooking his thumb into her mouth and tugging her face.

“Look at me while I touch you, I won’t tell you twice.” He snapped, and her heart thrummed in her chest. It felt so good to finally have him touch her after all this time, she’d forgotten just how dangerous he was in the moment. She nodded sheepishly.

“Good, you listen well for a sorcerer. I don’t believe in praising those beneath me, but I think I’ll make an exception just this once.” He pressed his fingers against her core, watching the way she squirmed under him.

“You’re so wet already and I’ve barely touched you, was my tongue down your throat just what you needed?” Her head was spinning, his hold on her jaw rough, but all she could picture was wrapping her lips around him.

She slid her tongue around his thumb cautiously, watching his reaction for any sign that she’d miss-stepped.

He groaned, smirking down at her as he leaned closer.

“And here you’d have everyone believing you’re too innocent for such filthy things.” Finding the edge of her panties, he pushed them aside, running his fingers through her slick folds. He watched as she moaned, satisfaction settling on his face as the moan grew louder when he pushed a finger inside of her.

“God you’re so tight, there’s no way that brat could stuff his cock in you.” Her walls flexed at his words. Sukuna’s one finger was already so thick, and now her mind was swimming with the thought of having more.

“But don’t worry, you’ll take it from me.” And then she felt a second finger at her entrance, making her eyes open wider. She tried to speak as best she could around the awkward hold he still had her in, but it didn’t matter.

“Suku-na!” She cried out as he forced another finger into her.

“I’d be thanking me if I were you. I’m feeling generous enough to stretch you out before I ram my cock into your stomach.” He offered, grinning as he watched her try and hold herself together.

He didn’t wait for her to adjust to the feeling, why would he? Fucking her open on him was all he could think about while he sat bored on his throne - not that he was admitting it aloud.

So many days, weeks, months, of him wrapped up in her. He knew exactly what she was doing to him, even if she didn’t.

“Was it worth it to parade around like a whore in heat around us?” He asked as he began to slide his fingers in and out of her.

“You know I offered him the chance to have you first. Humans and their virtues though, so fickle. Of course, the brat couldn’t do this.” He pressed his palm against her cunt, and her back arched off the wall as his tongue shot out to flatten on her clit.

Letting go of her chin he wrapped his hand around her neck, giving it a testing squeeze before trailing down to her chest. Groping over her top, and then easily ripping the buttons away.

“Not my clothes!” She protested, but if he heard, he ignored her. Choosing instead to knead her breast as it spilled over her matching bra. Sukuna chuckled, looking back at her.

“The matching set, I’m starting to think you really did wear this just for me. Is that what you do? Under all those clothes you put on, you wear red hoping I’ll catch a glimpse. Hoping I’ll come out to rip it off of you.” He spoke as he rolled her bud roughly between his fingertips.

“God!” She cried out. He was everywhere. Pumping his fingers further inside her walls, tongue abusing her clit-

“I’ll be your god.” He hissed, before leaning down to suck her nipple into his mouth.

She was fast approaching the edge, gasping for air as he shot her towards her peak.

He curled his fingers inside of her, reaching a new angle that sent white hot pleasure shooting through her body.

“Sukuna!” She choked out, reaching up to ball her hands into his top. She was wary of touching him at first, opting to press against the wall instead. But it was all too much. She needed something more to try and ground herself through the first orgasm he was going to rip from her body.

“You gonna cum, little sorcerer?” He hummed around a mouthful of her breast, looking up at her expectantly. She already looked so cute and fucked out for him; grinding into his hand to push him further inside, face flushed as she whimpered his name over, brows pinched up while she looked down to him with a breathless nod.

“Please Sukuna...” If he wasn’t so pent up himself, he might have stopped what he was doing, but edging her would only edge him, and he had no interest in prolonging his own pleasure any more than being stuck in the passenger seat of his vessel already had.

For this encounter, anyways. So, he gave her what she wanted, driving his fingers faster into her cunt, biting down on the nipple currently still in his mouth, while his other hand roughly pinched at the other.

He could feel how close she was. It was getting harder to slide his fingers back into her, and he couldn’t wait to sink into her.

When he didn’t slow down or stop, she took it as permission, though, the tip of the iceberg was so close that even if he had told her no, she wasn’t sure she could have stopped, anyway.

It crashed over her in waves, throwing her against the wall as she cried out his name. Everything was gone - her sight, her hearing, all she could do was ride against his hand, and hope that their grasp on each other was enough to keep her standing through the intensity of it all.

Even when her high started to ebb away, he was still lazily pumping his fingers inside of her. Slowly the world came back to her, heartbeat pounding in her ears, and she whined.

“Aww, is someone sensitive?” He pulled away from her chest with a grin, red eyes glinting as he stared down at her dazed expression. She weakly pushed against his chest, trying to get him to stop while she regained some semblance of normal breathing.

“Sukuna…”

“Well, aren’t you going to thank me?” She swallowed hard, still trying to find her way out of the haze.

“I- thank you...” He pulled his fingers out of her, chuckling at the whimper that left her lips. Raising his hand to his mouth, he kept his eyes on her as he sucked his fingers clean.

“Mmm, I don’t think so.”

“What?” Confusion crossed her face, and he pressed the same two fingers against her parted lips, looking on in admiration as she opened them without question. Sukuna pressed his fingers against her tongue, pulling her mouth open as he did.

“Those red panties you’re wearing will be sufficient.”

“What?” The word left her mouth again, and he raised an eyebrow, dragging his fingers down her tongue and out of her mouth. She stared at him for only a second more before leaning down to slide them off her hips. She looked down to keep from fumbling, but he hooked his finger under her chin, tilting her face back up to him.

“I didn’t say you could look away.” She bit her lip, shimmying awkwardly to slide them down her knees. Stepping one foot out of them at a time, she began to lift them up. He grabbed them from her, large fingers brushing her own as he did.

She moved to stand up again, but he stopped her, shaking his head.

“On second thought, I don’t think one pair of panties is worth a mind-numbing orgasm, do you?” But it wasn’t really a question, not when he was already guiding her to her knees in front of him. The floor below her was cold - a shock that her core, still radiating heat, could feel.

“Be a good girl and open wide,” he said, reaching into his pants to take hold of his neglected cock. Pulling it out, he ran his thumb over the tip, smearing his precum up and down his length.

Sukuna groaned, gritting his teeth. The brat could imagine all he wanted; it would never compare to having her right here in front of him. Small hands braced on his thighs, eyes blown wide as she took in just how fucked she was about to be.

“See something you like?” Her breath hitched as he knocked his fat tip against her bottom lip. She slowly opened her mouth, tongue sliding out and against the underside of his cock. He groaned again, grabbing the back of her head as he forced himself into her mouth.

She dug her nails into his thighs as he did, trying in vain to pull her head back so she could breathe.

“You’re not acting very grateful. Don’t make me fuck your throat, I’ll end up hurting your feelings.” He chuckled. Tears were already welling in her eyes as she choked on what he could fit in her mouth. Slowly, she removed a hand off from his thigh, reaching down to run her fingers through her folds. When she’d gathered enough of her release, she reached back up to pump the rest of him with it.

“How resourceful of you. Makes me want to fuck my cock down your throat all the more.” She moaned around his length, gently rocking him as far as she could take him. Part of her was screaming for air, the other wanted to make him feel just as good as he’d made her feel moments ago. The fog was back, and she blinked the tears away as she looked up at him.

His jaw was tense, one hand still at the back of her head, the other balled in a fist and braced against the wall. Before this she’d only seen him when he was a mouth and one eye, stirring up chaos on Yuji’s cheek. Looking up at him now, though, red eyes trained on her and black markings all over his body - he was breathtaking.

All-powerful and terrifying as hell, considering that he could kill her in an instant, but breathtaking, nonetheless. She let her other hand slide down his leg to rest between her own, pressing her fingers into herself - only to whine in disappointment when it felt nothing like him.

“Needy little thing, aren’t you? I’ve gone hundreds of years without, and you just can’t wait for another.” She breathed hard through her nose, trying to take in as much air as she could before he hit the back of her throat again. Black dots buzzed at the corners of her vision, the sound of her choking on what she could take echoed through the hall.

Her jaw was pried open at a painful angle to accommodate him, and he wasn’t showing any signs of stopping. Her grasp on his cock grew slack, and she wasn’t fighting him every time he knocked his tip just a little further into her mouth. Her own fingers stilled in her aching walls, eyelids fighting to stay open.

Sukuna huffed, sliding his hand around to smack at her cheek.

“Don’t go passing out on me now, I’m not finished with you just yet.” And he pulled out of her mouth with a loud squelch as she gasped for air. The lightheaded feeling slowly dissipated as she looked up at him, tears and spit covering her face.

“You did okay. For now. We’ll revisit that later, get up.” She didn’t have to be told twice, rising on wobbly legs as quickly as she could. The thought occurred to her, that she was practically naked in front of him, while he was still fully clothed. She swallowed hard, trying to wipe away some of the shame along with the tears.

But he didn’t give her much time to wallow in her self-pity, quickly turning her around and pinning her to the cool wall. She shivered at the feeling of his solid body pressed into her back, erection still wet with her spit as it bounced on her bare ass.

“Maybe next time, I’ll let you look at me while I fuck you.” He breathed down her neck, grabbing his length and rubbing it through her folds. She dug her nails into the wall; he barely fit her mouth, there was no way she was ready–

“Relax, I’m not interested in breaking you the first time around. It would ruin the fun in watching you look at me in anticipation every time you’re around.” And he wasn’t wrong. Hell, he was still here, and the anticipation was coursing through her. Taking a slow breath she waited, thankful that the cool wall was enough to ease the heat on her face.

Sukuna gripped her hip and hooked his tip at her entrance before pushing in. She gritted her teeth, moaning at the already over-full feeling. For the situation being what it was, he was fairly gentle as he steadily eased himself through her tight walls with a prolonged hiss. She could only stay pressed against the wall, jaw dropped in a silent moan as he filled her out inch by agonizing inch. Her eyes rolled, body unsure if she should cry out in pleasure or pain.

“God look at you, practically foaming at the mouth. What would your sorcerers say if they caught you like this, hmm?” He groaned, bucking his hips up into hers. Her voice finally caught up to her, and she cried out, nails scraping down the wall as she clawed for anything to keep her grounded.

He didn’t quite fit all the way, but it only turned Sukuna on even more. Of course, he couldn’t fit - but he would. He would break her open on his cock as many times as he needed, until she fit him like a second skin. Until he was the only thing she could think about whenever she tried to seek pleasure elsewhere.

She was playing a game she had no clue about, and Sukuna was going to win. He laughed as he grabbed her hips, pulling out to slam back into her walls. They sucked him in and tried to keep him out all at the same time.

“Sukuna, fuck!” She moaned, reaching behind her to slow him down. He said he wasn’t going to break her, but the rough pace he’d set was literally fucking the air right out of her lungs. Her walls squeezed him tighter, and he moaned.

“Too much for you already, princess? I’m just getting started.” Sukuna grabbed her wrists, pinning them above her head.

“Too much, fuck, ‘s too much!”

