#They’d been in the floor for a few days

[pitlanepeach]

Radio Silence | Chapter Twenty-Six

Lando Norris x Amelia Brown (OFC)

Series Masterlist

Summary — Order is everything. Her habits aren’t quirks, they’re survival techniques. And only three people in the world have permission to touch her: Mom, Dad, Fernando.

Then Lando Norris happens.

One moment. One line crossed. No going back.

Warnings — Autistic!OFC, Silverstone 2022 accident

Notes — Do I hear wedding bells......? I am aware, btw, that their wedding song was not actually released yet in 2022. I don’t care. It’s perfect.

Want to be added to the taglist? Let me know! — Peach x

June 2022 

It was nearly 1am in Monaco, and the apartment was dark except for the soft glow of the TV, which had finished playing the movie they’d put on and was now cycling through the Netflix screensaver. Lando was lying upside down on the couch, legs thrown over the backrest, a blanket over his face. Amelia sat cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by a sea of envelopes, glossy samples, test prints, and a very snuggly cat curled around the printer.

They were cat sitting for Max for a few days. Jimmy was hiding somewhere, probably. But Sassy had imprinted on Amelia and wouldn’t leave her side. 

The dining table was lost beneath swatches of card stock, wax seal stamps, and an alarming number of silver and papaya gel pens.

Lando peeked out from under the blanket. “Have I died? Is this the afterlife? Is this hell?”

“Shh,” Amelia said, clutching a save-the-date draft in both hands. “This one’s almost perfect.”

“You said that about the last four.”

“This one feels better.”

“I am literally having to be upside down to stay engaged in this conversation.”

“Sounds like a you problem,” she muttered, flipping the card-stock over and running her fingers along the raised print. “Do you think it’s too formal?”

Lando rolled off the couch dramatically and landed on his knees beside her with a quiet oof. “Let me see.” He took the card and read aloud, in an overly posh British accent: “‘Save the date for the wedding of Amelia Brown and Lando Norris. July 5th, 2022. Surrey, England.’” He looked up. “Shouldn’t we also mention that there’ll be a bouncy castle?”

“There is not going to be a bouncy castle.” She told him. 

“We don’t know that.” 

“We absolutely do.” She glared at him. 

Lando grinned, pleased to have poked the right nerve. “Fine. But I want there to be a chocolate fountain at the reception.”

“You’re twelve years old.” She muttered. 

“I am your fiancé.” He shot back. 

She snorted, and Lando leaned forward, pressing a kiss to the tip of her nose before glancing back down at the card in his hand. “I like this one,” he said sincerely this time. “It’s very you.”

“I designed it to be us.” She sighed. 

“I know. That’s why it’s good.” He looked up, tilting his head. “When do you want to get them sent out?”

“Soon.” She paused. “I wanted to be sure. I wanted you to be sure.”

Lando’s smile softened. He reached over and pulled her into his lap. “Baby, I’m so sure. Never been more sure of anything in my entire life.”

She rolled her eyes, but her smile was gentle, hidden against his shoulder. “Okay,” she murmured. “Let’s send them.”

Lando pulled out his phone and held it up. “I’m going to start a group chat with every driver on the grid. Call it ‘Wedding of the Year.’”

“Lando, do not—”

But it was too late. He was already typing.

And laughing.

And she was completely, undeniably in love with him.

—

The video call connected with a soft ping, and Amelia barely waited for her mother’s face to load before launching into her current crisis.

“—and I just don’t think the eucalyptus runners will work with the shade of green we’ve picked for the table linens, even if we go with silver flatware, which I’m still not convinced about because it feels cold, and I want something warmer, but gold doesn’t work with the papaya theme, and—”

“Hi, darling,” her mother said, voice gentle and amused. “It’s nice to see your face.”

Amelia blinked. “Sorry. Hi.”

“Are you a bit stressed?” Her mum offered, smiling.

Amelia huffed. “According to Lando? Yes.”

“Well, I don’t think he’s wrong.”

They were both quiet for a moment. Amelia’s mum sat at her kitchen table in England, tea in hand. The late afternoon sun filtered through the windows behind her. On Amelia’s end, the walls were covered in colour swatches, seating charts, spreadsheets open on her laptop. A candle burned on the windowsill — scentless, for her sake.

“I made a new schedule,” Amelia said. “I reordered the to-do list based on dependency flow and deadlines. I think we can shave off six days from what the planner estimated.”

Her mum nodded patiently. “That sounds very efficient.”

“And I found a new calligrapher for the place cards, because the first one had spacing inconsistencies and I couldn’t— I just couldn’t look at it.”

“Of course.”

Amelia didn’t notice the concern in her mother’s eyes until she looked up from her notebook. “What?”

Her mum’s smile didn’t fade. “Nothing. Just… making sure you’re taking care of yourself too.”

“I am,” Amelia said quickly, automatically. Then, after a beat, “This is just… how I take care of things. Planning helps. Lists help.”

“I know.” Her mother’s voice was warm. “I remember the schedule you made for your fifth birthday.”

Amelia smiled faintly. “The magician was late.”

“But you handled it. You always do.”

Silence fell again, this one comfortable.

“I’m not trying to be difficult,” Amelia said quietly, more to the air than anything.

“I know you’re not. You’re trying to make it perfect. Because you love him. And because this is important to you.”

Amelia’s eyes prickled a little. “It is. I don’t want anything to go wrong.”

“And even if something does,” her mum said softly, “you’ll be married to a man who adores you. That’s the part that matters.”

Amelia nodded slowly, eyes dropping to the table. “I don’t mean to be… hard work.”

“You’re not hard work,” her mum said. “You’re you. You’re focused, and you’re thoughtful, and sometimes you hyper-fixate and forget to eat breakfast.”

“I ate lunch.”

“Was it a coffee?”

“...Yes.”

Her mum laughed. “That doesn’t count, honey.”

Amelia leaned back in her chair, a little calmer. “I know.”

“And if you need help, ask.”

“I am asking.”

“I know.” Her mum’s eyes softened. “Now, let’s talk about flatware, shall we?”

—

The boutique in Monaco was a study in elegance. The air smelled faintly of jasmine and white tea, filtered through softly humming vents above. Soft jazz played through the walls. Everything gleamed — mirrored walls, crystal chandeliers, gold accents on ivory hangers.

Amelia and Pietra looked wildly out of place.

Their matching oversized sweatpants and hoodies, Amelia’s in a washed lavender, Pietra’s in charcoal grey, were rumpled and cozy. Amelia was also wearing a pair of trainers, whereas Pietra had opted for a pair of flip-flops. No makeup, no handbags.

The woman behind the counter clocked them in an instant. Her name tag said Dominique. She was perfectly coiffed, with a tight bun and blood-red lipstick that hadn’t smudged in hours. Her eyes flicked down and back up. Smile professional, but frosty — which only Pietra noticed.

“Bonjour,” she said crisply. “How may I assist you today?”

Amelia stepped forward with a wide smile. “Hi. I called ahead. I’m looking for a wedding dress. I’ve been looking at your website all week, but my magazines say that sizing can be tricky with wedding dresses, so I thought I’d come in and try a few on in person.”

Dominique blinked. “Yes, of course,” she replied.. “We do recommend a fitting with one of our stylists to ensure your silhouette is… appropriately showcased.” Her voice, just barely, trailed off into doubt.

Pietra’s gaze sharpened instantly. She crossed her arms and took a step closer to Amelia, her protective instincts flaring like a sixth sense. “She likes princess cuts. Sleeveless. Soft fabrics only—anything itchy is a no. Think comfort and sparkle, not scratchy couture.”

Dominique offered a tight-lipped smile and gestured vaguely toward a collection toward the left. “We just received the latest gowns from Milan. I’ll begin pulling some pieces.”

But Amelia was already halfway into the racks. The world of high-end bridal fashion had completely absorbed her. The rich fabrics, the layers, the delicate embroidery—it was a sensory feast. 

Until it wasn’t.

Her fingers brushed over a pale blue chiffon and her entire body jolted. She let out a high-pitched, unhappy squeak and yanked her hand back like she'd been burned. “Awful,” she muttered, stepping well away from the offending texture. “Like sandpaper.”

Pietra snorted and shot Dominique a glance that said, ‘Do not laugh, bitch. Don’t even try it.’

Dominique’s lips parted, perhaps to comment, but then closed again. Wisely.

Amelia drifted across the boutique, her gaze landing on a soft ivory gown with delicate pearl beading along the neckline. “Oh. I like this one.”

She pulled it from the rack, fingers brushing the satin bodice, examining the full skirt with genuine curiosity and care.

Pietra followed her across the floor, glancing at the gown. “It’s beautiful. I—” She reached out and felt the hem between two fingers. Her brows drew together slightly. “Maybe not this one, ‘Melia. Feel here.”

Amelia frowned and mirrored her, pressing the lining between her fingertips. “Oh.” She wrinkled her nose. “That’s a bit... sticky.”

Dominique hovered nearby, clearly itching to say something. Eventually, she broke. “That gown is more of a display piece. Very few clients choose to actually wear it for their ceremony.” Her emphasis was subtle but pointed.

Pietra opened her mouth, but Amelia beat her to it. “Oh, that makes sense,” she said cheerfully, still carefully inspecting the neckline. “It’s really beautiful to look at, though. I like how the beadwork isn’t symmetrical. Feels a little bit like a constellation. Not literal, just... deliberate chaos.”

Dominique blinked. She stared. And something shifted. Her fingers twitched slightly as if resisting the urge to take notes. “Would you be interested in our ‘Altair’ line?” she asked, voice softer, less clipped. “We have a few dresses from that collection still in stock. More tactile-friendly, very unique silhouettes.”

Amelia lit up. “Yes, please!”

Pietra raised a brow but said nothing. She was still watching Dominique carefully. Measuring. 

Within minutes, Dominique returned with a handful of dresses draped over her arms, the fabrics a softer mix of silk and organza, more fluid, less rigid. She handed the first gown over with a tentative sort of reverence.

In the dressing room, Amelia giggled, her voice floating through the velvet curtain. “This one feels like clouds. Actual clouds.”

Dominique even smiled. “That one was worn by a princess in Monaco—though we never reveal which.”

Pietra rolled her eyes but grinned. “Of course.”

The next hour passed in a blur of dresses and giggles. Amelia asked a million questions about seam placements, lining, and how much modification they allowed for — she was short, and she’d want to have some kind of double-lining gin certain areas. 

Dominique became quieter and more attentive with each passing minute, her posture loosening, her voice softening.

Amelia, for all her blunt honesty, was unfailingly kind. She wasn’t fussy or entitled. She didn’t throw her wealth around, didn’t boast about her fiancé, didn’t flinch when told something didn’t quite work on her figure. But she was also specific. Clear. Confident in her own language.

Eventually, Dominique excused herself for a moment. When she returned, she offered them champagne and almond biscuits—“here, we will need some energy.”

Pietra side-eyed her, amused. “Changed your mind about us, have you?”

Dominique gave a small, slightly embarrassed smile. “She’s a very discerning bride. We don’t get many who actually know what they want, much less why. It’s… refreshing.”

Amelia stepped out of the dressing room in the sixth dress, barefoot, the satin scarf trailing behind her like a whisper. It had a delicate, modern silhouette with embroidered thread-work along the spine. Strapless. Soft, pleasant fabric that she could brush her hands back and forth over without any kind of unpleasantness. 

Pietra exhaled. “That’s the one.”

Amelia looked at herself in the mirror, tilting her head. “It feels like me,” she said softly. “It’s perfect.” 

— 

It was nearly midnight, but the windows were still open to the balmy night air and the pleasant smell of the sea. Their living room was a comforting mess—seating charts spread out on the coffee table, empty mugs of tea on coasters, a crumpled note with “NO GRAVEL TRAPS ON THE AISLE” scribbled in Amelia’s handwriting.

Lando sat cross-legged on the rug, wearing grey sweatpants and a hoodie that might’ve once been Fewtrell’s. Amelia was curled up on the sofa in an old oversized Red Bull factory t-shirt with a hole at the collar, laptop on her knees.

“So,” she said, tapping the screen, “we’ve got your family on the left side, mine on the right, McLaren crew grouped here so they can escape to the bar easily, and I put the drivers who don’t get on in opposite corners. Mostly for fun.”

Lando leaned forward to peer at the digital seating chart. “You put Fernando next to Toto.”

“Yeah.” She giggled. 

He reached for the paper menu mock-up next to him. “So… food. Thoughts?”

Amelia stretched her legs out and yawned. “I still think barbecue. Like a proper British summer day. Chicken skewers, burgers, hotdogs, ribs, corn, chips, beers in ice buckets. Strawberry shortcake for dessert. Simple. Good.”

Lando tapped the page thoughtfully. “No little towers of food with sauce painted like abstract art?”

“No. We are not having foamed asparagus or edible air. I’m going to be stressed enough, I need safe foods.”

He laughed. “Alright, baby. Barbecue it is.”

“Good. And it makes sense since it’s an outdoor reception. And I’ve sorted out the fairy lights, where I want the paper lanterns. I want long wooden tables with runners and candles and the candles are all going to be lemon scented to help the people who drink or eat too much.” She bit her lip. “I’ll carry some nose plugs in-case all of the smells get overwhelming.” 

“My future wife. So specific.”

“Your future wife. Incredibly autistic,” she returned flatly, flipping a tab on her browser. 

Lando crawled off the rug and onto the sofa beside her. She adjusted her laptop without looking and let him tuck himself under her arm. His curls smelled faintly like his shampoo. It was a mild scent. She liked it. 

“So,” he murmured against her shoulder. “It’s all going to be a bit crazy, isn’t it? Getting married two days after Silverstone?”

Amelia nodded. “Yeah. But it gives you one full day to recover, which I’m sure you’re going to need since you tend to drive like your life depends on it there.”

He gave her a gentle nudge. “You okay with that timing?”

Amelia shrugged. “I think it’s fine. It’ll feel like a season high, no matter what your finishing position says. So, you’ll make it through without crashing, and then two days later, we get married.”

Lando was quiet for a moment, fingers tracing patterns over the blanket. “You make everything sound so easy.”

“That’s because I overthink everything to the point of perfection.”

He laughed into her shoulder, wrapping an arm around her waist. “And you’re sure about the marquee?”

“Yes. Big white tent, strung with lights. It’s British summer. It’ll rain at some point, and I want everyone dry and happy. Also I want it to smell like cut grass and sunscreen and citronella candles.”

Lando exhaled slowly, his voice low. “It’s going to be good, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” she said, her tone certain, her thumb stroking the corner of his hand. 

He leaned in and kissed her jaw. “I love you.”

“I know,” she said, grinning as she reached to close her laptop. “Now go and brush your teeth. And remember to floss. You’ve got a dentist appointment tomorrow morning.”

—

July 2022

The Red Bull garage buzzed with activity, a constant undercurrent of shouting, laughter, and hydraulic whines. Engineers wove around each other like ants, methodical and focused. The air smelled like hot metal, tire rubber, and gentle anticipation — it was only Thursday. 

Amelia’s clipboard rested loosely against her hip, dog-eared pages bristling with colour-coded sticky tabs and annotated margins. She was reading something intently when Max appeared beside her, a water bottle dangling from his hand.

“You look tan,” he said without preamble, eyes fixed on the front wing being slotted into place across the garage.

Amelia blinked, not looking up. “I had a spray tan. Hated it. Washed it off after an hour, so the colour didn’t develop as much as it should have.”

Max gave a small nod, considering. “It’s subtle, but noticeable. Looks nice.”

She looked up at him. “Thanks, Max.”

He shrugged. They both watched as a mechanic began fitting a sensor onto the nose cone. Behind them, someone called for torque settings.

“You nervous?” Max asked.

“For the race?” She scrunched her nose slightly. “No, Max.”

He cracked a grin. “I meant the wedding.”

Amelia blinked, then her expression softened immediately. Her entire face changed—lighter, brighter. “We’re finalising the reception seating chart tonight. It’s so much fun. It makes me feel so powerful.”

Max chuckled, low and warm. “I’ve never heard someone say that about a seating chart.”

“It’s like a puzzle.” She told him. “It’s strategic warfare. There’s certain people who can’t share a table, and then other people who’d be upset if they weren’t sharing. It’s like herding Jimmy and Sassy around when they just want to sleep.”

“Awful, then,” Max said dryly. “Celeste bought a new dress,” he offered after a beat, half-distracted as he watched an engineer lift one of the rear suspension arms.

“Oh. Cool. Me too,” Amelia said brightly.

Max turned his head to look at her, deadpan. “…You’re the bride.”

Amelia blinked. “So?”

“So of course you bought a dress. You’re not going to show up in a hoodie and pretend it’s avant-garde.” His tone was flat, but he couldn’t hide the smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“I did try on a satin jumpsuit with a cape,” she said, unfazed.

Max stared at her like she was deranged. “Of course you did.”

“It was incredibly itchy,” she admitted, pulling a face. “I couldn’t move my arms properly either. I looked like a Bram Stocker vampire.”

“Sounds like a missed opportunity.” He teased. 

She glanced at him. “I don’t want to look like a vampire at my wedding, Max. That’s why I got a spray tan. Lando offered to take me to St. Tropez for a few days to get some natural colour, but we’ve just been too busy to find the time.” She sighed sadly. 

Max made a soft noise of amusement, shaking his head. “Celeste’s worried about the weather. She said if it rains, her hair’s going to be ruined and it’ll be flat in every photo.”

“Oh. That’s fine,” Amelia said, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “There’s going to be a marquee. One with fairy lights and wood panel flooring. It’s weatherproofed and temperature controlled.”

“She’ll be glad to hear that,” Max said with a little smile. “I think she’s more very excited.” 

Someone across the bay swore in Dutch. A helmet clinked onto a workbench behind them. Amelia glanced at her clipboard again and made a quick note, then looked back up at Max.

“What did you think of the save-the-dates?”

“Very classy,” he said without hesitation. “Celeste put it up on the fridge.”

Amelia lit up. “She did?”

Max nodded. “Yep. Right next to a magnet shaped like a cat. She made me RSVP twice just to be sure.”

Amelia laughed, soft and full-bodied. “That’s good. I was a bit worried that she might not be impressed by the food options. She’s much fancier than me.”

“Nah,” Max waved it off. “She gets it. Barbecue food is safe. Comforting. No truffle foam bullshit.”

Amelia leaned in conspiratorially. “I hired Lando a bouncy castle. Don’t tell him. It’s a surprise.”

Max arched an eyebrow. “He’s going to cry.”

“Happy tears only,” she agreed. 

Max finished his water and tossed the empty bottle into the bin. Then he looked at her with something a little softer in his eyes. “You’re going to be a very cool wife.”

Amelia raised an eyebrow. “What does that mean?”

Max shrugged. “You hired him a bouncy castle, meisje.”

She made a face. “He wanted one. I said no, and he got this sad look on his face.”

“Like I said — good wife.”

She stared at him for a moment, and then smiled, just a little. “Thanks, Max.”

He gave her a casual bump with his shoulder. “Anytime, smarty pants.”

—

Amelia stood just outside the engineers' station, back to the wall, tapping notes onto her tablet with her thumb while sipping from a bottle of water that had long since lost its chill — she wished Lando was around. He would’ve already switched it out for fresh, iced. 

Her headset was slung around her neck. She was overstimulated but functioning — hyper-focused in that Amelia-way, where adrenaline and structure outweighed the noise.

Zak found her during a set-up lull, and approached with something oddly hesitant in his step. He wasn’t in CEO mode — not in the crisp way he carried himself during sponsor walks or team debriefs. He just looked like her dad.

“Got a minute?” He asked, voice quieter than usual.

She blinked up, adjusted her grip on the tablet, and nodded. “Sure. I’m just waiting on the new diff adjustment numbers.”

Zak nodded once and leaned against the wall beside her. For a second, they just watched. Engines turned over. Radios crackled.

Then, “So, your mom tells me you’re about done with all the planning?”

“More or less,” she replied, flipping the tablet shut. “The reception layout’s finalised, catering’s booked. Lando hired a live band — it’s that one he likes from TikTok.”

“Right,” Zak said. He knew the one. “And… it’s still two days after Silverstone?”

“Yes. Lando is driving us up the morning after the race.” She paused. “We hired private transportation for the guests flying into Heathrow.”

He didn’t say anything for a long moment. She glanced at him sideways. He was fidgeting with the rim of his paper coffee cup, lips pressed together in a line of restrained emotion. Finally, he said, “I was wondering… if you wanted me to walk you down the aisle.”

She blinked. Her brain flicked through five reactions before her mouth caught up. “Oh.”

“You don’t have to say yes,” he added quickly. “Or at all. I know that might feel… too performative for you. And if that’s not what you want—”

“I do want it,” she interrupted, then paused. “But I hadn’t even thought about that. I’m sorry.” 

“That’s okay,” he said. “There’s a lot to think about.”

She looked down, scuffed the toe of her trainer against the concrete. “I haven’t even decided if I want music for the aisle walk yet. It might be too much. Too loud.”

Zak’s voice dropped low. “Have you made other provisions?”

“What type?”

 “Quiet room? Down time? Emergency hoodie and sweatpants?”

She gave a surprised little laugh. “I’m working on that, yeah. Pietra helped me put together a little survival kit. And I’ve already warned the florist; no strong smells. I gave them a list.”

He smiled, but there was still something cautious in his eyes. “Amelia… I want you to really love your wedding day.”

She tilted her head at him curiously.

“You’re brilliant at putting your head down and getting through hard things,” he said. “But this isn’t something to get through. You’re supposed to enjoy it. So just…. Remember that you’re allowed to take breaks. You’re allowed to need silence, or space. It’s your day, nobody else’s. The only person you should be thinking about is yourself, yeah?”

A long pause. Then her voice, quieter, “I want everyone to have a good time.”

Zak exhaled, moved so he was fully facing her. “Bug,” he said — an old nickname, rarely ever used beyond her pre-teen years. “You’re not a burden. You’re my daughter. And you’re marrying someone who knows exactly what you need and loves you for it. This wedding doesn’t have to look like everyone else’s. It just has to feel like you.”

She nodded, once. Then twice more, just to be sure.

“I’d really like it,” she said at last, “if you walked me down the aisle.”

Zak’s smile turned warm and wide. “Then that’s settled.”

There was a call for radio checks across the paddock. Amelia checked her watch.

“I have to get back to Max,” she said, already reaching for her headset. “We’re trialling a new steering calibration.”

Zak stepped back, letting her pass. “Save me a dance,” he called after her.

She turned just long enough to shoot him a look over her shoulder. “Only if they play ‘Sweet Child O’ Mine.’”

He laughed because he knew that she wasn’t joking. “Okay, sweetheart.”

—

Two Weeks Earlier

The floor of the living room was a minefield of tote bags and half-open Amazon parcels.

Amelia sat cross-legged in the middle of it all, surrounded by boxes of earplugs, tinted glasses, noise-cancelling headphones, a fan shaped like a rabbit, and what appeared to be five different brands of lavender-scented balm. She was in a hoodie four sizes too big, sleeves tucked over her hands, brow furrowed with precise concentration.

Pietra lay sprawled on the sofa above her, holding up a checklist written in Amelia’s neatly printed block capitals.

“Okay,” Pietra said, tapping her pen against her lips. “We’ve got the fidget ring, compression vest, emergency gum, chewing straws, and a travel-size tinted moisturiser because we don’t want you to have stress rashes in the photos because you’re overwhelmed.”

Amelia nodded without looking up, stuffing the vest and a weighted scarf into a small ivory backpack. It had her initials embroidered discreetly on the strap, next to the cursive letting of the word bride. Her mom had given it to her as an early wedding-present. 

“We still need your sunglasses,” Pietra said. “And your mint-spray. Where is the mint-spray?”

“Bathroom cabinet,” Amelia replied. “Behind the cough syrup.”

Pietra hopped up to fetch it.

The evening light poured in warm and golden through the windows. The sea sparkled in the distance. There was an open bottle of wine on the coffee table, Pietra’s glass mostly empty. Amelia’s glass was full — untouched. 

From the bathroom, “Do you want to add tissues to the bag or keep those in your purse?”

“Both,” Amelia called. “In case I cry and then get a nosebleed. You know, logically.”

“Obviously.” Pietra reappeared with the mint-spray and handed it over. She sat back down on the couch, legs curled beneath her, watching as Amelia began methodically tucking things into place — familiar, practiced movements. Like muscle memory. “You doing okay?” Pietra asked, not pushing, not heavy.

Amelia didn’t answer right away. She zipped the backpack closed, patted it once for certainty, and then leaned back against the sofa with a sigh. “I just want to be prepared for all eventualities,” she said quietly.

“You are.”

“But what if it’s too much? All those people. The photos. The weather. What if I need to leave and I can’t, because it’s my wedding?” Her eyes were comically wide.

Pietra slid off the couch to sit next to her, shoulder to shoulder on the floor.

“I’ll be there,” she said. “And I’ll try my best to notice before anyone else does. And I’ll say I need help with my lipstick or something and we’ll sneak away to the quiet room for five minutes and whenever you’re ready we can reappear like nothing even happened.”

Amelia swallowed. “You’re really good at this.”

“I love you,” Pietra replied simply. “And I know you quite well. That helps.”

There was a long pause. Then, “Lando tried to convince me to let him DJ our own wedding.”

Pietra rolled her eyes. “Of course he did.” Then she nudged her. “Although, you have hired him a surprise bouncy castle.”

Amelia made a face. “You weren’t supposed to know about the bouncy castle.”

“I didn’t,” Pietra said cheerfully. “Until now.”

Amelia let herself laugh, quiet and real.

The survival kit sat neatly between them. 

“So,” Pietra said. “You want to rehearse putting the kit together again tomorrow?”

“Yes,” Amelia said instantly. “At the time we’d expect to do it on the day. Just in case.”

Pietra smiled. “Perfect.”

— 

Back To Present

Amelia stood just beside the Red Bull hospitality unit, half in the shade, a bottle of electrolyte water in her hand. She had a new colour system for this weekend — blue for weather conditions, red for setup adjustments, green for wedding reminders.

She was scanning a new data report on her iPad when someone stepped into her periphery.

“Amelia,” came a familiar voice, bright but deliberate.

She looked up, blinking against the glare of the sun. “Hi, Susie.”

Susie Wolff was dressed as sharply as always, white blouse tucked into navy trousers, sunglasses perched on her head. “I’ve been meaning to find you this weekend,” She said. “You’ve been impossible to pin down.”

Amelia tilted her head slightly. “Sorry. I’ve been... everywhere.”

Susie laughed. “That’s the word around here.” There was a brief pause before Susie tucked her hands into her pockets. “Actually, I wanted to talk to you about something — unofficially, for now.”

Amelia adjusted her grip on the iPad, curious. “Go on.”

“You’ve heard about the new series I’m launching next year? The F1 Academy?” Susie asked. “All-women, junior feeder series. The aim is to give young female drivers the platform.”

Amelia nodded slowly. “I read about it. Five teams, three drivers each.”

Susie smiled. “That’s right. We’re doing it properly. Structured development, real brand support. Not just a PR stunt.”

“Is there a technical side you’re looking to build out?” Amelia asked, already moving into that headspace. “Because if it’s a full series, they’ll need engineering support, performance strategists, aero consultants…”

“Exactly,” Susie replied. “And I want the best people. People who actually understand development from the ground up — and people who want to make the system better, not just replicate it.”

Amelia’s eyes narrowed, not in suspicion but focus. “Will the cars be spec-built or adjustable? Because if there’s room for development, I’d want to know the homologation structure. And the tyre compounds—”

Susie held up a hand, laughing lightly. “This is why I wanted to talk to you.”

Amelia flushed slightly. “Sorry. I just… like the details.”

“I know. That’s why you’re good at what you do,” Susie said. “You’re not just talented. You care about doing things the right way.” A quiet pause followed. “I’d like you to consider being part of the technical advisory group. Or even coming onboard in a more embedded role later down the line,” Susie said. “It doesn’t have to happen right away. But when the wedding’s over, and things settle a bit — I’d love to sit down and have a proper conversation with you.”

Amelia blinked. “Okay. Yes. I’d be interested in learning more. A lot more. I’ll want to know about track selection, vehicle specs, budget caps if there are any, team operations, logistics—”

“Send me a list,” Susie grinned. “I’ll send you mine.”

Amelia looked almost shy for a second, then nodded. “It’s nice. Being asked.”

Susie softened. “You’re more than worthy of the ask.”

They stood in companionable silence for a moment, watching a flock of engineers move a tyre rack across the tarmac.

“You’re getting married… next week, right?” Susie added, glancing over.

Amelia perked up instantly. “Yes. Two days after the race. Marquee. Barbecue. Fairy lights.” She sighed. “Bouncy castle.” 

Susie laughed. “Sounds like heaven.”

“It will be,” Amelia said simply, and Susie believed her.

—

The energy in the air was unmistakable — British flags, cheers echoing through the grandstands, the buzz of engines winding up to full roar. Amelia stood at the back of the Red Bull pit wall, headphones snug over her ears, clipboard clutched loosely to her chest.

The engines screamed through the first straight. Amelia's fingers clenched tight around her golf ball as the pack charged through the opening corners.

And then it happened.

A thundering impact. A wall of smoke. Screeching. Carbon shattering. Zhou’s Alfa flipped violently, spinning out of control and vanishing between the barriers.

From the pit wall, Amelia couldn’t see the full crash — just flashes of sparks and a puff of sand and tyre smoke. But she heard it. Felt it in her chest. The noise had weight to it. Finality. Silence followed, sharp and sudden, broken only by panicked radio static.

“Red flag, red flag, red flag—”

No immediate updates. Nothing from Zhou’s radio. They couldn’t replay the footage yet: the roll, the fence, the skid on the halo. No camera showed the car afterward. 

It was silent. Then it was loud.

Amelia stood frozen. Then she turned. Walked quickly through the back of Max’s garage, slipping past confused engineers, down the narrow hallway of the Red Bull motorhome. The lights were bright and wrong. Someone tried to talk to her — she didn’t process what they said.

She found a utility room, small and quiet, and closed the door.

She sat on the floor, arms wrapped around her knees, breathing shallow. Her fingers twitched. Her chest buzzed. She could still hear the sound of the car skidding, see the halo dragging against the ground. It was all replaying on a loop behind her eyes. She couldn’t stop picturing it — the impossible physics of a car upside down, skidding toward a fence at that speed.

Minutes passed.

And passed.

Nobody came for her. No updates on Zhou’s condition came through her headset.

Nothing.

She pressed her forehead to her knees and tried to focus on the floor. On the cold concrete through her trousers. On anything that was now. But her body wouldn’t settle. Her brain was flying, looping through “what if?” in sharp, screaming bursts.

She didn’t hear the first knock. Or the second.

The third came with a gentle push of the door.

Max.

He stepped inside quietly, closed the door behind him, and crouched. His hands stayed visible. His voice was calm.

“I thought you might be here.”

She didn’t lift her head.

“No news yet,” he said. “But they’ve got people with him.”

Still nothing.

Max sat down slowly, cross-legged on the floor, a few feet away. He didn't touch her. He knew better. He just waited.

A few more minutes passed in silence.

Then the door opened again.

Lando.

He looked rumpled and pale, still in his race suit, balaclava pushed down around his neck. His eyes locked onto her immediately. He crossed the room in three long strides and dropped to his knees in front of her.

“Hey,” he said softly.

She flinched when he touched her arm, but didn’t pull away.

“Can I…?” he asked, and when she gave the barest nod, he wrapped an arm carefully around her shoulders, pulling her close against his chest.

She finally exhaled. A shaky, exhausted sound.

“He hasn’t said anything on the radio,” she whispered.

“I know.”

“I keep seeing it. Over and over.”

“I know, baby.”

Max leaned forward slightly, phone in his hand. “He’s conscious.”

Amelia looked up sharply. “He is?”

Lando glanced at Max’s phone, reading. “Still in the car, but awake. They’re trying to work out how to get him out safely.”

Her eyes flooded. Relief hit her like a brick. “I thought—”

“I know,” Lando said again, holding her tighter. “Me too.”

Her voice cracked. “I didn’t know where to go. I couldn’t—everything was too much.”

“You found a safe space,” Max said. “That’s all that matters.”

The tension finally broke, like a string pulled too tight. She rested her head against Lando’s shoulder and let her breathing slow, her body uncoiling one inch at a time.

“We’re okay,” he said. “He’s okay. And you’re okay.”

“I hate this part,” she murmured.

“I know,” Max said. “We do too.”

They stayed there until her hands stopped shaking. Until the paddock noise calmed. Until the update came through confirming Zhou was being extracted carefully and would be taken to the medical centre — alert, responsive, talking.

Only then did Amelia allow herself to uncurl and nod.

“Okay,” she said. “Okay. I can go back now.”

Lando helped her up gently. Max didn’t say anything — just stood and offered her her clipboard, which he must’ve carried with him.

“Thank you,” she said quietly.

Lando kissed her temple.

—

The light had shifted by the time Amelia saw him again — Zhou, stepping carefully down the short steps outside the medical centre, surrounded by Alfa staff. His suit had been peeled off hours ago, replaced with team-issue soft-wear, and his gait was still cautious. The bruises were already starting to visibly bloom on his skin.

She didn’t rush to him. Didn’t want to overwhelm him — but she stood nearby, waiting until his eyes found hers. When they did, she offered a small, respectful wave.

He blinked in brief surprise, then shifted course to meet her.

“Hey,” he said first, voice hoarse but clear. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”

“I wanted to,” she said, holding her clipboard tight to her chest. “I just—I was worried.”

He gave her a small, tired smile. “I’m okay. Bit sore. Bit rattled.”

“I’m really glad. That was…” She paused, adjusting her weight from one foot to the other. “That was a bad one.”

He nodded. “Yeah. It felt worse from inside.”

She let out a breath. “I couldn’t find a video feed that showed you after,” she said. “Just the flip, and the gravel. Then nothing. It was…” She trailed off. “Too quiet. Too long. Sorry. I needed to see you for myself, you know?”

Zhou’s expression softened. 

“I hid in a storage room,” she added. 

Zhou raised an eyebrow. “You okay now?”

“I’m fine,” she said. Then corrected, “Better. Now that I have seen you.” There was a pause. “You don’t need to say anything,” she told him. “I just wanted you to know I’m glad you’re still here.”

His smile this time reached his eyes. “Me too.”

Amelia gave a small nod, then looked away. “I won’t keep you. You should go and rest.”

Zhou turned to go, then hesitated. “Hey—Amelia?”

She looked back at him.

“Thanks,” he said, quiet and honest.

She didn’t answer — just nodded once, firmly, and walked back toward the Red Bull garage.

—

The windows were down, letting in the warm July air that smelled faintly of dry grass and dust. Amelia had kicked off her shoes hours ago, legs tucked up on the passenger seat, sunglasses slipping down her nose. Lando drove with one hand on the wheel and the other resting on her thigh — not possessive, not even really conscious, just there. Like it always was. Like he didn’t need to think about it anymore.