“I’m not that brat, you’ll take what I give you exactly how I give it to you. Don’t piss me off, I’m in such a giving mood, right now!” He snaked his other hand around her, tongue darting out to swirl around her clit. Sukuna grinned. In an attempt to get away, she only managed to shove herself further onto his cock.

“Sukuna please, I don’t…Please!”

“Short circuiting, and I’m not even close yet. Shall we see just how many times I can make you cry before I’m finally satisfied?” Her mind was melting, she didn’t care anymore. What was she even begging for? Him to stop? Or maybe she was begging him not to stop. She’d never been filled up like this before; even the pain was pleasurable now. All she could do was stand against this wall and take it, anyway. Her body relaxed against him slightly, and he grinned.

“Is there something you want from me, little sorcerer?” She bit her wobbly lip hard, trying to focus on his words.

“I want- I wanna cum.”

“That so?” She nodded with a whimper.

“Beg, and I’ll think about it.” She couldn’t even be bothered with the feelings of shame looming overhead. She wanted one thing, and if begging was all she needed to do to achieve it, well…

“Please I wanna cum.” She whined, hands flexing in his grasp.

“Beg more, you can do better than that.”

“Please Sukuna please I wanna cum, never wanted to cum so bad. Please make me cum on your cock please I-” She was a wailing mess, she didn’t care who heard her pleas, only that he might answer them. His tongue licked at her folds, snaking around his length to tease her from every side.

He rocked her into her second orgasm, reveling in the feeling of her tightening around him as she screamed.

God, he needed to feel it again. The way her walls fluttered around his thickness, trying to close around the strain of taking him. The feeling was maddening, and Sukuna was sure he could pull another one from her immediately, he just needed to pick up the pace as he rammed his cock harder into her.

The wet sound of his second mouth lapping at her, mixed with her moaning variations of his name and ‘fuck don’t stop’ was more than enough to catch the attention of anyone close by, and as absorbed as Sukuna was in this little game, he wouldn’t let his guard down. He was sure she didn’t even remember what they were here for anymore at this point. If the whites of her rolled eyes and the drool currently sliding down the wall where her face was pressed against it were any indication, anyway.

He could feel her whole body start to twitch and tighten, and he knew she was close again. Two orgasms in, and he knew her body so well already. He’d put that knowledge to good use later.

“Go ahead little sorcerer, scream for me.” And she came hard, walls clamping down on him, practically shoving him out while she did. It was enough to send him reeling, too. Hips slamming up into her, he sank his teeth into her shoulder as he finished with a growl. If they weren’t both so wrapped up in each other, they might have realized he growled ‘mine.’ He painted her insides in white hot ropes, stilling when the euphoria finished washing over him.

“If you think that was mind-numbing, just wait until I get ahold of you in my true form.” Sukuna whispered against the shell of her ear.

He pulled out with a groan, watching her whole body quiver as he did.

“Clean yourself up.” She finally looked back at him, brows knit. He ripped the sleeve off his jacket, handing it over to her. When she tried to pull it, his grip tightened, and he looked at her expectantly.

“Thank you…” She said quietly as she cleared her throat.

“Such a good girl for me already, I don’t even have to train you. I’ll be back, be ready to leave when I am.”

“Wait where-”

“There’s still a job to do here, isn’t there? I’ve got a curse to kill.” He smirked as he walked backwards up the hall.

Yuji wouldn’t be awake for a while, plenty of time for Sukuna to hide his prize. One of the many he planned on taking from her, he thought as he twirled the red panties on his finger.

if you enjoyed this check out my masterlist !

Tags: @saiki-enthusiast @alice-smutthoughts @idktbhloley @rezitio @matchat3a @mo0nforme @bleach-your-panties @fateisnotafactor @lov3ly-bunny @antishadow2021 @xo-evangeline @aramea205 @ackachii @tiredravenette @carpioassists @yoongislatinagff @unoriginalidea @i-likebread @squishybabei @emyyy007 @bitchykittenconnoisseur @kokushibosgirl @wishandluck @kimchi-zaks @kyriekurokami @not-brionnne @andic137 @tang3r1n @mammon-s

[wh1msic4lwasab1]

"𝐋𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐫"˚ ₊‧꒰ა $ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

synopsis: after losing a bet in the casino a day prior, your boyfriends gamble against you was for his girlfriend to show up with him the next day in a sultry, but fun outfit ;)

tags: semi-public, oral, pet names (bunny), vulgar, explicit

wrd cnt: 600+

a/n: i wasn’t even a huge aventurine fan before this but lord this was fun to write

Aventurine, your boyfriend, stood before you, his piercing eyes gleaming with anticipation. He was dressed to impress, his tailored suit accentuating his chiseled features. You, on the other hand, were clad in a bunny costume, complete with fluffy ears, a cotton ball tail, and a revealing corset. It was his request, and you had reluctantly agreed, knowing it you’d be a swindler for all eternity if you didn’t complete your end of the bet.

The casino was bustling with people, just like the day before. The sound of clinking glasses, chatter, and the constant hum of slot machines creating a cacophony of noise. You had chosen a relatively secluded spot, nestled between two rows of slot machines, but it was still very much in public. The thrill of being caught added to the excitement, and she could feel her heart racing in her chest.

"Get on your knees, loser," Aventurine chuckled, his voice low and husky, as he ran his fingers through your hair, sending shivers down your spine.

You nodded, her eyes locked on his, as she dropped to her knees. The cold, hard floor beneath you was a stark contrast to the warmth of your skin, but you didn't care. You were here to make good on your word, and plus, it was all too ridiculous to take seriously.

Aventurine's eyes never left yours as he unzipped his pants, revealing his already-hard cock. "Go on, bunny," he whispered, his voice laced with desire.

You obliged, fingers wrapping around his shaft as you began to stroke him. You played with his tip, slapping it down on your tongue while looking at him as he played on the slots, flushing money down the drain as if it was worthless.

You kissed down his length, teasing him just a while longer before uour mouth enveloped his cock, taking him deep into your throat. Aventurine's eyes fluttered closed, a soft groan escaping his lips as you worked your magic.

"Fuck, you're so good at this," he whispered, his voice trembling with pleasure. "You're a dirty little whore, aren't you? Yeah…now keep going.”

You hummed in response, the vibration of your lips sending shivers down his spine. His hips began to buck, his cock pistoning in and out of your mouth as he chased his release, while trying to stay as neutral as possible as people constantly walked by.

The sound of clinking glasses and laughter from the nearby bar grew louder, but you didn't care. You were lost in their own little bubble of desire, where nothing else mattered.

As Aventurine's orgasm approached, he pulled out of your mouth, his chest heaving with excitement. "I'm going to come all over your face, mkay’ bunny?," he whispered, his eyes blazing with intensity.

You nodded, your heart racing with anticipation.

With a few swift strokes, Aventurine came, his load splashing across your face, dripping down your chin and onto your corset. Your closed her eyes, feeling a rush of arousal flow down into your cunt, wishing he’d just let you ride him where he sat; and he probably would if he was just a little drunk and had no problem with getting you two arrested.

As you opened her eyes, she saw Aventurine's gaze locked on your, his eyes burning with desire. "Shall we make another bet?"

whimsic4alwasab1 ™ - do not copy, translate, modify, or claim any of my work as your own.

[safination]

Darling, I'm an Overlord

|Masterlist|

Pairings: Alastor x wife!Reader. Tags: fem!Reader, AFAB, Established Relationship, Alastor is in hell for a reason, Reader is in hell for a reason, Dry humping, licking, biting, sucking, foreplay, MINORS DNI

“I could make an offering,” you say, pressing a kiss to where his jaw ends. It’s a simple act to roll your hips down. “…But I think I would prefer to get on my knees and show you how I worship.” Alastor grips your waist, rolling your hips even deeper. “Just a king?” “How about an emperor?” A twitch tells you everything there is to know—it’s still not enough. “More.” “How greedy,” you tell him and tap a stray finger on his belt buckle. “Hmmm, then—How about I worship you like an Overlord?” Alastor laughs, shaking his head but his hips rut upwards to meet you halfway. It’s the smallest of movements, but if forces you to press a hand on his shoulder to steady yourself. TLDR: Alastor's worried you'll be late for dinner, but he promised to be patient, and such control deserves an award

This was stuck in my mind and no, I will not continue it but any other author is free to go and complete it. Honestly, not my best work but I think some of you might enjoy it. Tbh, I felt awkward writing it, but that's a whole different can of worm. This is quite short and I wish I could add more, but not really lol. MINORS DNI—NSFW

ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ

There’s a specific shade of red that Alastor enjoys on your lips. It’s quite the inconvenience to ask a shop to custom make the color every single time the lipstick runs out, but your husband is a man of fine detail. Even the smallest of changes will be noted.

As all things do, this specific pigment will eventually disappear for good. Still, you swipe the color across your lips, painting it red.

Afterall, a special night requires a special look.

“Dearest, we’re going to be late,” Alastor calls out with a smile that shows the yellow of his teeth. There’s a small twitch on his cheek and his fingers impatiently tap on the tip of his microphone, even as he sports an even tone. “The reservation won’t hold for very long.”

You lock his gaze from the reflection of the mirror. “Late?”

“Yes,late.” Alastor brings a hand out, leaning on the bed. There’s a carefully crafted expression of boredom on his face. “We’re going to be late.”

Darling, you’re the Radio Demon–one of the most powerful Overlords in this realm.” You blot your lips on some tissue. “They wouldn’t give away our table, and there’s always the option to kill anyone who complains.”

A muscle on Alastor’s cheek twitches. “Oh my…It seems I’ve been far too complacent if someone would dare to voice their objections to me.”

Lines trail the skirt of your dress, smoothing the wrinkles before presenting it to Alastor. “Tell me what you think, honey,” you say, smiling as you twirl. “Come on–How does it look on me?

“Good,” Alastor says, humming. “Shall we take our leave? I already have your coat.”

You frown, pointing your nose into the air. “Good?” you parrot back. “That’s not good enough. I was aiming for ravishing. I guess I should change.”

“Take your time, my love.” Alastor pinches the bridges of his nose but smiles nonetheless. “Afterall, I specifically said I wouldn’t complain.”

With a laugh, you stride towards him and present your bare back. “A little help?”

“That’s much better,” Alastor says as a claw gently trails up the skin of your back. The tip sends shivers down your spine and straight into your core until he digs the claw on the base of your shoulder. A drop of blood oozes out, trailing down your back. “Now, it’s absolutely ravishing.”

“I meant the zipper,” you say. “If it stains, Niffty will hang your head.”

“My apologies.”

Oh…his tongue is moist. It trails across your skin, painting slow trails across your shoulder to lap the blood. The zipper of your dress zips up before you could fully lose yourself.

You turn to face Alastor, stepping between his legs to place your hands on his knees. It only takes a single but gentle push to widen the space, and your hands keep pushing wider until you’re leaning down to meet his gaze.

“You’ve been doing an exemplary job of hiding your irritation,” you say, and kiss the edge of his lips, lingering for more than a moment. “Such control deserves a reward.”

Alastor takes his thumb, swiping away the streak of red. It only smudges it across his lips. “We have a reservation,” he says but slots you further between his legs with a firm grasp on your hips. “What was the point of making one if we aren’t going to be on time?”