Their wedding playlist played softly through the speakers — a curated collection of songs they’d agonised over for weeks, now serving as the soundtrack to this quiet little interlude between race day chaos and wedding week magic.

“Skip,” Amelia murmured as a twangy country ballad came on. “Too sad.”

Lando tapped the skip button without looking. “Agreed. Save that for the divorce.”

She frowned. “Not funny.”

He smirked, glancing at her. “Kidding.”

“Good.” She said, rolling her eyes. 

He hummed, switching lanes smoothly. A new song started — bright, summery, with the kind of beat you could slow dance to barefoot on the lawn.

Amelia smiled. “This one’s nice.”

Lando glanced sideways. “Reception dance?”

She nodded. “Fairy lights. Warm night. People a little drunk.”

“And us,” he said, squeezing her thigh gently, “a little married.”

She turned to look at him, and he was already smiling.

“I love you,” she said. No preamble, no big swell of emotion. Just a quiet, concrete fact.

He rubbed his thumb against her skin, eyes back on the road but voice soft. “I know, baby. I love you too.”

They drove in silence for a while, letting the song fill the space between them. Outside, the British countryside passed in soft blurs of green and gold.

Amelia reached forward and added a little star emoji to the song title in the playlist. “For the record,” she said. “I think this one’s my favourite.”

“Better than the one we picked for our first dance?” Lando asked, mock scandalised.

“Oh, no. That one’s sacred,” she said quickly. “But this one’s… sunshine.”

He nodded once, firm. “Good. We always need more sunshine.”

They were still holding hands when the song changed again.

—

The gravel crunched under the tires as Lando pulled the car onto the driveway. Amelia reached for the car door, her fingers slow from the comfortable stillness of the journey, and then turned back to look at him.

“This is real,” she said softly.

Lando just smiled, the tired kind that came after a long weekend. “Yeah. We’re here.”

The cottage wasn’t grand. That was the point. It was warm and tucked into the countryside like it had always been there — white roses climbing the gate, ivy twisting up the stone walls, windows that looked out across soft hills.

Inside, the air was cool and smelled faintly of lavender and old wood. Amelia wandered through slowly, running her fingers along the edges of the kitchen table, the old fireplace, the soft cushions stacked high on the window seat. Lando dropped their bags by the door, kicked off his shoes, and followed after her.

“This okay?” He asked, quietly.

She nodded. “It’s perfect. It’s exactly what I wanted.”

He came up behind her and wrapped his arms around her waist, pressing his chin gently to the top of her head. She leaned back into him, eyes closed, breathing in the quiet.

“We’re getting married,” she said, softly.

“In less than forty-eight hours,” he replied. “I’m going to be your husband.”

She hummed. “You’re going to cry.”

“No, you’re going to cry.”

“I don’t cry,” she whispered, turning in his arms. “Not very often. But I might. When you say ‘I do’.” 

He laughed, forehead against hers. “Yeah. Me too.”

The kettle clicked on in the background. A sheep bleated somewhere in the distance. 

They sat out on the back porch with mugs of tea, wrapped in jumpers and blankets, watching the last bit of sun disappear behind the trees.

Tomorrow, family would start arriving. The cottage would be full of voices and laughter and questions. But for tonight, it was just them. 

“I don’t want to forget this part,” Amelia said, her voice quiet. “The before.”

“You won’t,” Lando promised, turning toward her. “This is the part we’ll tell people about one day.”

She leaned into his shoulder. “Yeah. I hope so.”

—

The morning drifted in soft and slow.

Amelia lay in bed with the window open. The countryside smelled of warm grass and honeysuckle, the faint sound of birdsong filtering in. Somewhere downstairs, the kettle clicked on, and she could hear someone, probably her mom, padding softly across the kitchen tiles.

They hadn’t unpacked much. They hadn’t needed to. Just slipped off their clothes, curled up under the covers, and slept dreamlessly until sunlight nudged them awake.

Now, she pressed her cheek to his shoulder, warm and freckled under her palm.“You awake?” she whispered.

He hummed. “Not yet.”

She grinned. “Well, we’re getting married in tomorrow.”

That earned her a low groan and an arm wrapped lazily around her waist. “Good. Don’t wanna to live another day without being your husband.”

Downstairs, their parents were getting acquainted over mugs of Earl Grey and slices of toast. Lando’s mum had brought fresh jam. Amelia’s dad was already halfway through a crossword. It was quiet and easy—no wedding talk yet, no to-do lists. Just two families sharing a calm summer morning in a little stone cottage tucked into a sleepy field.

By mid-morning, everyone had wandered outside. The sun was gentle, filtered through clouds, and the garden was filled with the scent of wildflowers and just-cut grass. Folding chairs were scattered across the lawn, and lemonade clinked in glasses. Pietra and Max hadn’t arrived yet, but they soon would.

Best man. 

Maid of honour. 

Amelia and Lando sat together under an old pear tree, her bare feet in his lap, his thumb tracing absentminded circles along her ankle. They were listening to Lando’s dad’s playlist. The music washed over them gently, familiar and warm. 

“Still happy with our first dance song?” Lando asked, eyes closed, tipping his head back to the breeze.

“Of course,” she murmured. “Listened to it almost fifty times to make sure.”

He smiled. “And the reception playlist?”

She nodded, then paused. “Actually… maybe we bump that Arctic Monkeys song to earlier in the night. People will be drunker later, and I don’t want anyone butchering the lyrics.”

Lando laughed, light and free. “Good thinking, baby.”

They spent the early afternoon touring the venue with their parents, pointing out where the fairy lights would go, where the marquee would sit. Amelia’s dad was already asking where the power cables were going to run, and Lando’s mum wanted to know if it might be chilly enough in the evening to need shawls.

“There’ll be blankets,” Amelia promised, thoughtful. “Soft ones. I’ve already washed them with lavender laundry detergent.”

Later, they sprawled in the shade, Amelia with her head in Lando’s lap, her fingers skimming the grass. The light filtered through the trees like dappled gold, and everything smelled like home. Her mum brought out a plate of biscuits. Her dad had made a weak attempt at swatting a bee away from his lemonade and muttered something about never having a day off.

“Do you think it’ll stay like this?” Amelia asked quietly.

Lando looked down at her. “The weather?”

“The feeling.”

He stroked her hair gently, smiling with something steady and private. “Yeah,” he said. “I think it might.”

She let herself close her eyes.

Almost married.

—

The world was just beginning to wake-up. 

So was Amelia.

She stirred slowly, wrapped in a cocoon of linen and warmth, blinking into the blur of morning. Lando’s hand was already curled over her hip, grounding. She turned her head. His eyes were closed, lashes fanned across his cheek, breath even and deep.

“Lando,” she whispered, not wanting to say it too loud. “It’s today.”

He didn’t open his eyes, just smiled, the kind that made her stomach flip like it was 2018 all over again. “Mmm,” he hummed. “I know. I dreamt it.”

She inhaled softly. “Was it good?”

“Yeah baby,” he murmured, voice still thick with sleep. “Except when Max interrupted the ceremony to ask you about his DRS strategy.”

She hummed. “Sounds like Max.”

Lando tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear. “How are you feeling?” he asked, his thumb tracing gently along her cheekbone.

Amelia considered the question carefully. She could feel the usual thrum of her thoughts beneath the surface — a thousand logistical notes, backup plans, sensory considerations. But none of it felt too heavy. Not today.

“I feel ready,” she said. “Really ready.”

Lando kissed her forehead. “Me too.”

They lay there a little longer, curled into each other as the light grew warmer. Eventually, someone knocked gently at the bedroom door.

“Amelia?” Pietra’s voice, soft but excited. “Time to start glam time, babe.”

Lando groaned dramatically. “Oh no. I’m losing you.”

Amelia smiled and kissed him once, brief and sure, before slipping out from under the duvet. “You’ll get me back in a few hours,” she promised, already halfway to the ensuite.

“I should hope so,” he called after her. “Don’t ghost me at the altar, wifey.”

—

Two hours later, Pietra was kneeling on the floor beside Amelia, gently fastening a thin silver anklet around her left ankle. Amelia sat in a chair by the window, her robe tied in a precise knot, the lace sleeves brushing her wrists. Her hair was half done—soft waves pinned back with little pearlescent clips—and the morning light painted everything a warm yellow.

“You’re very quiet,” Pietra said gently, adjusting the clasp.

“I’m concentrating,” Amelia murmured. “And I’m… regulating. A lot of people are going to be looking at me soon.”

“You’re doing really well,” Pietra said, sitting back on her heels to look up at her best friend. “And you look… holy shit, Amelia.”

Amelia blinked. “Do I look okay? I haven’t seen it yet.”

“You look like the exact midpoint between goddess and fairy queen,” Pietra said, voice thick. “Honestly.”

That made Amelia smile; a little bashfully, her eyes dropping to her hands in her lap. “I think I thought I’d be scared today,” she admitted softly. “Or overwhelmed. But it’s just… calm.”

Pietra nodded. “Because it’s meant to be.”

Amelia exhaled. “Yeah. Maybe.”

They sat like that for a few more minutes, sunlight warming their skin, the soft sound of distant birds and shuffling feet below. Then Pietra stood and held out her hand.

“Come on,” she said. “Let’s get the dress on. We need to leave in twenty minutes — Max texted me, said everything at the venue is perfect.”

Amelia took her hand without hesitation.

“I’m getting married,” she whispered, almost like she needed to hear it aloud again.

“You really are,” Pietra grinned. 

—

Zak was pacing in front of the reception marquee, holding the tie he hadn’t yet figured out how to knot. When he saw Amelia approaching, dress flowing, expression soft, he stopped mid-step.

“Hi, Dad.”

Zak stared at her for a second too long. “You look beautiful,” he said thickly.

She smiled, coming to stand in front of him. “Thank you. Do you need help with that?”

He handed her the tie wordlessly. She stepped close and began looping the fabric around his collar. Her fingers were steady. He swallowed once.

“You sure about all this?” he asked, gently. “Really sure?”

Amelia paused. “You mean the wedding?”

“I mean everything,” Zak clarified. “You’re so good at looking after other people. I just want to be sure someone’s making sure you’re okay.”

“I am okay,” she said simply. “I’m in love. And I’m safe.”

He nodded slowly, eyes shining. “I’m really proud of you.”

“I know,” she said.

He blinked hard. “You want me to walk you down there now?”

She made a face at him. “I want to walk beside you. I’ll hold onto your arm.” She lifted her dress to show him her shoes. Flat, no heels, comfortable. “I’m not a trip hazard.”

Zak pursed his lips to hide a smile at her deadpan words before he offered his arm. “Then let’s go do this, honey.”

—

Mitski’s ‘My Love Mine All Mine’ was the song that was playing, echoing and ethereal. 

The guests were sat beneath the fairy lights and butter yellow bunting. Matching yellow satin drapes sat on every chair, lined the aisle, and decorated Lando’s pocket and neck. 

A yellow tie. A yellow handkerchief. 

When Amelia stepped onto the grass, everything fell silent.

Her dress shimmered faintly with movement, the delicate beading catching the light. The neck train draped behind her. Pietra was waiting at the right of the alter with Max Fewtrell standing opposite her, both beaming.

And at the far end, in front of the white wooden arch draped in green and yellow florals, Lando was already crying.

Not loud, not messy—just tears slipping down his cheeks in silent, reverent awe. Like she was something holy. Like he couldn’t believe she was real.

Amelia didn’t look away from him. Her fingers tightened gently on her dads arm, and then loosened again. 

When she reached him, Lando let out a laugh that broke into a breathless, teary smile. “You came,” he whispered, almost stunned.

“Of course I came,” Amelia whispered back, brushing a tear from his cheek. “You cried.” She smiled. 

“I love you,” he leaned in, forehead against hers.

She got up on her tiptoes, brushed her lips against his in a teasing brush. “I know. Prove it by marrying me.”

—

Their guests, family and a few friends, most of the drivers who’s been available, were hushed, reverent. Somewhere in the background, a bee buzzed near a flower. Lando’s hands were shaking.

Pietra handed Amelia her bouquet. Her fingers brushed Amelia’s for a moment, grounding her. Max gave Lando a nod from his place at his side, full of quiet reassurance.

The celebrant, a family friend with a calm, steady voice, began to speak, but Amelia barely heard her. Her eyes were fixed on Lando, his on her. Everything else dulled to a blur.

When the moment for vows came, the officiant stepped back slightly.

“Lando?” She prompted.

He took a breath, folded the note he’d brought, and looked at Amelia instead.

“I wrote something down,” he admitted, “but it doesn’t cover it. So I’m just going to say it.”

Amelia’s hands were steady, clasped around her bouquet. Her eyes never left his.

“You are the most brilliant person I’ve ever met,” Lando said. “You make me laugh even when I’m miserable. You know every single version of me, even the ones I don’t like, and you stay. You stay and you care and you see me.” He smiled, a little watery. “I thought that love had to be complicated. Dramatic. Loud. But loving you isn’t like that. It’s quiet and constant and safe. And it makes sense all the time.” 

A few sniffles rippled from the front row. 

“I promise to make space for you,” Lando continued, his voice cracking just slightly. “I promise to honour what you need, even when it’s different from what I need. I promise to soundproof every room if I have to—”

Amelia laughed through her tears.

“—and I promise to never stop choosing you. Not for a day. Not for a second.”

The officiant turned to Amelia. “And you, Amelia?”

She nodded, cleared her throat once, and began. Her voice was quiet, but sure.

“I love you, Lando Norris. You see me in a way that nobody else ever has,” she said. “You never try to fix me, and you always know when to listen. You let me be exactly who I am, even when it’s hard.”

Lando was crying again.

“You love me in a way I didn’t know was possible,” Amelia said. “Not despite the parts of me that are different—but because of them. You’ve never made me feel like I had to be smaller, or easier, or quieter.” She smiled, her hands tight around the bouquet. “I promise to always tell you the truth, even when it’s inconvenient. I promise to make spreadsheets for our holidays and set reminders for the laundry. I promise to protect your peace as fiercely as you protect mine. And I promise to be your home. Always.”

Lando made a small, helpless noise. Max gave his shoulder a hard pat.

The rings were passed forward by Max and Pietra, both watery eyed and sniffly. The metal was matte gold—simple, unflashy, chosen after hours of quiet discussion and Amelia’s very specific pros and cons list.

They slid the bands onto each other’s fingers with shaking hands.

“I now pronounce you husband and wife,” the officiant said warmly. “You may kiss—”

But Lando didn’t wait.

He leaned in and kissed Amelia like it was the only thing in the world that made sense. She kissed him back, anchoring him, grounding him. Their hands remained linked between them.

Applause rose up around them, soft and full of joy.

But Amelia didn’t really hear it.

All of her attention was on him. 

Her Lando. 

Her husband. 

NEXT CHAPTER

[lila-lou]

✨Temper - 1/2✨

Summary: Being with Ben was tough... more than tough, actually. Yet, you stayed because you loved him. But when he thought you were going to leave, he snapped.

Pairing: Soldier Boy x Reader (Kinda dark)

Warnings: 18+ only! Language, Angst, Hurt, Manipulation, Humiliation

Word Count: 5005

A/N: English isn’t my first language, please be lenient.💜

It had only been a few months since you’d agreed to go out with Ben. Back then, you barely knew him beyond the rumors and the occasional encounter while you worked your usual behind-the-scenes gig for Butcher's team under Grace Mallory. At first, you only saw Ben in passing, one of those faces that would show up on your floor once in a blue moon. But after that first real meeting—when he actually stopped and looked at you—his visits became more frequent. You just hadn’t pieced it together then; he’d made a habit of running into you on purpose. And you didn’t know that, to him, you were the first woman who’d caught his eye in any real way since he’d woken up in this world that felt like it had left him behind.

One day, he’d shown up in front of your desk, asking—no, demanding—that you go out with him. Looking back, you should’ve known better than to say yes, especially with a supe, let alone Soldier Boy. But you did, and you went down that path. After the first time you slept together, you’d ended up in the hospital for two nights. Trying to explain to the doctors that it was consensual hadn’t been easy, though. Ben had tried to keep himself controlled, but it had been a while for him—a long while. And as he’d put it himself, you were an “extraordinary little delicate, breakable fucking human”.

Once you got out of the hospital, something in him shifted. He seemed to realize he needed to handle you more carefully, and he did. Behind closed doors, he’d learned to be gentler, even protective. But out in the open, he was still Soldier Boy: that same smug, misogynistic ass he was with everyone else, including you. It wasn’t exactly shocking, then, that you were dreading tonight—Thanksgiving dinner, with the whole team. Annie, Frenchie, everyone. They’d learned to tolerate Ben over time, but nobody exactly wanted him there. Now, as your boyfriend, he was on the guest list, thanks to Annie’s reluctant invite. And while he claimed he didn’t even want to go, you’d hoped this might be a chance to show the others that there was more to him—the side you’d managed to uncover behind closed doors.

You’re standing in front of the mirror, adjusting your hair for what feels like the tenth time. Ben’s in the other room, making his presence known with muttered complaints. His apartment finally feels like it belongs to a living person instead of a display model—thanks to you—but tonight, he’s just grumbling.

He walks into the bedroom, shirt half-buttoned, and catches your eye in the mirror. “You know, doll, this whole ‘let’s play family with the goody-goody gang’ is really killing my weekend plans”, he says, scratching his jaw. “Would much rather keep you here. Or hell, maybe on the kitchen counter. I got about fifty better ideas than sittin’ around with those idiots”.

You give him a look through the mirror. “You mean spending a few hours without throwing punches is torture? Poor you”.

“Hey, I’m serious”. He steps closer, tilting his head as he gives you a very blatant once-over, his gaze lingering. “I mean, who the hell needs Thanksgiving dinner when I’ve got you lookin’ like that in my bedroom?”. His hand slides to your hip, grip possessive as he pulls you back against him. “Hell, doll, I’d rather get a different kinda appetite satisfied tonight”.

You suppress an eye roll and push him back, turning to face him. “It’s Thanksgiving, Ben. It’s one night. You can survive that, right? Just try to be, I don’t know, civil?.”

He scoffs, buttoning his cuffs with an exaggerated eye-roll. “Civil? That’s rich. You think they’re gonna put on their best manners around me? Especially that French fuck with the weird accent and grease-slicked hair. Probably think he’s some kinda ladies’ man, too. Bet he couldn’t handle five minutes with you”.

“Ben, focus”, you say, tightening his collar. “All I’m asking is you leave everyone alone for one night. No macho crap, no reminding everyone you’re some old-school badass”.

He grins, raising an eyebrow. “Oh, is that what you call it? When you were under me last night, I remember you callin’ it a few different things”. He leans down, voice rough and low in your ear, hand slipping down your back in a way that makes you want to laugh and smack him at the same time. “Tell you what. I’ll sit through this little dinner party if you give me a reason to look forward to what happens after”.

You laugh despite yourself. “How about we survive dinner without a single brawl, and maybe we’ll see about that?”.

“Now you’re talkin’”, he says, grinning as he stands back.

You sigh, adjusting his collar. “But remember: no fights, no dirty looks, and no making Annie feel like she’s gonna throw up every time you open your mouth”.

Ben grins, staring at himself in the mirror over your shoulder, brushing through his hair with a lazy flick of his hand. His gaze is fixed on his own reflection, barely glancing at you but making sure his smirk is on full display. “Gotta say, sweetheart, I’m doin’ Annie a favor even showin’ up. Girl probably hasn’t been within ten feet of a real man her whole damn life”.

You shoot him a sharp look. “Ben, that’s exactly what I mean. Don’t talk like that tonight, especially around her”.

But he’s not listening, too busy adjusting his hair and then letting his hand drop to his slacks, pulling them down just a bit to settle more comfortably. “What? Just callin’ it how I see it. She acts like she’s got it all figured out, lookin’ down on me like I’m some kinda relic”. He snorts, running his thumb along his belt line, low and casual. “Let’s see how long she’d last back in my day, where girls actually had a use. Not just walkin’ around preachin’ about how the world should be”.

You raise an eyebrow, keeping your voice steady, though there’s a flicker of something in your eyes. “Is that how you see me too, Ben?”. You ask quietly, crossing your arms as you stare at him in the mirror. There’s just a hint of sadness there, something you hadn’t meant to let slip, but his words had dug in just enough.

Ben pauses, his hand still resting on his belt as he finally meets your eyes in the mirror. For a moment, his usual cocky smirk falters, replaced with a flicker of something almost defensive. “Aw, come on, doll”, he mutters, glancing away as if the question had caught him off guard. “You’re different”.

“Different?”, you press, voice low. “What does that even mean?”.

He sighs, scratching his jaw in clear discomfort, like he’s irritated he even has to explain himself. “Look, you’re not like them, alright? You know how the world works; you’re not runnin’ around with some half-baked fantasy about savin’ it. You get it”. He shrugs, trying to brush it off like it’s obvious. “That’s why you’re here with me, isn’t it? Not one of those self-righteous pricks”.

You hold his gaze in the mirror, the tension thick between you. “Sometimes, Ben”, you say slowly, “I wonder if you really see me. Or if I’m just… convenient for you”.

He lets out a frustrated huff, turning to face you directly. “Convenient? Fuck, sweetheart, if I wanted convenient, I’d find someone who didn’t give me hell every other day”. He steps closer, crowding you in with his presence, his expression hardening, voice low. “If you didn’t mean somethin’ to me, I wouldn’t be here, wastin’ my time with all this domestic crap, would I?”.

The sharp edge in his words makes you falter for a moment, but he doesn’t stop, his eyes darkening as he looks at you. “You’re the one thing I got that’s worth a fuck. Doesn’t mean I’m gonna change who I am just to play nice with a bunch of do-gooders”.

There’s a beat of silence as his words sink in, and his grip on your arm loosens slightly. He swallows, and for once, there’s a rare flicker of something almost vulnerable in his eyes as he holds your gaze. “Look, just… don’t go thinkin’ you’re like them. ’Cause you’re not, alright?”.

You nod slowly, searching his face. “Alright”, you say softly. “But just… try to remember that when you’re around them tonight. I don’t want to spend Thanksgiving defending you to everyone”.

He gives you a lopsided grin, clearly relieved to move past the heavy moment. “Yeah, yeah. I’ll be a good little soldier. No promises on the French guy, though”. He straightens his jacket, glancing at himself in the mirror one last time with his usual self-satisfied smirk. “Let’s go knock their boring little socks off, huh?”.

You start to open your mouth to complain, maybe give him one last lecture on behaving himself, but before you can get a word out, Ben reaches out, gripping the back of your neck with a rough, firm hold. He pulls you close, his lips crashing down on yours with a raw intensity that leaves no room for protest, only for the surge of heat that spreads through you. His other hand finds its way to your hip, fingers digging into you possessively before sliding lower to grab a handful of you, pulling you against him.

The kiss is forceful, unapologetic, and so very him, as if he’s reminding you in his own twisted way just how much he means those rough-edged words he’d let slip moments ago. When he finally pulls back, his face hovers close to yours, his smirk returning, but there's a new edge to it, something dark and possessive.

“Guess that shut you up, huh, sweetheart?”, he mutters, his hand still resting on the back of your neck, thumb brushing the edge of your jaw. “Couldn’t stand there and let you think I don’t see you. I see you, alright. Better than any of those sorry excuses out there ever could”.

You swallow, your heart pounding as you try to find your balance, both physically and mentally. His words settle into you, their impact intensified by the fire he’d ignited with his touch.

He steps back, just enough to give you a little breathing room, but his hand lingers, keeping you close. “Now, are you gonna keep preachin’ at me, or are we gettin’ to that dinner so I can watch ’em all choke on how damn good you look?”.

And with one last smack on your ass, he smirks, turning toward the door.

The drive to Annie’s apartment is quiet, but tension lingers in the air, heavy and electric. Ben keeps one hand on the wheel, his other arm casually draped over the console, his thumb occasionally brushing your hand as if he’s just reminding himself you’re there. But as the car pulls up to Annie’s building, you can practically see the shift in his demeanor. His jaw sets, his shoulders straighten, and that familiar distant look settles over him. Soldier Boy—unfeeling, unbreakable—slides back into place like armor.

When you step out of the car, Ben doesn’t offer you his hand, doesn’t even wait for you to catch up. He strides ahead. By the time you’re outside Annie’s door, his eyes are narrowed, his expression sharp. The warmth he’d shown you back at his place is gone, replaced by that cold, hard edge he wears around others.

The door swings open, and there’s Annie, a bright, welcoming smile spreading across her face as she takes you in. “Hey! So glad you guys could make it!”. She gives you a quick, genuine hug, but when her gaze shifts to Ben, there’s a visible flicker of unease.

Ben keeps his expression carefully blank, a hint of that sneering detachment visible in the way he barely acknowledges Annie. His eyes sweep over her, and he gives her a single, disinterested nod before stepping inside, his hands shoved into his pockets as if he’s already bored. You shoot Annie a small, apologetic smile as you follow him in, feeling the weight of his presence—silent but heavy, like a coiled spring ready to snap.

Annie glances over at him with a tight smile, trying to keep things friendly despite the tension hanging in the air. “Thanks for coming, Ben”, she says, her tone polite but cautious.

Ben doesn’t bother with a response, just lets his gaze drift around the apartment with a faint look of disdain.

Eventually he shrugs, muttering, “Yeah, sure, great place”, in a tone that suggests he’d rather be anywhere else. He saunters further in, hands still in his pockets, shoulders tense but posture lazily dismissive. It’s the kind of presence that makes the whole room feel smaller, tighter—like everyone’s waiting for him to either crack a joke or start a fight.

Annie shifts awkwardly, her polite smile faltering. “Um, help yourselves to drinks”, she says, glancing between you and Ben, her gaze lingering on him with an edge of worry. “And make yourselves comfortable”.

Frenchie, from the other side of the room, raises an eyebrow and leans over to M.M., muttering, “Comfortable is not in his vocabulary, oui?”.

Ben’s head snaps in Frenchie’s direction, his smirk turning sharp and predatory as he leans against the wall, arms folded. “Keep makin’ those stupid jokes”, he drawls, his voice low and challenging, but loud enough that it hangs in the suddenly quiet room. “See where it brings you”.

Frenchie doesn’t flinch, though a flicker of annoyance crosses his face. He shrugs, hands raised in a casual gesture, as if to say he’s unfazed. “Ah, apologies, monsieur”, he says, voice dripping with sarcasm. “Didn’t realize the mighty Soldier Boy was so sensitive to a little humor”.

You and Annie exchange a tense glance before stepping into the living room. You take a steadying breath, crossing over to Ben, who’s still standing, arms crossed and jaw set as he watches Frenchie with that familiar look of disdain. Trying to avoid escalating things any further, you place a gentle hand on his shoulder, leaning in close to whisper, “Ben, please. Just go sit down”.

He rolls his eyes, clearly irritated, but he lets out an exaggerated sigh, glancing back at you with a smirk that’s anything but friendly. “Whatever you say, doll”, he mutters, loud enough for everyone to catch the faint mockery in his tone. With a dramatic show of indifference, he strides over to the couch and lets himself drop into it, sprawling out as if he owns the place, one arm draped across the backrest, legs stretched out in front of him.

You settle in beside Ben, but as soon as you do, he pulls his hand back from the armrest, subtly shifting away just enough to make it clear he doesn’t want it to look like he’s too close to you. The movement is quick, almost instinctive, as if any hint of softness or connection between you two would be a mark against his tough exterior. He leans back, folding his arms across his chest in a posture that screams indifference, eyes fixed forward with a steely look.

Across the room, Kimiko sits beside Frenchie, curling up against him in a quiet, comfortable way that speaks of unspoken trust and familiarity. Frenchie wraps an arm around her shoulders, casting a wary eye in Ben’s direction but choosing to focus on keeping things peaceful. The contrast between their closeness and Ben’s deliberate distance feels sharper than ever, a reminder of just how much he resists letting anyone in.

You steal a glance at him, feeling a mix of frustration and something softer—disappointment, maybe, though you’d never admit it out loud. Ben’s eyes catch yours briefly, and for a fleeting second, there’s something there—a flicker of acknowledgment, or maybe even regret—but just as quickly, he shutters it away, hardening his expression as he shifts his gaze back to some indistinct spot on the wall.

Annie takes her place near M.M., her posture straight but tense as she tries once again to smooth things over. “Alright”, she says, her voice soft but steady. “Let’s just relax and enjoy the night. It’s been… a rough year for everyone, and it’d be nice to just be together. All of us”.

Ben lets out a low chuckle, raising an eyebrow. “Touching, really”, he mutters, the faintest edge of sarcasm slipping through. “Didn’t realize we were here for some kinda group therapy”.

M.M. shoots him a warning look, his patience visibly thinning. “Ben, nobody’s askin’ you to change who you are”, he says, voice firm but calm. “Just to leave the attitude at the door for one night”.

Ben shrugs, glancing around the room with that familiar, taunting smirk. “Hey, I’m here, aren’t I? Bein’ real polite, keepin’ my hands to myself”. He gives a pointed look at Frenchie and Kimiko, his smirk widening. “Not that everyone here seems to get the memo”.

Frenchie’s jaw tightens, and you feel a surge of frustration. “Ben”, you say quietly, just loud enough for him to hear, your tone edged with a hint of pleading. “Please. Can we just… keep it civil?”.

He looks at you, eyes narrowing slightly, a flicker of something unreadable crossing his face. For a second, it seems like he might relent, that maybe your words got through to him. But then he just shrugs, looking away, his smirk back in place.

“Sure thing, doll”, he mutters, barely glancing at you. “Whatever makes you happy”.

Annie, sensing that things might finally calm down, raises her glass, giving everyone a hopeful smile. “To… surviving each other for one night”, she says with a small laugh, attempting to lighten the mood.

Everyone raises their glasses, clinking them together with varying degrees of enthusiasm. Ben raises his with a half-hearted nod, giving you a sidelong look that’s hard to read—part defiance, part challenge, and, somewhere deep down, maybe even a trace of something softer. But as quickly as it’s there, it’s gone again, replaced by that familiar cold distance.

You settle back, determined to make it through the evening, clinging to the hope that, maybe, there’s still a chance he’ll let his guard down—if only for a moment.

Everyone’s conversation gradually shifts, stories about vacations and places they’d like to go filling the room with a rare, relaxed energy. You start to let your guard down a bit, feeling some of the tension in your shoulders ease. People laugh, joke, and for once, Ben is quiet, not making any snide comments. Just listening—or at least pretending to.

Then Annie turns to you, her eyes bright with genuine interest. “Hey, didn’t you just come back from Hawaii?”, she asks, smiling. “How was it?”.

A warmth spreads through you as you recall the trip, and you open your mouth to tell everyone about the little things Ben had planned. It hadn’t been just a vacation; he’d actually tried—finding hidden beaches, showing you places he thought were worth seeing, even arranging a sunset boat ride that he’d played off as nothing but had been undeniably romantic. For a second, you think maybe he won’t mind if you share this part of him.

But before you can get a word out, Ben cuts in with a loud scoff. “Hawaii, yeah”, he says, voice dripping with mockery. “Little trip where princess here spent half the time squealin’ about the sand and sunsets. Real cute, real delicate. Nearly cried when she saw a turtle”.

You feel your cheeks heat up, caught off guard by the way he’s twisting it, reducing everything you’d shared into a cheap joke.

You clear your throat, determined not to let Ben’s dismissive tone overshadow the memories you hold close. “Actually”, you begin, trying to steer the conversation back on track, “we did this incredible hike one day to a hidden waterfall. It was a little off the beaten path, but it was beautiful—took hours to find it, and the view was just… breathtaking”. You glance around the room, feeling a little more at ease as you share the experience. “The kind of place you’d never think you’d find, like a scene out of a movie”.

But before you can continue, Ben chuckles, low and unrestrained, flashing you a smirk that makes your stomach tighten with dread. “Yeah, sure, breathtaking”, he says, his tone thick with sarcasm. “Though, if I remember right, sweetheart, the view wasn’t what had you catching your breath by the time we got there”. His smirk deepens, eyes gleaming with a mischievous glint as he leans forward, clearly reveling in everyone’s discomfort. “Whole place to ourselves, secluded… You’re fucking right we made the most of that”.

You can feel the heat rising to your face as he deliberately twists the memory. Your heart sinks as you catch the expressions around the room—Frenchie’s raised eyebrow, M.M.’s thinly veiled irritation, Annie’s wide-eyed embarrassment.

“Ben”, you say softly, trying to rein him in, but he just shrugs, flashing you a grin that holds not even a hint of apology.

“What?”, he says, lifting his hands in mock innocence. “Just givin’ ’em the real story. I mean, why leave out the best part?”. He chuckles, leaning back as he takes a long sip of his drink, completely at ease with himself, as if his words hadn’t just peeled back a vulnerable moment and cheapened it in front of everyone.

Annie clears her throat, trying to salvage the conversation with a strained smile. “Sounds… like quite the adventure”, she manages, but you can see the discomfort flickering in her eyes.

You force yourself to smile, though it feels hollow. “Yeah, it was… something”, you murmur, choosing not to meet Ben’s gaze. The memory of that waterfall—the stillness, the way he’d looked at you, the rare softness in his voice—is clouded now, overshadowed by his careless words.

As the conversation moves on, you feel a tightness in your chest, a quiet frustration building inside. It’s like he’s taken a piece of something private and twisted it into a spectacle, and though you know it’s his armor, his way of keeping distance, it still hurts.

After a while, M.M., who’s been quietly observing the tension in your posture, leans over, his voice soft but direct. “Hey, you mind givin’ me a hand in the kitchen?”. He gives you a look that’s both understanding and reassuring, as if to offer a momentary escape from the sting Ben’s comments left behind.

You nod, grateful for the opportunity, and rise from the couch, slipping away as casually as you can manage. Ben barely glances up, his attention now fully fixed on the football game playing on the screen with Butcher beside him. The two of them share a low chuckle, both watching with intense focus, perfectly at ease in their shared interest in the game.

Following M.M. into the kitchen, you let out a quiet breath, feeling the weight lift from your shoulders as the chatter from the living room fades slightly. M.M. gives you a small smile, pulling a few dishes from the counter as he begins to prep.

He glances over at you, his eyes filled with that familiar, no-nonsense empathy of his. “You good?”, he asks, keeping his tone casual, though there’s an unmistakable warmth in it.

You manage a small nod, though the corners of your mouth pull into a faint, reluctant smile. “Yeah, I’m… fine”, you reply, though even you can hear the strain in your voice. “Thanks for this, by the way. Just… needed a minute”.

He nods, setting a dish in front of you. “Figured. That man doesn’t know how to quit, does he?”. He shakes his head, glancing back toward the living room.

“You know, some guys act like that ’cause they don’t know any better. With him, it’s like he knows better but just… chooses not to”.

You let out a soft sigh, fingers absently tracing the edge of the dish. “It’s… complicated”, you say, not really wanting to get into it but appreciating his understanding. “It’s like, when it’s just the two of us, he’s… he’s different, you know? And then the second we’re around other people…”. Your voice trails off, unsure how to finish the sentence.

M.M. nods knowingly. “Yeah, I get it. You got a man who thinks showing any kinda softness makes him look weak. So he builds up walls, throws out insults, makes everything a joke”.

M.M. pauses, studying you for a moment before he shakes his head with a low, thoughtful mumble. “You’re a good girl, you know that? Too good for a guy like him. Ben’s just… a damn dick sometimes”.

You let out a heavy sigh, feeling a familiar urge rise up to defend Ben, as complicated as it always is. “He’s… it’s not always like that, M.M. He—”.

But M.M. raises a finger, silencing you gently but firmly. “Do I need to remind you of your little hospital stay?”. His voice is low, almost cautious, like he’s not sure if he should bring it up but knows it needs saying.

You sigh again, shoulders slumping slightly as the memory drifts back. “That was one time, M.M. And it wasn’t on purpose”.

M.M. looks at you, his expression softening but his eyes firm. “Sure. But what did he say afterward?”. He leans in, lowering his voice. “He blamed you for bein’ so ‘easily breakable,’ didn’t he?”.

The words hit you harder than you expected, even though you’d tried to bury that memory. You remember lying in that hospital bed, bruised and sore, with Ben at your side as he muttered, “Didn’t think you’d be so damn fragile. Thought you could handle it”.

You mumble, almost more to yourself than to M.M., “I know… but he’s been careful since then. He’s… he’s trying, M.M”. Your words feel uncertain, as if you’re trying to convince yourself as much as you’re trying to convince him.

M.M. pauses, studying you with a look that’s both understanding and wary. He doesn’t say anything right away, but his expression speaks volumes—a mix of concern and that unflinching honesty he’s always shown you.

“He’s trying, huh?”, he says softly, his tone carefully measured. “Maybe he is, in his own way. But the question you gotta ask yourself is… is it enough?”.

The question lands like a quiet echo in the kitchen, and for a moment, you don’t respond. Because deep down, you’ve wondered the same thing. Is his trying—the brief, quiet moments where he shows you a softness no one else sees—enough to outweigh the times he shuts you out, belittles you, or shrugs off the hurt he causes?

M.M. lets the silence stretch a bit, as if he knows you need the space to let his words settle. He picks up a dish and starts washing it, his gaze soft but steady when he finally looks back at you. “Look, I ain’t here to tell you what to do. You see somethin’ in him that makes you stay, and that’s between you and him. But just… don’t lose yourself in tryin’ to fix him”.

You swallow, a weight pressing against your chest as you nod slowly. “I know, M.M. It’s just… he’s not all bad. I’ve seen a different side of him”.

“I’m sure you have”. M.M. nods, and there’s a flicker of something almost protective in his gaze. “But remember, he’s the one who’s gotta be responsible for his actions—not you. Ain’t your job to take on his hurt or his past, no matter how much he makes it feel like it is”.

You give him a small, grateful smile, feeling the warmth of his words settle around you. “Thanks, M.M. Really”.

He nods, giving you a reassuring squeeze on the shoulder. “Anytime. You got people here who care about you, alright? Don’t ever forget that”.

You take a deep breath, gathering yourself before stepping out of the kitchen and back into the living room, M.M.’s words lingering in your mind like a quiet reminder of what you deserve. But just as you re-enter the room, you catch a flicker of something in Ben’s expression—a subtle tightening around his eyes, his mouth set in a hard line. You realize, with a pang of unease, that he must’ve heard at least part of your conversation with M.M.

———————————

A/N: Please let me know what you think.🥰 

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Part 2

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[comicarc]

𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐌𝐞, 𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐌𝐞 𝐍𝐨𝐭 (𝐈𝐕)

•──✮ masterlist ✮──•

> Main Continuity Mark Grayson/Reader > Conspiracies and nightmares 【 wc: 1401 】

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A/N: I've been meaning to release this chapter for a while, but I became very sick the past month. I'm finally recovering, so updates will be more frequent now :D

After her talk with Eve, y/n had holed up in her room for a few days, catching up on the schoolwork she had missed while helping out Cecil. Her conversation on the bridge had left her feeling lighter, more hopeful that her relationship with Mark could go back to the way things used to be. She’d been contemplating for the past few days how she could bridge the gap that widened between them, and every scenario led back to her exposing her identity. Maybe all she had to do was be honest, and things would work out. Making up her mind, y/n left her house and headed to the Grayson residence, her feet moving on instinct. 

When she rang the doorbell of their house, the entrance had swung open, revealing a determined Debbie wearing her coat. Without warning, the woman ushered y/n to follow her into the car as she commanded, “You’re coming with me.”

 As she started the vehicle, y/n was able to steady herself and question, “What’s–uh going on?”

The engine revved to life, and Debbie’s foot was already pressed on the accelerator when she finally explained, “There’s something weird about the Guardians of the Globe massacre; I’m just not sure what.”

“Could it just be anxiety building up with the fact that your husband almost died–” 

“–I’m not crazy. And I’m not the only one who thinks something’s up. We’re going to Olga’s to talk, and I’m hoping it’ll give me some clarity.” 

y/n sighed, thankful that Debbie was able to talk out these baseless worries. Obviously the GDA was no saint, but that didn’t mean they’d cover up something this significant. There was just one more thing she needed to know. “Why’d you take me with you? What about Mark?”

Debbie briefly locked eyes with y/n, relaying the seriousness of her tone as she answered, “Nolan’s more distant than before, and Mark’s still naive, as much as he doesn’t think he is. I trust you more than anyone.”

Nodding in response, y/n turned away from Debbie to face the road. Everything seemed to have been changing lately, lasting figures turned into questionable relics, choices turned to obligations, and hope turned to fear. With a fleeting sense of normalcy, y/n could only hope there wasn’t a conspiracy lying in wait to uproot everyone’s lives.

When they arrived at the Russian’s quaint house, they were greeted by Olga’s halfhearted smile as she ushered the two inside. Inside, packed boxes littered the living room, leaving only large furniture items yet to be packed. Soda cans and pizza boxes were scattered on the floor with crumbs spread across the cardboard. The place looked like a mess, but that was understandable considering the circumstances. Tiptoeing across the sea of trash, y/n managed to seat herself beside Debbie as they faced Olga on the couch. 

Debbie was the first to begin conversing, as she asked Olga about how she was feeling. In response, Olga let out a frustrated remark, “The GDA are snakes, they don’t care about us or my poor Josef.”

Attempting to comfort the grieving woman, Debbie responded, “Olga…”

“No Olga. I am Russian, my dear, I know how governments work, and yours is no different.” The frustration was apparent on her face as she spoke. 

y/n chimed in, hoping to diffuse some of Olga’s discomfort by pointing out, “Cecil’s searching for the killer–”

“Is he?” Olga crossed her arms. “No one is in jail. No one is on the news. They know who did this, and they don’t care.”

Curious, Debbie pressed, “Why wouldn’t they care?”

“I don’t know, but I can tell when people are lying, and people are lying about this, which is why I’m moving back to Moscow. To my family. You can help me sell my house.” Olga handed Debbie a folder with files pertaining to the house.

Accepting the documents, Debbie responded, “Uh, yes, absolutely.” Turning her head in thought, Debbie hesitated for a moment before voicing a question that had been pestering her for a while. “Olga, did Josef ever lie to you?”

y/n’s eyes slanted at the question. Was Debbie suspicious of Nolan? That could be why she called her here instead of her husband. But what could Nolan even lie about? What reason was there to be suspicious?

Olga cut off y/n rumination as she answered, “Of course, all heroes do, but I only made the mistake of believing him once. When he told me everything was going to be fine.”

Debbie looked visibly upset by the response, but she continued diligently with her work, as she sorted through the paperwork in her hand. With y/n helping her, the two were able to finish what they needed to with Olga regarding the sale, before returning to the car. A silent ride later, Debbie and y/n arrived back at the Grayson residence by late evening.

Switching off the engine, Debbie turned to y/n, suggesting, “Why don’t you stay over for the night.”

y/n mulled over the offer. Maybe she’d be able to finally talk to Mark tonight, or at least figure out if it was the right time to share her well-guarded secret. It's not like her dad would notice she wasn’t home, so she might as well stay somewhere that didn’t haunt her. 

Nodding in agreement, y/n walked behind Debbie through the garage into the living room. Walking inside, y/n noticed the lack of bodies to be quite apparent. It seemed Mark wasn’t home yet. Kicking off her shoes by the shoe rack at the entrance, y/n gestured to Debbie that she was heading upstairs to relax. 

y/n already had plenty of clothes stashed away in the guest room, courtesy of her constant presence, and so as she was picking out what to wear for the night, her phone buzzed to life. Her mother was calling. y/n didn’t want to pick it up, her mind fogged by her and Debbie’s dilemmas, but ever the devil’s advocate, she reasoned that her mother could need some clarity just as she did. Hesitantly accepting the call, y/n held the phone to her ear and paced along the bedroom.

“I know.” It was a curt announcement that her mother started with, leaving y/n wide-eyed. 

Intrigued and somewhat frightened, she inquired, “What?”

“You’re afraid. You’re afraid that you’re turning into me. So you picked up the call, because if you show a monster like me some humanity, you’re hoping someone will do the same for a monster like you.” The voice ran deeper, leaving y/n’s blood running cold and chills down her spine. This wasn’t her mother.

y/n waited for the voice to say more and answer any of the questions that began riddling her mind. Growing frustrated, she moved the phone from her ear to her face to hang up, but then she noticed her hands. Or rather, lack thereof. Before she could fully comprehend her handless state, y/n turned her attention to the loud thumping outside the bedroom door. What the hell was going on?

She moved toward the sound on instinct, blinking slower and slower with every step. When she finally reached and opened the door, she opened her eyes to see Mark’s face staring down at her as he shook her body. Startled, she pushed him off and stood up from where she’d been lying. 

“You’re sweating, did you have a nightmare?” Mark inquired, concerned. 

Her lip quivered as she composed herself, “Yes.” 

“Wanna talk about it?” Mark began, patting the area on the bed beside where he sat. 

The nightmare was a sign. She couldn’t cheat Nolan, especially after her promise to him. She did fear that she’d become her mother, but she wasn’t yet, and not betraying the ones who care about her was one step away from that. So she said the only thing she could, “No.”

y/n made her way beside Mark, collapsing back onto the bed before questioning, “When’d you get back, and where’d you go?”

Chuckling, Mark leaned back too, answering, “You ever been to Mount Everest?”

-ˋˏ ༻💫༺ ˎˊ-

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•──✮ masterlist ✮──•

taglist: @luvvfromme @lvlythea

[fuckyeah-bears]

I woke up to find a squirrel in my apartment this morning

[bunnis-monsters]

Hybrid Shelter

Ch1

prologue

chapter 2

warning: milking the cow/bull hybrids, handjob, thigh fucking

summary: after becoming a full time worker at the hybrid shelter, you realize it’s not going to be as easy as you thought.

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Working at the Hybrid Shelter full time was as hard as you thought it would be.

The younger hybrids started fixating on you lately. When you had only been working part time shifts, you only saw them in passing.

Now, every day you walked in, ready to wake them up and get them all fed.

“Mama!”

A puppy hybrid greeted you with a yip, their puppy teeth gnawing in your pants leg as you prepared a few bottles. “Mama, play?”

You gently pulled the puppy hybrid off of your leg, keeping him balanced on your hip. “Not right now, pup. You all have to have your bottle first.”

A few kitten hybrids toddled and crawled around nearby, while an infant mouse hybrid wailed from his crib.

The nursery was a fairly new addition to the hybrid shelter. In the past, only adults had been allowed to stay, meaning occasionally some men with children would be denied shelter.

Now they were both accepted. A few of the babies here belonged to men in the shelter, while others had no parents.

As you fed the infant mouse hybrid, a puppy hybrid knocked on the door. “Is my brother awake?”

Alex was 19, and had been separated from his parents a few years back. His brother was 3 years old, and stayed in the nursery while Alex tried to find work and a stable home for the both of them.

“Yeah, he’s right here.”

The puppy hybrid that had been gnawing on your pants before, Ollie, toddled to his big brother and decided to chew on him instead. “Hey, I told you not to do that…”

Though the older pup scolded the little one, there was no bite behind his words. He picked Ollie up and licked his head, giving him a quick bath. “You will be good for her today, alright? I’m mopping the halls today, so I’ll be close by if you need me.”

You buried the infant in your arms before giving him a diaper change and tucking him back into bed. Privacy was something a luxury when you lived in a shelter, so you tried to give the two some space.

“Okay, bubba. I won’t pee on the floor!”

A nurse took over the nursery once the shelter opened, and you left to begin your other daily chores.

“(NAME)!”

You were nearly tackled by the cat hybrid you had tamed a few weeks ago. “Hey, Midnight. How’s everything going?”

He purred and butted his head against your cheek affectionately, immediately beginning to groom and preen you. “It’s always scary when you’re not here. I don’t like the doctors or the other hybrids.”

That seemed to be relatively common with the abused hybrids. They didn’t like the situation they’d been forced into, having no home left to return to and being abandoned by abusers they still loved.

“You should try getting along with the others, okay? You know next week we’re introducing you to the group, your quarantine is almost over.”

He didn’t respond for a moment, too busy rubbing his scent on you. “Don’t wanna… can’t I just come home with you?”

As much as you wished he could, all employees were forbidden from adopting any hybrids from the shelter. If they wanted to, they’d have to quit.

“You know I can’t… at least not right now.”

You didn’t want to give him hope, but you also knew that the possibility that he could come home with you eventually was the only thing keeping him going.

After he ate his breakfast and you spent some time cleaning his space and making sure he had enough enrichment for the day, you left to continue your chores.

Your first stop was the domesticated hybrid building.

The more common type of hybrid to be abandoned were the domestic ones. Puppies, cats, bunnies, birds, goldfish, and hamsters.

“Have you guys had breakfast?”

Several heads turned to look at you once the door opened. “(Name)’s here!”

The hybrids gathered around you, all sniffing and licking your body and hair. You had grown used to this, and simply waited until they were satisfied before speaking. “I’m assuming you have, considering you all smell like bacon and eggs.”

“Mhm, it was good! Alex said you would be here soon!” one of the puppy hybrids said, his tail wagging furiously.

A goldfish hybrid swam in the pool area, poking his head out of the water. “(Name), you said you’d swim with me this week.”

“I will, Goldy, but it’s gonna be after I finish up with the wild building.”

The cat hybrids rubbed against you as a bunny hybrid relaxed in your lap. “The wild building? I can’t believe you’re still meeting with them every day.”

A week ago, you were tasked with helping to domesticate the wild animals in the shelter. That was no easy task, considering it consisted of big cats, wolves, and other dangerous hybrids that saw humans as a source of food.

“It’s not all that bad, I have a few allies there that keep me safe.”

The bunny hybrid, Momo, huffed and nibbled on your finger. “Wild hybrids will always be wild at the end of the day. Don’t be fooled, they’re only being nice to you so they can get what they want.”

“What do they want..?”

None of the hybrids seemed like they wanted to answer that particular question.

“Well… you all will be getting a new roommate this week. He’s had a tough time, so I hope you’ll remember that when I introduce you to him.”

They all glanced at one another. “We’ve all had a hard time, (Name). As long as he doesn’t attack us, we won’t do anything.”

If only you could promise such a thing. With Midnight, you weren’t so sure.

As you did some minor cleaning up around the building, you were approached by a hamster hybrid.

“Quinn? Something wrong?”

He looked down at his feet, his hands twisting and pulling at the hem of his shirt. “… it’s just…”

The man sighed, puffing out his chubby cheeks. “Isn’t it strange? Lately, you’ve been the only one visiting us every day.”

You blinked, pausing your work. “The only one..?”

“Mhm. Before, multiple female workers would come to check on us. Of course none of them were as personable as you. They came in, asked how we were doing and cleaned up, then left.”

That was rather confusing. You always remembered the entire place brimming with female employees. Though lately, it was rare to spot more than a handful in each building.

“I’m sure we must be short staffed at the moment. Are you looking for any employees in particular?”

He shook his head, looking up at you. “No, we don’t even know the names of the others.”

Quinn left after that, and you pushed that information aside for now. You’d ask your boss about it later, your work came first.

Though as you comforted a small parrot hybrid after a nightmare, you wondered if they had been receiving the same care from the other employees. You knew that there was only so much one person could do, and that everyone’s role to play was different…

But did they even ca-

You shook your head, carefully wiping away the hybrid’s tears before settling him down for a nap. You shouldn’t think about the shelter that way. When you started working there, you saw firsthand how draining it was to work with so many different hybrids.

Perhaps they were all taking a break, and a new rotation of employees would be coming in to fill in for them…

Once the parrot hybrid was asleep, you tiptoed out. The poor thing was nearly your age, but he still needed to be soothed to sleep. His beautiful feathers had been plucked out of stress, leaving bald patches that were covered up by a fluffy sweater.

You had a lot of things to do every day. Your job was to comfort, feed, play with, and socialize the hybrids and get them to the point they could either be adopted, get a job, or be reintroduced to the wild.

It was strange, though. Despite the fact the shelter encouraged each member to strive towards some sort of goal, none of the hybrids there had managed to achieve anything.

They stayed there, stagnant and bored out of their minds.

Perhaps they just needed a little push. That’s what your boss told you he needed you for. Most of the hybrid seemed to enjoy your presence and wanted to impress you!

As you moved towards the farm building, you wrote some notes next to each hybrid’s name.

“(Name), how’s it going?”

You jumped when you were embraced from behind, your cheeks turning red. “C-Cecil, you shouldn’t be outside of your building!”

The white tiger hybrid chuckled, purring as his large, rough tongue licked your hair. He always ended up giving you such a huge cowlick!

“Mmm, I just returned from the infirmary, actually.”

You immediately softened. Cecil had a number of health problems, stemming from the bad breeding conditions that white tiger hybrids were born from.

Although he looked like a beautiful white tiger hybrid with striking grey eyes, his vision was impaired and he suffered chronic aches and joint pain.

Cecil couldn’t live with the other wild hybrids due to his immune system deficiencies, so he stayed with hybrids like him with similar health problems.

“What did they say..?”

A purr left his throat. He knew bringing up his worsening health always meant a little extra time with you. “They think that the organ transplant is working well, and that I’ll be able to eat solid food again soon.”

“That’s great news!”

His cheeks warmed when you patted his head and gave his ears a scratch. “Go rest, okay? I’ll come check on you when I visit the sickbay.”

Cecil watched you go, clutching his chest. He hoped he’d live long enough to someday make you his.

Your next stop was the farm. Outside a few sheep and pig hybrids trotted about, gracing or lying atound in the sun. When they noticed you, they gathered at the fence.

“(Name), right now might not be the best time to… uh… go in there.”

You raised an eyebrow. “And why is that?”

The group glanced at one another, and you joined them in the grass. A young lamb curled up in your lap, suckling on one of your fingers as he napped.

In hushed whispers, the sheep across from you began to speak. “Well, no one has been by the farm to milk the bull and cow hybrids. They’re… uh… a bit testy right now.”

You heard a few off handed comments and complaints from your coworkers that had to take care of the cow and bull hybrids, but you never had any problems with them!

“It’s my job to ensure every hybrid here is comfortable, safe, and healthy. If no one else is here to milk them, I’m sure I can handle it.”

Though the other hybrids looked nervous, they didn’t stop you.

Your phone struggled to load the protocol for milking the cow and bull hybrids as you walked in. The sound of frustrated and pained groans could be heard from the back.

“Hello?”

The sounds stopped, an eerie silence falling over the barn. The sudden creaking of the back door slowly opening made you jump.

Before you could call out again, you were pulled into the back.

“(Name)… please… you have to help us!”

You felt arms wrapping around your body… and several long, wet things rubbing against you…

“Beau?”

Beau, one of the new cow hybrids that arrived last month mooed nervously. His eyes were full of tears, and his tongue gave your cheek a lick.

“No one has been by to milk us… it’s been two days, the bulls are angry and pent up, and…”

As he sniffled, you reached out to pet his head. “Hey, it’s okay. I came to take care of that for you. I used to milk cows with my grandpa, he had a farm.”

Beau blushed, his tail swaying. “W-well… with male cow and bull hybrids… it’s uhm… a little different.”

He slowly pulled back, and you finally got to see what was rubbing against you.

His fat cock was poking out, his balls heavy and swollen from the days he hadn’t been milked. It was all coming together now…

It took you a moment to gather your thoughts. You were a professional, and these hybrids were in obvious pain! You needed to take care of them, no matter now embarrassing it may be!

The arousal growing between your legs was the wordy part. It was making you horny, seeing so many cow hybrids desperate for your touch.

“They usually have a machine for us to g-get off with…” Beau murmured, twiddling his thumbs. “Sometimes we can even use it ourselves if we think we need to… but it’s gone.”

Being understaffed was one thing, but the disappearance of machinery that bettered the hybrids’ lives was… concerning. Where had it gone?

You sighed softly, the information finally loading on your phone ten minutes too late. A bucket was placed on the ground, and you slowly reached out to grab hold of Beau’s cock.

His hips bucked as you stroked his shaft carefully, aiming the tip towards the bucket. A whine left his throat, and with a few strokes he came.

The semen smelled like milk, but had a thicker and creamier texture. Your eyes were focused on the tip of his cock, how it oozed and twitched with every touch.

God, you just wanted to take it into your mouth and-

“Ahh, that’s so much better…” Beau said, interrupting your dirty thoughts. You blinked and your cheeks heated up as you let go of his softening cock.

“I’m… glad I could help.”

After milking every cow hybrid, you moved to the bull hybrids’ quarters. There were only three of them, since taking any more on may result in territorial behavior.

The moment you walked in, your skirt was lifted up and a cock was slipped between your thighs.

“Heard our (Name) was coming to milk us ourselves…” Brody cooed, already beginning to fuck your thighs.

“We’re way too big to jerk off, missy. We’ll be using these.”

The three took turns fucking your thighs, their thick cocks occasionally brushing against your wet panties. This wasn’t the correct protocol, what if someone saw? Would you be fired!?

Did you even care when you were hoping they’d pull your panties to the side and fill you with their milk instead of that bucket?

The bulls weren’t easy on you, leaving your thighs a sticky mess before it was all said and done with. You were almost disappointed they didn’t just go ahead and fuck you…

You left the barn, face burning with shame and arousal as you ran towards the staff building.

After a shower, you’d have to continue on with your duties…

If only you knew how your day would progress from there… you may have just gone home.

———————

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[foldingfittedsheets]

It started with cantrips, which is why it took people a while to notice. The first few events were people on the news talking about how they’d been needing a light and then suddenly they’d waved a hand and said words and there was light. No one really believed them but as more reports were verified suddenly more people came forward with even less believable stories of what everyone really didn’t want to call magic. Even though it was pretty obviously magic. Spectral floating hands grabbing things that were out of reach, whispered messages that reached their friend seated too far away to hear them.

An EMT who whispered a word and suddenly saved a dying man.

Then the darker stories started filtering in. 

Words spoken in anger causing explosions. Poison spewing forth from a hand gesture. One person gave a retort so witty that someone was hospitalized. 

Everyone was scared, but the nerds started to figure it out fastest. It sure wasn’t the scientists who were doing the equivalent of crying on the floor in the fetal position in their respective labs while reports poured in globally of these occurrences. A growing movement online started spreading lists. They had all the blessings people might have gotten and regardless of how many people scoffed no one could really deny that every instance of magic correlated to a website listing the cantrips in Dungeons and Dragons. People pooled their collective resources to help quantify what was happening and facts started to emerge.

Everybody got one. You had to be at least thirteen to use the magic. That pretty much summed up the only other common denominators. Otherwise it seemed completely random, the magic didn’t line up with any existing character traits. You just unlocked one piece of magic each. People with aggressive cantrips were almost loaded up into camps for suddenly being so dangerous- however many hit points real humans had it was apparently not a big number. A lot more deaths occurred than anyone could feasibly track and the global population panicked.

The legislation for the camps got struck down. There were riots and confusion and for a while everything was pretty chaotic. Firebolts and Eldritch Blasts went off from sheer exuberance as much as anything else. Amidst the rioting were people just living their lives, not using their cantrips. It took a while for things to settle down, but humans can get used to most anything if given enough time.

Almost everybody scanned the list to figure out which they got, but someone with Chill Touch just enjoyed frostier beverages than most even if it made you think about death more to drink something after the skeleton hand had been wrapped around it. At least it looked cool. Most people didn’t really do anything other than play around. A youtuber who had gotten Shape Water suddenly surged in popularity as she pivoted her channel to creating beautiful patterns with colored water. Other online personalities quickly followed and those with combat focused magic set up backyard target practice to show off. Some fires resulted as well as numerous noise complaints and a law was passed limiting where people could practice magic. It was virtually unenforceable but the people in charge were trying to keep a grip on the situation.

Noticeably the largest subset of the population that used their magic were those who had gotten Spare the Dying. Every government turned out the call that such individuals would receive a generous stipend for taking to the hospitals and stabilizing the sick and injured. Death rates dropped substantially, but it was still only a cantrip. Cancer marched on, but many got to live after miraculous recoveries.

Months passed and things started to become a little more normal. There were still debates about what had caused it and how to regulate magic but day to day life settled down. Speculations over what the long term ramifications would be continued as well as why those cantrips. Wizards of the Coast refused to comment for the first six months, closing its doors to the rioting and keeping them closed. At the end of six months they abruptly published a new line of cantrip cards with all kinds of utility and no combat usage whatsoever. The internet exploded and the government wasn’t pleased, but nothing happened. No one got any new magic. People wondered if those under thirteen would manifest the new stuff, but no one did. They just blew out their thirteenth birthday candles and got handed a cantrip like everyone else. 

A year later a mechanic in rural Canada was peering into the engine of a busted car. He realized he needed some lubricant and instead of reaching for his can he waved a hand and splattered the car with Grease that had burst from his hand. He was a calm sort of fellow so he called up the local news and said there was more magic. They asked first what cantrip he had- folks who received Prestidigitation had made a number of false alarms on receiving additional magic. The mechanic told them his cantrip was Infestation which he’d never had cause to use after figuring it out. 

The press descended and demanded a demonstration. Most people had read up on the basic rules of magic at that point, so everyone understood when the mechanic said they’d have to wait until the next day. A media storm went up the next day with headlines blaring that first level magic had been unlocked after the passing of the lunar new year. 

A wide contingent had been waiting for this opportunity. The spell list went out again amidst less panic but more chaos. There was a rash of identity thefts no could trace and eventually people realized Disguise Self posed a significant challenge to daily life. Celebrities had trouble convincing people they were who they said as random citizens took their faces on numerous joyrides. A scandal broke when it turned out an A list actor had hired someone else to play them while they went on vacation but the details were kept very hush hush.

Hospitals called out desperately for anyone with healing magic and most of those blessed with Cure Wounds and Healing Word answered. People with Goodberry formed community food kitchens and for the first time it seemed like hunger could actually be eliminated. Veterinary offices and zoos made special positions for those who could cast Animal Friendship and Speak with Animals.

A celebrity chef hit the jackpot with Purify Food and Drink and made a whole spinoff series where she went dumpster diving and made five star meals out of rotting leftovers. Several people changed careers entirely to lend their services to study ancient texts with Comprehend Languages. Even one hour a day led to huge leaps in discovery and understanding of ancient civilizations. 

A small murmur of worry followed the new influx of skills and power. What would happen when more magic was unlocked? The amount of people now running around with dangerous combat spells was even greater than before. Would people have to worry about necromancy? New crimes were being invented faster than laws could keep up as magic was put to novel and interesting uses. 

A year passed and everyone waited with bated breath for the lunar new year, but nothing happened. 

But I’m pretty sure I figured it out. We got handed cantrips. And we waited a year for first level spells. I’m pretty sure it’s one more year, and then things will really start to get interesting.

Inspired by this poll. If you enjoyed my writing consider leaving a tip on my Ko-fi!

[tokkiwrites]

ㅤ⠀ ˚̣̣ ᵕ̣̣̣̣̣̣⠀⠀⠀⠀토키⠀⠀⎯⎯⠀⠀( ✿ . )⠀⠀⠀⠀† ꯭ ⎯⎯

꒰ ꪆ୧ ꒱ SUℳM𝛢RY ⌢ ꒰੭. You always thought things would change after high school. College was supposed to be your escape. But things don't change. You drop out and move back into your small home town, where you are still invisible, still too soft, still too dumb. Then people start dying. People who hurt you. People who laughed at you. People who touched you when they shouldn’t have. It feels like fate. Like someone’s watching out for you. And when you finally meet him it doesn’t feel like fear. It feels like being chosen.

˖˙ ᰋ ── 𝖙ags ˚ DARK JOEL MILLER FIC, killer! joel miller x fem! reader, afab reader, no outbreak au, mentions of murder, mentions of blood, violence, mention of bullying, slow descent into obsession, delusional reader, outcast reader, age gap (mentioned once), morally grey characters, made up characters and places, semi public sex, rough p in v (unprotected), creampie, knife play, marking/branding, cum eating, degradation, dumbification of reader, choking, slight size kink, slight breeding kink.

𝓁𝒾𝓉𝓉𝓁𝑒﹙ʚɞ˚﹚ 𝖓ote: hey...how yall doin...? im sooo sorry i disappeared on you guys :( uni has been kicking my ass but i promise i will be more active from now on!!! had a chance to write for some of the requests so those will be coming soon! here's a small spring gift for you all :p i hope you enjoy it! 🎀🌟🐇

You thought it would feel different, leaving.

You thought that when high school ended, you’d find something different waiting for you. You imagined a new beginning, a fresh start, maybe something exciting—something where you wouldn’t fade into the background. But the reality was far from that.

You were always too soft. Too nice. You never knew how to be anything else, even when everyone around you told you to toughen up, to stop being so stupid.

In high school, they made sure you knew how weak you were. How easy it was to push you aside. You were a target for the mean girls, the ones with sharp smiles and even sharper tongues. They loved to mock you, but you didn’t have the heart to fight back. Instead, you retreated into yourself, hoping that one day, they’d stop.

You thought maybe things would change when you went off to college. It wasn’t like you had high expectations—it was just supposed to be a chance for something different. You imagined that the people there wouldn’t see you the same way. But it wasn’t different. It was the same. It felt like rot.

College was just high school in a bigger building. Louder rooms. Longer halls. The same laughter behind your back.

Your professors barely knew your name. The other students walked past you like you were invisible. And no matter how hard you tried, no matter how much you smiled or how polite you were, it was always the same. You thought that maybe it was just a phase. That things would get better after a few months. But after three years, it just felt like you were fading. You didn’t belong anywhere. You didn’t even recognize yourself anymore. You didn’t feel like you were living.

That’s when you decided to come home.

Your parents didn’t question you at first. They asked once, maybe twice, but after a few months, the questions stopped. They stopped expecting anything from you. And so did you.

Now you live in a small apartment above an old antique store in Northridge, a place where no one expects anything from you. It’s quiet except of the floors that creak beneath your feet, and the window by your bed is stuck halfway open, even when you beg it not to. You don’t even bother trying to fix it anymore. It’s just easier this way.

You work at Sloan’s Bakery, a quiet little shop that smells like cinnamon and fresh bread. It’s nothing glamorous, but it’s safe. You like the routine. You like the silence. Now, you don’t mind being unnoticed.

Today isn’t supposed to be different. You’re just doing your usual thing, putting the price tags on the pastries like you always do. The oven hums in the back, the cash register dings every so often as customers come and go. You feel like you’re in a bubble, watching the world outside through the small window at the counter. Nothing remarkable. Everything in its place.

And then, the bell above the door rings too loudly. You glance up, expecting some sleepy regular—maybe Mr. Hanley, or that tired-looking woman who orders oat milk but forgets every time that you don’t carry it.

But you were never the luckiest person.

It’s Macy King. Her heels click too sharply against the floor, and for a second, it feels like you're back in high-school. You haven’t seen her since then. You don’t know why, but the second you see her, you freeze. You’ve never forgotten her face.

“Oh my god,” she says, too loud, too fake. “It’s you.” She laughs. That same high-pitched laugh you remember from the cafeteria. It scrapes something raw inside you. You don’t know what to say. You feel like you’ve been caught in something. “I haven’t seen you in, like… forever.” She giggles like it’s funny, but you know it’s not. She’s looking at you with that same old smugness, that always made you feel small. It funny really, she's at the same level since high-school yet she still believes everyone is beneath her.

“Didn’t you go to college or something? I thought you’d be, like, doing something by now.” You can’t find your voice. You nod slowly, trying to force the words out, but your mouth feels dry. “IㅡYeah… for a while.”

She doesn’t ask why you’re back. She doesn’t care.

“So this is what you’re doing now?” Her eyes sweep across the bakery. She’s sizing you up, like she’s inspecting the life you’ve built. “Wow, that’s… cute. Really, though, I didn’t expect you to end up here.” She doesn’t say it mean. But that’s the trick with Macy. She never said it mean. Not directly. Just enough to make you feel like dirt on the floor.

You don’t answer. You can’t. You want to scream, but it’s like your throat’s closed up, and the words aren’t coming. She steps closer, running her fingers over the glass of the pastry case like she owns the place.

“Oh my god, do you still make those little cookies?” she asks, peering into the display case. “The ones with the filling in the middle? What are they called? The jelly blobs?”

“Thumbprints,” you say softly.

“Yeah, whatever. I’ll try one.” You give it to her, unsure of what to expect. She bites into it immediately, but her face twists in distaste.

“Ew,” she spits out, loud enough for the whole bakery to hear. “This is disgusting. Too sweet.”

You don’t move. You just watch as she drops the half-eaten cookie on the floor, the soft thud of it making your stomach turn. “Oh, wait. Let me try that one,” she says, pointing at a different pastry. You give it to her. She bites into it and immediately frowns, dropping it to the ground too.

“Ugh, all of these are gross,” she says, shaking her head like you’re the one at fault. She turns her back on you like she’s bored, her eyes scanning the other pastries, dismissing them with a flick of her wrist. “Do you ever get anything right?” she adds, but it’s not a question. It’s just another jab.

You bend down to clean up the mess she’s made, your hands shaking as you gather the pieces of pastry from the floor. The crumbs stick to your skin, like a reminder of how small and invisible you are.

She doesn’t say goodbye when she leaves. She just walks out, her footsteps echoing in the silence she leaves behind.

It’s hours later and it's finally time for you to close up. You don’t know why you turn the radio on, but you do. It’s the static hum of the local station, the voice on the other end dull and distant.

“…Body discovered behind the Valero gas station early this morning. Authorities have confirmed it’s a local man in his twenties…” Your heart skips a beat and you sit up straight, the words striking you harder than they should.

“…Multiple stab wounds to the chest. Police are investigating but no suspects have been identified. More details to come as the investigation unfolds.” You don’t know why it strikes you so hard, but you can’t shake it. The voice continues, but you’re already lost in your own thoughts.

Its not long until the whole town starts talking. Brandon Haynes. You remember him. He was just like everyone else. He touched you. Too much, too harsh. More than enough to make you feel small. To make you feel like nothing.

You don’t know why it’s so strange. Why it feels like you’re holding your breath. It doesn’t matter.