The tip of your tongue swipes across his lips, lapping away the lipstick stain.

Alastor’s eye twitches, and uses a finger to push you back. Instead you open your mouth to suck his finger, swirling your tongue around the skin. It trails from the base of where his palm meets his finger then until his knuckle. The wetness of your tongue licks until it reaches the tip of his pointed claw.

The edges of your teeth nibble on his skin before taking in another finger. Alastor blinks at you as you suck his digits deeper in your mouth, swirling your tongue around to reach the tip then down the knuckle until his claw hits the back of your throat.

You move your tongue upwards from the base, trailing it to lap around the tip of his claw before releasing his fingers with a small pop.

A line of saliva bridges your tongue to his finger.

The palms of your hands trail up his knees, pressing down the plum of his legs. “We’ve been over this, darling,” you tell him, inching closer to press a kiss on the edges of his lips. “Overlord. Radio Demon. Death.”

Alastor catches your wrists, playing with the tips of your fingers before intertwining them. “Just an Overlord?”

“Powerful Overlord.” The next kiss goes on his jaw.

“Then how would you give me my reward?” Alastor pulls back, pressing his own kiss on the ring around your finger. “Tell me every detail.”

“I could treat you like a king,” you say, brushing your lips down his jaw. Alastor leans to the side, exposing his neck for another one of your kisses. “

Your hands trail across his dress pants once more, stopping when your knees land on the carpet.

The side of your cheek nuzzles against his leg, and you smile up at him, locking his gaze to your eyes. You press your lips along the inside of his thigh, glazing kiss after kiss after kiss. Still, you keep your eyes staring firm into him, even as Alastor’s leg jumps from the sudden bite of your teeth.

The curve of your nose outlines his leg, and a muscle in his thigh tightens. It loosens and relax when you brush the pads of your thumb up and down.

Alastor crawls back to climb down the bed. A steady hand guides the plush of your thigh, beckoning you to crawl after him. It squeezes when his back hits the headboard. Alastor’s thumb swipes over the inside of your leg and he digs a claw into the skin. This prompts you to throw your legs over him, straddling his hip while leaving room for an erection to grow.

“Tell me how you would treat me like a king.”

“I could make an offering,” you tell him, rolling your hips to stimulate his softened member. The crotch of your lace underwear grinds on him. “...But I think I would prefer to get on my knees, and show you how I worship a king.”

Alastor grips your waist to pull your lower into him, steading you as you rub against him. “Just a king?”

“How about an emperor?”

A twitch pokes your crotch and it tells you everything there is to know–it’s still not enough. Alastor needs … “More.”

“How greedy,” you tell him, trailing your hands down his chest until it reaches his belt buckle. Your fingers tap on the metal over and over and over again. “Hmmm, then–How about I worship you like an Overlord?”

Alastor laughs into the air, breathy as he exhales. Sure, it’s a ridiculous notion…but his hips rut upwards to meet you halfway. The way his clothed tip grins on the crotch of your panties pulls a small gasp tumbling out your lips. It’s the smallest of movements but it forces you to press a hand on his shoulder to steady yourself.

Alastor grunts as he snaps his hips up. The claws on his hand dig into your hip when you grind down on him.

More….It’s not enough. You need mo--

Alastor’s bow tie is crooked. That just won’t do.

You pull on the edges of the fabric, unfastening the knot until it pools between your palms. The pace of your grinding slows as the pads of your finger trail down his arms. It wraps around his wrist, and you bring them to your lips, pressing a kiss on the inside before pulling them together above his head.

Another twitch of his clothed cock. It hits deeper into your core this time, prompting you to lean forward with a breath exhale. Never have you been more glad to be wearing such thing panties. The force of your shifting weight grinds your crotch harder into him. The back of Alastor’s head hits the headboard with a slight jump.

There’s an innocent smile on your lips as you take his bowtie and bind his wrist to the bedframe with a knot. “This looks much better, indeed.”

Alastor pulls on the knot and it unfasted around his wrist. “Are you doing this correctly?”

You keep grinding deeper into his cock until small moans release into the air. The pace of your humping quickens as you re-tie the loose knot around his wrist. 

“Don’t you know, darling? Overlords brim with power,” you tell him, trailing a sharp nail between the buttons of his dress-shirt until it snaps open. “I have to protect this feeble body of mine from such strength.”

Alastor presses a kiss on your cheek with a hum. “How smart.”

“Shall we make a deal, my dearest, darling, Overlord husband?” you say, nibbling the edges of your teeth on his shoulder. 

Alastor snaps his hips up to rut the tip even deeper, forcing you to moan into his skin. Soft breaths brush across. His hands dig deeper into your hips, pulling even deeper as he grinds his cock into your underwear.

“Slow… Fast. It doesn't matter,” you say, and the words come breathier than planned. “I will keep going until the knot holds secure. The moment it slips off, so do I…And I will leave, no matter how close … no matter how desperate.”

Each word brushes your lips on the sensitive spot between the junction of his neck and shoulder. Fabric prevents you from burying yourself deeply around his cock and moving until his hips bruise

Alastor leans backward to chase a greedy kiss, but you lean away with a smile. “..Dearest.”

“But we’re going to be late,” you tell him. “Afterall, reservations were mad--”

Shadow tentacles slither around your body, trailing across your waist and up your breasts. Darkness crawls between them, massaging the soft tissue. It trails higher and higher until it reaches your neck.

 “Oh darling…don’t you know?” Alastor says, and the tentacles pull your head lower until you feel the clothed tip pressing on your lips.

There isn’t much else to do but press your lips, giving his cock the smallest of kisses.

“I’m an Overlord.”

ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ

Tell me what you guys think! I'm not really used to writing such suggestive pieces lol Sooo some feedback would be nice.

[lovelyhan]

— down bad (so so bad) ⟢

it’s not like you’re curious about how the word would taste in your mouth whenever seungcheol calls himself daddy while talking to kkuma. nope. definitely not. 

★ FEATURING; seungcheol x pet-sitter!reader (ft. exo's sehun just 'cause LOL)

★ WORD COUNT; 5.7k words 

★ TAGS; friends to lovers, lots of denial, a twinge of fluff,  smut

★ WARNINGS; graphic sexual content (MINORS DNI)

★ NOTES; if u see me reposting this for the third time, no you didn't!!!!! JDKFGDJFKGGH i'm so sorry i should be working on one last enemies 2 lovers request, but the influx of kkuma content in seventeen street got the better of me,,

this is part of the doting on you! series.

★ SMUT TAGS; getting caught, vaginal fingering, oral (f receiving), daddy kink, dom!seungcheol, praise kink, nicknames (baby, sweetheart, pretty thing, princess), reader is touch-starved AF

★ SVT TAGLIST; @wonderfulshinee - @misssugarlips - @yourfavoritefreakyhan - @jeanjacketjesus - @just-here-to-read-01 - @hanihans - @venusrae - @taestrwbrry - @minnie-mouser22 - @dreamhannies - @thvhannie - @kkooongie - @gae-uls - @lenireads - @gaebestie - @ryusha-rose - @enhacolor - @ilyvern - @woo8hao - @spk93 - @tommolex - @stariightjoyy - @asjkdk - @horny4hoshi - @asjkdk - @stariightjoyy - @jiniesclub

★ SEUNGCHEOL TAGLIST; @changk6un - @renjunphile - @pluviophile-xxx - @noveniadelia

You spend a lot of time convincing yourself it’s not a big deal.

Because it most definitely isn’t. You live in a part of the city where there just happens to be a lot of idol and celebrity residences nearby, and ever since you’ve established yourself as a pretty decent pet-sitter, they’ve been enlisting your services much more than you initially expected.

But for some reason, every time the leader of that boy group whose dorm is right across the street comes to you with the most spoiled baby princess in his arms, it suddenly becomes a big deal. A huge, ginormous, larger-than-life—

“Hey.” Seungcheol grins, already dressed for today’s schedule from the looks of it. “I heard Sehun-hyung dropped off his dog yesterday, but we kinda have to squeeze in a last-minute shoot this afternoon, so…”

As if privy to the mention of his name, Sehun’s dog—a Bichon named Vivi—barks from your living room. He takes a peek behind the entryway to curiously peer at who’s at the door, but doesn’t make any moves to come out altogether. His presence makes Seungcheol’s dog, Kkuma shrink into her owner’s arms, almost whining. 

“Aww, baby, don’t be like that. You’ve played with Vivi before, right?” Seungcheol coos and you have to stifle a laugh at how he adjusts the pretty bow on her head before turning back to you. “So, uh, is it alright to double book you? I’ll be back for her tonight. Promise.”

Normally, you would’ve refused. Though you work from home, you don't want your attention spread too thin when you’re looking after a client’s pet. This is one of the main reasons why you mostly just pet-sit one at a time, but it’s as if the universe is intent on using your silly attraction to Choi Seungcheol against you—your usual terms and conditions be damned.

“Yeah, I think Sehun’s picking up Vivi later this afternoon, so it’s no big deal,” you reassure him before petting Kkuma affectionately. “You wanna go on a walk with Vivi later, Kkuma?”

Seungcheol told you once that his precious daughter is extremely picky about who gets to pet her and who should maintain a one-meter distance at all times. So when Kkuma has obviously taken a liking to you right off the bat, he knew she was in safe hands. Not to mention the assortment of positive reviews he’s heard about you from other idol friends in passing—he’d be an idiot not to ask for your help when you literally live right across the street. 

Lucky him that you’ll do anything for him if it meant you could have the pleasure of seeing Seungcheol right at your doorstep—flashing you that adorable, dimpled smile before he drops off or picks up his only child from your care.

Not like he has to know any of that, of course. 

“Oh, thank you so much,” Seungcheol groans with relief, shifting Kkuma into your arms before patting her head reassuringly. “My dad was supposed to pick her up from the dorms today, but something came up at home and he couldn’t make the trip. I owe you big time.” 

You chuckle at his gratefulness all while your heart swells as Kkuma nuzzles your chest. What an adorable little thing. “You know my bank account, Seungcheol-ssi.”

He shakes his head with a laugh. “I know you’re just messing around but really, you can call me Cheol. I think I’ve called in enough favors from you to be familiar at least.”

“Those aren’t favors, Cheol. You literally pay me three times more than you have to whenever Kkuma comes over,” you half-jest, startling a little when you notice Vivi circling your legs as he tries to sniff at the dog in your arms. “Anyway, shoo! Won’t you be late for your schedule? I’m sure a playdate with Vivi is just what Kkuma needs to kill the time.”

“You’re right, you’re right,” he sighs before leaning forward to take Kkuma’s face in both of his large hands—pressing a loving kiss on top of her head. “You better be good, okay? Oh, I’m gonna miss you so much, baby.”

Kkuma’s tail wags at her father’s blatant affection and you can’t help the smile that creeps up your face. No matter how many times Seungcheol baby talks to his kid before taking his leave, you don’t think you’ll ever get used to seeing such a side of him up close.