You don’t feel anything for him. But you feel something for the moment. For the chance that maybe something’s shifting. Something is moving. And in that quiet, empty way, you realize that maybe you’re not the only one who’s been pushed aside.

A few days later and it is close up time again. As always the radio voice drones on as you wipe the counters. “Macy King found dead this morningㅡ”

You don’t need to hear more. You already know.

Macy is dead too. How is this even possible? Was it all a dream, or was it the karma they couldn't escape from? You don’t feel sorry for her. You don’t feel sorry for Brandon either. But something’s stirring deep inside you. Something darker. Something that’s been waiting for a long time. It feels liberating. Maybe it makes you broken. But you don’t care.

Because some quiet part of you smiles.

You never said it out loud, but you hated them. For how they made you feel. For how they touched you, laughed at you, stepped on you. And now they’re gone. You tell yourself it’s not coincidence. How could it be? What if someone saw you? What if someone knows?

What if someone did it… for you?

The thought makes your breath catch. Makes your cheeks flush. It’s stupid. Delusional. But it feels like the first real thing you’ve had in months. Maybe longer.

Someone out there, somewhere in this cruel, gray little town, might’ve done what you’ve never had the courage to. And that makes you feel seen. Wanted. It doesn’t scare you. It makes your chest flutter.

So you hope, quietly, selfishly, shamefully, that whoever it is, does it again. For you.

Days later, the radio talks about Macy's death like it’s a warning. Like the whole town should be afraid. They now know the crimes were done by the same person. A man. But you’re not afraid. You’re captivated.

You walk home that day in a daze, the cold air biting at your cheeks, and for the first time in so long, you feel like someone is walking with you. Not beside you, but behind you. Somewhere. Watching. At least thats how it seems, or that's what you hope for.

And that thought that maybe someone sees you, maybe someone is thinking of you, it makes you ache. It makes your chest feel full. Like you matter. Like you’re real again.

So the next morning, you get up early. You shower longer than usual. You put on perfume, the one you wore back in college when you thought someone might notice you. You do your hair, just a little lipstick, and put on that soft sweater that hugs you just right. You don’t know why you’re doing it.

Except you do.

Because maybe he is out there. Maybe he's watching. Maybe you’ll catch a glimpse of him one day— maybe at work, across the street, reflected in the bakery window. Maybe he’ll come in and ask for a loaf of rye bread. And you’ll know. It’s stupid. But you don’t stop.

You start waking up earlier. Dressing softer. Smiling, just in case. The town is still cold and gray, but inside you, something is blooming.

A few weeks pass. You’ve stopped keeping track of the days. Everything just folds together now—sugar, flour, radio static, names whispered on the news.

The third victim throws you for a loop. Julian Moore.

He wasn’t like Macy or Brandon. He never laughed in your face, never whispered about your thighs or stole things from your locker. He wasn’t cruel.

But he stood by. That's your reasoning.

He was there, every time you were shoved into a locker or had your tray flipped in the cafeteria. He saw you crying in the girls’ bathroom after gym, after someone stole your clothes. He saw everything. And he never said a word. So when they find Julian’s body slumped behind the old church parking lot, throat cut clean through, something inside you hums. Not with guilt. Not even with relief.

But with a kind of satisfaction.

'You see me', you think. 'You’re doing this for me'. You’re too far gone now. You know it. But it’s like slipping into warm water. Soft and quiet and too easy to sink.

You don’t pray to God anymore. You pray to him.

Whoever he is.

Some nights, you whisper your thoughts aloud. Just in case he can hear you. You tell him about the people you hated, the ones that ruined you, the ones that still smile like they got away with it. You tell him about your dreams. About how sometimes you think you feel him just outside your apartment, under your window, in the creak of the floorboards that shouldn’t creak. You leave your curtain open a crack at night.

Just in case.

More days pass. The sky is bruised purple and gold, streetlights humming like quiet thoughts, the pavement still sticky with sun. You smell like sugar, yeast and a little vanilla, your apron folded neatly in your bag, your perfume still clinging to your collarbones. And you feel good.

It’s not something you admit often. But tonight, the wind is soft. Your chest feels light. And there’s that quiet, persistent buzz in your stomach that maybe—just maybe, he’s proud of you.

You walk slower than usual. You want to be seen. You smile at the window reflections. At your shoes. At nothing.

And then it shifts. At first it’s subtle. There's a sound that doesn’t belong. A presence you can’t place. But it thickens around you slowly, like fog, until you know you’re not alone. There’s someone behind you.

It's ot a feeling anymore. Not a maybe.

Someone is there. Slowly, your steps falter. You stop, you turn. And he’s there.

Tall. Broad-shouldered. Older. He’s standing under the glow of a flickering lamppost like it’s a spotlight and he is the misunderstood actor, with shadows cutting across his face. His hair is dark and slightly curled, his jawline sharp, mouth neutral. He doesn’t move.

But he’s looking at you. Your heart slams up into your ribs. He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t speak. Just watches. You don’t know him. Or maybe you do. Maybe you’ve seen him before, in your dreams, in your prayers, behind your eyes when you’re alone in bed with nothing but wanting. Maybe he’s always been there.

The street is silent. The street lights glow faint behind you. Somewhere far off, a dog barks. And you— God, you don’t run.

You take a step forward. And he doesn’t move. Not until his hand shifts just a little and you see something glint. A blade. Maybe. Or maybe your mind wants it to be. You gasp, but it’s soft, almost reverent. You don’t feel fear. You feel certain.

You open your mouth, voice trembling but real. “I am not afraid o-of you…” He laughs. It’s a quiet sound. Deep and low and almost surprised. “Oh?”

But you mean it. You’re not afraid. You’ve wanted this—him, whatever this is, for so long, you’re not sure there’s any room left inside you for fear.

For months you’ve been dreaming of this. Not of murder or blood, but of him. Of being seen. Of being chosen.

And now he’s here. You don’t blink. Don’t breathe. “Stupid girl…” he mutters. His fingers brush the knife at his belt. And you? You smile.

He steps closer. You don’t move. Can’t. Your mouth is dry, breath catching somewhere between your chest and your throat, your heart trying to crawl up your neck. He’s beautiful. Not in any way you’ve ever known. He’s rough, a scar curling just near his temple, his face carved from something too human and too wild at once. His eyes are dark, unreadable. His mouth is stern, unmoved. You feel heat flush up your neck and to your cold cheeks. He’s right in front of you.

Close enough to see the shadow of stubble on his jaw, the way his eyes linger on your face for just a second longer than they should. “I—I know what you did,” you whisper, voice trembling, breathless.

He raises an eyebrow. You swallow hard. “Those people… Brandon. Macy. Julian. They hurt me. Back then. You—you knew, didn’t you? You did it for m-me…”

He doesn’t say anything. Just watches.

And that silence, it pulls more out of you. “I mean, it makes sense. Doesn’t it?” You laugh, soft and shaky, hands trembling at your sides. “No one ever remembered me. No one ever noticed me. But you—you saw me. You must’ve. That’s why you…” You trail off. You can’t bring yourself to say killed. Not out loud.

His expression shifts. A little. One corner of his mouth twitches. And then he laughs. It’s sudden and deep and rough, like it bursts straight from his chest.

You flinch, but not away. Never away.

“You’re a real sweet thing, aren’t you?” he drawls low, the faintest southern rasp brushing the words. You don’t know what to say. You just stare up at him, cheeks burning, stomach a mess of tangled knots. Then he leans closer. Close enough that you can smell leather and smoke and something more darker. Close enough that his voice grazes your ear when he speaks again. “I might just keep you longer.”

The words burn. You feel them everywhere. Your legs tremble. You’re too warm. Too soft. You feel like you could fall straight into him and vanish.

And still, he doesn’t touch you. He just watches the way you unravel—eyes wide, lips parted, breath shallow, as if it’s his favorite pastime. As if he likes watching you break.

The space between you is so tight it feels like you have been touched. Brushed. You wonder what his hand would feel like on your throat. You shouldn't want that. “I…” you whisper, barely audible. “Can I know y-our name?" He doesn’t answer. Doesn’t even blink but you see his jaw tighten. Just a little. Like maybe something in him twitches when he looks at you too long.

“Why me?” you ask, stupidly, helplessly, hopelessly. His eyes flick down to your mouth, then back up. And he smiles. Barely. “You talk too much,” he mutters. He leans in again “I liked you better when you were just starin’.” You feel heat bloom low in your stomach.

“You ever wonder what it’d feel like,” he murmurs, his voice a low drag in your ear, “if I just took you right here?” Your breath stops.

Right here. This alley. The air thick and sticky with heat, the only light coming from the weak glow of the streetlamp at the corner, flickering like it’s about to die too. He pulls back just enough to look at you.

“No one can see you out here. No one can hear you.” His hand trails down slowly, fingers dragging across your arm, your waist, until it rests low on your hip.

“What if I held you up against this wall,” he continues, voice crueler, “fucked you until you beg for me to stop, and then put a knife in your gut?” You should run. You should scream. But your breath comes out shuddered, and your eyes go wide, not in fear, but something closer to desire.

You want it. You want him.

He sees it. He feels it. Your body leaning closer, your thighs shifting, the way your lips part and tremble. And he stills. For a second. A long one.

“…Jesus Christ,” he mutters. “You like that?” You nod. He stares at you. Quiet. Like he’s trying to figure out whether you’re the dumbest girl he’s ever met or the most dangerous. Maybe both.

He shoves you back against the alley wall and kisses you like a punishment, like he hates that he wants you, like he wants to see how deep the rabbit hole goes.

You moan. Loud. Needy. And that’s all it takes. His hands are everywhere—on your hips, your ass, your throat. One knee forces your legs apart and he grinds against you through your clothes, a low, guttural sound in his throat when he feels how soaked you are already. “You’re fuckin’ filthy,” he growls. “Gettin’ wet from me talkin’ about killin’ you. You sick little thing.”

You nod again, whispering a barely-there, “please—” And then it happens. Just like you have dreaming of. His mouth was on your neck, his breath in your ear, his body pressing you into the wall like he’s carving your shape into it. He quickly takes off his pants, leaving you no time to react to the sheer size of him. He forces the head inside of you, leaving you mewling under his touch. “Look at you, lettin’ a killer fuck you in a goddamn alley like a whore.” In no time he was in your guts, each stroke sending you further into oblivion. Your fingernails dig into his skin and he growls, rough hands wrapping around your throat as he whispered dirty nothings into your hair. “This little cunt’s never been touched, has it? Feels too fuckin’ tight to beㅡ shit!" He uses you like he owns you, like you’re a soft and stupid doll made just for him. “Don’t stop, please don’t stop—feels so good…”

“I could kill you right now, and you’d still thank me for it, wouldn’t you?” he gloats, each snap of his hips hitting deeper into your cunt. Your tear stained cheeks press agains his hard chest, sobs muffled and eyes blurry from crying. Your head is spinning, brain melting into nothing but thoughts of him. “You’re gonna remember this every time you sit down, darlin’. Gonnaㅡ fuck, feel me for days.”

You hiccup, head bobbing up and down, as he hastily chases his high. He groans low into your neck, voice cracking like gravel, rough fingers digging into your hips as he jerks once, twice, then stills as he spills his cum inside of your ruined insides.

“Fuck… that’s it, girl. Take it. Take all of it, you stupid thing.” He stays inside, breathing heavy against your cheek, his hand slipping down to hold your belly like he’s wanting to feel how deep in he still is. “Maybe it’ll stick. God knows you’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

You nod, dazed, breathless. You don’t even know what you’re agreeing to. But you're full. Of him. Of this moment. Of something filthy and real and unforgettable. It’s dripping out of you already and you shudder as it drops onto your newly bought underwear.

Your thighs still trembling, your skin still burning where he touched you. “I hope it does…” you whisper, blinking up at him, lips swollen, brain a haze of sugar and sin. “I really hope it sticks…” And he just laughs, sharp and cruel. He is entertained. “You're so fuckin’ pathetic.” But he doesn’t pull out. Not yet. The words sting. But not in the way they should. Not in the way a normal girl would cry over.

There's that filthy slickness between your thighs, and his rough hand moves down, slow, before dragging fingers through the mess he's left inside of you. You gasp.

He brings his fingers back up, slick and warm, and pushes them against your lips. "Open," he commads. And you do. You part your lips like it’s holy, like it’s something good, something earned. You wrap your mouth around his fingers and taste salt, heat and him. He watches you, slow and dark, chest rising. “ God dammit...”

Your eyes flutter shut as you suck, as if this will anchor him to you. As if this will mean something. And when he finally pulls his fingers away, wiping them on your cheek with something like contempt, you're still there, ruined, breathless, glowing in it.

He pulls away from you slowly, lazily, like he’s in no rush to care. His belt’s already half-fastened, knuckles grazed from the rough press of brick and skin. You’re still trembling, ruined and bare and aching in places you never knew could ache.

He pulls out like it means nothing. Like you mean nothing. The air cools around you instantly, and so does he. Zipping his jeans, flexing his jaw, his gaze flickers down at you once more, lazy and cold.

Then he turns. One step. Another.

It shouldn’t hurt this bad. But it does. Your voice cracks before you even know what you’re saying. “Please don’t leave—please—I’ll be good, I swear!" You’re shaking. Still sore. Still wet. Still his, in some awful, ruined way.

“Don’t go fallin’ in love, dumb girl. I ain’t your savior. I’m the reason people like you go missin’.” His eyes are sharp, unreadable.You're on your knees, legs trembling, underwear pushed to the side and forgotten, dress wrinkled and twisted halfway around your thighs. Your elbows ache from where you caught yourself against the brick, and your lips are raw from biting down too hard. There’s a stream of his come between your legs and bruises blooming along your skin. The alley smells like him. You do too.

Your heartbeat is still stuttering, off-kilter, your body stuck somewhere between shame and a high you never want to come down from. You blink up at him through damp lashes. “That’s all you wanted, huh? Someone to fuck the stupid outta you. Thought you’d get a happily ever after?”

It feels like you're begging without even saying a word. He should leave. He said he would. But he's still here, isn’t he? He just stares. Something in his brain ticks. And then, slowly, he pulls the knife from his belt. The steel hits the streetlight close to him and you freeze. He doesn’t say a word as he shifts closer. One knee between your legs again. Hand under your chin, tilting your face up to his. Finally, the blade touches your skin. “Stay still,” he mutters.

The metal is cold when it drags along your collarbone, slow. You whimper, but don’t pull away. It’s not deep. Just enough to hurt a bit. Just enough to bleed a little. When he leans back, satisfied, there’s a rough little 'J' carved just above your heart.

“Now you’re mine,” he murmurs, more to himself than you. Then louder “ So don’t go forgettin’ who you belong to, girl.”

You don’t say anything. You’re too out of it. Your fingers come back red as you touch the small mark.

He tucks the knife away. “I’ll find you again. Same spot. Don't make me come lookin' for you." And then he’s gone. Just like that.

You stay there, knees scraped, heart pounding, sticky, aching and marked. You should be afraid. Instead, your fingers ghost over the wound, and all you can think is he’s coming back.

You walk home with your head light and your lips smiling. So stupid. So giddy. You’ll clean yourself up, cover the mark with something soft and cottony. And maybe tomorrow, you’ll wear something nicer to work. Just in case he’s watching.

[yandere-daydreams]

exhibit #3 - stepcest.

an installment of the freak shit march gallery showcase.

pairing: yandere!toji x reader (jjk).

length: 3.0k.

warnings: non/con, fem!reader, step!dad + step!daughter, manipulation, mentions of death, mentions of grief, age gap (toji is in his mid 40s, reader is in her early 20s), long-term stalking, rampant daddy kinks, and slight infantalization. dead dove: do not eat.

Your plane landed about two hours before the funeral. By the time you got to the house (a tucked away two-story built for recluses and retirees), Toji was waiting for you in the driveway, already half-dressed in a pair of suit pants and a plain white button-up – leftover from a wedding or one of your mother’s work parties, you were sure. There was a fifty-dollar bill crumbled messily in his hand, and he palmed it to the cab driver after helping you out of the backseat and hauling your lone, malnourished suitcase out of the trunk. Another day, you might’ve tried to stop him, to insist on taking care of yourself, but you weren’t really in a place to take care of much of anything, at the moment.

You waited in silence for the cab to pull out, disappearing down the greenery-crowded backroad that led into town. When the vehicle was finally out of sight, you took a deep breath, shut your eyes, and collapsed into Toji’s chest.

His arms were around you in a heartbeat. You went boneless against him – exhausted from the news, the sobbing, the flight. If you hadn’t been so tired, you might’ve been able to greet him, to say you were sorry, to recognize that he was in mourning too, but you were tired, and you were sad, and it was all you could do to mutter distantly into his shoulder. “It just feels so…”

“I know, kid, I know.” He squeezed you against him, the same way he had the first time you’d failed a class, or after you’d heard your mother planned to sell your childhood home. It was the good, bone-crushing kind of hug, the type that flattened your lungs and made you feel safe. It was the kind of hug you’d only ever gotten from Toji. “It’s a lot to take in.”

“And you’re sure the ceremony is—”

“All taken care of.” He laughed airily. “We should get you dressed. I tried to lay out everything that still fits, but it’s gonna take some trial and error.”

His hold loosened, but didn’t fall away. You stayed where you were. “If we’re early, do you think I’ll be able to get a few minutes alone with her?”

He sighed, then kissed the top of your head. “It doesn’t matter what time we get there, princess. If anyone tries to stop you, I’ll deal with them.”

You sniffled, but straightened, determined to take consolidation where you could. Toji slung your suitcase over his shoulder and, taking your hand, led you inside.

~

You weren’t early. Toji had to help with your dress – your hands were shaking too badly to slot the buttons into place. You thought, briefly, about make-up, but you hadn’t remembered to pack any, and the only stock in the house would’ve been hers. Instead, you kept your head bowed and your eyes on the floor as you waded through rarely-seen friends and distant relatives, as faces you only just barely recognized recited hollow platitudes about how wonderful your mother was, how much they’d miss the light she’d brought into their lives, how fortunate you’d been to grow up with such a sparkling presence in your life. The business trips, the boarding schools, the screaming matches – those remained unmentioned, unthought of. It was the cruelest thing they could’ve put you through, and it was the most merciful they possibly could’ve been. It was terrible beyond description, and it was the best you could’ve hoped for.

Toji was at your side all the while, only occasionally stepping away to grab yet another box of tissues or a fresh bottle of water. He guarded the doors during your private visitation, and when you left a few minutes into the ceremony to vomit, he held your hair back without a word of complaint. His own estranged children – Megumi and Tsumiki – made an appearance. Neither spoke to you, but Tsumiki hugged you close and Megumi rested a hand on your shoulder. Their sympathy was hollow, but welcomed. What they’d gone through was different, easier. They’d lost both their mothers as children, when they were too young to really know what that meant, but you appreciated the sentiment.

There wasn’t a burial. Cremation had been in the will, added only a few months before the accident. It wasn’t your place to complain, but you wished she would’ve talked to you about it. Even a hole in the ground would’ve been more comforting than knowing you’d have to pick up a cold piece of porcelain containing what was left of your mother some time next week. Toji promised he’d take care of it as he drove you back home, and you couldn’t find it in yourself to argue.

Left to your own devices, you wandered the house. It’d been less than seventy-two hours since the accident, but already, the house seemed colder, emptier. Too many doors were shut rather than left ajar, too many counters clean rather than cluttered, too many blankets folded instead of absentmindedly thrown into a heap – the way your mother would always leave them when she got up. You tried to brave her bedroom, to find the sweater she’d been attempting to crochet for as long as you could remember, but you couldn’t make it farther than the doorway.

Toji caught you on the staircase. He stood at the bottom, arms crossed and back against the banister. As you neared the end of your descent, he sighed. “Any big plans, kid?”

You tried to smile, but it fell away quickly. “I think I might turn in early. I’m pretty tired from the—” You paused, swallowing. “—from everything.”

He hummed, letting his eyes fall to your feel. Abruptly, you realized that you hadn’t taken off your dress after the funeral. Or your jacket. Or your shoes.

“Yeah.” He straightened, pushing himself onto his feet. “That’s not going to happen. Change, get your ass on the couch, and put on a movie. I’m ordering take-out.”

He didn’t want you to be alone. You might’ve felt a little warmer, if you’d been able to feel anything at all. “I’m fine, I promise. You don’t have to babysit me.”

“And listen to you cry yourself to sleep?” He let out a breath of a laugh. “Ass. Couch. Now. I’ll be there in fifteen.”

It didn’t seem like he ‘no’ for an answer. Reluctantly, you shuffled past him and did as you were told – throwing on a pair of shorts and oversized shirt you hadn’t worn since your sophomore year of college. The living room seemed too big, too foreboding, so you stowed yourself away in the garage, your mother’s makeshift movie room. An unmemorable romcom was chosen out of a catalogue of identical titles with no particular sense of favoritism, but your mind began to wonder as soon as the opening credits started to play.

Toji was a good guy. Really, he was. You had to remind yourself of that from time to time, when something made you think of the bank-vault full of handguns he kept in the guestroom or your mother complained about how vague he was about his high-paying occupation, and you hadn’t always thought so – fuck, when she first brought home a man nearly fifteen years her junior with the build of a hitman and scars to match, you’d called her insane and insisted that, if they ever got married, you’d never speak to her again. You’d figured he was a scam artist, but a conman wouldn’t get up an hour before sunrise to make breakfast for their mark every day without fail, or volunteer for the droning domesticity of weekly laundry and vacuuming, or hide enough cash to cover the first three months of rent in their girlfriend’s daughter’s suitcase when she finally moved out.

You doubted he really loved your mom, but you doubted she’d ever really loved him, either. Toji was good for her, a steady hand to balance out her rashness, a beating heart to keep your home alive whenever her impulsivity led her elsewhere. When they did eventually get married in a small, unglamourous courtroom ceremony, you’d even acted as their witness. He was good to her, and she was happy. That was all that really mattered, you guessed.

When Toji came back, he was carrying a large paper bag printed with the logo of your favorite restaurant – ordered before your conversation, most likely. He pretended not to watch you as you ate, the action mechanical and joyless. You didn’t have much of an appetite, but you didn’t want to seem ungrateful.

The romcom had only passed the half-way mark by the time you tuned back in; the point where your protagonists began to lull into a false sense of security before their lives came crashing down around them. You would’ve expected Toji to leave after making sure you’d gotten something to eat, but instead, he sat stiffly next to you, half buried by your mound of blankets as you stretched your legs across his lap. The hero was delivering his nth poorly written monologue – something about family or belonging, it was hard to tell. As the actor struggled to cry on demand, Toji rested a hand on your knee.

As the heroine stormed out of his apartment and into the melodramatic rainstorm waiting outside, his touch wandered, skirting over your bare thigh.

As she ducked under the canopy of a brightly lit café, pulling out her phone to call her estranged parents for the very first time in five years, his hand slipped under your shorts and settled over your cunt.

Your immediate thought was, embarrassingly, that it had to be an accident. You weren’t sure how it could be, but the logistics didn’t matter – it had to be an accident. The stiff shape pressing into the underside of your calf was a nonfactor, static cast over your conscious mind. You wanted to get up, to take a hot shower, to lock yourself in your room, but your body wouldn’t move. Couldn’t move. That’d get his attention, and he’d realize what he was doing, and—

The heroine sobbed and threw her phone in the overflowing gutter, her reconciliation having ended messily. At the same time, two of Toji’s fingers slipped underneath your panties, tracing the length of your slit before pushing a quick circle into your clit. That was it. You scrambled off of the couch, your foot catching on a cushion and leaving you shambling and crumpled on the floor. You tried to pick yourself up, but you weren’t fast enough. Toji was already shifting, already leaning down, already taking you by either side. A little too easily, he hauled you back onto the sofa and threw your back against the armrest, the impact forceful enough to bruise the base of your spine. You cringed, but he only laughed, letting his hands fall to your hips and squeezing. “Where do you think you’re going, kid?”

“I wasn’t—” A knee was forced between your thighs, nudging them apart. Toji was quick to fill the empty space. “It’s—Uh, it’s kind of funny, actually. I thought I felt something touch my leg, and—”

“Mhm. Just like how I used to find you rooting around in my stuff because you thought it belonged to the old hag.” You winced. That’d been early on – when you were still too suspicious to let your guard down and too naïve to be subtle about it. You’d assumed he would’ve forgotten about that, by now. “Have anything else you want to get off your chest? Go ahead – Daddy’s here to listen.”

Disgust pricked at the back of your throat, bitter and acidic. It must’ve shown through to your expression - Toji smirked as he hooked a thumb underneath the waistband of your shorts, dragging them down to your knees. Your hands shot out on reflex, grappling for what was already lost, but Toji only clicked his tongue and bowed his head, his tongue drawing a wet stripe over the seat of your panties. In the end, it was all you could do to tangle your fingers in his hair and shut your eyes, as if drawing him closer had ever done you any good.

The sound was the worst part. Messy and indulgent, the soft click of saliva against skin and Toji’s airy groans as he buried his face between your thighs. He traced the shape of your cunt through your panties, only occasionally pausing to grind the fabric into your clit, to draw the meekest possible ‘no’ or ‘stop’ out of you. His hands fell to your thighs, forcing them over his broad shoulders and letting him pin you down that much more efficiently. Your body suddenly felt smaller than it had in years, as fragile and as helpless as the morning you’d first woken up with a strange, gigantic man in your home only to be told that the person you loved most in the world invited him in. It was hard to believe you’d ever trusted him, that you’d ever been stupid enough to trust anyone. You’d been in danger from the moment you decided you were safe.

You only realized you were crying when your vision blurred, when you felt the first tear drip onto your chest. Awareness accompanied revulsion as you felt your body start to react, your thighs going rigid as something other than Toji’s spit started to dampen the fabric of your panties. Arousal wasn’t really the right description. Fear-induced hysteria would’ve been a better fit, or a latent survival instinct you would’ve preferred to live without. Either way, Toji chuckled as he pulled back, dragging your panties to the side and thrusting his tongue into your now-sopping cunt. You felt him curl and flex, causing friction where stretch wasn’t possible. You let out a miserable sob, digging your nails into his scalp, trying to pull him away. In response, Toji only nuzzled closer, grinding the bridge of his nose into your clit.

Your orgasm was humiliatingly swift. You’d never really had time to date, not between work and school, and there was only so much that masturbation could prepare you for. You weren’t used to it – the heat, the slickness, the pressure of something splitting you open from the inside out – and it was all happening too quickly, too mercilessly to stave off. Your hands fell away from his head, darting up to cover your face as you came into his mouth. Rather than warmth, a cold dread filled you in-tandem with your climax, the knowledge that’d you’d just done something terribly, terribly. He was your mother’s husband, for fuck’s sake. He was your—

Your mind went blank before you could make the full connection, two wires disconnecting before the unthinkable could be communicated. You imagined black clothes and cardboard tissue boxes and coffins, and convinced yourself that nothing else had ever crossed your mind.

Toji wasn’t as introspective. He pulled back with a jarring sort of rush, then just hastily, shoved his mouth against yours. You could taste yourself on his lips, on his tongue as he all-but forced it down your throat. By the time he let you breathe, he was panting.

“Been waiting years for that.” He picked himself up, calling against the back of the couch. You stared blankly at the ceiling. “Since the first time I heard you fucking yourself on those pathetic little fingers. You know how thin those walls were, right? You were probably trying to get caught – needy little brat.”

You didn’t say anything. You couldn’t. Something vital to you had curled up and died in your throat minutes ago, and now, it was all you could do to try and suck in air around it. Toji’s gaze flickered over you, then he laughed. “C’mon, now, don’t play shy. You had to know.”

The words weren’t yours. They belonged to someone else, someone in another body. “You married my mom.”

“Jealous little brat, too.” You felt his arms around you, drawing you upward. Your body was stiff, uncooperative, but Toji was patient – carefully positioning you to straddle his lap, resting your hands on his shoulders and planting his own on your waist. His eyes were softened, half-lidded, his smile lopsided – weighed down by affection. If you didn’t know better, you might’ve mistaken him for genuinely lovestruck. “I had to. She never would’ve let me stick around if I didn’t, and—” He paused, squeezed your side. “I wasn’t going to give you up. Not when we were just starting to get to know each other.”

That wasn’t true. He’d already been living with you for years by the time they’d gotten married. You liked him enough not to tell your mom when you caught him smoking on the front porch or not using coasters, and he liked you enough to invite you out on his long, late-night drives and do your laundry with—

Oh, god.

He’d been doing your laundry.

Your voice was soft, almost inaudibly so. It took everything you had just to get your lips to move. “…can I go, now?”

“Not just yet.” A hand slipped between your body and his, dipping below his sweatpants. His cock – flushed and veined and monstrously thick – was pulled free, allowed to press into your stomach. Weakly, you tried to draw back, but Toji held you still, taking himself by the base and pumping once, twice. “I had to call in a lot of favors to make that accident happen, y’know. It’d be nice if you could show me a little love.”

The shock was cold, numbing. Toji guided you onto your knees, positioning the head of his cock against your entrance. Slowly, delicately, he dragged you down, lowering you inch by agonizing inch until your hips were slotted against his. He started to let his head roll back before thinking better of it and pulling you closer – burying his face in the crook of your neck.

You blinked. His cock twitched inside of you, and it was all you could do to melt, to rest your forehead against him and let your body go slack in his embrace. “Toj—”

“You know that’s not right, pretty girl.” His hips rolled against yours, drawing a pitiful whine from your lips. “Tell me who takes care of you.”

“D-Daddy.” And then, sniffling into his chest. “I’m really scared.”

“I know, baby, I know.”

It might’ve been easier to believe, if you hadn’t been able to feel his grin biting into your throat.

“That’s what you’ve got your daddy for, right?”

[mystic-writings]

we’re just fine | daryl dixon

PAIRING — Daryl Dixon x Fem!reader

SUMMARY — after the fall of the prison, you find yourself in alexandria, alone. two months later, your family finds their way back to you. 

WARNINGS — angst, canon-typical violence/situations, pregnancy, fluff 

WORD COUNT — 5,000

NOTES — idk what happened to me all i know is i blacked out and then this was made. enjoy i guess

masterlist | navigation | requests are open!

Despite the pure monotonous routine you’d gotten used to during your two months in Alexandria, you couldn’t say that it wasn’t sometimes extremely boring. Your only saving grace was the mealtimes you had with Aaron and Eric at the end of the day. At least they had the sense and experience outside the walls to be able to carry out a conversation that wasn’t about what food you were eating or how the weather was. 

It was why you hated when they went out on recruitment runs. As their roommate, you felt awkward being in the home by yourself when they left the walls; as though you were intruding. You felt that way in a lot of aspects. An intruder on a perfect life that these people had grown used to in the wake of the apocalypse. A life where their only worry was whether or not Aiden and Nicholas would find the right ingredients for the food they’d planned on cooking during their supply runs. 

But there was nothing to be done aside from making a meal for one, eating alone with only a soft classical music CD to fill the silence, and to wait for the couple to come back home so you would have normal people to talk to. 

You were glad for them and the runs they went on, though. Or they never would’ve found you, and you’d likely be dead in a ditch by now. 

Your hand shook as you gripped the handle of your blade, wide eyes searching the pharmacy for any signs of walkers, or people. Being on the road alone for as long as you had been was making you feel like you’d gone crazy. Maybe you had already. 

Sweeping the small aisles, you found no signs of life. Most of the shelves were already empty, likely having been raided during the early days. Still, you grabbed whatever was available to you, shoving it into your bag before ducking into a corner, knees pressed to your chest as you rooted around for one of the final few cans of food you had left. 

You’d been rationing out what used to be a plentiful supply for a few weeks now. One can of food per day, nothing more. A lot of what you had was thanks to the traffic blockages on the highways and interstates you’d wandered along on your way out of Georgia. What used to be two cans a day for almost three weeks turned into one for the past week and a half, bordering on two. 

The lack of food wasn’t your only issue anymore. With no signs of life from your former group, you had every reason to believe that they were all dead. Logically, you knew they weren’t. You’d seen some of them escape in the firefight, yourself included. But without any real way of tracking them down, they were as good as dead. Not to mention the sudden and constant fatigue that the southern sun seemed to give to you, making traveling more difficult than you had originally planned. 

Even with no end in sight, no real indicator that the man you called your husband was still alive, and no true hope for your future, you still persisted. You found places to sleep for the night, whether in abandoned cars or gas stations off of turnpikes. You found just enough food to supply you for a few more days if you managed to stretch it thin enough, and you kept going. 

Just as you were about to crack open a can of corn, the crunching of glass and shuffling of footsteps alerted you to the body that had just entered the pharmacy. Its footfalls sounded too heavy and spaced out to be anything but a human. 

Gripping onto your knife, you held your breath and gently placed the can on the floor. With your bag still on your shoulders, you kept your body crouched and your ears peeled, moving around the person — no, people — moving around the pharmacy. 

“I’m telling you, we’ve already been here. There’s nothing left to take,” a voice reasoned. 

The footsteps ceased for a moment, and you paused, praying they hadn’t heard you. “I know. Doesn’t hurt to check, though, right? I mean, we can’t exactly go back empty handed. Aiden’ll have something to say about it.”

“But we aren’t out here for supplies,” the other stressed, “we’re out here for people, remember? New members?”

“I know,” their partner chuckled, footsteps resuming as they rounded the last aisle. You ducked between the shelves closest to the door, hoping to just outrun them and not have to fight them. There was a pause, a palpable beat, before he spoke again. “But I think we might not be coming back alone.”

A cold chill ran through your veins at the former’s words. He knew you were in here. He’d seen your can of food, or heard your shuffling around the pharmacy. In an instant, you were at your full height, eyes wide as your fingers clutched your knife tighter and you ran, against your better judgment, toward the pair. The blond was the one closest to you, his back facing your front. With as much energy as you could muster, you hooked your arm over his shoulder, dragging him to your chest as you pressed your knife to his throat. It wasn’t hard enough to do any real damage, but you knew that if you absolutely had to, you’d apply pressure. 

“Who are you?” You spat, hand shaking as it gripped the knife. “What do you want?”

“Woah, woah, calm down. It’s okay. We’re not here to hurt you.” The brunet immediately jumped into negotiation mode, putting his hands in front of him. The position reminded you of Rick, oddly enough, and your heart twinged as you adjusted your grip on the knife. 

“Then what are you here for?” You spat. “Like you said, there’s nothing worth taking here.”

The faintest of whimpers escaped the lips of the man you held hostage, dragging both yours and the brunet’s attention to him. “We’re just—” the blond gulped. “We’re recruiters. We have a camp not too far from here. A safe one. We’re looking for people to join us. People who have— have experience, out here.” 

His words, as stuttery and fearful as they were, confused you. 

“I’m Aaron,” the brunet said, keeping his arms up in surrender as he slowly slid the backpack from his shoulders. “That man you have is my partner, Eric. Everything he’s saying is right, and I can show you. I have pictures and a brochure in my bag, if you’ll let me get it.” 

Hesitantly, you nodded. Even if he had a weapon, most of your body was blocked by his partner — Eric. There was a highly likely chance that he wouldn’t try to harm you while you kept his friend in your grip, however weak it was becoming. 

Slowly, Aaron reached into his bag, pulling out exactly what he said he would. With Eric still in your grip, he showed you pictures of the place he and his friend called home — Alexandria. “Look,” Aaron sighed, stepping back a bit. “You seem like someone we could use. You have experience that we lack. Plus, it seems like you’ve been out here by yourself a while. We have walls, food, running water, and proper shelter. And if you decide to come with us, our leader, Deanna, will interview you. If she allows you in and you don’t like it, you can leave any time you want. We won’t keep you there if you don’t want to be, okay?”

With a shaking nod, you let go of Eric, nudging him toward Aaron, who enveloped the other man in a tight hug. “I— I can leave if I want to, right?”

“Of course, you can. No one will stop you, and that’s a promise.” 

It took a bit of getting used to, but you were glad that Aaron and Eric had found you that day. You’d been skeptical of things in Alexandria for the first few days, but you warmed to the entire situation a lot easier than you thought you would. You supposed it was because of how things were at the prison, but even then you weren’t alone.

Aaron and Eric, while not pushing the topic often, had managed to get to know enough about you and where you came from before they’d found you that they considered you a close friend. 

You’d only told them the briefest of answers. That you were with a large group in Georgia from the beginning, that you’d been with one of them for most of that time — even, at some point, considering yourselves to be married, though the symbol you’d had to show it had been lost months ago — and then another group came along and took everything away from you, simply because they could. 

The safety and privacy that the couple provided was something you were more than grateful for, even if you were sure you wouldn’t be able to have it forever. 

Because while Aaron and Eric, along with the rest of Alexandria, provided a structure and a sense of normalcy for you, you couldn’t shake the grief that fell upon you every time you were alone. 

The thought of Daryl being out there, combing every inch of Georgia for you while you were so far away, was enough to bring you to tears. It was another thing to think about the possibility of his rotting corpse roaming the woods in search of something living to eat. The thought that you’d never see him again, dead or alive. That you’d just push through life — however much longer that would be for you — without him, even though he promised you’d never have to go through something like that. 

The thought of your baby never knowing who their father was, and their father never knowing who they were, either. 

You could go an entire lifetime without ever seeing Daryl again, and the idea of it nearly killed you when he was still around. It hurt a hundred times worse now that it was practically a reality. 

The night passed without word from or the arrival of Aaron and Eric. It was common for them to be gone a while at a time — this particular trip lasting almost a week — but you hated sleeping in the house by yourself now. You were so used to waking up to Eric clattering dishes in the kitchen that waking up midday when they were gone only proved how fatigued you seemed to feel nowadays. 

Waking up to a knock on the door wasn’t unusual as of late, but it was certainly unpleasant. You were, however, grateful for the fact that when you were given a room at Aaron and Eric’s, it was on the first floor. 

Rolling out of bed got harder and harder with each passing week, but you managed it anyway. The knocking persisted, and you sighed as you made your way into the living room, shouting out, “I’m coming!”

The knocking ceased, and you pulled on the fabric of your shirt before answering the door, only to find Jessie. “Oh, hey,”

“Hi, hon,” she smiled, and you felt bad for being upset at her moments before. “Pete sent me over, said you were supposed to see him this morning?” 

“Oh, shit, Jessie I’m so sorry,” you said, brushing some stray hair from your face. “I overslept, normally Aaron—” 

Jessie smiled warmly, reaching out and putting a gentle hand on your arm. “I understand, Y/n, no need to worry. Just get dressed and head over to the infirmary. It’s not like Pete’s in any real rush.” 

“Alright,” you nodded, bidding Jessie goodbye and closing the door as she headed down the porch steps. 

Padding your way through the home, you went back to your room, pulling on some fresh clothes before freshening up in the bathroom. Routines like these were simple, but they kept you sane. You’d had something a little closer to it at the prison, but it was nowhere near as nice as it was in Alexandria. 

After eating a small breakfast, you were out of the house and on your way to the infirmary. The streets were quiet, as always, and the sun was anything but forgiving. People smiled and waved, and you did the same, even if you didn’t know half of the people in this place. Even after being here for two months, it was hard to remember such trivial things about so many people. Plus, putting names to faces was never one of your strong suits. 

Stepping into the infirmary, you were grateful for the burst of air conditioning that fell over your body. Smiling, you greeted Denise and Pete, the former of the two sitting on one of the beds as she pored over the book in her lap. 

“Alright, let’s take a look at you. Sound good?” Pete smiled, and you nodded back. 

While you hauled yourself onto the bed, Pete readied the ultrasound equipment. Pulling back the loose shirt you wore, your eyes glued themselves to the obvious, albeit still small, bump you were sporting. 

“Hey, I’m about four months along now, right?” You asked, eyes darting up to Pete, who confirmed with a nod. “That means you can see the baby’s gender, doesn’t it? I remember hearing that somewhere,” 

Pete chuckled, powering on the machine and taking the gel from its holster. “Most of the time, yes. If you want me to look around for it, I can do that. After I make sure everything’s okay.” 

“I really wanna know,” you said, wincing at the cold gel making contact with your skin. “It’d mean a lot. Then I can go full nesting mode. And so can Aaron and Eric, really.” 

The ultrasound went off without a hitch. According to Pete, your margins were clear, and everything looked healthy with the baby. It was always a relief to hear. There was little room for error with these things now that you had scarcely little supplies to work with. Finding the ultrasound machine early on in the apocalypse was a miracle in itself. 

“Okay…” Pete hummed, the wand moving and pressing over your skin. “The kid’s giving me a hard time with this one. And…” he pressed a few buttons, eyes focused on the screen before him. You watched his features intensely, as though his expression would give the answer away before he could say it. Pete’s eyes broke from the screen as he smiled, lifting the wand. “You’re having a little girl. Congratulations.” 

Your heart swelled, a wide smile overtaking your features as Pete handed you a towel. “A girl,” you whispered, eyes locked onto your belly. 

Before you were able to stop yourself, you were once more reminded of the likelihood that you’d never be able to share this with Daryl. Tears welled along your waterline as you sat up, swiping the scratchy cloth across your belly. Whether Pete noticed or not, he made no indications. You were thankful for it, and for him leaving the room to put the ultrasound equipment away. 

When he came back inside, he pulled Denise from her books and into the kitchen to talk, but you paid no mind to them. They were talking too low for you to listen in, anyway, and you were too busy trying to quell your emotions on the makeshift examination table to want to eavesdrop. 

By the time you were ready to leave, Olivia entered the infirmary, eyes scanning the room before landing on your frame. 

“Y/n, they’re on their way back,” she smiled, and you nodded gratefully. 

“They’re okay?”

The woman nodded. “Eric’s a bit banged up, hurt his leg I think, but otherwise they’re fine. And they brought a group. They should be getting here soon.” 

Exhaling a relieved breath, you slid from the bed, bidding goodbye to Denise and Pete as you followed Olivia onto the street. You walked side by side in silence, mulling over what she’d said. 

“You said they brought a group?” You asked, following Olivia up the steps to the house that held all of your inventory. “How many?”

Olivia huffed, brows cinching. “Deanna said it was a big one. That they had a lot of weapons, been on the road a while.” 

Your eyes widened. “A while as in the entire time, or?”

“Not sure,” Olivia shook her head. “All I know is I gotta get the weapons cart to the gate, if you wanna help?” 

“Sure. Should probably be there to get Eric to the infirmary, anyway,” you decided. 

And, sure enough, Aaron helping a limping, sweating Eric through the gate was the first — and for now, only — glimpses of the new group you would get. Aaron smiled apologetically as he spotted you, tucked out of view from the newcomers. 

“What the hell happened to you?” You said, looking pointedly at Eric, who grimaced as you took his arm from Aaron. 

“Roamers,” he sighed. “It’s broken, I think.” 

“You think?” You asked, eyeing the bruising flesh. “I can tell it’s broken. Come on, let’s get you to Pete.” 

Aaron thanked you as you wrapped an arm around Eric’s waist, helping him up the road and back into the infirmary. 

As Pete worked to wrap Eric’s ankle, you couldn’t help but ask questions about the trip. 

“It was a disaster,” Eric groaned. “There were roamers everywhere. Plus, this group, they’re headstrong. Been out there a while.” 

“How many of them are there?” You asked. “Olivia didn’t tell me.” 

“Fifteen,” Eric hissed, squirming as Pete positioned his ankle properly. 

Your eyes widened, throat going dry. “Jesus,” you huffed. “That many of them and they’re still going?”

“With a baby,” 

“Oh my God,” you gasped. Your mind flashed with images of baby Judith, heart clenching. The fall of the prison meant that you never found out exactly who made it out alive, and you never dared to venture the thought of whether or not she did. “They must be some lucky sons of bitches.” 

Eric laughed. “Not only are they lucky, but they’re tough. And really close. I think, once you get used to them, you’ll like them. They remind me of you when we found you.” 

“So, scrappy, hungry, and tired?” 

“Yeah, pretty much,” Eric laughed, and you couldn’t help but do the same. 

“If you need me, I’m four houses down.” Aaron pointed, Rick and Carl following his line of sight. “If I’m not there, Eric or Y/n probably will be.” 

Carl’s eyes snapped back to the brunet, a mixture of confusion and skepticism floating within them. “Y/n?”

Aaron’s brows furrowed at the boy. “Yeah. She’s a friend of ours, came here a few months back. Why?”

“We, uh…” Rick stepped in, a hand scratching at his beard. “We used to know someone named Y/n. that’s all.”

“Oh,” Aaron nodded, stepping away and heading back home, where you and Eric were sitting at the table, sandwiches in hand as you giggled about something he wasn’t aware of. 

Upon his entrance into the kitchen, you stood excitedly and hugged the man. “Glad you’re back okay,” you said, heading back to your chair. “I heard the group you brought was tough.”

“Yeah, they are.” Aaron chuckled, still mulling over the puzzle pieces in his head. “You said you were with a big group before, right?”

“Yeah, why?”

Aaron huffed, glancing at his shoes. “I brought up your name to one of the new members — just a name, nothing else — he said they used to know someone with the same name.” 

Your heart stuttered in your chest, limbs freezing as you were bringing the sandwich to your mouth. Clearing your throat, you forced yourself to put the food back down, looking up at Aaron with shining eyes. “This man, what’d you say his name was?”

“Rick. Rick Grimes.” 

If your heart had been fluttering before, it was banging like a drum in your chest now. Your stomach fluttered, your hand coming to rest on the swell of your belly, hoping to quell the anxiousness. 

“Where are they?” You asked, and Aaron’s mouth only remained agape. “Aaron, where are they?”

“Down the street,” he finally said, voice cracking. “The house on the curb, the one you said you liked.” 

Within moments, your food and friends were abandoned as you practically ran from the home, shooting down the porch steps and down the street. You were thankful that no one was out and about right now, or you were sure they’d think you looked crazy. You didn’t even register a person in your path until you’d already bumped into them. 

“Oh! Y/n, are you alright?” Jessie asked, her hands on your shoulders as her eyes searched your wild ones. 

“‘M fine, Jessie.” You muttered. “I’ve gotta go.”

You gave the woman no time to respond before you were wriggling out of her grip and hurrying down the street. Up more steps, you were greeted by the charming yellow door of the home you’d wished you lived in, knuckles rapping frantically and unyielding on the wood. 

The door finally, after what felt like decades, creaked open. Your heart stopped in your chest as you took in the sight of your husband’s best friend, clean shaven and hair dripping from a recent shower. 

Rick’s eyes flooded with tears as they met your own. In seconds, you were pulling him into your arms, grateful that you weren’t the only survivor of the Governor’s wrath. 

You sobbed into his shoulder, gripping tightly to the clean white shirt he wore. “Rick,” you croaked, “is he—” 

“He’s fine,” Rick whispered, heart breaking when your sobs worsened out of pure relief. “He’s just fine.” 

When you finally found the strength to let go, Rick led you inside. “We thought you were dead,”

“There were times I wished I was,” you said, taking a seat at the edge of the couch. “I was by myself for just over a month. Found some train tracks, lost ‘em, then stuck to interstates, mostly. Got lost in the woods, found a small town, and from there, Aaron and Eric found me. I’ve been here for two months.” 

Rick huffed a laugh, disbelief filling the sound. “Sounds like you had one hell of a trek.”

“I had a car, for a bit.” You shrugged. “Walkers ruined that part. I crashed it into a tree. Stuck to walking after that.” 

“When did you…” Rick glanced down at your swelling belly, forcing a laugh from you. 

Shrugging, you smoothed your hand over your belly. “Four-ish months ago. Didn’t find out until I got here. Been terrified ever since, really. Not knowing if Daryl was out there, if I’d see him again.” 

“You’ll see him soon,” Rick assured you. “He’s talking to Deanna now.”

“And the others?” You asked. “Beth? Judith?”

“Judith is just fine,” Rick said, eyes leaving yours as he sighed. “Beth got caught out in Atlanta. A woman in a hospital killed her.”

Your stomach churned at Rick’s words, guilt crushing your lungs and bile rising in your throat. “Oh, my God,” you whispered, pressing your fingers to your mouth to try and stop yourself from throwing up. 

Rick nodded, resting a hand on your knee. He watched you stand, your arm resting over your belly, beginning to pace the floor before him. 

“I have to… I need to go see the others. Daryl.” And without another word, you were leaving Rick behind in an unfamiliar home, nearly running down the familiar path to where Deanna and her husband lived. 

The group milled about in the small courtyard in front of Deanna’s house, hidden behind the brick walls that fenced it in. Everyone was either sitting or leaning against something, sticking to a tight group, and completely blocking your path to the inside of the home. 

With your mind so set on seeing Daryl, on simply getting close to him again, you failed to register Carol saying your name. Once again, you were pulled from your thoughts only when someone was right in front of you. 

This time, Carol was pulling you into her arms, her grip on your body tight. You hugged her back, despite the sweat and grime that covered her. Soon enough, Glenn, Maggie, Michonne, and Sasha had joined her. You were surrounded by your family, all overwhelmed at your presence, but happy nonetheless. 

When you finally requested to be let go, they obliged, and you finally spotted Judith in the arms of someone you didn’t know. Relief flooded you, seeing the baby healthy and happy as she could be. 

“What happened to you?”

“We thought you were dead!”

“Are you okay?”

“Guys, I’m fine, I promise.” You chuckled through tears. “I’ve been here almost the whole time, and I’m perfectly healthy. The doctor said so this morning.” 

You smiled as Carol’s eyes drifted from your face to your belly, shock overcoming her features, before her smile matched yours. She said nothing, but you were sure everyone else was either figuring it out or partially aware, just based on the interaction alone. 

A loud scoff echoed from the porch door, followed by low, gravelly muttering. Your heart stopped at the familiar voice, before thrumming in your heart like a rapid drumbeat. There, walking with careless ease, picking at his thumbs, was your husband, covered head to toe in layers of dirt and grime. You choked a sob as the group seemed to part around you. 

“Daryl,” you croaked, just loud enough for him to hear it. 

Daryl paused at the top of the steps, his eyes locked onto yours through the hair he’d let grow too long. In a flash, he was down the stairs entirely, rushing to pull you into his arms. You met him in the middle, colliding with his body and bringing you both to the ground. With one hand cupping the back of your head and the other splayed between your shoulder blades, Daryl cradled you close to him, rocking you as you clutched to the leather vest on his back tighter, sobbing in his embrace. 

“I thought ya were dead,” he whispered, fingers digging into your back. “I thought I lost ya,”

A choked sound escaped you as you shook your head. “Never,” you promised. “You could never lose me.” 

“Yer necklace,” Daryl croaked, tucking his face into the side of your head. “I found it, on the tracks in Georgia. Thought ya were gone…” 

“It fell.” You said, words hushed and shaking, as though they were a desperate plea. “Walkers were coming for me, too many for me to take on myself. It snapped off in the fight, I couldn’t go back for it.” 

By the time you felt okay enough to stand on your own, everyone had departed from the courtyard, likely into Deanna’s home. With a vice grip on his arms, Daryl helped you stand. His eyes raked over your face, tear-stricken and flushed with emotion. No matter the state you were in, Daryl could never see you as anything other than utterly beautiful. 

“You’re okay?” You asked, hands gently brushing the hair from his dirt-caked face. “You’re not hurt?” 

Daryl shook his head, leaning into your delicate touch. Hands smoothed over cloth, over skin, dedicating the feeling of your body beneath his touch to memory. He watched your eyes flutter closed as he did so, relishing in the slight pressure of his palms against your skin. They slid down your hips, your waist, and Daryl’s brow furrowed. He’d committed your body to memory long ago — every curve, every bump, every scar. Slowly, and with a hand that was less steady than it had been a moment ago, Daryl’s fingers drifted delicately over your front, eliciting a small gasp when he found what he’d suspected. 

The sound forced your eyes to open, meeting the bright blue of his own, widened in shock. Immediately, your stomach churned and you pulled your bottom lip between your teeth, a habit you’d been unable to shake since high school. 

“Daryl?” Your voice shook. 

“Yer…” he breathed, eyes darting down to where the backs of his fingers rested, the slight swell of your stomach confirming what he’d been about to ask. “When’d you… did you know?”

“No, no…” you whispered gently, shaking your head. “I had no clue when… I didn’t know until I got here. I suspected it on the road, but… no, I didn’t.” 

A shaking breath fell from his lips. “And yer okay? Yer both— both okay?”

“We’re just fine,” you smiled, resting your palm on his cheek. “I promise. Your girls are just fine.” 

Daryl’s breath caught in his throat, a new wave of pure emotion rolling through his body. It seized his muscles, freezing him in place as he struggled for breath and blinked away tears. Girls. He was going to be a dad. He was going to have a daughter. 

“Ya have no idea how much I love ya,” Daryl muttered, his head dipping low, forehead resting on your shoulder. 

“I think I have a clue or two,” you joked, voice as soft as you could make it.

Daryl scoffed, lifting his head and pressing his lips to yours. It was short, shorter than you would’ve liked, but it carried as much love as all the other kisses you’d shared and stolen with the archer over the years. Still, he was here, and he was safe, and so were you. Nothing else mattered except that. 

The horrifying reality you’d thought yourself to be in was nothing but that — a mere thought. For now, you and Daryl were safe. Together. As a family. 

And you knew that, as he slipped the necklace back onto your skin, this time on a leather rope tied tight, there was nothing either of you wouldn’t do to stay that way. 

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[swtheartz]

i loved your little drabble of the “breaking up with mark doesn’t work” post and i’d really like to hear your thoughts on how that would go down with some of his variants if you have the time pretty please🫶✨

ohh of course dear !! been thinking abt it and this req inspired me even more info : obsessive behavior, mentions and acts of murder, stalking, he’s crazy in every universe. gn!reader a / n : this is a gift to you guys for 348 followers. i’m soo grateful n happy <33

SINISTER MARK

he thinks it’s a joke at first. you’ve no real reason to actually want to leave him, right? he’s utterly convinced that there was nothing wrong with the relationship. and to be fair, there wasn’t. other than the fact he was possessive as shit and always had tabs on you. would scare off your friends and constantly linger around you whenever he wasn’t terrorizing the masses. the second he realizes that you’re serious? he doesn’t take it very well. you won’t ever find someone better than him. he won’t let you. just what human could ever be better than him?

“You’re not very good at jokes,” Mark says—voice and expression both hauntingly blank. It sends chills down your spine for the simple fact he’s never had such an empty tone. The way he looks at you is something that you can’t exactly put into words. Maybe he’s disappointed. Maybe he’s annoyed, or expectant, or some other emotion that you cannot be bothered to decipher. Not when there’s blood staining your clothes and his, the floor, your cheeks and his hands. Whatever ‘friend’ you were hanging out with was dead before they’d hit the ground. It’s been twelve days since you had gathered the courage to tell Mark you wanted a break, and it took him this long to take you seriously. Thought, it hadn’t taken much effort for him to take a life. “I don’t know why you thought this was a good idea. . .” He hummed, tilting his head as he crouched down in front of you, watching you tremble like a deer in front of an incomprehensible creature. ”But let’s not do this again, hm?”

OMNI MARK

calm. at least, he seems calm. but he also doesn’t take you very seriously. acts as he usually does, even asks you when the next date night is. as if he’ll even be able to make it with his schedule and how often he cancels on you. looks at you as though you’ve said something ludicrous when you answer that there isn’t a date night—you’re not together anymore. surely, you don’t know what you’re talking about. if you wanted him to plan the next date, you could have just told him. he’s usually the one that does all the thinking, anyway, so it doesn’t really matter. honestly, what made you think you could walk away from him? the one human he cares for, and you’ve the nerve to try and separate from him? funny.

“We’re not dating, Mark.” The way the two of you stare at each other for a few tense moments is a little awkward, though he doesn’t seem to care. He holds eye contact with you before sighing—like you’re a child who doesn’t know what they’re talking about. Like you’ve garnered the nerve to tell some dry joke. “If you have a problem,” Mark starts, arms crossed against his chest as he ignores your exasperated expression, “we talk it out. Like a couple is supposed to do.” “But we’re not a couple anymore. That is what I’m telling you.” You’re attempting to be reasonable, you really are, but you swear up and down he’s making you feel like the crazy one. This has got to be the third time you’ve had this conversation with him, and it hasn’t even been a week. There isn’t any way you can get through to him and you just don’t understand why. Mark scoffs, again, ignoring you. “I’ll make sure I’m not busy. Crime’s been going down, so it should be fine. They’ll manage without me.” “Just kill me already.” You mutter to yourself, unable to decide whether or not you’ll be able to ever get your point across. . . . You’ll just try again tomorrow.

FULL MASK MARK

more pathetic than mainstream mark. this man is like a wet cat in the rain. tries to maintain distance, but ends up following you everyday, texts you without thinking about it while he attempts to reason that it’s okay. you just need some distance and time, and maybe you’ll both get better. ends up outside your window after a particularly bad fight with a villain he had. he didn’t do it on purpose, he just sort of ended up here. call it muscle memory if you will. all he knows is that he’s a mess without you—needs you like oxygen, can barely think or focus on anything without you. probably the only one that tries to be the best he can be for you outside of the main universe. and probably the only one you didn’t really want to break up with.

“ ‘m sorry.”

“Markus.”

“ ‘m sorry,” Mark sniffles, face tucked into your neck as he clings to you. You’d think of it as pathetic if it were anyone but him, honestly. He’d shown up with your favorite candy and drink, bloody and looking like a stray abandoned on the side of the street. You practically had to drag him through the window when he tried to turn back around. It took a bit of insisting and a med-kit to get him cleaned and patched up, despite him reminding you that he technically didn’t need it. You snapped at him to shut up before inevitably pulling him to your room again—letting him stay the night was an easy decision, almost too easy. As of right now, he was simply listening to the sound of your heartbeat, your soft breathing, enjoying the way your gentle fingers tangled in his hair. It was sweet. Familiar. Something Mark had missed so much it made his heart ache and hurt, to the point felt as though it was being ripped apart. Though, if it were done by your hands, he wouldn’t mind.

a / n : i liked writing this, i might make a part two to this and i’m gonna make the healer reader thing a series if you guys are up to reading that. mwah mwahhhh

taglist : @lxkoluvsu // @broicouldjustbuyyousomekombucha // @tokoyamisstuff

[agreeewrites]

A Weekend at the Weasley's | G.W.

feat. George Weasley x ravenclaw!reader

summary: you and george become best friends after a poorly timed prank. george has been pestering you for weeks to stay with him at the Burrow for a weekend over the holidays, and you finally cave.

cw: smut (MDNI 18+), dead parents, pining, Percy being a weirdo, quidditch injury and bruising, george still has two ears and a twin, lots of dirty talk and petnames, equal parts fluff and smut

an: george and reader are over eighteen in this fic. timeline is def wrong. but who caaaaaaares bc it's not me!

─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───

“C’mon, feathers,” George begged, shifting from his place on the couch to kneeling on the floor in front of you. “I promise you’ll enjoy yourself.”

“George, I don’t—”

“Would I ever put you in harm’s way?”

You scoffed. “Well, there was the time you lit my potions homework on fire, and the time you transfigured my chocolate frog into an actual frog. Or the time you and Fred—”

“Besides that!” He huffed, resting his chin on your knees, blinking up at you with round eyes. “Pleeeeaaasssseee, y/n? Come to the Burrow with me.”

You sighed, ignoring the way the Gryffindor common room fireplace made his brown eyes almost golden, freshly brewed espresso with nutty foam. You couldn’t deny George was handsome, most girls at Hogwarts fawned over him or his twin, or both. But George was your friend, as you often repeated to yourself in moments like these, when that mischievous smirk softened to a smile just for you.

“Bloody hell. Fine!” You shoved him off of you to escape his puppy-eyed trap.

“Yes!” He whooped, jumping to his feet. “It’s about time my mum meets my best girl—shit!”

You chucked your Potions books at his head. “Not your girl,” you huffed.

“Says you,” he teased, returning the book to you before flopping back down on the red couch, legs draped across your lap.

“Read the damn pages, Weasley.”

You tried to reimmerse yourself in your studies, but can’t seem to fall back into the reading, losing track of each sentence before it’s finished. George had been pestering you for weeks to spend a portion of the upcoming holiday break with him at the Weasley household, and up until now, you’d successfully resisted. But then he found out your grandparents were going on a trip to Spain for two weeks and became unbearable.

When George set his mind to something, he was stubborn as an ox.

And, despite yourself, you wanted to spend a few more days with him. You loved the Weasley siblings you’d met at school, and heard countless tales of Molly Weasley’s unbelievable Sunday roasts. It couldn’t be that bad, could it?

You were reserved by a nature, a studious and creative Ravenclaw from a muggle household. All things that stood at odds with one, ginger-haired George Weasley. But when a prank in fourth year set for Professor Snape backfired on you, his top student, and ruined your robes, the twins felt so awful they’d taken you to the Three Broomsticks for what George dubbed a “Butterbeer of Forgiveness”.

An unexpected friendship bloomed, and you’d been close with the twin’s ever since, George in particular. You loved Fred, and had countless memories with him, but you and George connected on a deeper level. From the moment you’d met, it was as if you’d always known one another. You could read him almost as well as Fred could, and George could read you better than anyone.

It was unnerving, exhilirating, and by far the most important relationship in your young life. Which is why you squashed any wandering thought about his freckles, his jawline, the way his forearms flexed while he read, or the way his chest heaved after a Quidditch match, his hands spidered with veins after hours of gripping the Beater’s Bat.

And when he called you things like his ‘best girl’, it turned your knees to jelly, your mind inside out. There was no way you’d finish your work now.

“I’m going back to the Tower. I have no idea how you Gryffindor’s get any work done with all this gold.” You stuffed your books into you back and stood, adjusting your robes.

“I’ll walk you,” George said, tossing his book aside. It looked like he hadn’t made any progress either.

“No, no. Finish your work. I’ll meet you in the Great Hall for breakfast, bags packed.”

“It’s a date!” He called as you walk away, and you can practically hear the grin on his face.

“Not a date!” You tossed over your shoulder as you stepped through the portrait.

─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───

“My darlings!” Molly cooed, collecting her youngest two children into a massive hug at the train station terminal. You hid behind George, hoping somehow that she’d overlook your presence entirely. But of course, George wasn’t having it.

“Mum, this is y/n!” He grabbed you by the shoulders and thrust you out in front.

“George,” you hissed, but Molly was already upon you.

“Oh, y/n! I’ve heard so much about you! It’s such a pleasure to finally meet you. We were absolutely delighted when George’s letter arrived telling us you’d be accompanying him,” she chirped, fussing with your h/c hair and blue and bronze scarf.

“It’s lovely to meet you too, Mrs. Weasley,” you said, smiling at her and her quieter husband, who was busy chatting with Harry and Ron.

George slung an arm over your shoulder, wafting his cinnamon-y cologne over you. “Shall we?”

You scowled up at him as he dragged you along behind his family, oblivious to your hesitation, or willfully ignoring it.

The crowded car ride home was chaotic, with everyone speaking loudly over one another, George and Fred the loudest of all in either ear, and by the time you arrived, you heart was thrumming loudly in your head, your chest tight with anxiety.

All you could think about was throwing yourself out of the car door and running back to Hogwarts on foot.

Everyone poured out of the car, bounding across the lawn and up to the slightly crooked, red-roofed home, smoke buffeting cheerfully from the many chimneys.

“Y/n?” George said, pausing when he realized you weren’t in step beside him. Something in your expression gave you away, and his smile fell. “Hey, what is it?” he asked, jogging back towards you and placing his hands on your arms.

“I, it’s…” words failed you as emotion pinched your throat.

“Too much?” he asked, giving you a sympathetic smile.

You nodded, shame scorching your cheeks as you looked down at your feet. The tips of his boots were touching yours, so much larger, a worn brown leather juxtaposing your shining black.

“It’s going to be alright, love,” he said, rubbing his hands up and down your arms to warm you up. “It means a lot to me that you’re here, even if it’s a bit overwhelming. But, hey—” he tilted your chin up, forcing you to look at his handsome, wind-bitten face. “They love you already.”

“You told them about me?” You asked, your nerves alchemizing from wasps to butterflies.

“Of course I did.” He chuckled like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “They’re probably sick to death of hearing about you, honestly.”

“Like how I’ve been tutoring you in Potions for two years?” you taunted.

“I’m sure they assumed after I told them your were the brightest witch in our year.” His eyes twinkled with mischief, ginger hair falling across his brow, and your heart gave a new sort of thump. One that made you a bit queasy with it’s intensity.

“I don’t know about brightest,” you argued as he tucked you under his arm once again, leading you toward the open front door.

“I do,” he murmured, ushering you inside and into his mother’s waiting embrace.

“C’mere, sweetheart. Help me with these rolls.” She tugged you down the hall, leaving George to be ambushed by his brothers.

“Who’s the eagle?” You heard what you assumed it be the eldest ask before you were whisked into the hearth-like kitchen.

Twenty minutes later and you were back at George’s side, sandwiched between him and Ginny at the dinner table, while everyone fought for a foothold in the conversation.

George’s thigh was warm against your own, familiar and grounding, and you resisted the urge to lean into him fully for shelter. Dutifully, he started filling both of your plates as dishes went by, allowing you to sit and take it all in. He snagged the bowl of garlic potatoes from Ron and added a giant scoop to your plate, knowing they were your favorite.

“Thank you,” you mumbled to him, and he gave your shoulder a light bump in response.

“So, y/n. George mentioned you’re a Potions whiz?” Arthur asked through a mouthful of roll.

Heat crept up your neck as everyone’s attention swiveled to you. “It’s my favorite subject, yes sir,” you answered sheepishly.

“She passed her Potions O.W.L. in fourth year,” George said proudly, beaming down at you. “She’s onto custom lesson plans with Snivelus now.”

“George!” Molly corrected, but he only laughed.

“That’s impressive,” Percy said, nodding at you from across the table. “Brilliant and beautiful.”

“I, uh, thanks,” you stutter, stuffing a forkful of potatoes into your mouth.

George stiffened, but his smile never wavered. “That she is.”

“So, what do your parents do? Were they in Ravenclaw as well?” Arthur asked.

The blood drained from your face. You had so hoped this wouldn’t come up.

George’s hand fell onto your leg, his long fingers looping around your pinky and twining your hand with his. “She lives with her grandparents. Muggles,” George said, the finality in his tone ensuring there would be no further questions.

Arthur stuttered an apology, and the rest of the table looked away nervously. But Molly smiled proudly at her son, a slightly flush to her round cheeks.

Again, your heart gave that brutal pang, and your hand squeezed his a little more tightly.

The meal continued on, and you blessedly fell into the background while the other’s talked about their work and the school year. Or, you at least thought you fell into the background, but every time you glanced up, you found Percy’s gaze lingering on you, hawkish.

You had met the third eldest brother on many occasions, as he often escorted you from the Gryffindor common room to the Tower when curfew struck. But he’d never looked at you like that. And frankly, it made your skin crawl.

You weren’t naive. You knew you were beautiful, intelligent, witty, all of the things that drew a wandering eye. But Percy was far from someone you’d be interested in. And you were here with George, after all, even if it was for purely platonic reasons.

You shifted a little when Percy’s gaze lingered a fraction too long, and accidentally alerted George to your discomfort. He leaned down towards you, his height ensuring your head barely reached his shoulder.

“Okay, feathers?” He murmured, but caught Percy flinching his gaze away at the same moment. “Percy bothering you?” he whispered, and you shook your head no. An obvious lie by the way you shifted marginally closer to George when Percy’s gaze returned. “I’ll handle it.” George straightened, slipping back into his ongoing conversation with Fred and Charlie, but you felt his hand skim past your leg, brushing against your calf as he reached for his wand.

The contact sent a tremor through your muscles, your nerves stretching towards every point of contact with him until it was all you could think about.

“George, what are you—”

He coughed something that sounded an awful lot like ‘incendio’ into his elbow, wand hand flicking under the table at the same moment. Percy leapt up, the crotch of his trousers igniting with flame.

Everyone but you and the twins scrambled up, Molly quickly tossing the cauldron of water at Percy’s pants.

“Could’ve been a little more subtle,” Fred chastised George with a smirk.

“I wasn’t going for subtlety,” George replied. “I was going for ‘burning his bollocks off’.”

You hide your snicker behind your hand, the last of your anxiety unraveling. George was with you, you were safe.

Once the fire was out, dinner was disbanded with the twins being sentenced to dishes duty, since it had to be one of them that set their brother’s trousers on fire. You were whisked off on a house tour by Ginny, who eagerly showed you the in’s and out’s of the Burrow until you were dragging your feet, eyes heavy with exhaustion. But you had to admit that you were feeling more at ease, the Burrow and it’s residents wrapping around you like a favorite blanket.

You collapsed into bed just after midnight, a flickering glow in your chest, and a red-haired trickster in your thoughts.

─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───

Two more days passed at the Weasley residence, filled with games, oversized meals, books, and antics. There was never a dull moment with the twins and Charlie around.

But the best part, by far, was watching George’s mischevious walls come down, and seeing the softer, more relaxed version of him step forth. He was a devoted brother and son, often forgoing his own needs to help his mother reach something in the kitchen, or offer Ron a bit of girl advice. He spent many hours in deep conversation with is father and older brothers, speaking to a wide breadth of subjects you had no idea he had any knowledge about.

George, that bottomless bundle of fizzing energy, seemed even more lively around his favorite people, his heart on full display. And, if you were honest, it was doing funny things to your head and heart.

You found yourself searching for his eyes across the room, smiling at silly things he’d said hours prior, ghosting your fingers over the places he’d brushed against you while passing by. You’d even take a whiff of his coat when he’d come in after a walk with Charlie and tossed it onto the banister.

He seemed older somehow, more mature than you’d ever given him credit for, and it was undoing the years of resolve you’d cultivated to preserve your friendship.

It didn’t help that he constantly referred to you as ‘his girl’, and any number of tooth-aching pet names. Could he really mean it? You always assumed it was part of some joke you were the butt of, but now…

“George and y/n!” Molly called across the dinner table, breaking you from your thoughts. “Dishes, please!”