“Daddy’s gonna be back for you tonight. Promise. Oh, by the way, her vet put her on a sodium-free diet for a while, so don’t give her any treats. And…”

As Seungcheol fusses about Kkuma’s newly imposed feeding schedules and hands you a backpack full of pet care necessities, you find yourself zoning out—your head ringing with that one word that’s always made you a little flustered every time you heard it from Seungcheol’s mouth. 

“You get any of that?”

You blink, acutely aware of how Vivi has stood up on his hind legs, pawing at your thigh as he attempts to lick Kkuma’s face. When you realize that you’re just standing there like an idiot as Seungcheol waits for a response, you let out a dry laugh before setting Kkuma down on the floor.

“Yep, I only have to feed her once. Strictly two scoops. Not that I see you sticking to the feeding regimen though,” you tease while receiving the backpack from him. 

“You got me,” Seungcheol chuckles again. “Can’t ever say no to my princess when she gives me the puppy eyes and asks for another scoop. Luckily, you’re the one looking after her today, right?”

“Yeah, yeah. I’ll take care of it.”

Once Seungcheol finally takes his leave, you let out a long-winded sigh—pressing your back against your front door as Kkuma looks up at you with those big, dark eyes. Vivi seems to have made his way back to the living room after the initial curiosity and you’re glad that you don’t have to round up two energetic pups when your heart is still pounding in your chest.

To your surprise, Kkuma walks up to you, nuzzling your leg with a whine. 

Laughing, you sink to your knees to give her a few scratches underneath her ears. Dogs can be so attuned to a human’s emotional distress, it’s a little amazing.

“What does it feel like to be able to call him daddy?” you joke as she lays on her back for some belly rubs that you have no problem giving. 

The moment the question slips from your lips, you find yourself groaning again as you recall the tight fit of the black turtleneck Seungcheol was wearing today. How it accentuated all the features the fabric was meant to emphasize. You can only imagine how it would feel like to be caged in those big, beefy arms—

Kkuma jolts from her comfortable position on the floor when you suddenly shoot back to your feet, but you only feel half as bad for startling her.

You’re down bad. So ridiculously bad. 

Sehun comes over to pick up Vivi about an hour after you got home from their walk. 

Like most of your clients, he usually shoots a text before dropping by, but he must’ve forgotten the usual protocol. So when you hear your doorbell go off while you’re in the middle of watching idol fancams on your TV, the internal panic is very much warranted. 

Vivi bounds straight into his owner’s arms the moment Sehun comes through the door and starts licking his face. You smile to yourself despite clearly looking disheveled from how comfortably you’ve been lounging in the living room, but you’re sure Sehun doesn’t mind.

“Oh? He’s got a little playmate?” He raises an eyebrow when Kkuma waddles over to help herself to some of his attention too. Despite how he looks, Sehun gives Kkuma a few pats. “Hmm… Isn’t this Seungcheol’s kid? Or is it Seungkwan’s? Mingyu’s? Their dogs look all the same to me sometimes.”

You snort before handing him Vivi’s bag of necessities that every doting pet owner has up their arsenal. “You were right the first time. I’ve never pet sat for Mingyu before and I’m sure Seungkwan’s dog is in Jeju with his family.” 

He nods in understanding before locking Vivi’s leash in place. “I see. Wouldn’t be surprised if they started to have you look after their pets too, though.” 

When Sehun’s all set, you both discuss payments and he gives you his word that he’ll have the money wired into your account when he gets back to his place. But just when you’re about to send him and Vivi off, he pauses—glancing at something behind your shoulder. 

Curious, you whip around to see what caught his attention and—

“Uh, it’s not what it looks like, I swear,” you stammer before throwing your arms out as if that’ll obstruct the view this six-foot idol has of your television screen. “I left YouTube on autoplay and I guess it paused when you arrived, and…”

Lies. You were in the middle of watching every single one of Seungcheol’s fancams before Sehun arrived and paused whatever was playing on screen. It just so happens that it slipped your mind that the screen froze at a very tantalizing part of his HOT fancam.

You’re not sure how you’re going to explain to Sehun that you don’t usually watch your clients' fancams like some closeted fan, but thankfully, he’s always been discreet about a lot of things. 

“Right,” he says, obviously unconvinced but seems that he won’t press further. “Well, we’re gonna head out now. Jongin-hyung might give you a call in the next few days, by the way. He’ll be busy promoting his solo debut for a while and Kyungsoo-hyung’s growing tired of all the fur in his apartment.” 

You nod swiftly, glad to have another business prospect right after this one just concluded. “Gotcha. See you again, Sehun.”

Once you’re all alone, you carry Kkuma to the living room—laying her down on the plush cushions of your couch before plopping helplessly right next to her. Thank god it’s Sehun who unknowingly bore witness to something so embarrassing. If it was Jongin, he never would’ve let you live it down.

But instead of wallowing in your shame, you unpause the video on screen—watching Seungcheol’s fancam in front of his daughter without another thought.

Kkuma doesn’t seem all too interested, immediately curling herself into a ball right next to you before promptly dozing off. You don’t get to see it though, since your eyes are glued to the screen. 

Surely the jury won’t condemn you too badly for biting the inside of your cheek whenever Seungcheol sticks his tongue out with a smirk, right? This is an idol who’s spent nearly a decade in the industry—if not more. Of course he’s got the art of fanservice ingrained into his bones. 

But just when you told yourself that this is the last one you’re going to watch before hopping in the shower, you end up viewing a couple more of his fancams first until you make do on that self-imposed promise.

This one’s a clip from their most recent fan meeting, you think. A DON QUIXOTE performance that’s been circulating around social media for the better part of the month. While you’re not that well-versed in their group’s discography, you happen to like this song a lot specifically because of how raspy Seungcheol’s voice is whenever he raps his parts.  

When he decides to unclasp a piece of fabric that’s been getting in the way of choreography, you have to bite back a groan when he practically throws it on the stage with that domineering air he never fails to showcase during their performances.

You press your thighs together, hyper aware of the heat that’s sizzling in between before casting Kkuma a guilty stare. Though she’s just a dog, you still feel a little bad about lusting after her dad while she’s sleeping right next to you. 

You’re not even sure what’s got you so worked up today. This isn’t the first time Seungcheol dropped her off in person so you’re not sure why you’re feeling this horny from a few fancams alone. Shark week must be drawing near.

Either way, you end up quietly easing yourself off the couch so as to not wake the sleeping princess on your sofa—turning the TV off altogether before making a beeline for your bedroom to grab your towel and a change of clothes. 

If there’s a more opportune time to take a shower and wash away the impurities infesting your body, it’s now.

But just as you’re about to head to the bathroom, your phone goes off on the coffee table. You pout a little when Kkuma stirs from the sound of your ringtone—looking around sleepily for the source of the noise.

“Sorry about that,” you coo before settling back beside her, running a hand across her smooth fur. 

When you glance at the caller ID, your heart nearly plummets to your stomach.

“Hey,” Seungcheol’s deep voice flits into your ears when you take the call, sounding all sorts of tired. “We’re just wrapping up our shoot. I should be there in an hour or-so. How’s Kkuma?”

“She was fast asleep before my ringtone woke her up,” you chuckle. 

“Oh. Shit. Sorry, baby.”

You tense up at the term of endearment despite being fully aware that it’s not meant for you in particular. That reminds you to put your phone on loudspeaker so that the intended recipient could hear Seungcheol’s apologetic voice.

“I think Vivi tired her out when we went to the park today,” you tell him fondly. 

“Sounds like she finally met her match,” Seungcheol laughs on the other end and Kkuma perks up at the sound of her owner’s voice. “Can you hear me, princess? I’m coming to get you in a while. Keep being daddy’s good girl for me, yeah? I won’t be too long.”

Fuck.

When Seungcheol says your name and thanks you in that same, tired yet raspy voice, you have to keep yourself from melting into a puddle right then and there.

“Hope the double booking wasn’t too much of a bother,” he murmurs and—god. You get that he probably doesn’t have a lot of energy to spare, but does he have any idea what his voice is doing to your underwear?! 

“Not at all,” you manage to say without your voice cracking. “I told you Sehun picked up Vivi early today. It’s just me and this spoiled princess right now.”

“Spoiled, huh? I guess that’s one way of putting it.” Seungcheol breathes out a laugh. “Anyway, we’re getting settled in the shuttle right now. I’ll text you when I’m at the door.” 

“Gotcha. Come on, Kkuma. Say goodbye to daddy.”

You don’t know why that cursed word slipped out of you so naturally, but Kkuma seems to respond to it in kind—her tail swishing with contained excitement before letting out a soft bark for Seungcheol to hear. Your client (that’s right he’s your client, you stupid, horny—) coos at the other end of the call.

You honestly can’t wait until he arrives to get her so you can have some real, much needed alone time.

To your credit, the shower kind of helped.

Though you just took one of the coldest baths in your life, it managed to alleviate the heat that lingered on your skin once Seungcheol ended the phone call. That’s considered a win in your book.

As you towel your damp hair, you take a peek at Kkuma who’s returned to her little nap on your couch. The sight makes your heart flutter and you would’ve snapped a photo if that doesn’t go against the rules you’ve set for yourself and your humble business. 

Then again, fantasizing about one of your clients definitely goes against whatever principles you’ve been practicing all your life but that’s not the issue here. 

Not wanting to wake her until Seungcheol arrives, you silently pad off to your bedroom, intent on getting some work done before planning what you’ll have for dinner. However, the moment you hang your towel to dry, you end up lying in bed instead of hunching in front of your desk with a laptop full of backlogs waiting for you. 

You don’t even think twice when your hand inches past the garter of your thin sleep shorts.

Typically, you’d use one of your trusty vibrators to get off when you direly needed the release. It made things quick and simple. Plus, you don’t have to suffer through the ordeal of having your fingers pruning up. 

But your brain thought it would be extremely funny if you touched yourself to the thought of your fingers being Seungcheol’s instead of yours—gathering the slick from your aching pussy as he lathers your wetness across your slit.

While you’re…preoccupied in your bedroom, you don’t hear your phone buzzing on the coffee table outside. You’ve deigned to put it on silent mode so Kkuma won’t be rudely awakened by any unexpected ringtones again, but the decision is a bit short-sighted since Seungcheol did tell you he’d text you once he arrives at your door.

Said idol is standing in front of your apartment with a worried look on his face. He texted you about ten minutes ago but received no response, which is a little strange since you almost always reply to his messages right away. 

When you don’t pick up his third call, he starts to pace around nervously. Did you go outside? Were you busy? He’s normally a patient person, but when it comes to Kkuma, he gets jittery within seconds if there really is something to worry about.

Seungcheol tests the knob to your door but when he finds it unlocked, he’s further thrown into a haze of concern. Shit. Were you robbed? Where is Kkuma? 

Where are you?

He kicks off his shoes haphazardly in the entrance, closing the door behind him before twisting the lock as he looks around cautiously. There doesn’t seem to be anything out of place inside your house. The furniture is just as he remembered—not that he spends a lot of his time studying your interior—and finds no signs of ransacking.

Relief practically crashes over him in waves when Kkuma’s head pops up from behind the couch. She hops to the floor and zips straight into his arms, pawing and licking with all the affection she can offer. Seungcheol laughs, petting her to calm down before giving your living room another once-over. 