Your heart skipped a beat. You and George hadn’t had a moment alone since you’d arrived, and you were eager to soak up some undivided attention.

“Yes, ma’am,” George said cheerfully, rising to start collecting the plates. You hopped up to join him, and everyone else filtered out of the kitchen, arguing about what game to play that evening.

You scrapped while he scrubbed, and fell into easy conversation about the past few days.

“My mum really loves you, y’know,” he said, dunking a plate under the soapy water. “Dad too. He was raving about your thoughts on electric kettles yesterday.”

“I like them a lot too,” you replied, turning to hide your blush while tossing a half-eaten roll in the bin.

“Yeah?” he asked, glancing down at you. “I really hope you’re enjoying yourself. I know I sort of forced you to come, and then you were so anxious. And I know the house is loud and drafty, and the meals are a bit chaotic, and fucking Percy can’t keep his damn eyes to himself—”

Not knowing how else to soothe his worries, you stood on your toes and pressed a kiss into his cheek, derailing his rant into stunned silence.

“I’m really glad you brought me, Georgie,” you said, holding his wide-eyed expression for a moment before reaching for another dish.

He caught your wrist in his soapy hand, turning you back towards him. Your heart leapt into your throat at the intensity of his gaze, his jaw feathering with tension as his eyes searched your face. They were so dark, nearly black from his dilated pupils. His dry hand rose slowly, as if afraid you might startle. He dragged the back of his fingers along your cheek before sliding them into the hair at the nape of your neck.

“Tell me if I’ve misread this,” he murmured, tilting your head up towards him, his lips close enough that you could feel his warm breath across your skin. “Tell me to stop.”

Your heart galloped away, your mind turning to goo as the full scope of his longing came into focus. Heat unspooled through you at the way he angled your head to accommodate his towering frame, in complete control, but giving you every opportunity to stop him.

You didn’t trust yourself to speak, so you gave a small shake of your head. No, please don’t stop.

His tongue darted out to wet his lips, his nose brushing against yours as he drew you closer. You pressed your body to his, desperate for his solidity, his warmth, as you trembled with anticipation. He guided your hand to rest around his neck, and you dug your fingers into his hair.

“George,” you breathed, his name a plea, a desperate prayer.

He closed the last millimeter of distance, caressing your lips with his, a delicate, wishful kiss. More cautious than you’d ever seen him. You tightened your grip on his hair, rising onto your toes to kiss him back a bit harder.

You felt the tension in his body unwind and his hand grasped your waist, his tongue sliding along your lower lip, teasing, promising, and your bones turned to mush, your lower belly fluttering with excitement.

“Ahem,” someone cleared their throat and you sprang away from George, grabbing a plate as if they hadn’t seen what you were doing. Bill leaned against the doorway, a knowing smirk on his face. “Father has requested that y/n joins him for a cuppa before the chess tourney begins. Something about doorbells?”

“Oh! Of course!” You replied, dropping the dish into the sink and drying your hands on the towel over the stove. “Thanks, Bill!” You hurry past the eldest Weasley son, cheeks absolutely flaming.

You could barely hold a conversation with Arthur, to fixated on the way your body hummed in the wake of his son’s touch. You were eager to finish what you’d started, but by the time you and Arthur emerged from his study, George was wrapped up in a game of Wizard’s Chess with Ron.

George’s eyes tracked you as you moved into the room, perching on an armchair by the fireplace. Bill shook his head, elbowing Charlie, who chuckled into his whiskey.

“Y/n, want to play against me?” Fred asked from his spot on the floor, crisscross in front of a chessboard on the coffee table.

“Sure,” you said, happy for the distraction.

“Losers rotate out until the winners from each table play one another,” Fred explained as you sat across from him. “Percy always wins, but he’s sulking in his room.” Fred winked, and you stuck your tongue out at him.

Quickly, you lose yourself in the game, and it doesn’t take long before you have Fred’s Queen cornered, a path to victory clear. In a final move, you take Fred’s Queen and win the game in ten minutes flat.

“Merlin, she kicked your ass!” Ron shouted, and the room bursts into laughter.

You flushed under the praise and start reorganizing the pieces. Despite yourself, your eyes flicked toward George, but found he was already looking at you, a warmth in his dark eyes that made your hands quit working, and you knocked over the piece you just arranged.

“My turn!” Ginny said, shoving Fred out of the way.

“Anyone need anything from the kitchen?” George asked, rising to his feet after swiftly defeating Harry.

A chorus of no’s rang out, but you’re already absorbed into the game, finding that Ginny was much better at chess than Fred. You started to make your third move, finding an opening, when you felt a calloused hand brush along the side of your neck, sliding beneath your hair to rest heavily against your skin.

“Need anything, love?” George whispered in your ear, and the blood rushed from your head, leaving you vaguely dizzy, eyes sparkling when you blinked up at him.

“N-no, I’m fine. Thank you,” you stuttered.

“A tea would be nice, darling brother!” Ginny said, jerking you back to the present, and the move you forgot entirely.

“Coming right up.” George’s hand squeezed your neck lightly before falling away, and he disappeared into the kitchen.

The rest of the night carried on like that, lingering glances and scalding touches, the heat between the two of you bordering on incendiary.

You were taking a small break from kicking Weasley ass when Percy emerged from his room, leveling a challenging glare at George. “I’ll take next round,” he said, fixing Charlie with a look.

“Fine.” George made his final move, knocking over Charlie’s queen. “Have a seat.”

Charlie vacated the spot, muttering something about ‘fucking dorks’, and Percy sat across from his younger brother. The energy shifted in the room, going from jovial and teasing to almost hostile. Weasley’s were competitive by nature, the twins in particular, but the tension heightened considerably beyond that as they sized each other up.

Piece by piece, they started moving around the board, an even match as far as you could tell. But based on the murmurings of the family, Percy was off his game a bit, and you had a feeling it had something to do with the way his eyes kept drifting back towards you.

Interesting, you thought, rising from your place on the couch to circle their table, feigning curiosity in the game. Percy visibly tensed, his eyes darting from you to the board and back again. George, however, relaxed, his typical cocky demeanor easing back into his body language.

Thanks to your distraction, Percy missed an easy move, giving George the first upper hand of the game. You leaned a bit into Percy’s space, and his hands began to tremble. When you walked away, he compensated for his hesitation with a rash move, exposing his Queen.

You knew George noted it but he opted for a subtler move, then leaned back in his chair to watch Percy squirm, a slight smirk on his face. When Percy realized what he’d done, he flushed with irritation, his shoulders squared and tight.

And for my final move…

You leaned down to George, nearly resting your chin on his shoulder. His spiced cologne greeted you, tinged with the cinnamon punch of the firewhiskey he’d been sipping on throughout the games. “I didn’t know you were so good at Wizard’s Chess,” you murmured, close enough that your lips grazed the shell of his ear.

His smirk grew as Percy fidgeted, unable to pick a move, struggling to not stare down your sweater. “I have many talents you’ve yet to experience,” he replied, voice low enough that only you could hear him. A thrill rushed through you, so you bowed out before you took things too far, leaving George to deal the killing blow.

Shortly after, you won your final match against Bill, who you suspected threw the game in your favor, and suddenly it was you sitting across from George, the whole family crowded around the table, watching with bated breath.

“Hello, darling,” George cooed, smiling.

“Weasley,” you clipped, all business.

His eyes flashed at the challenge, and he took a slow sip of whiskey. “Ladies first,” he said, setting the glass down.

You started him off easy, confident that you had this in the bag. George was smart, but most of his skill came from his ability to disarm, not his ability to play chess. You, as it so happened, were skilled at both.

It didn’t take long for George’s cocky smirk to fall, his brow to knit together with focus as you guided him slowly into a trap of your own design.

His brow suddenly quirked up, the corner of his mouth lifting, you knew you’d been caught.

“Clever girl,” he purred, moving his Rook and collapsing the trap you’d spent ten rounds constructing. “Almost had me,” he taunted, leaning back in his chair. His legs reached all the way across to yours in his languid position, his sock feet tapping absently against the legs of your chair.

You only hummed in response, crossing your legs. While searching the board, you stretched your stocking-covered foot towards him, sliding it along the inside of his calf. His muscles tensed for a moment, his eyes widening a fraction, before he settled down, watching you with heavy-lidded eyes.

You made your move, but didn’t stop dragging your foot up and along his knee, skimming his inner thigh. He sat up a little straighter, narrowing his eyes at the board, and you expected him to make his move, when you feel a hand clasp around your ankle, his touch a brand even through your thick stockings. His eyes lifted to yours, and the hunger in them stole your breath.

You’d never seen your sweet, good-natured friend look so menacing.

“I should know better than to play chess with a Ravenclaw,” he said, making a weak play with a pawn. “Starting to feel like I don’t stand a chance.”

His family laughed, reminding you that you were, in fact, completely surrounded by his parents and siblings, and you dropped your foot. That fucking trickster, he knew exactly how to get under your skin.

“I don’t know,” you said, stealing the pawn and trapping his King. “You’re doing better than I expected for a younger twin.”

A chorus off oooh’s met your dig, and George huffed a laugh before freeing his King. “You’ll regret that,” he warned with a devilish smile.

“And you’ll regret that.” George fell right into your trap. You skirted his King, stealing his Queen right out from under him. His jaw dropped, and the family erupted into cheers.

“We have a new champion!” Molly cheered, hauling you up to celebrate.

You grinned, allowing them to parade you around. George smiled up at you, a real, proud smile, and it made your stomach somersault. Then, the grandfather clock chimed midnight, rattling the house on it’s structure.

“Alright, enough excitement! Everyone off to bed!” Molly ordered. George’s eyes locked on you, gauging what you would do next. For the first time, you cursed sharing a room with Ginny, and cursed Fred for being born.

As everyone grabbed their things and scattered off to bed, George managed to catch you at the second stair landing before Ginny’s room, startling you.

“Well played, feathers,” he said, brushing his fingertips over your forearm as he looks up at you.

“You were a formiddable opponent.” You shivered under his touch, the heat from earlier instantly flaring back to life.

He stepped up a stair, bringing himself a head taller than you, close enough that you could smell the fire whiskey on his lips.

Could I taste it too?

“Goodnight, love.” He pressed a quick kiss to your temple before breezing past you and bounding up the next set of steps to his shared room with Fred.

You leaned against the wall to catch your breath, heart pounding in your chest. This was not the turn you expected this trip to take, but you couldn’t pretend that a part of you hadn’t wished for it. That it wasn’t why you tried so hard to avoid the trip all together.

But now that you and George had crossed that line, you couldn’t imagine what you’d been so afraid of. You only wished you’d done it sooner.

─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───

The following morning, you’re one of the last to drift down to the kitchen, having spent most of the night tossing and turning, too worked up to sleep properly. You rounded the corner and come to a stop, surprised to find George alone in the kitchen.

“Morning,” he said with a lazy smile.

“Good morning.” You padded towards him, accepting the coffee cup from his outstretched hand. “How’d you sleep?” you asked, blowing gently on the steaming brew.

“Didn’t,” he said, shifting closer to you. His hair was still a little messy from sleep, or lackthereof, his expression soft and voice gravelly.

“Why not?” You asked, taking a tentative sip before setting the mug down on the counter.

“Couldn’t stop thinking...” He dipped his head towards you, his nose brushing your temple.

“About?” The word came out breathless, the coil of want you'd been battling all night tightening with a vengeance.

“What it would feel like to kiss you again,” he murmured, kicking your heart into overdrive.

“And why don’t you?” Your hand creeped along his t-shirt, feeling the muscles along his abdomen sculpted by years of Quiddtich.

“Gotta set up the pitch. We’re playing this afternoon.” His demeanor shifted, all playful and energetic innocence. “See you out there!” He pressed a quick kiss to your cheek, then hurried outside, leaving you wet and bewildered in the overheated kitchen.

An hour later, you were perched precariously on an old broom, knuckles white from gripping it so hard. Ginny rocketed past you with ease, nearly throwing you off balance.

“I think you need a new nickname,” George teased, steadying you. “Feathers may not be apt.”

You risked removing one hand to show him what a real bird looks like, and he barked a laugh before banking away from you.

Soon, the game was in full swing, with you, Ron, Fred, and Charlie against George, Ginny, Harry, and Bill. You had only ever ridden a broom in first year, so you were massively out of your depth.

You were given the role of Seeker, opposite Harry, and had no hope of accomplishing a damn thing. Harry was like lightning on his Firebolt, and you bobbed around like a lame pigeon.

Thankfully, none of them seemed to be taking the game very seriously. You were content to float around the property, occasionally remembering that you we're supposed to be looking for something small and golden.

After awhile the boys started to get rowdier, pushing and shoving and bludgeoning.. You tried to steer clear, watching George whack the hell out of any bludger that dare cross his airspace. You would not want to be on the other end of one of those.

“Y/n, watch out!” Ginny cried.

You looked back from where you were staring off into space, just in time to see George barreling towards you, a bludger about five feet in front of him.

You tried to move, to steer the broom literally anywhere, but it wouldn't cooperate. At the last second you managed to pull up, but not far enough. The bludger hit you square in the stomach, knocking the wind from your lungs and nearly forcing up your breakfast with the power of it. Stars danced behind your eyes, your grip began to slip from the handle as darkness raced towards you.

Something else slammed into you, wrapping itself around you—

“Y/n? Baby, are you alright?” George. You could tell you were moving, but couldn't seem to make your eyes focus, keep your body from trembling. Your cheeks were wet, the breeze frigid against your damp skin. Am I crying?

Then you were on the ground, blessed ground, and then you were up again, cradled against George's chest.

He was shouting at someone you couldn't see. “I swear on fucking Dumbledore, I'm going to beat you bloody with that fucking bat—”

“George!”

“Get her some ice,” he barked at someone else. “I'm right here, love, you're okay. Just try and breathe.”

You clung to his dampening shirt, the shock and pain keeping you teetering on the edge of unconsciousness. You could hear other people talking, but your whole world narrowed to two points: George's heartbeat and the blinding pain radiating from your stomach.

“It hurts,” you whimpered, barely recognizing the pitiful sound of your own voice.

“I know, love. I know. I’ve got you, I promise.” He pressed a kiss to your forehead, soft and trembling. A moment later, he laid you on the couch, careful not to jostle you more than necessary.

Molly passed something into George's hands. “For the pain,” she whispered.

George crouched down next to you, holding the edge of the cup to your lips. “Take a sip, sweetheart.” You shook your head, your Potions safety training overpowering your reason. “Please, y/n. Let me take the pain away.”

You took a small sip, the tea pungent and floral, but immediately the edges of the pain began to soften. But the relief was short-lived. Exhaustion followed close behind it, dragging you down into a dreamless sleep.

─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ �� ⋅ ───

When you come to, the Weasley house was dark around you. The only light came from the moon spilling through window panes and the smoldering fire across from the couch.

A light snore drew your attention, and you looked up to see George above you, his head lolled onto the back of the couch, sleeping soundly. Your head was resting in his lap, his sweater piled under your head as pillow, and his large hand was stretched across your stomach, fingers splayed from your ribs to your hip bones.

God, your stomach. You moved to sit up, memories of earlier filtering through the fading grogginess of the Potion Molly gave you, but surprisingly, your stomach was only a little sore. More like an overexerted muscle than rearranged organs and cracked ribs.

George stirred, lifting his head to peer at your through half-closed lids.

“What are you doing down here?” you asked, sweeping a strand of red hair from his brow.

He came fully awake then, straightening. “How do you feel?” He asked, caressing your cheek, then running his hands over your arms, your ribs, the swell of your hips.

“The Potion did its job, I feel mostly fine,” you said, catching his hands to stop their exploration, and the buzzy desire they coaxed to life.

“Are you sure?” His features softened with relief, his fingers twining with yours.

“I'm sure. Thank you for saving me.” You leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek, ignoring the slight protest in your abdomen muscles.

“Always,” George said, bringing your knuckles to his lips. “I'm sorry I wasn't close enough to stop it from hitting you in the first place. It happened so fast—”

“Love, it wasn't your fault,” you shushed, reaching out to cup his face and stroking your thumb along his cheekbone.

“I just…” he trailed off, leaning into your palm. “I always want to be there to protect you. Or for whatever you else you might need. Do you need anything now? Water, tea? Are you hungry? You missed dinner—”

“George,” you cut him off. “Right now, I need you.”

Desire eclipsed the worry on his face, his eyes shading. “Are you sure you're not in pain? No fogginess or headaches—”

You leaned in and kissed him, a light, floaty peck, silencing his incessant questioning. You appreciated his concern, but there were other parts of you that needed his attention far more. He immediately took charge of the kiss, shifting his weight to lay you back onto the couch. His body rested heavily between your thighs, his mouth devouring yours in fervent, searing kisses.

His tongue lapped at your bottom lip and you opened for him, allowing him to take everything he sought. He kissed you like he didn't know if he'd get another chance, like he'd been waiting his entire life for this moment. It stole your breath, made your toes curl and your pussy pulse with excitement, slick already collecting between your thighs.

You nipped at his lower lip, earning a soft grunt in appreciation. His hips canted forward a fraction, though it seemed he was holding himself back. His lips traveled along your jaw, down the valley of your throat with teasing licks and love bites and you arched into him, a moan spilling from your lips before you could stop it.

“Shh, baby. You have to be quiet f’me.” George nudged your shirt up with his fingers, kissing along the purplish bruises marring your stomach. “My poor girl.” His thumbs traced the curves of your stomach softly, almost reverent as he gazed up at you. “You’re so beautiful, sweetheart. so perfect. I’ve wanted to touch you for so long, to feel you beneath me, fuck, hear the pretty little sounds you make for me.” He was rambling now, lost in the act of worshiping your body, his hands and lips traveling gently over your skin.

“How long?” you asked, breathless, raking your fingers through his hair while he nursed a mark just under your right tit.

He looked up at you through is lashes, his lips leaving your skin with a pop. “Since that night at the Three Broomsticks,” he said, shifting upwards so he could look you in the eye.

“The ‘Butterbeer of Forgiveness’?” You mouth fell open, shock rocking through you.

He snickered. “Of course, why do you think I kept sending Fred to the bar?”

“Why didn’t you say anything?” You ran your fingers over his jaw, feeling the rough stubble against your skin.

“I—” his voice caught, his gaze averting from you. “I loved you too much to risk losing you.”

Elation soared through you, and you couldn’t stop the smile that split your face. “George,” you said, bumping your nose against his. His eyes flicked back to you, watery and rimmed with red. “I love you too.”

His smile was like the first sun after an endless winter, and he kissed you like the first torrential rain of spring. The heat of summer came quickly though, and soon you were gasping for him again, your hips pressing against the hard ridge in his pants.

“Need you,” you whined into his mouth.

“I’m here, love.” He kissed down your throat again, pausing for only a moment to nip at your taught nipples through your shirt before continuing his downward decent. “Lift up for me.” You lifted your hips, allowing him to tug down your jeans, exposing your sodden red panties to his greedy eyes. “Gryffindor red, huh?” he teased, and you threw your arms over your face to hide your blush. “All for me?”

You nodded, your heart in your throat.

“It’s a shame I’ll have to ruin them.’

“What—” Riiiip! The cold air lapped against your slick pussy, chased by the heat of George’s tongue as he dragged it through your folds. “Oh, fuck—”

“Shhh,” he warned, before flicking his tongue against your swollen clit.

You bit down on the back of your wrist to keep from crying out when he switched from licking to sucking, the walls of your cunt fluttering around nothing. He moved down, flattening his tongue against your entrance and collecting the wetness that pooled there. He gave a light hum of pleasure that had your eyes crossing, his tongue delving deeper in search of another taste.

“So fucking good,” he mumbled against you, the vibrations of his low voice making your sensitive clit tingle. You tugged on his hair, encouraging him to pay attention to where you needed him most. “I know, I know.” He pressed a kiss to your clit, teasing you for just a moment longer before wrapping his lips around the bud and sucking hard.

You very nearly cried out, having to clap a hand over your mouth to stifle the sound. Pleasure shot through you, singeing your nerves and liquifying your muscles. So quickly you were unraveling for him, going stupid under his ministrations.

A long digit prodded at your entrance, collecting some wetness before easing inside of you. Your cunt welcomed him gladly, clamping down around his finger.

“Merlin, baby. You're so tight,” he panted, shifting to watch you take another one of his fingers, slick already running into his palm. “Relax, love. Shh, “ he soothed, curling his fingers to pet the inside of your walls, making your mind go blank as bliss washed through you. “That's it, darling. Just like that.”

The knot in your stomach began to wind tighter, burning through you as you fought to relax, to be good for him. But your orgasm was so fucking close, just a little more—

His lips found your clit again, sucking in time with your racing heart as his fingers coaxed you open, and the knot severed. Your peak slammed into you, stealing your breath so you couldn't even cry out to warn him, to sing his praises the way he deserved. Your muscles locked, your cunt bearing down as him as pleasure tore through you until you could do nothing but shiver beneath him.

“Shit, y/n. That was fucking beautiful,” he cooed, easing his fingers out of you and lapping up the release coating him to the wrist. “You alright?” He shifted upwards, kissing your bruised abdomen before pecking your lips, your eyes still glassy and unfocused.

“I've never come that hard,” you pant, throwing your arms around his neck and raining kisses over his slick-soaked face. “What the fuck.”

He chuckled, flushing under your attention. “Happy to oblige.”

You caught the last word in your mouth, kissing him deeply, desperately. Your body was already keying itself up again, and by the twitching length against your hip, he was desperate for you too.

He hooked an arm under your back and hauled you up to straddle his lap, his back pressed against the couch. “This okay?” He asked, sliding his rough hands under your shirt to skate along your skin.

You nodded, rolling your hips to drag your bare pussy along the bulge in his jeans, a skitter of pleasure making your breath hitch.

“Fuck, y/n,” he hissed, hips bucking up against you.

“Yes, please fuck me.” You kissed along his jaw and nibbled at his ear lobe, reaching between your bodies to find his zipper.

He did the same, helping you undo the button and tug down the zipper, his cock springing free from his boxers. The head nudged against your clit, hard and heated, and you whimpered.

With an arm wrapped around your waist, he lifted you slightly, guiding the head to your dripping entrance. Slowly, he eased you down into him, your pussy more than ready to accommodate his length. A rough groan resounded from his chest, and you silenced it with another kiss. His cock stretched you open, hitting that spongy, sinful spot before sliding deeper until he bottomed out, the head nudging your cervix.

“So fucking tight, baby. Bloody hell,” he whispered, voice strained.

“Feels so fucking good,” you whine, grinding your hips against his.

George buried his face into your neck, stifling a moan. His grip loosened, allowing you to start lifting and lowering yourself, riding him slowly, savoring every inch of his cock as it dragged through you.

“M’not gonna last long if you keep doing that,” he warned, mouthing at your neck with sloppy kisses.

You smirked, bracing your hands against the back of the couch to pick up the pace, your thighs and abs burning from the exertion. But he felt so fucking good, stretching you open, the root of his cock dragging along your clit.

His lifted up again only to snap his hips against yours, his hands a vice on your waist as he started pounding into you from below.

“Oh, fuck, Georgie—”

“Quiet, love. You don't want the whole house to hear how good I make you feel, do you?”

You nodded, a whine escaping through your teeth. One of his hands came up to cover your mouth, silencing the sound and infringing on your air supply, callouses rubbing against your kiss-swollen skin.

“I’d love nothing more than for Percy to hear you screaming for me, but this is just for us,” he whispered, breathless as he fucked into you. “Gonna come for me again?”

Your fingers dug into the couch, another peak racing towards you. You bounced with his movements, desperately chasing your high, the ache in your abdomen long forgotten.

“That's it, love. Fuck, m’gonna come.” He threw his head back, a strangled groan accompanying the kick of his cock inside you, stretching your further before pumping you full of his release.

The hot surge of his orgasm sent you flying over the edge, ecstasy pulling your under while your cunt milked him dry with vicious pulls. You muffled your cry into his shoulder as he fucked you through it, until you both collapsed onto the couch, thoroughly spent and panting.

His lips found your forehead, your temple, his hands gliding along your spine, over your hips, soothing you as you trembled against him.

“I love you,” he breathed into your hair. “I can't believe you're here with me.”

You grazed the racing pulse under his jaw with your nose. “I love you, too.” It was exhilarating to say, almost as thrilling as the orgasm you just shared, a massive weight was lifted off your shoulders.

“So, can I call you my girl without being corrected now?” He teased, tickling your ribs.

“I suppose.” You giggled, pecking the corner of his smirk.

The following morning, you descended from your room to find George at the bottom of the stairs, shirtless, twirling his Beater Bat in his right hand. The same hand that brought you the most earth shattering orgasm of your life.

“What on earth are you doing?” You asked, wrapping your arms around his middle and kissing his cheek, admiring the violet mark you left above his clavicle.

“Waiting for Ron,” Fred supplied from the kitchen.

“Who’s waiting for me—oh fuck.” Ron stopped dead at the top of the stairs, still dressed in his pajamas, staring wide eyed at George, or more specifically, the bat in his hand.

“I just want to talk,” George said, gently moving you aside before prowling up the stairs towards his younger brother.

Ron took off up the stairs, their steps thundering through the house as George gave chase.

“George! Shit,” you huffed, glancing at the rest of the family who'd come to see what the fuss was about.

“I'll let ‘im get a good whack in,” Molly said, smiling at you. “Since you're his girl and all.”

Your cheeks flamed, but they only met you with warm hugs and laughter, like they'd been expecting this from the beginning.

Crack!

“Ow!”

"That's for hurting my girl, you git."

─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───

Thank you so much for reading!

If you enjoyed, you can check out my published work here.

© agreeewrites 2025. do not copy, translate or claim my writing as your own.

[thyme-in-a-bubble]

the butchery of the beloved, the boulder, the bimbo and the brilliant

kinktober, day twenty-five

a/n: ahhh, it's finally time to share the kinktober fic you all helped shape!! it turned out so fucking unhinged and i love it. happy halloween, folks!

polls for this fic: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8

summary: “they–… they were right…” the warnings your now deceased friends had given you since the moment you got involved with the frat boy buzzed in your mind, though when they’d light-heartedly called him a psycho, you never in your wildest dreams thought that they would have been correct in their choice of words, “I can’t believe they were right…”

warnings: dark!rafe cameron x innocent!reader, smut, dark content, noncon/dubcon, slasher au, final girl!reader, 00’s slutty horror movie vibes, found family, nonverbal, murder, violence, blood, gore, crying, alcohol consumption, smoking, possessiveness, jealousy, mask kink, kissing, size kink, belly bulge, manhandling, dirty talk, just the tip, pussyjob, oral, spit kink, impact play, pain kink, choking, bondage, dacryphilia, orgasm denial, overstimulation, squirting, fingering, penetrative sex, unprotected sex, creampie, references to anal/painal

word count: 7400

∼ gentle reminder that feedback, but especially reblogs are the way you support writers on here ∽

masterlist | join my taglist | kinktober 2024

It all started at a lunch table, as so many friendships do. 

The first one to sit was Hana, the nurturing soul of the group who had been a genius even back then. The next to join was Brian, the blonde bombshell whose smile brightened any room he entered. Then came Oliver, the guy who at twelve years old had stood up to the bully you couldn’t face yourself and swore from that day on he’d do so for each and every one of you till the end of your days. And lastly, there was you, in many ways the glue of the little pack. 

To say that the four of you were thick as thieves didn’t even begin to cover it, as you’d been there for each other in every up and down in each of your lives since adolescence. Even when your mother passed, especially when your mom passed, that’s when you truly knew that they weren’t just your pals, but your family. 

“Oh wow,” you breathed as you gazed out the window to the destination you’d finally reached, “is this really your dad’s cabin?” you glanced over your shoulder at the man behind the wheel, a proud smirk ever on his lips.

“Yep,” Rafe nodded and reached down to put the car in park. 

You’d met him at the beginning of this semester and it hadn’t taken you very long at all to fall embarrassingly and completely head over heels for the guy. 

Though he wasn’t the first boyfriend to grow to be a part of the tight-knit clique, he hadn’t been welcomed with open arms as you remembered Jerome, Brian’s partner, had two years ago. The gentle giant of few words had melted into your dynamic so naturally that none of you remembered any longer a time before him. But it wasn’t like that this time, not with Rafe. For some reason, your friends just couldn’t warm up to the frat guy you loved so dearly. 

As you heard the other car roll to a stop behind you, the vehicle where the four remaining resisted, your fingers dipped down into your pocket and fished out your phone to snap a photo of the luxurious lake house and its breathtaking views, though that’s when you noticed the lack of bars up in the upper corner of the screen.

“Oh, damn it…” you squinted down at your phone, “is there seriously no service out here?” 

“Yeah, sorry I forgot to tell you,” Rafe snatched out the keys, “this place is pretty off-grid, you have to probably walk half an hour or something to get any signal.”

The dry leaves on the forest floor crunched beneath your shoes as you stepped out of the car and tipped your head back to glance up at how high the surrounding pine trees stretched up towards the cloudy sky. 

As Rafe hopped up onto the wide porch and fiddled with a bundle of keys to unlock the place, your gaze kept finding him as you hung back a while and helped your friends unload their car.

“Can you all please promise to play nice this weekend?” you quietly asked them. 

“Yeah,” Oliver huffed, yanking out a heavy duffle bag, “I’ll play nice if he does, which I sincerely doubt since I haven’t yet discovered one kind bone in his body.” 

“Oh, come on,” you defended your beau, “he’s the one who suggested this trip so that you could all finally discover what a sweet guy he actually is,” before you all ascended the short steps and filtered into the abode. 

Not soon after you all crossed the threshold, Rafe’s arms seized your waist and drew you back against him, whispering in your ear that he wanted to give you the grand tour of the house. 

However, when you reached the room that was to belong to the two of you for the rest of the weekend, his ulterior motives for the journey around the cabin became crystal clear. 

At first, when he wrapped his arms around you from behind as you gazed out the tall windows at the foot of the bed, a giggle bubbled in your belly as you felt his desire poke the small of your back. Though it was already during his palm’s swift voyage under the hem of your shirt and up towards your boobs that he let slip what crucial item he’d neglected to pack. 

“You didn’t bring any condoms?” you twisted around to glare at the persistence that still sparkled in his eyes.

“Oh, come on, don’t let that fact spoil our fun,” he pulled you back into his arms, “don’t you want me to dick you down this weekend, huh?” he murmured in your ear.

“Well, I don’t wanna get pregnant,” you slowly pushed him back, “so it’ll just have to be another weekend.”  

But then he seized your hand and brought it down to the palpable tent in his jeans, “babe, come on. Just feel how hard I am. You can’t just leave me like this, not when it’s your fault to begin with.”

Your mouth then fell open as a shy scoff rolled off your tongue, “I literally haven’t done a thing, how is it my fault?”

“Come on, don’t act like a prude,” his grip around your wrist shifted and it slid down to rub your palm against his hardness, “be a good girl and at the very least get down on your knees.”

“No,” you chuckled lightly and pushed yourself off of him enough to stumble closer towards the bedroom’s exit, “if you’re so desperate, then take care of it yourself.” 

Even though winter was creeping ever nearer, each one of you still dared to go down to the lake’s small pier and soak up the mild rays of autumn sun that peeked out behind the clouds. Both Hana and Oliver even gathered enough courage to take a dip in the cool water, though weren’t successful in any of their attempts at talking the rest of you into the same. 

Though when your friends in the water began to splash at one another, Oliver teasingly let some splatter upon Brian as he sat on the edge, eyes closed and face turned up towards the sky as he relaxed back against his boyfriend. 

“Oh my god! Don’t!” he tensely straightened up, his tone startling Jerome enough that his palm that rested on Brian’s waist tightened, “stop! You’re giving me flashbacks to summer camp!” 

As you heard your grinning friend in the lake apologise, you opened your mouth to note, “that’s right, I forgot you went to camp when we were kids.”

“Yeah, it was honestly revolting,” Brian recoiled slightly at the recollection, “mosquitoes, terrible food, even worse people. Had a big old lake just like this one,” he gestured to the surrounding landscape. 

“Actually,” Rafe then spoke up, his voice booming to your ears as he sat directly behind you, his legs slotted on either side of your frame as his chin rested atop your shoulder, “this place used to be a summer camp too back when my dad bought it.”

“Really?” Hana glanced up from the water, their childish game now halted. 

“Yeah, I mean,” Rafe cast a glance over his shoulder at the structures on the bank just behind him, “it had been abandoned and completely deserted for a long time, but a lot of the buildings, the main house and the shed and stuff, they’re the original cabins just renovated.”

“Your dad bought an abandoned camp?” Oliver scrunched up his face, “okay, creepy…”

“Oh, hell no, I’m out,” Brain began to unravel, “babe, if we wake up in the middle of the night to a ghost child standing at the foot of our bed, it’s your job to take care of it,” he glanced over his shoulder at Jerome, “I’m too delicate and pretty to deal with the paranormal, especially if it’s kids,” to which his boyfriend simply hummed in agreement and soothingly let his palm run down his partner’s arm.

“Oh, this place isn’t haunted,” Hana said after she’d swam up to clutch against the side of the pier, “calm down.”

“Well, you don’t know that, it might be,” the blonde man behind you shrugged, “especially with what apparently happened here back in the day…”

“What are you talking about?” you looked back at him. 

“Well, back like forty years ago or something, when this was still a camp, there was this one counsellor who one day just went nuts, like snapped and murdered every single person there,” Rafe told, purposely making his tone more ominous the further into the story he got, “that’s why the place was shut down and abandoned, why no one ever wanted to return it to its former glory. It’s one of the most gruesome unsolved cases in this entire corner of the country.”

“Wait, unsolved?” Brian clutched his imaginary pearls. 

“Yeah, the guy was never caught, supposably never even left these woods…” he then leaned in and attempted to truly spook you all, “at night if you listen closely, you can still hear him sharpening his blade, getting ready to hunt his next prey…”

Hana, assuming that he was only joking, let out a dry laugh to cut the tense silence that had fallen over you all, “okay, very funny, ha-ha.” 

“Yeah,” you gently rubbed your boyfriend’s arm as you tried to shake the tale off of you, “let’s maybe not joke about psychopaths running around a rural area when we actually are in a rural area,” though goosebumps still pricked and tingled every inch of your skin. 

“Wait, how did it go?” your giggle mingled with Oliver’s as you both leaned against the kitchen counter, nearly bumping your foreheads together from how hard you were laughing, “was it…” and you began to hum a faint melody. 

“No because, remember, at the end it went,” your friend cut you off and then made his own attempt, though much more accurate than your own, causing your eyes to promptly light up with recognition before they crinkled together in laughter as he tried to hit the high note at the end. 

Once the woods surrounding the cabin had succumbed to darkness, the group of you all decided to wrap the day up in a bit of merriment, going through Rafe’s father’s liquor stash and turning up the music. 

During your and Oliver’s secluded moment in the kitchen away from the rest, your laughter caused you to sway even closer to one another, your palm naturally planting itself on his chest as your faces nearly touched. 

Though just as the pair of you were doubled over, a figure appeared in the doorway.