You’re nowhere to be found. 

Even if Seungcheol can just grab Kkuma and make his leave, he knows he’ll feel bad if he ditches you without a word like that. So after telling his only child to stay put at the doorway, he carefully treads around your apartment and makes his way to (what he assumes is) your room.

The door is slightly ajar and he could make out the figure of someone lying on the bed inside. With the knowledge that you’re safe and sound, Seungcheol’s shoulders relax. 

But just when he’s about to raise a fist to knock—

“Oh, daddy, please—” 

Seungcheol freezes on the spot.

He likes to think he’s a pretty decent person. Never one to think about or blurt anything remotely sexual especially if the situation doesn’t call for it. He also likes to think he has a pretty decent amount of self-control.

But for some reason, when he sees you with one hand buried between your supple thighs as the other paws at your breast through a flimsy night shirt, he can feel himself rapidly crossing that line he’s been so careful to maintain with you all this time.

Seungcheol should leave. While he doesn’t know the specifics of your love life—given that the nature of your friendship is mostly transactional—you probably have at least one person you’re involved enough with to call daddy while you get yourself off. He’s walked in on something he shouldn’t have and he still has time to recollect his thoughts somewhere else while dealing with the steadily growing hardness in his jeans.

But then, he hears you sigh:

“Cheol… Fuck!”

You’re on the very brink of the orgasm you’ve been craving since this morning when your hand is rudely yanked from between your legs. You jolt at the intrusion—fear shooting through your system at the thought of some psycho breaking into your house while you’re so vulnerable. But when your eyes meet Seungcheol’s hard gaze, you’re convinced that you’re dreaming.

“S-Seungcheol?”

To your horror (more like delight) he takes the hand that you’ve just been using to finger yourself to the thought of him—taking your slick digits into his mouth with a pained groan. The sight instantly makes your pussy quiver with need but before that…

“What are you doing here?” you ask weakly, not having the heart to pull your arm away when he looks so fucking hot licking the juices off your fingers. 

When his lips disconnect from your skin with a lascivious pop, he plants a kiss across your knuckles, smirking. “Those are such pretty sounds you’re making. Are they all for me?”

This is not happening. You probably slipped in the shower and hit your head or something. Because Choi Seungcheol—the client you’ve been having inappropriate thoughts about for the entire day—can’t be crouching in front of you right now, giving you the sexiest bedroom eyes you’ve ever seen.

You swallow thickly, trying to salvage what’s left of your pride. “Cheol, I’m sorry, I—”

He shushes you by placing a finger to your lips, the grip he has on your arm tightening with each passing second. You nearly moan when he presses his forehead against yours.

“Daddy, huh?” he asks, completely ignoring your attempt at clearing the air. “You want to call me daddy that bad, baby? So much that you have to get yourself off with Kkuma lying outside?”

Shit. That’s right. Kkuma.

However, in the midst of the moral dilemma that came with wanting Seungcheol to fuck you into the mattress while his adorable daughter was waiting outside your bedroom, you recognize that this is definitely a once in a lifetime chance. 

You’re not about to let it go to waste. 

You aren’t certain who it is that lunged in for the kiss. All you know is that Seungcheol has you pinned beneath his firm body as he licks into your mouth—larged, calloused fingers gripping onto your hips possessively as you moan his name against his lips. 

Your sleep shorts come off in no time. So does your shirt. It only occurs to you’ve been grinding down on the denim of his jeans with nothing but soaked panties on when he takes your bottom lip between his teeth—coaxing out a sound so heavenly, it shoots straight through his cock.

“You’re so pretty like this, sweetheart,” he sighs hoarsely, rolling his hips against your core so that you can feel how hard he is through his pants. “So fucking needy. When you get yourself off, am I the one you always think about?”

You want to say yes but Seungcheol captures your lips into another bruising kiss before you can utter a sound. 

He nudges your thighs apart with his knees, one hand reaching between your legs so he can inspect the mess he’s unknowingly made of your cunt. When he finds you wet and wanting, you feel a growl reverberate deep in his chest.

“Now this won’t do,” he tuts before sliding himself between your thighs, easing himself lower on the mattress so he can hook them across his shoulders. You mewl in anticipation and Seungcheol meets your gaze with a challenging smirk. “Is there something you want?”

“C-Cheol—”

“That’s not my name right now, baby. I thought you knew that.”

How the fuck does this man just slip so naturally into the subspace without making things weird or uncomfortable? If anything, the authority in his voice makes another bout of slick gush outside your entrance—making you pray to every single god out there for Seungcheol not to notice.

“Daddy,” you whine and the title sounds delicious in his ears. “I want you. Wanted you for so long.”

You want to curl in on yourself when you feel Seungcheol’s teeth trailing love bites along your inner thighs. The grip he has on them is weighted with nothing but gentleness but the contrast it has with his rough kisses is making your mind stutter with pleasure. 

“What’d you think about, hm?” he whispers. “Tell me all the filthy things you’ve wanted to do with Daddy.”

You nearly gasp when he flattens his tongue across your clothed core, breathing in the musky scent of your arousal. The overload in his senses makes him want to snap and have his way with you, but Seungcheol tells himself to take it easy. 

He has all the time in the world to make you feel good.

“B-But that’s embarrassing,” you whine, struggling to free yourself from his grip but Seungcheol tears your defenses asunder when he moves your panties to the side and licks a long, languid stripe along your glistening slit. 

The effect it has on you is immediate—you’re writhing against his touch, fingers automatically tangling themselves in his hair as Seungcheol helps himself to your cunt like it’s his first meal of the day. It doesn’t help that he’s so enthusiastic about eating you out. Almost like he’s thought about doing it at least once in his life.

“Daddy, please—” you whimper. “Need you…inside.”

“Not until you spill the dirty details, princess,” he chuckles before letting your panties snap back against your poor, sensitive cunt. You jolt at the contact, tears lining your lashes because of how desperate you are to get filled with something. Anything.

“I-I thought about you fucking me raw,” you start shakily, toes curling every time his nose grazes your clothed pussy. “Calling me pretty names and leaving your marks on my body. T-Then when I’m about to c-come, you tell me to hold it in ‘cause you want to come together. You’d also tell me how much of a good girl I am…”

Hm. An obvious pillow princess that likes being praised. While Seungcheol has a preference for calling his partners dubious names in the bedroom, he can make a few exceptions. 

Especially when you look so fucking wrecked for him when he’s barely touched you.

“I see. What else is cooking in that pretty mind of yours, baby? Daddy wants to know.”

You visibly preen at his words, further confirming his suspicions. Seungcheol has to bite back a groan at the sinister feeling that fills his chest at the knowledge.

He’s going to have so much fun with you.

“You’d— You’d use my pussy to dump your load inside me… Then you’ll just k-keep going even if I’m twitching and sensitive all over, fucking your cum deeper ‘cause you want me to keep it all in for days.” 

The mental image you’re painting inside his head is not doing his sense of control any favors, but Seungcheol remains steadfast. He won’t fuck you stupid when he hasn’t even asked you out on a date yet. He has more tact than that.

“That’s what I like to hear, pretty thing,” he chuckles before moving his head a little so he can remove your ruined underwear. He typically would’ve just torn the fabric in two, but he doesn’t want to scare you off just yet. “Such a good girl for Daddy. And you know what good girls deserve?” 

The innocent look on your face nearly makes him cream himself right then and there. “W-What?” 

With a no-good smile, he says:

“To come until you’re crying.”

Seungcheol easily slips in two thick fingers into your sopping heat, making you cry out in a way that’ll definitely pique Kkuma’s curiosity. He just hopes his baby won’t come nosing in where she isn’t supposed to while he takes care of his other baby the way she deserves. 

“You’re so fucking tight, princess,” he sighs—loving how your gummy walls practically cling to his fingers with each shallow thrust. “Can you even take more than this? I don’t want to break you when you’re being so good for me.”

You voice out your protest against his words with a pathetic mewl, bucking your hips against his fingers with erratic vigor. “N-No… I can take more, Daddy, please please. Want you to fuck me full. I’ll be good, I promise!”

Seungcheol has been producing his own tracks for years, but the sound of you babbling incoherently is music to his ears. As he continues pumping his digits in and out of your needy hole, he puts himself back to work—tongue tracing tight circles around your puffy clit as he forces your thighs apart. 

Your back arches off the bed at the sensation as your fingers desperately claw against the sheets. It’s so unfair how delirious he’s made you when he still has all of his clothes on, but you’re nothing if not his good little girl when you don’t even comment on it—focused entirely on the mounting pleasure he’s freely giving you.

When the pads of his fingers manage to graze that patch of spongy flesh deep inside you, your eyes nearly roll to the back of your skull. Seungcheol is all too privy to your reaction and you feel him smirk into your cunt as he curls his fingers to find that spot again—attaching his lips around your sensitive nub as he overwhelms you with stimulation.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” you cry, hands finding their way back to his hair as you desperately tug him closer. “Daddy, f-feels so good! I’m gonna—”

“I never gave you permission, baby,” he growls and you quickly whine when he detaches himself from your pussy. “If you want to come you have to ask Daddy nicely. Unless you feel like being a bad girl all of a sudden?”

You shake your head, hips grinding against the air in a desperate attempt to get his mouth on you again. “N-No, Daddy. I want to be good. Can I please come? Please? Need it, need you.”

His chest tightens at the desperate plea in your voice and for a moment, Seungcheol is honestly kind of scared of getting too used to your desperate whines. Your needy whimpers. 

How on earth is he going to go back to being friends after all this is over?

“Alright, since my princess said she’ll be good for me,” he laughs as your walls clench around his fingers. “You can come when you feel like it, baby. Come all over Daddy’s face.”

You don’t completely expect it when Seungcheol dives back into you, smothering his face in your pussy so greedily that you feel his nose bumping against your clit. He laps at your soaked folds like your arousal is the best thing he’s ever tasted—easing a third finger inside you as you muffle a scream.

“Yes, yes! Right there, Daddy!” you moan, tugging on his hair even harder as you grind your cunt against his face. “So close, so close—fuck!”

When you fall over the edge, Seungcheol doesn’t stop his relentless onslaught on your twitching pussy. Your walls clamp down around his fingers so tightly, he can only imagine how good it would feel to fuck you on his cock while you ride out your orgasm. 

The syllables of his name are all but broken when you frame them around a high-pitched keen. Seungcheol slurps up every drop that trickles onto his face and he only peels himself away from you once you’ve stopped thrashing against his grip.

In the aftermath, the two of you bathe in silence—nothing but your mutual pants filling the room. You’re looking at Seungcheol with stars in your eyes despite what he just put you through and the sight alone makes him more aware of the problem in his pants.

“Daddy, do you want—”

“No,” he says immediately and he feels bad just as fast because of the disappointment that crosses your face. “I mean—fuck. I want to fuck you dumb, princess. I really do. But I also really like you and it’ll be a chip on my conscience forever if I do that without taking you out on a proper date first.”

It takes a moment for his confession to completely occur to you and when it does, the dazed look in your eyes makes way for utter shock. Seungcheol wonders if he should be offended.

“You…like me?”

“Sweetheart, I’m a pretty busy guy. I don’t just let anyone come on my face.” 

You gulp. “For how long?”

Seungcheol shrugs. “A while. Now are you going to let me take you out on that date one of these days or are we going to have to pretend this never happened?”

You scowl at him. It doesn’t help that he still has that tightly fitted turtleneck on—distracting you from the topic at hand for a moment before you clear your throat and give him an answer.

“H-How about we go on that date now?” you suggest somewhat anxiously. “I mean, I was already thinking about where to get dinner after this, and…” 

Taking him by surprise, you lean forward to cup your hands over his ear—a devious smirk curling on your lips.

“Maybe you can fuck me dumb right after.”

Long story short, your first date with the idol you’ve been crushing on is a big hit. Right after getting himself to calm down (A.K.A., taking care of his hard on in the privacy of your bathroom), Seungcheol took you and Kkuma to a food park that’s open until midnight. 

It’s over dinner that you fess up and tell him the origin of your newfound daddy kink. Seungcheol has the gall to laugh in your face at your admission and you swear you’ll never pet sit Kkuma ever again if he keeps teasing you like that.

“Aww, baby,” he coos, pinching your cheek for added effect. “You don’t have to call it pet-sitting anymore. Now that we’ve established how much we actually like each other, don’t you think it’s more fitting to call it…co-parenting?”

Unwittingly, you receive his words with a scowl.

You want to smack him upside the head. Just because he’s a confident little thing on stage doesn’t mean he can just bring that side of him in a real life conversation. But for all your adamant bravado of insisting he’s being full of himself…

You honestly don’t mind.  

⟢ end notes: yay! you got to the end of my delusions!!! that said, thank you to nova @duhnova and indi @playmetheclassics for title help and going through this spur-of-the-moment filth for me!! rip to the original genius title, daddy's good girl(s) bc tumblr wants to censor it so badly LMFAO

i don’t have anything else to say aside from i’m so sorry choi kkuma

this is part of the doting on you! series.

[godsandmonsters505]

Roll Like Thunder | Negan Smith

dbf!Negan Smith (The Walking Dead) x younger fem!reader

(AU where the apocalypse never happened)

Summary: Negan is your dad's best friend and the two of you settle some tension while on your family vacation.

Warnings (18+): age gap (reader is college age, maybe 20-ish, and Negan's age is not specified but I'm feeling early 50s), smut (fem receiving oral, unprotected p in v), possibility of getting caught, edging

Notes: this actually kinda turned out sweet in a way I think, which is surprising because that's not often an outcome when I write for Negan lmao. not proofread yet because I just wanted to get it out to you all asap, but will edit if needed when I get the chance. hope you enjoy!! (also the intro is kinda long oops)

Grabbing your glass of wine you take another much needed swig, cringing at your dad and uncle. They always find some way to turn every conversation into a political argument while the rest of your family eat their meals and exchange knowing glances

Family holidays were always like this. The one time a year when everyone was together: your parents, aunt, uncle and cousins. Only this year, there was a new addition.

Negan had grown up being a close friends with both your father and uncle and they are still best friends to this day. He recently went through a messy divorce and this is his first Christmas without his wife in a long time. Your dad never was good with showing kindness or friendship, but your uncle had convinced him it would be a good idea to invite him to his cabin for your annual Christmas getaway.

And that's how you got here.

You'd always had a little bit of a crush on Negan, for as long as you could remember. Though you never saw much of him as a kid. It wasn't until you got older - old enough to be able to drink in front of your parents - that you got to spend more time with him. Drinking was a big part of their social life, so once you could join in, you got to know him better. You got on well with your parents so you'd have barbeques with them and their friends, join in with conversations in the kitchen when they'd have people over, go out to dinner. But then you went off to college and started spending less and less time with them. So now it's Christmas time, you're happy to be able to spend time with your family. And Negan, more than you'd care to admit.

"Okay fellas," your mom chimes in. "Enough of that."

Negan makes eye contact with you from across the other side of the table and you smirk at each other. You're both all too familiar with watching this from an outside perspective.

"The food's delicious, Negan," she adds, turning to Negan, who had cooked this meal for you all. Sort of as a thank you for letting him tag along. For the first few days in the cabin he felt a little out of place, like he was intruding on your family's time together. But eventually he began to find himself settling. You were lucky to have a very fun, non-judgmental family so everyone was happy to have him there.

You nodded in agreement with your mother's statement. "I'd have more if there was any left." You motion to your empty plate.

"I'm glad it's got your approval, ladies," he grins.

The meal comes to an end and alcohol starts flowing. Your cousins are all younger than you so they head off to their bedrooms to do whatever it is kids their age do.

"I'd better get these dishes cleaned," Negan declares, standing up from his seat.

"No," you say, protesting. "You cooked. I'll clean."

"It's fine, you don't have to," he says kindly.

"I want to," you smile. "Really I'm happy to."

"We'll do them together?" He suggests, coming to a compromise and you nod in agreement.

"You raised a stubborn one," he mumbles teasingly to your dad, patting his shoulder as he walks past him.

"She gets that from me," your mom chirps as the two of you pick the plates up from the table and carry them into the kitchen.

Putting the plates on the kitchen top, you head to the fridge and look inside.

"Beer?" you ask, peeking around the door to look at Negan's response. Though you already have two cans in your hand, knowing he won't turn down the offer.

He nods. "Can't do anything without a drink in hand in this family, huh?"

You close the fridge door and pass him his beer, cracking open his own.

"You should be more than aware of that," you tease. "I've heard what you and my dad used to get up to."

"I'm sure you've not even heard the most of it," he teases back.

You laugh softly under your breath at his response.

"I'll wash, you dry?" You suggest as the sink begins to fill with soapy water.

The two of you get the dishes done relatively quickly as Negan tells you a story from his college days. You have to keep yourself composed and remember who he is. Remember that these stories he's telling of him at your age took place before you were even born. A decade before, at least. But, every so often, as you pass him the plates to dry, your fingers touch his and such a small motion has you weak. You can't look him directly in the eyes as he stands so close to you. That signature grin of his spread across his face.

The two of your finish and you take a large swig of your beer, but it's no surprise that the flush of alcohol doesn't help your body heat. You can only hope and pray that your cheeks aren't beetroot red right now.

"I'm sure you've got plenty of stories, though, right?" He asks. "Being in college and all. And with your dad's genes...God."

A playful smile spreads on your face. "Sure. I'm absolutely not telling you though. My dad would have a heart attack."

"Ahh," he smiles back. "So this whole 'good girl' thing is just an act, then?"

Holy shit. Good girl? He has no clue what he is doing to you calling you things like that.

"I can be good when it suits me." You say, almost flirtatiously, and immediately kick yourself. Why the hell would you say something like that to him?

Your off-the-cuff reply has him grinning. He swipes his tongue over his teeth as he contemplates your words and you almost drop to your knees.

"Let's go see what political debate has become the talking point now," you say, changing the topic to hide your complete embarrassment. You leave the kitchen and head to the living room, Negan following.

Somehow, in the time it took you to wash the dishes, your mom and aunt have gone through a bottle and a half of wine, and they're sat on the floor with your dad and uncle playing some sort of drinking game.

You sit down on the couch and Negan sits next to you. Why? Why could he not just sit away from you? Give you some space to compose yourself? But the action is completely innocent. There is just less than a foot between the two of you, yet it still feels like he is on top of you. Like you're breathing the same air.

"What was I just saying?" Negan says, nudging your arm with his elbow. "Alcohol."

You shake your head in playful disagreement with your relatives' actions.

"Hey, mom," you say and her head whips around, as laughter escapes her lips. "Think you've had enough for tonight?"

"Oh, you're so boring," she waves her hand at you dismissively.

The four of them continue for about half an hour as you and Negan observe and laugh. The game finally comes to an end when your aunt and uncle discreetly head off to their bedroom for a reason you don't even want to think about. Your parents follow shortly after, your dad having to carry your drunk mom up the stairs.

You come back from the kitchen where you were getting another lager for you and Negan. As you do so, you look for the TV controller and find a blanket that was lying around. You sit down again next to Negan and look down at your phone to check the time.

"God, it's not even 10 o'clock yet." You laugh.

"Amateurs," he says sarcastically.

You pass him his beer which he thanks you for, then get under you blanket.

"Want some?" You ask, holding out some excess blanket towards him.

"Sure," he accepts, getting comfortable himself.

The whole situation you're in is completely innocent, but it dawns on you that you're currently alone with Negan, tucked under the same blanket. Given that fact, you make a conscious effort not to touch him at all and try to remain composed.

"Put a movie on?" You ask him, passing the TV remote to him.

He takes it from your hand, brushing his fingertips across yours.

You watch him carefully as he selects a film to put on, making sure not to get caught admiring him. He just looks so good. The salt and pepper sprinkled throughout his hair and beard. The tattoos that cover his arms. The way his white t-shirt hugs his body just right. You're brought out of your thoughts when he speaks.

"You seen Batman Returns?" He asks, looking down at you.

"Of course," you smile. "It's a classic."

"Feel like watching it again?"

You nod. You'll watch whatever he wants. Do whatever he wants.

"Absolutely," you answer. "I didn't peg you as a Batman kind of guy, to be honest."

"Like you say, it's a classic," he says. "Plus there's always Michelle Pfeiffer."

You laugh at him. "I feel you."

You polish off another beer as you watch the film. You try your best to pay attention, to keep your eyes open, but you grow increasingly tired. It must have only been fifteen minutes into the film when you finally drift off, reality slipping away.

When you wake up again, it takes a while to fully gain consciousness, You feel something under you head, under your arm, but you don't pay much attention to it.

You feel warm. Comfortable. You don't want to wake up, you could stay here forever. The smell of men's shampoo and cologne comforts you, a soft material under the touch of your hand.

All of a sudden reality dawns on you. You realise that your head is leaning on a shoulder. That your hand is draped across a torso. You shoot up, sitting upright and see Negan smiling at you softly through slightly hooded eyes.

"Oh God," you say, feeling incredibly humiliated. "I'm sorry." But he just chuckles.

You look over to the television and see a black screen.

"Did the movie finish?" You ask groggily and he nods. Fuck. You slept for the entire duration of the film and who knows how much of that time you spent laying on Negan's shoulder.

What you're only just realising now, though, is how close you're still sat to him. How even though you're sat up, Negan's shoulder is casually draped across the back of the sofa, dangerously close to your shoulder blades.

"Why didn't you just wake me up?" You ask, feeling flushed.

"You looked peaceful." He answers, honestly. "Didn't want to disrupt you."

"I'm sorry," you apologize again. "You should've woken me up."

"I didn't mind, sweetheart." He insists. "Honestly."

The pet name drives you utterly insane. As if this whole thing wasn't already enough. Your body feels so hot. What with the blanket, his body heat, your arousal.

"I will say though, you do talk quite a bit in your sleep," he smiles coyly and dread shoots through your entire body.

"Wh-what-" you can't even get a full sentence out. "What did I-"

A flash of a dream comes back to you in that moment. Oh God. Oh God, no. You can't remember the details, but you remember the feeling. Negan on top of you. His body weight on you. The ecstasy you felt. His hands on your body. His name slipping from your lips.