“Oh,” your grin continued as you spotted your boyfriend, “hey baby,” though your laughter finally began to fade. 

Staring daggers at the man beside you, Rafe then uttered coldly, “hey,” before his feet carried him straight towards you, seized your waist and twisted you away from your friend and towards himself to capture your lips. 

“Okay, right,” Oliver exhaled as Rafe kept marking his territory, kissing you way more passionately than he needed to, “I’ll just see you guys back in the living room then…”

You tried to tilt away enough to utter your friend a reply, though your boyfriend didn’t allow you, only let you go once Oliver was long gone and Rafe returned to his original plan of cracking open the fridge to get a cold beer for himself. 

Walking back out into the living room while your boyfriend scavenged for a bottle opener, you plopped yourself back down on the couch, on the opposite side to where Brian and Jerome were snuggled up. Next to where the lit fireplace crackled sat Oliver in a chair and not far from his feet on the fuzzy carpet rested Hana, legs crisscrossed as she held up her wine glass to stare through it. 

When Rafe rejoined you all, a freshly glowing cigarette trapped between his lips as he sauntered out of the kitchen, he situated himself right beside you, making space for himself where there hadn’t really been previously. In his hand, he didn’t just balance his own drink, but also a stout glass filled with an amber liquid, one he swiftly handed off to you even though you hadn’t asked for it, yet that had still been the routine of the evening, and after the first one was sloshing on your belly, the others became harder to deny and not accidentally sip absentmindedly, especially when he’d playfully help you along by tilting the glass the remaining distance up towards your lips. 

“Sweetie,” Hana soon leaned closer to utter for your ears only, “don’t you want a glass of water instead?” 

Though your boyfriend beside you unfortunately overheard and grasped his cigarette between two of his longer fingers, a puff of smoke accompanying his words as he answered before you got the chance to, “she’s fine.”

From across the couch, as Hana scooted back to her spot on the carpet, having not caught the quiet interaction, Brian then suggested, “why don’t we play a game or something?” 

“What, like truth or dare?” Hana leaned back against an unoccupied armchair. 

“No, this isn’t a slumber party. Isn’t there like board games here?”

Brian’s glance then drifted to Rafe as he smothered his cigarette in the nearby ashtray and, without warning, pulled you into his lap and caught Oliver’s eye from across the room as he shamelessly let his hands wander across your frame.  

“Uh, yeah. There should be some in the cabinet over there,” Rafe vaguely gestured before his lips began to nip at the side of your neck, making your eyes flutter and only half watched along as Brian then got up to skim through the aforementioned cupboard. 

“Okay,” he glanced through the options, “there are cards, so we could play poker or something,”

“No way,” Oliver swiftly shook his head and shot a glance at Jerome’s bulky form, comfortably slumped on the couch, “I’m not repeating that fiasco again.” 

“Aw,” Brian glanced back at his friend, “but it was so cute seeing my boyfriend fucking demolish you,” and Jerome, the quiet man he was, just let out a grunt in agreement.

“No, pick something else,” Oliver waved a hand. 

“Well, we’ve got monopoly, scrabble, cards against humanity–, uh! There’s clue!” he excitedly picked up the box and spun around, “oh, work! Let’s play that!” 

With his kisses still dancing along your skin, they then suddenly ceased as Rafe announced, “you guys go ahead, I think Y/n is ready for bed.” 

Shooting a concerned glance at how your intoxicated form wobbled slightly as your boyfriend helped you up on your feet, Hana uttered, “oh, are you sure?” 

“She is,” Rafe’s touch clung to you, “aren’t you babe?” 

“Oh, uhm…” you hadn’t really noticed it before, but now that he mentioned it, as if he himself planted the thought in your hazy mind, all of the alcohol had in fact made you pretty sleepy, “yeah, I guess so.” 

“Alright, well then,” Hana’s voice stayed slightly hesitant, “sleep tight.”

“I love you guys,” you blew the group kisses as Rafe helped you over towards the stairs. 

His kisses made you even more dizzy than you already were, so when you stumbled over the threshold into your shared room, you flopped down onto the mattress, though you weren’t quite sure if you’d just fallen or if Rafe had manhandled your intoxicated and pliant frame, giving you a push before his form was atop of yours. 

Though now that you were horizontal and with the weight of a frat boy squishing you further down into the bed, that was when you truly noticed just how much you’d had to drink that evening. 

The room was spinning as Rafe made out with you, his palms raking across your body like a wild storm, squeezing every soft curve he could get his hands on. As one hand disappeared up your skirt, his kisses wandered down and over your throat to the bit of your chest that was exposed in the neckline of your top. Wasting no time at all, he then yanked down the hem, catching one of the cups of your bra as well as he unwrapped your tit like a present. 

As his face was buried in your boobs, surely giving you hickeys from the way that he sucked at your pebbly nipple and the surrounding sensitive skin, a breathless attempt at halting his affections left your lungs, “baby–” 

Though he didn’t take the whimper as you’d intended it and simply continued, “shit, you’re so fucking hot,” he yanked down the other sliver of mesh fabric covering your other boob, “god, these tits are just insane.” 

Weakly, you ran your fingers through his buzzed hair and gasped as you felt his hardness grind into your covered core, “Rafe, I–” 

“Yeah?” his lips began to flutter back up to your own as he let himself rock against you with more intent, “you want this big dick, huh?” 

“No, we can’t, we don’t have a–”

“Oh come on, baby,” he shifted, slipping a hand down under the waistband of your skirt and into your underwear, not hesitating to sweep his fingers through your wetness and bully your little button, “I know you want to…” 

“Stop, that feels too good,” you tried, but couldn’t yank his strong hand away, “you can’t–, I have to get up and brush my teeth.” 

“You know, all my exes let me tap it raw,” he purred in your ear and attempted to guilt you, “why won’t you? Don’t you trust me?” his touch then suddenly disappeared, but only to tug down the zipper on the side of your short skirt.

“Of course I do, I just–”

“Then why won’t you let me make you feel good, huh?” he yanked both your skirt and panties down your legs, so fast it nearly gave you whiplash. Crawling off of your jelly-like form, he stood tall and loomed at the foot of the bed. Wasting no time, he yanked your core closer to the edge before he desperately freed his fat cock. The taps he then offered your glistening cunt, letting you reel in the weight of his length, “doesn’t that feel nice, baby?” he smirked at the way your mouth fell open, “because it sure seems like your little pussy thinks so, just look,” you followed his command and glanced down to spot how his intimidating girth nudged at your weepy petals. 

Even after months of dating, you still hadn’t gotten used to the daunting size of him. 

“Oh, fuck…” your brows knitted together. 

“Just listen to that,” he flicked the bulbous tip through your slick folds with more vigour, causing the melody of your want to echo even louder throughout the bedroom, “you’re so fucking wet. You want it so bad…”

You then felt yourself fade away into the intoxicating sensation, letting him continue to fuck your fold and make your pussy drool even further till your eyes fluttered shut. 

However, it didn’t take very long at all, through all of the hazy motions, before the very tip of him caught your entrance and slipped inside. 

“Rafe!” you gasped, eyes snapping back open as your spine lurched off the mattress just an inch. 

“Fuck,” he let out a loud groan, “sorry, babe. You’re just too soaked, it slipped in,” though didn’t move at all to pull it back out, since it had secretly been completely on purpose, “christ, you’re so tight…”

As he slipped his shirt over his head and tossed it to the side, you pleaded once more, “Rafe…” quietly begging for him to take it out through the conflicting haze as the familiar sensation of him stuffing you full always shut your brain completely off.

“This doesn’t count,” he claimed as he began to move, pumping just the bulbous head of himself in and out of your little hole, “not really. I can fuck you with just the tip, right?” a few of his fingers then lowered to strum your clit and summon a loud moan from deep within your soul, “yeah, that’s what I thought…”

As he removed his fingers from your clit, he then stuffed them in your mouth, muffling your soft whimpers and letting you suck them clean of your juices. As the taste of yourself coated your tongue, your own hands came up to clutch his, holding it near as you soon let your pecks wander across his palm and even down to plant a soft kiss to the gold ring that never left his finger.

“Oh–,” a gasp then left your lungs as he suddenly pushed in a bit more of his length, “Rafe, that’s too deep,” selfishly letting himself feel more of your warmth. 

“No, that’s not too deep,” he began to fuck you properly, making you lose your breath, “you wanna know what is too deep?” a purposefully harsh thrust then buried itself so far inside of you that a tingle of pain joined the pleasure, “that’s too deep,” he then retracted just a tad, though still filled you up completely with each long stroke, “this is just right.” 

“We can’t–,” you foggily tried to shake your head. 

“Yes, we can. Just look how good you’re taking me, baby,” the palm you’d been clutching then escaped your grasp and scooped behind your head to tilt your neck and lock it there, directing your glance down between your bodies and forcing you to spot the faint bulge that appeared at each one of his mind-melting thrusts, “you don’t wanna stop…”

Feeling that all too familiar high begin to fuzz up your periphery, you trembled, “o-oh, fuck…” 

“You feel so fucking good…” he grunted as your pussy began to clench around his fat girth, “just let me use you for a bit, yeah?” 

“I–, I–,” gasps of air expanded your lungs as his pace then thrust you over the edge, “holy shit…” and your cunt helplessly clambered around him. 

In your orgasmic haze, Rafe then abruptly flipped you around for you to lay on your stomach, and you barely managed to process it before you felt the weight of him settle atop of you, smooshing you down into the mattress as he slid back in. 

“Ah!” you yelped at the way he didn’t hold back, “Rafe, it’s too much,” not even bothering to grant you a chance to recover, but simply fucked through your soreness, “I can’t–”

“Oh, shut up, you can take it,” he growled in your ear, his feet hooking your ankles and spreading your shaky legs further for him, “take it like the good little slut you are.”

It was strange how he’d taught your body to love the pain he inflicted. Even if the source was just his god-given gift of a girth, or curse, all depending on your point of view, and not the roughness he occasionally let slip out of the dark depths he tried to hide his jagged sides in for you and you alone.  

“Fuck,” you soon heard him groan as his heavy sack slapped against your cunt at each one of his furious rocks, “I’m gonna cum!” 

“Pull out–,” you managed to mumble into the sheets.

“What?” he kept on pounding your poor pussy. 

“Not inside,” you tilted your head a bit to beg, “please!”

“Oh my god, fine,” he then begrudgingly pulled out and with one hand flipped you back onto your stomach as the other wrapped around his cock and he began to fuck his fist. Pushing himself up onto his knees, he crawled further up your body till his thighs caged you in, denting the mattress on either side of your face. He didn’t even wait for your lips to part before he shoved his dick down your throat, making you gag as he groaned loudly above you, “fuck…” and fed you his load.  

When he soon flopped down on the bed beside you, the both of you catching your breaths, you instinctively gulped down what he’d given you before you curled your frame into his side. 

As he wrapped an arm beneath your head, his glance then flickered down to you as he caught your chin with his thumb and forefinger, tilting you up to him before he asked, “did you swallow it?” digging his digit slightly into your skin and making you open your mouth for him, letting him discover the answer him himself, “fuck… that’s my girl…” he groaned before dipping down to kiss you. 

The peck however didn’t carry on for long as his warmth then suddenly disappeared. 

“Where are you going?” you watched as he got up, reaching out your arms to him in a silent plea for cuddles. 

“I’m thirsty,” he zipped his pants back up, though didn’t bother with his shirt, “you just try and fall asleep, I’ll be right back.” 

Flashing him a drowsy smile, “okay,” you then tug the duvet over your form and let your gaze shadow him as he made his way out of the room. 

You thought you hadn’t managed to fall asleep, but evidently, you had as when the door to the room suddenly burst open, you were jolted awake, Rafe as well stirring as he was now settled behind you with an arm draped over your frame. 

As three of your friends rushed to slam the door behind them, Rafe propped himself up and mumbled, “hey, what the fuck–”

But Hana then cut him off, a downright terrified look plastered not only all over her own face, but the rest as well.

“Oliver’s dead,” she uttered through the tears that thickened up her voice. 

Still groggy, you slowly sat up and murmured, “what?”

Snapping her bloodshot eyes to lock with yours, she bellowed, “Oliver is fucking dead!” 

As your gaze flickered over the group in search of any sign that what she claimed wasn’t true, you heard Rafe behind you exhale, “okay, this isn’t funny.”

“Oh shut up, you dick!” Brian shot back, doubled over in the corner, hyperventilating as Jerome kneeled before him, trying to calm him down. 

“Hey, hey,” you gently raised up a hand, “don’t talk to him like that. What the hell do you mean Oliver is dead?”

“I mean that he’s dead as in dead, dead,” Hana explained, her words causing the world to suddenly crumble all around you, “Jerome went outside to get something from the car and found him on the porch, not moving and with his head stuck under the water in the hot tub.” 

With tears now stinging the corners of your eyes, you struggled to suck in a breath of air, “what?”

“It’s that fucking ghost story you told us,” Brian panicked in the corner, “it’s real, isn’t it?” 

“Okay,” Rafe uttered as the both of you leapt out of bed and scrambled to get some clothes on, “let’s all just calm down.”

“We gotta call the police,” Hana said, to which Jerome swiftly pulled out his phone, only to then curse quietly as he discovered what Brian too noticed when he glanced over his shoulder. 

“Fuck, we can’t, there’s no signal!”

Hana then glanced around at everyone, “well then one of us has gotta drive and find some, right?” 

“Hell no,” Brian shuttered, “if there’s some psycho out in these woods, then I’m not staying behind to get murdered. We’re all going.”

So that’s how, after you’d all scurried downstairs and filtered out through the sliding door to the porch, that you saw the truth with your own eyes. 

Even though his head was obscured beneath water, the unmoving corpse of your dear friend still caught your eyes and stopped you in your tracks.

“Oh my god…” you sobbed, your blood running cold. 

But before you could let your feet carry you closer to the scene of the crime, Rafe seized your arm and uttered, “baby, come on,” before pulling you along the last short distance towards the cars, “I’m sorry, but we gotta go.”

Though when you did reach the vehicles and attempted to start them, neither one of them would as they’d seemingly been tampered with, forcing the panicked lot of you all to run back inside. 

“Shit…” Brian clutched onto the back of the couch in the living room for support, “what do we do now?”

“We can’t go on foot, not in the dark through this forest,” Rafe spoke, “so we gotta stay here till morning.”

Glancing around the space, Hana uttered, “then we gotta make this place safe. Lock all the doors and windows, find somewhere to hide.” 

“Yeah, good idea,” your boyfriend nodded before suggesting, “let’s split up, it’ll be faster that way. Y/n with me, we’ll take that side of the house, and the rest of you stay over here.” 

And before anyone could protest, he’d yanked you down a dark hallway.

You nearly stumbled twice as Rafe dragged your shaking visage through the lake house, only stopping once you’d reached a large closet. 

“In here, baby,” he shoved you inside, though began to shut the door before he nuzzled himself in as well. 

“No, what are you doing?” tears streaming down your face, you attempted to stop him. 

Though he only halted his efforts a second, grasping your face as he uttered, “please, just stay here.”

“No, it’s too dangerous,” you clutched onto his dark t-shirt, “you can’t–”

“Babe, I can’t let anything happen to you. I can’t lose you,” he then collided his lips with your own, a sob escaping your lungs as he briefly kissed you, “please, just stay right here, hide, for me.” 

Slowly, you loosened your trembling grip on his shirt and cried, “I love you.” 

“I’ll be right back!” he promised before shutting the closet door and bathing you in darkness. 

You had no idea how much time passed, if it was only a few seconds or hours that you stayed in the dusty and dim abyss of that closet, but then when a loud crash and a shrill scream suddenly found your ears, your shaky hand pushed the door back open.

You’d never in your life been as terrified as you were when you found yourself tip-toeing down that long, dark hallway. Though, as you sneaked past the ajar door to the study, your entire body suddenly froze up at the massacre that met you within. 

Unmoving and slumped over the threshold, there lied Jerome, his face beaten to a pulp, rendering it nearly unrecognisable as blood slowly trickled into the tight curls on the top of his head. 

Past where Hana was lying in the middle of the room, battered and coughing, in the corner you saw as a tall figure, masked by a dark motorcycle helmet, crouched over the still form of Brian and landed the last few blows to claim his life. 

“Please,” Hana’s words were gurgled by blood as the killer slowly straightened back up. Twisting ever so slightly, the assailant plucked out one of the clubs from the gold bag that leaned against one of the tall bookcases, “just let me go,” your last living friend begged as you watched the murderer wrap his long fingers around the handle and take the few steps to where Hana lied, “just let me–” 

As he took a wide swing and hit your friend right in her temple, the loud crack that echoed throughout the cabin made you shutter in terror and let out an uncontrollable scream, causing the killer’s head to snap up to spot you in the dark hallway. 

For a second you both just stood there, frozen and staring at one another, like two deer in headlights. But then, as he began to move, taking his time as he stepped over the bodies littering his path, you stumbled back and collided with the wall directly behind you. 

You tried to run, but even though you managed to slip out the wide glass doors and escape a good distance into the dark forest surrounding the house, the masked man still caught up to you and flung you against a tree. As he had you cornered, you felt him drag the cold tip of the golf club up your right leg and over your shuttering skin, drawing a crimson line of your beloved’s blood across your goosebump-ridden flesh. 

“P-please don’t kill me, please–,” you cried, but just then, the moonlight that streamed through the dense treetops caught in a glint of gold that adorned the hand that clutched the club, a recognizable ring that caused your heart to drop. 

As your eyes then flickered up to the dark helmet, that too seemed oddly familiar now that you truly looked at it. 

In some sick and twisted way, you hoped that the killer had just stolen the jewellery from your boyfriend as a trophy of the night’s conquest and not the horrifying alternative. 

But when you then tried to slip away and the man pushed you back, your hands defensively shot up, though only managed to knock the helmet off his head and let it tumble to the dark forest floor below, unveiling the earth-shattering truth. 

“Oh my god…” you gasped, eyes wide as you now stood face to face with your boyfriend. 

“Shh,” he took a step closer to you, caging you in even further, “calm down, baby. Don’t do anything stupid now.” 

“They–… they were right…” the warnings your now deceased friends had given you since the moment you got involved with the frat boy buzzed in your mind, though when they’d light-heartedly called him a psycho, you never in your wildest dreams thought that they would have been correct in their choice of words, “I can’t believe they were right…”

A low sigh then escaped Rafe’s lungs. 

“You really should have just stayed hidden like I told you to… I didn’t want you to find out this way… it would have been so much simpler if you’d just bought into the story I made up…” 

“You killed my friends…” your chest ached with every painful gasp of air, “how–… how could you?” 

“Oh, honey…” his head tilted slightly as the corners of his lips twitched, “do you really think this is my first time?” 

Staring back at him in horror, you sputtered, “w-why?”

“Because of you,” he uttered as if it was obvious, “it was all for you,” his feet shifted him even closer to you, “they were a bad influence, so this was the only way.”

“They were my family!” 

“They were like a poison, all of them, trying to control you, trying to take you away from me,” he inched in even closer, making you wish the harsh bark that scratched up your spine would simply open up like a portal and let you escape, “I know Hana was trying to get you to break up with me… Oliver always followed you around like a lost puppy, just hoping you’d one day spread your legs for him… and Jerome and Brian? They were just plain annoying,” his hot breath fanned across your skin as he petted the edges of your features with a knuckle of the hand clutching the golf club, “I did it all for you, for us, because I love you… fuck, you have no idea how much I fucking love you, baby…” he uttered before bringing the bud of the improvised weapon down upon the side of your head and knocking you clean out. 

When you came to, the flicking light from a lit fireplace was the only source of light in the dim room you found yourself in. Arms folded up behind your head, a long rope was tangled around them and stretched up to a beam in the ceiling above. Your legs too were tied, keeping your naked frame upright and locked in place in the middle of the room. 

“Fucking finally,” a low voice echoed from the chair across the chamber, causing you to wince as the tone pierced your soul and worsened your splitting headache, “you really took your sweet time waking up.” 

Blinking back at your boyfriend as he leaned back in the seat, pants undone and his hard length tight in his fist, a murmur escaped your lips, “…you knocked me out…”

“Yeah, I’m sorry about that,” he got up and walked towards your suspended form, “but you didn’t give me any other choice.” 

As he slowly neared you, your glossy eyes flickered up to meet his.

“Rafe, please,” you heard your voice break as you tried to keep your tone soft, “you don’t have to do this. Just untie me, I promise I won’t be mad at you.”

“Oh yeah?” a small scoff slipped through his smirk. 

“Yes. I’ll do whatever you want, just please let me go,” you begged, “please don’t hurt me.” 

“Shh, shh,” his palm rose up to stroke your hair before letting it rush down and over the curves of your exposed body, “but you’ve been such a bad girl. I think you deserve a lesson that hurts a little bit,” his palm then slapped your pussy, still soaked and sore from earlier, rendering you to let out a shrill yelp, “it’s okay, you can cry…” he briefly leaned in to kiss your cheek before he shifted, though still staying so close that his nose ghosted along your skin as he made his way around to stand directly behind you, “you look so pretty when you do…”

You then squirmed as he reached down to grasp his cock and nudge at your sensitive entrance, “Rafe, please–, ah!” a cry then left your form as he ruthlessly rammed his way inside, plugging you up so completely that his balls nuzzled against your slick skin. 

“Fuck!” his moan tickled the shell of your ear as he tangled his arms around your torso, “you’re so perfect…” he began to move, finding a selfish pace to wreck you with, “so perfect and all mine…” 

As his thrusts caused your tits to jiggle, one of his wide hands soared up to grasp one while the other one snaked up to wrap around your throat. He then squeezed it fiercely enough that all your noises eventually faded away and he kept you completely quiet for a good moment before his hold slackened and he once again granted you the privilege of gasping for air. 

“This is all you need, just me, only me,” he grunted, “just like this, using your pretty little hole for exactly what it was made for… you were made for me and nobody else… no one…”

His grip then drifted down to dent your hips before he lifted them, raising your bound frame till your tip toes were barely grazing the cold floor. Your back arched slightly as he repeatedly brought your hips back to him, his balls sloppily slapping against your swollen clit each time he manoeuvred your body and treated you like a toy. 

When he then hooked an arm around your front to keep moving your body greedily against him, it granted the other one the grace to roam your frame freely. 

As his fingers found one of your nipples in a harsh pinch, he let out a groan at the way you began to clamper down around his fat girth, “are you gonna cum, baby? Huh?” his palm then slapped your tit, “because it sure fucking feels like you’re close,” before he suddenly retracted completely, slipping out of your drooling cunt and causing a shy whimper to slip from your lips, one he swiftly cut off when he smacked your cheek, “too bad. You’re not allowed to.” 

As you shakily struggled to stay on your unsteady feet, you panted, “Rafe, my legs, I can’t–”

“Oh yeah?” he mockingly pouted at you as he sauntered around to your front, “do they hurt? Are you tired?” and as you offered him a nod, his fingers grasped your chin, “well,” his thumb slowly stretched up to trace your bottom lip, “if you promise that you’ll be a good girl for me, then I’ll give you a little break.”

“Yes, I will,” a tear rolled down your still stinging cheek. 

“You will what?” his palm briefly slapped the side of your face once again before returning to the same hold. 

“I’ll be your good girl, I’ll do whatever you want,” you begged and as he then sank down to his knees, grabbed a pocketknife resting on a nearby table and held up his end of the bargain, slicing through the ropes at your legs and cutting them loose. A new wave of sobs tumbled out of your form, “thank you! Oh, thank you so much!”

Tossing the blade far away before he rose back up, “you’re fucking welcome, baby,” he then caught you off guard as he suddenly plucked your lower half up into his arms. 

“W-wait, I thought you’d give me a break!” your legs trembled in his grasp as he slide you back onto his fat cock. 

“Yeah, your legs were tired, so I’m being nice and giving them a break,” the wet claps of your skin roughly colliding once again filled the dark room, “your pussy doesn’t deserve one yet… unless of course, this is you begging me to fuck your ass…” a wicked wish that he’d been begging you for ever since the very first time he banged you. 

“No! No, not there, please, I’ve never–”

“Oh, I know you haven’t,” he smirked, “that’s what makes it so much more fun…”

“Please, Rafe,” you blinked back at him, “don’t.”

“You told me I could do whatever I want…” he angled his bucks right against that spot that caused your teeth to dig into your lower lip, “you promised to be a good girl for me and just take whatever I give you…” 

“I will,” your eyes couldn’t help but flutter, “just please not that.”

He then let a dollop of his spit splatter directly against your face, “alright, but only because I love you,” before he dipped down to plant a feverish kiss against your lips, “tell me that you love me too.”

“I love you,” you murmured against his mouth. 

“Huh?” one of his hands let go of you and he shifted to balance you with only one, letting the other instead drift down between your forms to bully your puffy pearl, “what was that?”

“I lo–, a-ah!” you suddenly whined as he pressed one of his fingers inside your pussy, not caring in the slightest that you were already completely filled up as he forced his digit in alongside his fat cock. 

“Come on, baby,” he stared down at you, “tell me you love me,” and kept up his ruthless pace as he hooked the finger inside of you, “tell your soulmate just how much you love and adore him, how you want nothing more than to worship him at his feet.” 

“I–, I–, Rafe,” you gasped, feeling as if he was splitting you in half, “it’s too much–”

“No, it’s not too much, it’s exactly right, you can take it, baby.” 

“I can’t–”

“I don’t fucking care,” he continued to fuck you without remorse, slamming his intimidating length so deep inside of you that you nearly couldn’t breathe, “I wanna feel you cum, just like this.”

“Rafe–”

“Do it or I’ll get a lot meaner,” he warned you before he finally got what he wanted. Your squirt drizzled down on the floor as the intensity caused a scream to erupt from your form, “there you go, fuck,” he groaned as he watched your pussy gush around his girth, “that’s it,” before the way your cunt clambered down around him caused him to let go as well, “shit,” and pump you full of his cum. 

Rafe pressed a peck to your forehead before he pulled out of your warmth and you breathlessly glanced down to watch as his hot load began to leak out of your quivering hole. 

“Alright, baby,” he exhaled and then uttered words that caused a shiver to trickle down your spine, “foreplay’s over. I think you’re ready for your punishment now.”

© 2024 thyme-in-a-bubble 

[shybluebirdninja]

A Long Road

Summary: Logan, old and insecure, finds comfort in the warmth of his younger girlfriend despite whispers of doubt from others.

(Oldman!Logan Howlett x Younger!Gf-Reader)

Logan’s POV

The coffee shop wasn’t too crowded, but it wasn’t empty, either. Enough people for a few glances to find their way over to us—for the murmurs, the curious looks.

I sat across from her, trying to look comfortable while stirring a cup of black coffee that’d gone cold ages ago. She had some fancy latte with cinnamon sprinkled on top—whatever they do to drinks now—and damn if it didn’t suit her. That sweet, new taste on her lips seemed right. Meanwhile, there I was, sticking to my usual, too set in my ways to try anything else.

But that wasn’t what was getting to me. It was the people. Or maybe it was just me. Seeing the way they looked at her, then looked at me, wondering what the hell she was doing here with a guy like me.

Some guy at a corner table gave me a quick up-and-down glance, as if he thought I wouldn’t notice. The words nearly spilled out, some snap about minding his own business. But she was scanning the pastry menu, her eyes bright, so I bit it back. Didn’t want to wreck her day.

“Babe, you wanna try one of these?” she asked, her finger tracing the list of pastries. There was a glint in her eye, all excitement over something simple—an apple twist or whatever fancy name it had.

I forced a smile, grumbling under my breath. “Eh, coffee’s enough for me, sweetheart.”

She just laughed, nudging her coffee cup forward, insisting. “Come on. Live a little. It’s apple cinnamon. You might like it.”

I rolled my eyes but took a reluctant sip, letting the cinnamon and sugar coat my mouth. It was...fine, but it wasn’t me. I grunted in approval, handing the cup back, catching her watching me like she found it all adorable or something. I tried to act casual, but it only made me feel more... out of place.

Across the room, two people whispered, stealing glances our way. Couldn’t hear what they were saying, but I could guess. ‘Serious? Those two? Must be her dad. No way they’re together.’ Their words hung in the air, even if they hadn’t said a damn thing.

“Hey, uh...maybe we should get outta here,” I mumbled, tugging my jacket off the back of my chair, feeling the worn leather under my fingers. This place was starting to feel too damn small.

She looked up, confused but gentle. “You okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, just... too many people.” I forced a shrug, standing up and trying to shake off the irritation clawing at me.

We headed out into the cool evening air, her arm brushing against mine as we walked. For a second, it felt good—free, just us. But as soon as we stepped inside the apartment, something in me cracked wide open. I shut the door, staring at the floor. Couldn’t bring myself to look at her, couldn’t explain the feeling clawing its way up my chest.

“What’s wrong, babe?” she asked, her voice soft as she set her keys down, coming closer.

My throat tightened. I couldn’t look her in the eye. “You know, I’m almost two hundred, sweetheart. And I look every year of it.” My voice came out rougher than I wanted, almost a whisper. “People look at us, and they think...”

She reached up, placing her hands on either side of my face, thumbs brushing over the lines and scars. The worn edges, the parts of me that looked like they’d been through hell and back. “Let them think what they want. It’s just noise, Logan.”

I let out a laugh, bitter and hollow. “Noise, huh? Well, that noise gets pretty damn loud sometimes.” My voice broke, my hand coming up to grip her wrist, holding onto her like she was the only solid thing in my world. “I mean, hell...if this is how they act when we’re just dating, what’re they gonna say if I...if I ever asked you to marry me?”

She didn’t flinch. Instead, she leaned closer, so damn calm, brushing her lips over my forehead. “Logan, I don’t care what they say. I’m here with you. I chose you.”

Those words broke something in me, something buried so damn deep it hadn’t seen daylight in decades. Before I knew it, my throat tightened, my eyes burning with something I hadn’t felt in years. I closed my eyes, letting her hold me, feeling the steady beat of her heart as I let the tears fall.

After a moment, I pulled back, taking her face in my hands, my thumbs tracing along her cheekbones, rough and calloused.

“I’m gonna mess this up, you know,” I muttered, trying to manage a half-smile, the sarcasm slipping out of habit. “Gonna scare you off with all this old-man crap.”

She smirked, wrapping her arms around my neck. “Then you better hold on to me tight, ‘cause I’m not going anywhere.”

I kissed her, slow, letting myself feel every second, every taste of that damn cinnamon latte still lingering on her lips. Holding her like she was the one damn thing keeping me together.

[bzurk]

“Reader who decided to go to like a free use club pretty much, the only thing showing was her ass/legs/pussy the rest of her was hidden behind a wall Met 4 people anonymously online and they agreed to play out that fantasy so she wasn't fucked by a whole bunch of random people, had the explicit request that they write those cheese things on her in sharpie yk like "cum slut" "cock whore" just all that, so even when she washes it off for a few days those will be lingering Back at work she bends down to grab something, her shirt hikes up and Johnny very clearly sees their captain's hand writing on her Ohoho they found their little anonymous minx”

um sorry not sorry

cw: f!reader, free use, degradation, spanking

Your calves burned from the strain of your high heels, legs straight and stretched and precariously balanced. They made your legs look miles long, smooth and soft, every curve begging to be touched - just like you'd planned. But now, you cursed them. The arch of your feet screamed in protest with every subtle shift in your stance, the balls of your feet aching under your weight, throbbing with the relentless pressure.

Your ankles wobbled every now and then, fighting to keep your balance, your toes cramping in their confines. This wasn’t part of the fantasy you’d imagined, this strain, this dull, incessant pain that throbbed in sync with your racing heartbeat. Tears burned your eyes.

You’d surely made a mistake. Nobody was coming, you’d been lied to. Made to stand, exposed, like a gullible fool. The cold air against your bare skin felt cruel, mocking, the chill biting at your flesh as if the room itself knew you'd been abandoned.

How could you have fallen for it? They’d seemed so genuine online, so convincing, playing into every fantasy. Too good to be true, and now you were paying for it.

The hole in the wall felt like a pillory, an embarrassing punishment you’d walked yourself into. The first tear slid down your cheek, bitter and hot, when the door creaked open behind you.

A presence filled the air, thick and heavy, making your heart lurch. Your breath hitched in your throat, the sound swallowed by the oppressive silence. Footsteps echoed faintly on the floor, each one slow, deliberate, purposeful. Someone was there. You could feel their eyes on you, their gaze grazing your exposed body like a physical touch, and your skin prickled with the awareness of it.

Closer. The footsteps drew nearer, the weight of their approach filling the room, pressing against you from all sides. You were trapped, your heart pounding in your ears, your body trembling - not from the cold anymore, but from the anticipation, the fear of what came next.

The footsteps stopped just behind you, close enough that you could feel the faint warmth of their presence against your bare skin. Your breath caught in your throat, your heart pounding as the silence thickened, tension coiling tighter around you with each second that dragged by. You couldn't see them, couldn't move, your body frozen in place as you waited, nerves crackling like electricity beneath your skin.

The bench under your chest was slick with sweat as you wriggled in place, brimming with a nervous, anticipatory energy with no way to expel it, the wall chafing around your waist.

It started when a single finger brushed the small of your back, the touch light as a feather, yet sending shockwaves through your entire body. It lingered, tracing slow, delicate patterns against your skin, feather-light, teasing. You bit your lip to stifle a moan, your breath coming in ragged pants as the anticipation built to an unbearable peak.

They had to hurry, hurry up, or you’d combust. They’d already left you waiting so long. But you had no say in this, did you? You’d signed it away, the ball no longer in your court, and you loved it. If just a fingertip felt electric, what would their hands feel like, their mouths, their cocks?

Then, without warning, a hand cupped your ass cheek, a firm grip that left no doubt who was in control. The touch was exhilarating, jolting through you, and you gasped, body arching reflexively, hips pressing backward into the touch, heels arching and shoes scrambling against the floor. A deep, gravelly chuckle rumbled in the room, a sound that sent chills down your spine.

“What a convenient little hole,” the stranger purred, their voice a low, husky growl, dripping with hunger. “Just what we need, hm?” Their words washed over you, heat blooming in your belly as they squeezed your ass, each touch igniting you further. “Waited so patiently, didn’t you?” A pause, deliberate, as the grip tightened. “Already so needy.”

A second set of hands, just as large and firm as the first, ghosted over your other cheek, squeezing, kneading, sending shockwaves of pleasure coursing through your body. You moaned, unable to control the sound that spilled from your lips.

"That's what I thought," came a second voice, low and pleased, dripping with satisfaction. “Now, relax,” it commanded, the edge of authority sharp and undeniable.

Without warning, they spread you apart, exposing every inch of you in the most humiliating way, a wet squelch echoing as your body responded, slick and desperate. And then you felt it - hot, hard, the head of a cock pressing insistently against your entrance, seeking its way in.

Please, please, pleasepleaseplease-

The words swirled in your mind, a mantra of pure desperation, but the only sound that left your lips was a pathetic, needy whine. Your knees shook, weak under the weight of your need as those hands pulled away, leaving you trembling, exposed, wanting.