You had a sex dream about Negan while you were laying on his Goddamn shoulder. You're lost for words, but Negan is enjoying watching this play out. He bites his lip, trying to suppress his smug grin as he watches you realise the possibilities of what you might have said.

His arm slowly slips off the back of the sofa and creeps around to touch you, the movement making you flinch a little. What is he doing?

He takes his other hand and places two fingers just under your chin, forcing you to look up at him. The two of you make eye contact and you can't even contemplate what is happening - still a little groggy from your nap - before his lips are coming down gently on yours.

You kiss him back almost immediately. It's a surprising delicate and intimate kiss, and you daringly bring your hand up to his neck to pull him in deeper, but he pulls back.

You worry that he is having second thoughts, but the look in his eyes says the complete opposite. He just wants to get a good look at you before he tears you apart. You feel vulnerable under his hungry eyes but you love how it makes you feel.

The two of you take a moment to catch your breath before your lips join again, this time the kiss rougher. More passionate. His arms wrap around your back to pull your body snug to his and you intwine your fingers into his hair, tugging ever so slightly. His large hands snake further down and grab your hips, pulling you onto his lap. As you get comfortable you shift along his length and gasp, feeling that he is already hard.

"You were practically fucking dry humping me in your sleep," he chuckles. "You can't blame me."

"So that's why you didn't want to wake me up, then?" You're barely able to mumble, teasing him.

"Hmm, maybe." You can feel him smile into the kiss and it makes you want him more. Everything about him is so endearing. He just radiates this warmth, this aura, and it's radiating.

Even now, however, you're nervous to move things along. You know what you want but this is still so surreal, and it would be an understatement to say you feel a little intimidated in this moment. You have enough sexual experience, but this is Negan. This is different. So you're glad when he takes control and begins to lift up your top, pulling it over your head to expose your bra.

His mouth makes contact with the flesh of your chest, sucking and nipping while he reaches around to unhook your bra. He feels his cock twitch when he sees your bare breasts, taking a nipple into his mouth immediately as his warm hands roam and caress your back, travelling over your smooth skin.

As you start to subconsciously grind into his bulge, Negan continues to explore your breasts. You're looking for any kind of relief and you begin to find some as he presses up into you, but both of your pants are restricting you.

You feel yourself crumbling further and further as Negan's hands come around to aid him with his attention to your breasts, squeezing and practically groaning as he does so. The noise changes something inside you, and makes you realise that you need him stripped of his clothes right this second.

You grasp the bottom of his shirt and he briefly pulls away from you to allow you to move it, but the second you're done, his lips are back on your skin, leaving marks on your collarbone and neck. Next, you move onto the buckle of his belt but he swats your hand away.

Pulling back from the kiss, you look to him with wide eyes full of confusion. That look alone is nearly enough to cause him to fold and fuck you right then and there. But he has other plans.

"Be patient for me, honey," he says sweetly, and as badly as you want him, you trust him.

He pulls your body flush to his, so that your breasts are pressed entirely against the heat of his chest. Then he grips your lower back and stands up, holding you tightly.

"We can't do this here," he says, carrying you towards the stairs. You grind up against him playfully as he does so and he stops momentarily half way up the stairs, clearly affected by the action. In retaliation he gently swats your ass and you giggle at his response.

"Shh," he hushes, but he can't hide the grin that spreads across his face as you bury your face in his shoulder to muffle the sound.

Being as quiet as possible, he takes you into his bedroom which - awkwardly - is across the hall from your parents' room.

He puts you down on the bed, barely allowing himself to be away from you for a second, climbing on top of you hastily. He goes back to kissing you, the taste of him intoxicating. The way he kisses are gentle yet so hot and passionate at the same time, becoming increasingly sloppy as they shift from your lips to your jaw, neck, chest, abdomen, until you're a writhing mess beneath him.

Once he has kissed so far that he reaches the waist line of your trousers, he unbuttons them and pulls them all the way down. He throws them onto the floor, leaving you just in your lace black panties. He nudges your legs open and moves his kisses to your thigh. He's slowly breaking you and you're not sure how much more you can take. Painstakingly slow, he trails his tongue up your inner thigh until he reaches the edge of your panties.

Eventually he slips your panties off and you tremble as you feel the cool air of his room against your hot, aching core. He places his hands on your inner thighs to push them open further, mouth watering at the sight of you. The delicate touch of his fingers send shivers up your spine and you're in desperate need of more.

"Please, Negan," you say, barely a croak.

"Shh, let me take care of you," he soothes, his voice low and gravelly as he tries his best to stay quiet. "Wanted to taste this sweet pussy for so long."

As if to affirm his words, he lowers his head and licks a stripe straight through your folds, groaning as he feels how wet you are.

He then moves his mouth to make contact with your clit, your hips raising at the action. He starts off by sucking gently, leaving you aching for more as you reach down to grab his hair, not knowing what else to do. He chuckles as you do so and sends vibrations straight through your core. Unable to control yourself, a moan escapes you lips and he squeezes your thighs warningly, wordlessly telling you to be quiet.

He takes his time to precisely pull you apart, but then his motions begins to get harsher, faster. You feel that rising feeling in the pit of your stomach begin to spread after waiting for what feels like so long. He alternates between kissing, sucking, licking, nipping until you're desperate for more. Sensing this, he teases one finger at your entrance.

"Please," you whimper, legs trembling. He answers your pleading by pushing his single digit inside you in one long push, as deep as he can go, and keeping it there momentarily. As he continues to eat you out, he begins moving his finger, fucking you gently. When he adds a second finger you have to clasp your hand over your own mouth to stop yourself from calling out his name. Your legs wrap around his head, wanting to pull him closer to you in any way possible.

Closing your eyes, you feel that white hot feeling flooding through your veins, but right as you're about to reach your peak, he pulls his fingers out and his mouth away from you.

You let out a guttural sound, one of desperation which causes Negan to laugh under his breath.

"Negan, God, please," you whine, putting both your hands on his head and pushing him back down.

"So bossy," he mumbles with a smile on his face, but he obliges.

He doesn't use his fingers on you again, but it makes no difference. You're already pent up enough as it is that it won't take a lot to make you reach your peak. Plus, you don't doubt that Negan's skillful mouth is more than enough for you.

He circles his tongue around your clit, going back to sucking while using his free fingers to absentmindedly trace little patterns into your thighs. The only noises are your heavy pants and the wetness of his mouth against you, and it fills the otherwise deadly silent bedroom.

He's starting to become more familiar with your body and your reactions and he can tell you're getting close again. To which he stops and pulls away yet again.

"Negan," you almost cry. Tears prick in the corners of your eyes as you throb for him. "Please, I need to-"

"I got you baby," he assures you, stroking the flesh of your thighs comfortingly.

You can't bare it. You almost despise him for doing this to you, but you can't. It's all so surreal: having this man between your thighs. So often you have fantasized of it and though it's so wrong, it's now happening.

Before you can beg again, his lips make contact with you. This time he's a man on a mission. His tongue flicks against your clit as two of his fingers slip back inside you. You're so wet that it's an easy motion, but you still feel the tight, delicious stretch. He allows you to get used to it, building you up until he adds a third finger and you have to use all your power not to yell out his name. You try your hardest not to hurt Negan by squeezing your thighs too much or pulling his hair too hard, but he loves it. He loves driving you crazy, seeing you unwind for him. The noises you make. The taste of you.

Relentlessly, he penetrates you with his fingers, pushing and curling his fingers deep inside you, hitting a spot that eventually brings you your release. One last push, one last flick of his tongue and you're falling over the edge. You squeeze your eyes shut and you can't help the animalistic sound that leaves you as white flashes behind your eyelids. He continues eating you out through your orgasm and it hits you that you think you're doing something you never have before.

Once you manage to come around again, you let your legs relax and look down to Negan who looks up at you. He smiles smugly, your wetness remaining in his beard and it causes you to go weak in the knees.

"Did I just-?" Squirt, you want to say. But somehow it doesn't seem like the nicest word to describe what just happened between of the two.

He nods with a glimmer in his eyes as he makes his way up the bed, his body above yours.

"I've never-" you croak. "I've never done that before."

"You just needed a man, that's all," he gloats and you roll your eyes. "It was hot as fuck, for what it's worth."

He leans down and places a soft kiss on your lips. You can taste yourself on him.

You're still shaking a little, but you manage to pull back a little to look him in his eyes.

"Are we really doing this?" You ask, bordering on timid.

"Do you want to?" He counters.

"Yes," you say, quickly, not wanting him to think you're having doubts. Because there is absolutely no doubt in your mind that you want the man above him. Hell, you need him. But somehow you find yourself feeling a little insecure and needing reassurance. "Do you?"

"Darling," he laughs. "Not to be crude, but you just came all over my face. I want this more than you know."

You nod and smile, feeling more confident. "I'm sorry, I just-"

He interrupts your babbling with a long kiss to your lips, silencing you.

"You need to worry less," he says, bringing his hand to stroke your cheek sweetly.

"Make me." You propose flirtingly, smiling up at him.

"That I can do." His lips crash down on yours and his tongue intertwines with yours.

Reaching down to his pants you fumble with his zip, which he helps your shaky hands undo. He shifts both his pants and boxers down off his ankles, and though you can't see his length fully from this angle, you can feel its hardness press against your lower stomach and he feels big.

"You ready, baby?" He raises his brow at you as he grips his member and teases it through your folds.

"Yes, please Negan," you pant, even after having the best orgasm of your life, you still need more. "Need you inside me."

He groans as he slips inside of you and the way you practically beg for him drives him crazy.

"So fucking tight, holy shit," he mumbles into your ear, his head dropping down to bite and suck on the crook of your neck. "Oh, baby, fuck."

Hearing him say such obscene things affects you in an indescribable way. His voice has always been massively attractive to you, but now...you're done for. The deep rumble, smooth like honey, even lower in an attempt to remain quiet to your family in the surrounding bedrooms. It's like dark magic. It has you hooked. He could say the right thing to you with that voice and you'd cum right there and then.

His movements are slow, savoring the sensation of you around him. He wants to take his time with you. He never wants it to be over.

Instinctively, you wrap your legs around his back and lift your hips up wanting more from you. He maintains his pace, but does start pushing deeper inside you like you wanted.

"I've wanted you for so long," you say, not even in control of your words anymore. It's like he's fucking them right out of you. He moans into your neck at your admission and starts thrusting a little faster, as if in response to your statement.

"Do you know-" he stops speaking for a moment to breathe and compose himself, clearly enjoying this as much as you, "how often I get myself off thinking about you?" He punctuates his point with a particularly hard thrust and that - in combination with the idea of him masturbating to the thought of you - causes you to cry out. You thought he would shush you, but he seems too far gone at this point.

"A fucking pretty little thing like you," he says, his hands groping at your tits, his touch rougher than before, "it'd be hard not to."

"Oh god," you whimper. "Harder, please."

His movements get harsher gradually, following your command and getting you closer and closer every second.

He lifts his head up and the way he looks at you makes your insides collapse. To be the sole object of his attention. How he looks at you like you're all that ever mattered.