“No, no, please-” you hiccuped into your arms, folded beneath your head, the words breaking as a sob slipped through. Your hips twitched, pressing helplessly against the bench beneath you, desperate for more, the burn of their touch still scorching your skin.

"You look just like I imagined," one of them murmured, deep and smooth, tinged with dark amusement. New hands trailed up your thighs, teasing, maddeningly close to where you needed them most, only to pull away, leaving you gasping. “You’ll take what we give you," they chuckled, revelling in your frustration. “No more, no less.”

"You’re already soaked," the first voice purred, thick with approval, the smug satisfaction dripping from every word. It made your cheeks burn, the heat crawling down your neck, flushing your skin as much as the desperate ache between your legs. You were on fire, burning with the humiliation of your own need, the way your body betrayed you with every twitch, every quiver.

A shameless moan wrenched its way from your throat as a finger slid inside you, cool and deliberate, parting your slick folds and delving deep. It scraped against your insides, slow and unhurried, dragging out the sensation until your toes curled and your back arched. You couldn’t help it, couldn’t stop yourself, the sheer intensity of the intrusion sending shockwaves of pleasure rocketing through you, making you gasp, shudder, pressing back into the touch.

You could feel their eyes on you, could hear the amusement in their chuckles as they watched you squirm, watched you fall apart with just a finger.

“Look at you,” the second voice murmured, closer now, a whisper against your skin that sent shivers racing down your spine. “Already falling apart, and we’ve barely touched you.”

A whimper slipped past your lips, your hips bucking involuntarily as that finger curled inside you, hitting just the right spot, sending another wave of pleasure crashing through your already overwhelmed senses. Your mind was a haze, lost in the sensation, every nerve on fire, every touch igniting something raw and primal within you.

"More," you whispered, though the word came out broken, ragged. It was barely more than a breath, a plea that hung in the air between you.

But the fingers stilled, pulling back just enough to leave you aching, empty, desperate.

A strong hand came down hard against your ass cheek, the sharp sting radiating through your body like lightning. You gasped, more from shock than pain, though the heat spread quickly, leaving your skin tingling.

"Good holes don’t talk," one of them growled, firm and commanding, the words biting into you like a warning.

The authority in his tone left no room for argument, no space for anything but submission. You bit your lip, swallowing down any protest, your heart racing as the stinging warmth from the slap settled into a dull, aching throb. Your whole body tensed, bracing for more, every muscle coiled tight as you fought to suppress the need rising inside you, the urge to beg.

Another hand slid across your other cheek, soothing where the other had struck, a dark contrast between punishment and comfort. They knew what they were doing, playing with you, keeping you on the edge. The air around you felt charged, thick with the scent of your arousal and the oppressive weight of their presence.

Another hand, rough and confident, settled firmly on your hip, pulling you back just slightly, aligning your body with their demands. The head of a cock pressed against your entrance again, the heat radiating from it a stark reminder of what was to come.

“You asked for more,” the voice purred, satisfied. “So be a good hole and take what you’re given.”

The command was clear, the tone brooking no argument. Your body, trembling and desperate, responded instinctively, hips arching back, seeking that elusive pleasure that seemed just out of reach. Each touch, each command, was a reminder of the power dynamics at play, of the role you’d willingly accepted and now had no choice but to fulfil.

And just like that, one of them was inside you, one thrust, hard and deep, claiming you with a dominance that left you breathless, gasping. They didn’t stop, didn’t slow, another thrust and another, each one driving you deeper into the bench, the world around you falling away as you clung to the burning sensation that seared through your every nerve.

“Tight, so damn tight,” he panted, a mixture of awe and lust in his voice as he continued to pound into you, relentless and merciless. The rhythm was all-consuming, the sound of skin slapping against skin the only thing that broke the silence, punctuated by your strangled moans and their low groans of pleasure.

The bench creaked below you, cheap wood protesting under the onslaught of their hips, of your desperate grinding as they fucked you, each thrust driving you further and further from reality, from the world you thought you knew.

“You like that, don’t you, you dirty little whore?” another voice hissed, words punctuated by the wet slick of skin on skin. “Bet you’re clenching so tight on him.”

And it was true, your muscles were clenching, contracting around the invading cock, gripping and twisting as if to hold onto the pleasure, to extend the moment indefinitely. You were a hot, wet cavern around their length, taking them in, welcoming the intrusion with a slickness that spoke volumes.

"Fuck, you're so tight," the man inside you groans, his words a low, deep growl that sent a shiver down your spine.

Your world narrowed to this, to the cock inside you, to the feeling of raw, primal lust, the faceless man ravishing your body, reducing you to nothing more than a hole for their pleasure. The humiliation only fueled the fire in you, stoking the flames of your arousal as they brought you closer to the brink.

"Cum for us, whore," one growled, their voices melding together, hands gripping you, pinching you, touching you until you saw stars.

Their words sent you over the edge, the humiliation and the need and the overwhelming sensation of being so thoroughly used combining into a white-hot ball of ecstasy that exploded through your veins, your entire body convulsing around the invading cock.

“Look at you,” the first voice chuckled, triumphant, as your pussy spasmed around him, milking every last drop of his climax from him, his hot seed filling you, “Dirty slut.”

Their words echoed in your mind, even as the world around you blurred into a sea of colour and sensation, even as you lay there, panting, spent, and utterly broken in the best way.

You almost missed the feeling of a dull point against your skin, dragging and looping against the surface, lifting and then pressing. Writing.

More, you wanted them to touch you again, needed something to replace the emptiness. More, more, more. You wiggled in place against the drag of the marker. It only earned you another swat to the smarting skin of your cheeks.

—

‘Dirty slut,’

‘Dick here →’

‘Cumdump,’

Every time they came, they’d write on you - a brand, a claim, proud and stark against your slick skin. It only ended when the marker stopped running, clogged by all manner of fluids - cum, sweat, spit.

The four men watched, satisfied and sated, as your holes twitched and leaked, your legs slumped and weak and quivering, toes barely scraping the floor.

Kyle had gone first, as agreed. Johnny too eager, Simon too big, the captain too rough.

They took their turns, in order of largest to smallest, longest to shortest, in all the ways possible until it devolved to whoever was ready to go again, until your body was nothing but a mess of aching muscles and abused orifices and marker streaks and bruised cheeks.

“Fuck,” Johnny groaned from where he had slumped in the corner, hands twitching against the ground and his pants half-heartedly tugged back over his thighs. “Do we hafta leave?”

One of your legs twitched out and kicked, and the captain huffed a laugh, “Poor thing has nothin’ left in them.”

Price’s hand skated along the mess of cum and sweat and ink, collecting it on his fingers, and you flinched against the touch, still so sensitive, overstimulated.

“Might have broken them,” Simon snipped, flat, but not even he could act unaffected, his chest visibly rising and falling, sweat coating his visible skin.

“Yeah,” Kyle agreed, strained, sliding a hand down your back, “But it was bloody worth it.”

“Not going again, are ya?” Johnny guffawed from the floor.

“Much as I would love to see that,” Price drawled, but his tone was fond, “we gotta go. Time’s up.”

“Fuck, man,” Kyle groaned, parting with one last pat on your cheeks.

“I know.” Johnny helpfully added, voice wistful. “I’ll miss this ass.”

“Then next time, don’t come so fast,” Simon muttered, and it was the exact wrong thing to say, because they all laughed.

“Next time?” Johnny repeated, incredulous. “Fuck LT., I’m not sure there’s going to be a next time, I have nothin’ left in me.”

—

"Hoooo-lyyyy shit," Kyle blurted, gripping Johnny’s arm as if to steady himself, though his gaze remained glued to the phone in his hand. His voice trembled with disbelief, excitement, and a tinge of something more. He was practically buzzing with the revelation, his eyes wide in awe as he absorbed the image.

"Jee Sus, Mary, and Joseph..." Johnny muttered under his breath, his Scottish accent thickening with astonishment. The look of disbelief on his face mirrored Kyle’s as he leaned in closer, trying to process what he was seeing.

“What are the two of you lookin’ at-” Simon started, only to cut himself off as he swiped the phone out of Kyle’s hand with a swift, almost aggressive motion. Kyle staggered slightly but didn’t bother protesting. His mind was too occupied with the image burned into his retinas.

Simon’s eyes flicked over the screen, his expression shifting from irritation to something far more intrigued. His gaze lingered on the photo: Price’s assistant, the shy little thing that hardly said more than a few words at a time, stretching to grab something from a high shelf. Her shirt had lifted just enough to reveal faded, smeared ink scrawled across the smooth skin of her back, just above the waistband of her slacks.

The words, though blurry, were unmistakable.

The realization hit Simon hard, his grip tightening around the phone. He shifted his gaze to Kyle and Johnny, who both stood there, jaws slack, equally stunned.

"Fuck me," Johnny breathed out, breaking the silence, still staring at the screen like it was some sort of hallucination. "The assistant? Who would've thought she had it in her?"

Simon finally exhaled, passing the phone back to Kyle with a grunt. "Price has a way of... managing things, doesn’t he?" His voice was low, filled with a dark suggestion that hung heavy in the air.

Kyle glanced down at the phone again, his lips twitching into a half-smile. "Never would’ve pegged her for that type. Quiet little thing, but..." He gestured vaguely at the phone, at the faded writing that told an entirely different story.

Johnny laughed, the sound sharp with disbelief. "Looks like there’s more to that lass than we thought." He shook his head, still trying to reconcile the image of the shy assistant with the evidence on her skin.

"Wonder if she knows who got her marked up like that," Johnny mused, puffing out his chest with a wide smirk.

Kyle’s phone pinged with another photo from their captain, and Simon raised an eyebrow, smirking. "Oh, she knows."

[cinnxmxngxrl]

“Too old” pt 2

Pairing: Joel Miller x f!reader

(you can read as a stand alone)

part 1 here Masterlist here

Summary: It’s been days since Joel and you slept together for the first time, and now he’s pretending it never happened.

WC: 4.1k

Warnings: smut, minors DNI, dirty talk, age gap, unprotected piv, grinding, oral (f!receiving) (m!receiving) reader teases joel about his age a lot.

A/N: you don’t really need to read previous part if you only here for the smut.

It had been four days since you shared that night with Joel. Since he’d split you open on your couch. Completely animalistic, as if he couldn’t hold back any longer.

And now, he was acting as if nothing ever happened—fully ignoring you every time you walked past him. His gaze would drop to the floor, and he wouldn’t say a word when you greeted him. Acting colder than ever.

You were confused in a way you hadn’t been before. You were sure he’d enjoyed what you both did that night, he’d told you so, and you had seen it in his eyes, felt it in his body. So why was he acting this way now? You had thought things would be different, that they’d change after he opened up to you like that. You thought that night would shift everything for good, but instead, it felt like it was all slipping away.

Maybe that’s all you were to him—a quick release on a night he couldn’t hold it in any longer. He got what he wanted, and now, he was gone. Maybe he even regretted it.

That evening, you walked past his house. He was sitting on the porch steps, working on a saddle. His hands were steady, but his posture was unusually restless. You could feel his tension in the air, a heaviness that didn’t belong. He couldn’t shake the memory of that night with you—the warmth of your body beneath his, the sound of your moans in his ear. He didn’t know what to do with himself, felt so goddamn conflicted, cause how could such a pretty young thing like you be the best he’d ever had? Being with you felt so right, so damn good, but there was a voice in the back of his head telling him it was wrong. That he didn’t deserve someone like you. He was too old, too much baggage—too inappropriate for you.

You hesitated, unsure whether to keep walking or stop and say something. But you couldn’t take it anymore.

“Hey, cowboy,” you said softly.

He didn’t respond—just grunted in acknowledgment. But his eyes didn’t leave your body, roaming over you, travelling all over your body, remembering the way you’d looked with no clothes on.

“What’ya working on?” you asked, taking slow, cautious steps toward him as though you were approaching a scared animal, unsure if he might run.

He lifted the saddle he was repairing up in his hands, his touch running over the leather, careful and skilled. But he didn’t say a word.

“Did the cat eat your tongue? Such a shame… I remember you were so good with it,” you teased, a cocky smirk tugging at your lips as you tried to provoke him, curious to see how long it would take to get a reaction.

“Just workin’ on this old saddle. Damn thing’s seen better days,” he muttered, his voice rough. He was trying to resist your taunts, but you could see it in his eyes—he knew exactly what you were doing.

You stood there for a moment, both of you silent. The only sounds were his hands moving over the leather, the faint rustle of fabric, and his breath, shallow and tense.

“So, are we just gonna pretend you weren’t balls-deep inside me a few nights ago?” you asked bluntly.

He nearly dropped the saddle, his eyes widening with surprise, but his face twisted into a mix of shock and annoyance. “Jesus Christ, woman, ain’t got no damn filter on your mouth, do ya?”

“You didn’t mind it the other night, Joel,” you said, your voice dripping with confidence. You had one goal now—to make him fall again.

“That doesn’t goddamn mean you gotta go running that mouth about it like it’s some casual street chat,” he growled, a low huff escaping his lips as he cleared his throat, trying to regain his usual gruff composure.

“That’s a shame,” you said, pouting. “’Cause I kinda liked you balls-deep inside me.”

He cursed under his breath, his grip tightening on the saddle as he fought to keep himself from reacting too visibly to your words, his mind raced back to that night. Damn you and your stupid mouth—he could still feel it, that hunger between you, and it made him ache.

“We can pretend nothing happened if you want, Joel,” you said softly, in that sweet innocent voice you used sometimes, but Joel knew it was far from innocent.

He muttered something under his breath about stubborn women and loud mouths, but deep down, he didn’t want to pretend. Not at all.

“I can pretend I didn’t love the way your cock felt inside me,” you whispered, moving closer, your lips nearly grazing his ear.

“Shut your damn mouth ‘fore someone hears,” he grunted, his hands shaking as he tried to focus on the saddle, but every nerve in his body was desperate to ignore it. The tension was unbearable. He needed to avoid giving in to the urges that were consuming him.

He felt his pants getting tighter, and you noticed the bulge straining in his jeans, growing more prominent, his thick cock throbbing against his pants, like a wild animal desperate to come out.

And couldn’t help but tease. “Pretend I don’t still remember your head buried between my thighs… never seen a man so hungry, Joel. Are you always this hungry, or was it just because of me?”

“Maybe you were just too goddamn delicious…” he growled, breath labored, his voice low with restraint. The image of you was consuming him, and he didn’t know how much longer he could hold back from doing something really stupid.

“I know, but yeah, let’s just totally pretend that never happened, Joel,” you said, your fingers lightly tracing his chest, moving downward, reaching his groin, and barely tracing the outlines of his manhood through his jeans.

“You’re a wicked woman,” he muttered, a frustrated groan slipping from his lips as he grabbed your wrist, gently pushing your hand away, trying to keep his composure. “Goddamn you.”

“I thought you liked it, Joel. I mean, look how big and hard it is for me,” you teased, licking your bottom lip before biting it, a smile spreading across your face. “I’m kind of salivating right now.”

He let go of your wrist, his hand moving to your thigh. His touch was soft, yet possessive, his fingers trailing upward, leaving a trail of fire in their wake. “Goddamn, you’re a pain in the ass…”

“You love it, don’t even try to fool yourself. I’ve been thinking about this every night when I touch myself, have you?” you said, slowly tracing the outline of his bulge through his jeans, just a playful touch that was enough to make him groan.

“You got no goddamn idea, darlin’… you tasted like sweet honey. Like nothing I’ve ever had before…” He leaned in, his nose brushing against your neck, his voice a low growl against your skin.

“Come on, Miller. Take me to your bed.”

His eyes darkened, the intensity in them unmistakable. He was just a man, and there was only so much he could take.His hand intertwined with yours and without another word, he stood, pulling you along with him, his hand gripping yours. The saddle, forgotten, was left behind as he led you into the house and towards his bedroom.

The door slammed shut behind you, and before you could even think, he had you pinned against the wall. His big body held you captive, his hands moving to your waist, holding you there. He couldn’t control himself any longer, and he kissed you fiercely, his lips claiming yours as if he’d been starved for it. The kiss a desperate tangle of lips and tongue, he was taking what he’d been missing for days.

“Missed these lips, babygirl,” he muttered into your mouth.

His hands slid up your body, his fingers finding the hem of your shirt. With one swift motion, he pulled it over your head, tossing it carelessly aside. His eyes drank in the sight of you, taking in the sight of your bare tits. His large hands cupping your breasts. At first, his touch was tender, reverent, as if your tits were the most precious gift sent from heaven, but then desperation took over, and his hands were rough, possessive as he kneaded one breast with one hand, his mouth moved to lap on the other, his tongue swirling over your nipple, nibbling on it, sending jolts of pleasure through your body that had you gasping for air.

He spun you around, as if you weighed nothing, and you were facing the wall. Then, in a move that left you breathless, he dropped to his knees.

“Bend down a little for me, baby. Yeah, like that,” he said, his voice gruff, commanding.

You obeyed immediately, his hands stripping your pants off in one quick motion, leaving them tugged down your ankles. His fingers pushed aside your panties, spreading your cheeks wide open as his gaze lingered on the sight of your soaked slit, dripping now with your slick down your thighs .

“Well, look at that. You’re so damn easy to get wet, baby,” he murmured, his voice thick with desire. His face hovered over your core, taking in the glorious sight of you, as if he couldn’t get enough.

“Only for my old man,” you breathed, the ache between your legs nearly unbearable.

“Gonna take real good care of my girl,” he muttered, his tongue tracing a slow, torturous stripe up your slit. He groaned against your skin, his hands gripping your ass to keep you in place.

Not a second later, he was sucking gently, his lips and tongue working against your pussy, giving little suctions to your clit. You leaned your forehead against the wall for support, gasping for breath.

“Oh, Jesus, Joel!” you cried out, your voice trembling as the pleasure surged through you. “I swear to god you’ve… you’ve got a doctorate in eating pussy, fuck.”

He let out a low laugh, the sound vibrating against your skin as he continued to feast on you, his tongue swirling over your core. His hands dug into your thighs, holding you in place, his own breathing ragged as he devoured you.

“Just hush, darlin’… and lemme focus… Need to concentrate on this pretty, needy cunt of yours.”

His tongue moved faster, applying more pressure to your clit as he worked you over, each stroke sending you closer to the edge.

He rejoiced in the scent and the taste of you, and in the loud moans that escaped your mouth everytime he lapped harder on your pussy.

The feeling of his mouth on you, his hands holding you so firmly, pushed you to the brink.

“Fuck, Joel… I’m gonna cum,” you whimpered, feeling yourself unravel under the weight of his touch.

“Cum for me, baby,” he growled, the pressure against your clit making it impossible to hold on.

“Ngggh, Joel,” you whimpered, feeling him devour you like a starved man. “Oh, JoelJoelJoel…”

You cried out as your orgasm hit you like a freight train. Your body spasmed around his mouth, your pussy tightening around nothing, and all you could feel was the intense satisfaction flooding your body.

You turned around, watching him kneeled on the floor before you. His beard, lips, and nose were glossy, covered in your sticky fluids.

“How are those knees holding up, old man?” you teased, a sly grin on your lips.

“I don’t think you’re in any position to be smug, darlin’,” he said, smirking. “I just wrecked you.”

“Yeah, you did. And now it’s my turn,” you offered him your hand to help him up. He took it, rising to his feet with a little groan. You guided him to sit on the edge of the bed, standing between his legs. You turned, grinding your ass softly against his crotch.

“Fuuuuuck,” he grunted. “You’re gonna tease me like that?”

“This is for leaving me alone for days, Joel. Not nice, not nice at all.”

You moved your hips low enough to give him a little contact against his confined cock, but not enough to give him the friction he so desperately wanted.

“M’sorry, darlin’. I was a right dick,” he apologized, his voice almost a whimper. “Please, babygirl, I need you.”

“You’re so hard… Bet you’re leaking all over your boxers right now,” you said, grinding your ass harder against him, pushing it down, keeping him so close to the edge but not giving him what he really craved. “Are you gonna cum all in your pants, old man?”

His lip twitched, his resolve faltering. “I hate you… I… fuck—,” he groaned, almost in a cry.

You turned around, kneeling between his legs. “Mmm, don’t cry. I’ll give you what you want now.”

His face flushed, his mind hazy with need. He tried to regain control, but it was a losing battle, the image of you on your knees, waiting for him, filled his mind.

There was a huge wet stain on his jeans from all the precum leaking from his tip while you teased him. Wasting no more time, because you were cruel enough already, you undid his pants with ease. He shifted his hips, letting you pull them down.

His grey boxers were soaked, darkened with wetness. You palmed him through the fabric, feeling the sticky warmth. His breath hitched, his thighs shaking, counting the seconds before he could have his cock shoved down your throat.

When you pulled down his boxers, his rock-hard dick nearly slapped you in the face, standing proud and thick against his stomach, completely covered in his precum. His tip was flushed red, veins pulsing, almost angry like a beast needing to be tamed.

You gave him a soft kiss on the mushroom head of his cock, making him shiver, before your tongue darted out, giving a gentle lick all over the good eight inches of it. You traced the veins, savoring the salty taste of him.

He shifted uncomfortably, growing more relentless. Finally, you took him in your mouth, cheeks hollowing as you tried to take him fully—at least as much as you could. The heat of your mouth enveloped him, and the world around him faded. All he could focus on was the pleasure you were giving him.

“Oh, that’s it, babygirl,” he moaned, his voice thick. “Feels nice… keep goin’… slow now, take it easy.”

His hand moved to the back of your head, gently gripping your hair to keep it out of your face. His eyes never left your mouth, watching you take him in, how his cock disappeared inside your mouth.

You delicately cupped his balls in your hands, soaked with the drool dripping from your mouth. You gave them a little massage, kneading and gripping them, he was loving the ticklish sensation.

“Shit, you’re so good… such a good girl… so damn good for me.”

His hips jerked upward, thrusting gently into your mouth. Not too much to make you gag, but enough to encourage you to take more. You complied, taking him deeper, until his tip was pressing against the back of your throat. You let him set the rhythm, focusing on pleasing him.

“Fuck… I’m gon’ cum,” he gasped, his voice breaking into a whimper. “You gonna swallow it, baby? Gonna swallow all I give you?”

You took him out of your mouth with a filthy pop. He groaned, his cock twitching at the sudden loss of sensation.

“Not yet, Joel,” you said with a wicked grin.

“You’re evil,” he muttered, his voice hoarse. “Goddamn, you’re evil.”

You quickly climbed onto his lap, straddling him and kissing him hard. Both of your tongues fought for dominance. He grabbed your hips, fingers digging into your flesh, positioning you right above his cock.

He pushed himself into you, his body overwhelmed by the sensation of your tightness. The heat, the friction, it nearly undid him instantly, forcing a ragged moan from his throat. You sobbed at the way his length stretched you, painfully and yet deliciously. You felt as if you were being split open by him, but you wouldn’t dream of asking him to slow down.

Lost in the moment, Joel’s body trembled as he pulled almost completely out before pushing back in, each thrust deeper and harder.

“Joel… I can’t—”

“You can take it, baby. You took it so well for me the other night, just relax for me” he panted, his voice breaking as he struggled to hold it together. “Oh, you feel so good, so tight and hot around me, it’s killing me.”

You relaxed, your walls adjusting to his size, stretched enough and taking him beautifully now. His groan was almost animalistic as his body moved against yours. His voice, thick with desire, rasped in your ear.

“Ride me, darlin’… I wanna watch you ride me,” he whispered, his voice rough. “Ride this cock like you own it.”

He moaned as you began to move, your hips rolling in circles. One of his hands gripped your hips, guiding you and helping you find a steady rhythm, as he watched your tits bounce with each thrust.

“God… feels so good…” he grunted.

“Like this, Joel?” you asked, though you already knew the answer. He was loving it.

“Yes, darlin’… just like that… you look so damn good ridin’ me,” he said, nodding desperately.

He moaned as his grip on your hips tightened, need and desire taking over as he started to slowly push upwards slightly, matching your movements, thrusting into you.

“Tell me… tell me I’m the best you’ve ever had, Joel,” you teased, your confidence growing. You wanted to hear him say it.

“You’re the best I’ve ever had… shit, you’re so goddamn good… never had a pussy like this…” he growled, his teeth grazing your shoulder.

With a guttural growl, he pulled you close, his hands holding your hips almost punishingly hard, his body trembling as he lost himself to the sensation of you, riding him, using him, taking him the way you needed him.

“Oh, it feels so good, Joel… you’re amazing,” you cried, bouncing on him, your clit grinding against his base, adding another layer of pleasure.

“Yes… use me how you want, baby. Take all your pleasure from me… I’m yours,” he panted, lost in you.

His thumb found your clit, rubbing it with precision, sending waves of pleasure crashing through you.

He was fighting to hold on, to give you what you needed, but the sensations and the sight of you riding him were too much.

“Come on now, pretty girl… cum for me… cum around my cock, squeeze it tight,” he groaned.

You kept moving, long strokes that had him pushing up against your g-spot with every drag. Feeling your body start to tremble and give up on you, the tension in your stomach finally snapped, and you came with a loud moan, clenching around his cock as your body spasmed.

Joel felt every ounce of it. Your body, your touch, the way you clung to him as you reached your climax. It was almost too much to bear. He could feel himself getting closer, his body trembling as he teetered on the edge.

With one last rough movement, he pulled out, throwing you onto the bed. He shoved your hips and ass up, taking advantage of the angle, sinking into you with one powerful thrust. Your face pressed against the pillow, and your body screamed in exhaustion and overstimulation, this new position made Joel dive deeper into you, and you could feel every inch of him, crying out loud at the sensation. But you loved the feeling of him inside you.

He tried to hold on, to prolong the moment, but it was impossible, not when you felt so good, not when he needed his release so bad now.

“Fuck… I’m so close…” he grunted, his body tense. “Where do you want it?”

“Anywhere… anywhere you want, Joel,” you cried through muffled sobs.

With a guttural cry, he finally let go. Pulling his cock out of you with his hand, watching his cum shoot out of it, painting your lower back and your ass with hot, sticky white streaks. He knew that cumming inside you wasn’t a risk he could allow himself to make everytime you two did this.

He groaned lowly, his body boneless and trembling collapsing against the mattress, his mind still reeling from the intensity of his release.

“God damn, darlin’… you nearly killed me,” he said, voice hoarse.

You turned to look at him, a sly smile on your lips. “Too much for that old body to handle?”

He grinned. “If I remember correctly, you were the one cryin’ just a minute ago.”

You laughed softly, letting him pull you close, your head resting on his chest and your body molding to his, fitting against him like you belonged there. His arms wrapped around you, his hand gently tracing up and down your back absently.

“That was amazing, Joel,” you said softly. “I didn’t even know it could feel that good.”

He nodded, satisfied, a contented hum escaping him. The exhaustion was creeping up on him, but he was happy. He felt content, better than he had in ages.

“You gonna ignore me tomorrow and pretend this didn’t happen?” you asked, a hint of sadness creeping into your voice.

“I mean it when I said I was sorry. I guess I just got scared,” he whispered, his lips brushing your hair. “I’m not good at this whole being vulnerable thing, if you haven’t noticed”

You chuckled softly. “Yeah, no shit.”

“But I do like you a lot,” he admitted. “And I like this. Shit— it’s the best thing that’s happened to me in a real long time.”

You smiled, kissing his chest. “Then what is it? The age thing?”

“Partly, yeah. The fact that I’m older than you. You deserve someone better, someone younger, better looking, not some old sack of bones who—”

“Old sack of bones can keep it up like a champ and can fuck me better than any stupid boy in this town,” you cut him off, not wanting to hear another word about him being too old for you for such superficial reasons like looks. “And he’s better looking than all of them combined.”

He couldn’t help but grin, shaking his head in quiet defeat. “It’s still hard for me, this whole… romantic, opening-up thing. It’s been too long. I’ve lost too many people.” His voice dipped low, tinged with a sadness that clung to the edges of his words.

“You’re not the only one who’s lost people, Joel,” you replied softly, your fingertips brushing lazy circles on his chest. “But I think we’ve got something real here. I’m not asking for a ring or anything… but I don’t like when you disappear on me. When you act like none of this matters. It hurt.”

“I know,” he said, his thumb sweeping slow arcs along your back, his voice thick with regret. “I was an ass—more than usual. I just…” He paused, pulling you a little closer, like his arms alone could shield you from how clumsy he was with emotions. “I won’t do it again.”

You exhaled a breath you didn’t know you were holding. “Let’s just take it slow. I like being with you. You like being with me. That’s all it can be for now. Nothing more.”

He hummed in agreement, content, and maybe a little relieved. He almost couldn’t believe how comfortable he felt with you in his arms, like you fit against him just right.

He pulled the blankets up over both of you, his arm tightening around your waist. Then he pressed a kiss to your temple though you could feel in the tension of his body that he was still holding something back, still terrified of getting used to this, of how badly he wanted it.

“You better rest those hips before they give out, old man,” you teased, smirking against his skin.

He huffed a breath that was somewhere between a laugh and a groan. “My hips are fine, darlin’. You’re the one who’s gonna be needin’ the ice packs tomorrow.”

“Oh, look at you—getting cocky now, Miller,” you laughed.

His fingers trailed slowly down the curve of your body, pausing at your hip. “Ain’t cocky if it’s the truth. Hard not to be when I had you screamin’ like that.”

You snorted softly, swatting at his chest. “And you loved every second of it.”

“Damn right I did,” he said, voice rough with sleep and satisfaction. His hand lingered at your waist, possessive and warm. “Now shut up and go to sleep. Your old man needs his rest.”

Your old man.

[luveline]

I would dieeee for some more of Spencer and bombshell after her getting injured😭 him taking such good care of her, the BEST doctors, researching every single option😭 reassuring her rhats shes just as pretty😭

—Spencer looks after you while you recover from a brutal injury. fem!reader, 1.1k

Spencer thinks it’s one of the team's more gruesome injuries. Hotch has been stabbed to mince meat and Emily half-killed, Elle got shot, and he’s had his fair share of violence, too, but he can’t imagine the horror of being hit in the face with a hammer. The pain so close to your eyes, your teeth, your brain, the fear and the sudden crack. He feels sick whenever he remembers the sound, and he was sick the first time he dreamt about the way you cried as it happened. Your strange yelp, the immediate drop to the floor. 

Spencer never hit somebody as hard as he did that UnSub. His gun whipped out possessed across the UnSub’s face, and then drove forward into their nose with a stomach turning crunch. 

They’re in custody, and you’re in bed recovering with some of the best doctors in the world. Spencer thinks you both won this round, even if it doesn’t feel like a win right now. 

“Shh,” he whispers, “shh, shh, it’s okay. It’s okay, don’t cry.” 

You cling to his chest as though worried he’s going to move out of reach, sobbing. You’re careful not to touch your face or his chest, the soreness too much, but the rest of you is clinging to him. You don’t have to worry, he’s not going anywhere. 

“Please, it’s okay,” he says, the tip of his nose to your forehead. “You can have another dose in twenty minutes. Just twenty minutes.” 

He supposes the pain reminds you of the full extent of the injury, your jaw fractured in two places, your gum traumatised, your face more bruise than anything else. You hate your appearance being out of your control, it’s making you panic —he can feel you shaking.

He’d sat down with your drink to find you already crying, he couldn’t have been gone for ten minutes, but it was long enough for you to fall deep into the throes of hysteria. You’d grappled for him as he sat down to hug you, your face hidden ever since, and now the shakes have started. He’s hopeless. 

But Spencer’s willing to do anything to make it better. “Can you tell me what’s upsetting you? Please?” he asks.

“It’s–” Harder sobbing, your tears dripping down from your chin to wet the thigh of his pants.

He has to calm you down.

Since you met Spencer, you’ve been the comforter. He can’t count how many times something has hurt him and you’ve rushed to save him. You’ve hugged and held and kissed him into smiling, you’ve never let him down, you’ve forgiven him after a hundred stupid mistakes, so Spencer doesn’t care that you’ve been inconsolable for days. He really doesn’t mind that he’s had to look after you this attentively. It’s his pleasure, and he’s getting better at it. 

He presses a few soft shushes somewhere in your hairline, his hand rubbing a circuit into your back with a firm pressure that never tips into roughness. He does it until his palm is numb. He could paint the slant of your back from muscle memory, fingers tripping down the creased fabric of your pyjamas, pulling back up to your neck. He’s never felt such tender sympathy. He hates that you’re in pain, but he doesn’t hate getting to rub your back. This is surely boyfriend territory. 

“You want something to drink now?” he asks quietly. 

You open your mouth to answer, sighing in pain momentarily. “Uh, yeah.” 

“Did you want the straw?” 

“Yeah.” 

“Okay.” He can’t force himself away. “You okay for me to move you?” 

“Yeah.” 

You can’t be blamed for short answers. 

There are surgeries to hold your jaw together when it breaks, and while you were unconscious (shock, rather than head injury), Hotch consented as your next of kin for the doctors to make sure things wouldn’t get worse, but it was Spencer who had to advocate for you afterwards. They’d wanted a metal connector to prevent dislocation. Spencer knew this could mean another scar, so he said no, because you might’ve said no had you been awake, and they should’ve asked you anyways. 

When you did wake up, you were vehemently against it. Which is fine, you can heal without it, but it’s scarier to do it unaided. Your jaw could dislocate if you do something wrong, which is not only horrifically painful, but a painfully horrific injury to have. You talk quietly. You take small mouthfuls of soft foods. 

Spencer looks at you now, tearstained, back arched like a kicked dog, and doesn’t know what to do. He wishes he were the one who got injured instead. 

He takes the hospital bed controls into his hand and presses the button to make the top of your mattress elevate. Tomorrow, they’ll send you home, and Spencer will have to construct a nest of pillows for you to sit in while you recover, but it’ll be worth it. Things won’t feel as intimidating when you’re in your own bed. 

“Lean back, beautiful,” he says. 

Your smile is a straight line with eyes lit up. “What for?” you ask. 

“Comfier. Less stress on your head.” You lean back. “Oh,” he adds, “and so I can get a better view of you.” 

Your eyes get impossibly brighter. “What do you think?” you murmur. Your voice sounds scratched to death from crying, tight from holding your mouth a certain way, but pleased anyways. It’s just as pretty as it always is to him. 

“You’re the prettiest girl in the world,” he says, reaching out to cradle your waist, his hand moving up and down the side of you tenderly. 

You have a bruise from under your left eye and bleeding down your neck, and you haven’t slept right for a few days, but you’re undeniably beautiful in Spencer’s eyes. 

You’ve been the most beautiful girl in the world literally from the day you met onward, with as much to do with your heart as your lovely face. He should tell you that, but he doesn’t. 

“Can I have water now?” you ask, covering his hand with yours. 

His confidence wobbles. “Oh, yeah, sorry. Sorry.” He grabs your drink, water spilling down the side to wet his hand. 

“Please don’t make me laugh.” 

“I’m not trying to,” he says pathetically. 

He holds the cup of water to your face and you guide the straw between your lips. Spencer’s sure he’s been in love with you forever, and it’s all but cemented now.