"I'm so close, Negan," you tell him.

"Taking me so fucking well, darling," he praises, reaching one hand down to lazily play with your clit. That's all it takes and he can feel it coming as you begin to squeeze around him. He takes your lips in a long, sensual kiss as you climax, trying to muffle your moans as he fucks you through your orgasm. Your hands are wrapped around his back, squeezing into his shoulders as you try your hardest to be quiet. Pure pleasure surges through your veins as he presses his entire body weight into you: suffocating in the most beautiful way possible.

Gradually, Negan's movements come to a halt and he stops moving inside you briefly, letting go of you come down from your high.

"You're gonna be the fucking death of me," he declares and before you can reply, he suddenly starts moving inside you again, faster than the last time, placing a quick peck on the tip of your nose as he does so.

He soon reaches a pace much faster than before and you're rendered speechless.

Your attention is grabbed, however, by the open and shut of a door somewhere. You gasp and your eyes widen at the sound. The possibilities of who it could be and if they'd heard you start to race through your mind but your thoughts are cut off when Negan clasps a hand firmly over your mouth to keep you quiet. He presses you further into the mattress as he fucks you even harder than before, enjoying tormenting you.

You listen closely to the footsteps. They're quite loud - that of a man - probably your dad or uncle. The pitter patter grows closer and your heard races, both from the fear of getting caught and from the sensation of Negan deep inside you. Hitting places you're sure no other man ever has or ever could. You relax a little as you hear the footsteps pass Negan's bedroom and head into the shared bathroom, the door closing afterwards.

Negan takes his hand off your mouth and you gasp for air.

"Oh my god, please don't stop," you beg as he sets a pace and sticks with it, snaking his slender fingers back down to your clit and circling it gently.

"I don't plan on," he chimes. "You're taking me so well."

You've never felt anything like this. Your entire body is numb and slick with sweat. All you can do is grab onto his hair and try your best to lift your hips to meet his thrusts.

To help you out, he grabs your body and switches positions slightly. He lifts himself up then clutches your thighs, lifting them onto his shoulders. Then his hands grip onto your hips and he has access to you in a way that allows him to go much deeper. You know you can't take much more. You're close to crying just from how much you want to scream his name.

Your eyes keep fluttering shut but you force them opening, wanting to keep them on the man doing this to you. His tousled hair, his flexed biceps, his tattooed chest.

"Harder, please," you whisper. "I'm nearly there."

Thrusting harder, he also adds his fingers back to your clit, rubbing harshly. It's almost painful on your sensitive nerves but it feels unreal and it's enough to build you up to near-ecstasy.

Your mouth hangs open but you refrain from making any noise. In one unexpected motion, he lands a slap to your clit and it sends your orgasm rushing.

"Good girl, that's it," he guides you through as your body starts to spasm.

He continually pounds into you and turns his head to the side to place soft kisses to your inner thigh, contrasting the way he now ruthlessly moves inside of you.

You contract around him as you cum and you can tell he is trying his hardest to hold on as he visibly hesitates, not knowing where to release.

"Cum inside me, Negan," you give permission. "Want it so bad."

Those words were all he needed as he spills inside you, the warm liquid filling you.

Gradually, his movements slow down as he fucks you through the both of your orgasms, fucking his cum deeper inside you, and then pulls out and collapses next to you.

You rest your head on his shoulder and to your surprise, he pulls you closer to him, placing a kiss to your forehead.

"Holy shit," you giggle, the whole situation setting in.

Negan's about to speak but his sentence stops forming when the bathroom door opens and closes again. You'd completely forgot about that.

The two of you exchange a glance as you wait for the footsteps to disappear down the hallway. Once they're gone, you relax back into his embrace.

Absentmindedly, you place your hand on Negan's warm chest, tracing the ink of his tattoos. Its surprisingly comforting having him this close, to be held by him. You're entranced by the smell of his cologne and the way his chest heaves up and down, catching his breath. He smiles as he watches you, equally as entranced by you. He can't quite believe that the daydreams he thought were exactly that - daydreams - have come to life.

"We'll have to do this again," he grins coyly, "some place where you can scream my name as loud as you need to." His hands run over your body, cupping your breasts as if to appreciate as much of you as possible.

"I'd like that," you smile back, snuggling into his arms. You know you can't stay here all night, but you'll appreciate it for as long as possible.

[chaosandmarigolds]

Dreamscape

(canon? whats that? we go with vibes in this house. Fem!reader, based off an amazing!! ask....um this is just sadness, I'm sorry.....if you want to add more sadness listen to Chasing Cars (yeah I cry to that song 99% of the time sorry))

One day..

With a grumble, he adjusted to the sudden shift of your body weight, to where you were essentially laying over him, and out of pure habit he wrapped his arm over the small of your back- only for you to whisper a soft ‘sorry’ before standing up all the way. Which caused him to think, it was a Saturday and there weren’t any Ops he had been assigned, so there was no purpose in waking up before the sun. So with a tilt of the head, he moves to sit up, watching as you tug out the duffle bag from the couch.

Maybe when the war is over…

“Love?”

You almost jump as your fiance calls the nickname and you turn around, giving him a little smile, “Good morning.”

Simon gives you a look as he turns on the lamp and watches your mannerisms, the timidness behind every movement, “Wha’s goin on?” A valid question, what had happened was that you and Johnny were assigned to what Price lightly put as a ‘suicide mission,’ and what you didn’t want to happen was for Simon to force then add himself to it- as it would then decrease your chances of survival by that much. So you falter for a moment, trying to avert your gaze. With a panicked breath you motion to the kitchenette, “I’ll make tea! Oh! And let’s use the special type, the one we got from Inida? Yeah! Yeah-”

Of course, the echoed whisper of your name made you stop your walk and you slowly turned to face him, your face downturned, you were an awful lair, you were never sent to integrations because you hated to see people hurt. And it killed you to see him searching for an answer, to see him scared for your sake- and for the great and terrifying Simon Riley…that was saying something.

Once the smoke settles…

“You’re not going.”

“It doesn’t-” You groan and throw your head into your hands, “It doesn’t work like that, you know that.”

“No, you’re not going, ‘ll take the spot,” He was grasping at broken shards of sense because he knew the choice was set in stone that not even a sword made of the purest of intentions couldn’t crack it. “Let me talk to-”

“SIMON.”

You take a sharp breath and look at him from across the room, by that time you were fully dressed, hair tied back, boots laced up. Engangment ring which was supposed to be switched out in less than a week hanging onto your dog tags. It took a moment to find the words but they were able to come after a moment, “There is no talking to Laswell or the Captain, there is no loophole, there is no replacing, there is nothing you can do. I have it covered. I do not need you to come and save me when I can save myself.”

Maybe once we got ourselves picked up…

The silence was stiff, and he then finally relented, slowly walking over to you, tucking the tags into your shirt, voice hushed, “Johnny ‘ll take care of ya.”

“I did…I didn’t mean it like that.”

“I know.” He pressed his lip to the crown of your head, “Jus lemme think I can save you from everythin.”

You stay silent, then with a short step you move to allow him to hold you, “You can.”

We can move somewhere far away, within the groves of tranquility …

You give Johnny a dull laugh as you walk down the rusted corridor, his laugh echoing through your earpiece. It was nice, laughing for what felt like the first time in forty or so hours, the mission was not even close to being finished and you were already running on steam. So obviously it was time for some lame jokes, “As much as fireworks sound fun, I don’t think I want that in my wedding.”

“Gah,” He chuckled from his spot, waiting for you to clear the hallway so he could follow, “Ghosty woulda lemme.”

“Oh yeah, Ghost would have loved it,” You return with a bitten-back laugh, and then turn the corner, leading with your gun, eyes looking over the blood splatters on the ground and you then whisper, “Clear.”

Before you could even blink the hiss of a gunshot hissed into your earpiece burning with such a pain you had to rip it out, hand going to your ear.

With a staggering step to catch your balance and blink the tears out of your eyes you were then met with a gun being shoved to the back of your head.

You never thought blinding light could hold such peace.

I would prefer our home to not be the shadows cast by the towering and rickety oaks, rather it be in the sun, lightened by new lives we could live

The carrier came back with supplies, no saved hostage, just two bodies left mangled by the enemy no captain even- the craft had been on autopilot.

A message, a warning left within that metal body.

The silence as the door swung itself open. They had all seen death, they had seen things no human should have seen.

There was something about the sight of their teammates laying tossed on the floor of an aircraft that made Kyle turn away

That made Price need a day before he filed the paperwork.

Something about it ruined Simon.

A large house ideally, so that way we can have as many kids and dogs as we want, something to usher in a new meaning behind our names

Silence is what he use to hold peace in, yet all he could hear when there was silence was the what-ifs, did you scream? Was it quick? Did it hurt? Why didn’t he go? Why did he let it happen?

That day he lost the only people he had loved and it was cursing him, bottles couldn’t cure it, opioids didn’t numb more than he had already been, nothing was saving him. He summed that up by saying maybe he didn’t deserve saving.

A garden, lively with bees and colorful with every flower I can manage to grow,

He couldn’t bring himself to go through your things, he was the next of kin, as for Johnny- all of his things had been shipped back to his family, yours? They sat where you had left them that morning you left, your notebook collecting desk on the coffee table, mug still half-filled with water. Lipstick stain still on his balaclava from the last time he took you out on a proper date.

In a drunken stupor, he grabbed the notebook, for the intention of tossing it away, forcing himself to forget every tiny detail of what was. But something told him to open up the pages, so for a millionth of a second he did, yet the sight of your handwriting which you would jokingly name ‘chicken scratch’ forever ingrained on the pages caused something in him to break all over again.

A porch where we can dance in the moonlight

“Riley.” John seemed shocked by the sight of the former lieutenant on his doorstep, sure he had offered ‘anything’ after the deaths, yet he never expected for Simon to take him up on it. For the first time in two years, for the first time since he had to discharge him, he saw what he thought was a completely sober man before him.

It was taking every ounce of Simon to not just turn away, to say it was a bad idea and run, run away from the emotions, but he was going to this…he had to. “You wanna build a house?”

A library so I can put all of those books you bought me, somewhere we can escape the haunting reality of the past

A year, he and John spent a year of work on the house once Simon found the perfect lot of land not too far out of London. Weekends spent from morning to dusk, John’s kids helping when they were in town and Eliza, John’s wife, coming by with food and to do the painting. The foundation has your name forever printed within it.

All of it sounds so poetic when I scribble them down, but the reality is as long as I have your love I am home

A garden he tended every morning and dusk to make sure they were perfectly planted, large enough to where the neighbors would come by to pick bouquets. He would watch the child run through the stone pathways, wondering what could have been.

The library was filled with novels he swore to collect, writing your name as the owner as he placed them in the rows of the shelving he took careful time carving.

I will love you forever and always, Ghost-boy

“You built a good home,” Kyle had told him, close to ten years after all of it had happened, sitting beside him on the porch. He knew it was probably the only thing that kept him alive this long, so he was thankful for it.

Simon nodded slowly, “Thank you.”

(annnyway, that’s all! Any and all comments, feedback and all that mean so much! Thanks for the ask!! <3)