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theonottsbxtch · 3 months ago

Note

YO. hear me out logan sargeant smau where reader is alex albon’s sibling and after logan gets axed from williams (😭😭😭😭😭😭) they actually start talking

COOKIE | LS2

an: gahhh i love logan so much and i can't believe i haven't written the teammate's sister dynamic with him yet, but now i have and i hope you enjoy our favourite american x

fc: random brunette's off pinterest

williamsracing

liked by alex_albon, logansargeant, mclaren and 985,382 others

we'd like to thank logan sargeant for all the time he's spent as a driver for williams racing, we wish for the best in his career as he moves on.

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userone: this was handled badly

usertwo: im going to miss you logan

userthree: james vowles worst tp of the century

userfour: bunch of clowns

alex_albon: will miss you lo x

userfive: finally williams did one good thing

usersix: poor logan

ynalbon: will miss your smile around the paddock lo x

userseven: williams sucks

imessage between yn and logan

alex's apartment monza race week

The faint sounds of bustling activity were drifting through the apartment as you stood in the kitchen, sunlight streaming in through the large window. Alex’s sleek, modern space was a comforting mix of his racing memorabilia and the warmth of home. Pulling your phone from your pocket and glancing at the news alert once more. Logan had just been sacked and very quickly replaced. A heavy sigh escaped your lips; you knew how much this meant to him, how closely tied his identity was to the sport.

As you leaned against the countertop, you glanced down at Stan, one of your brother’s man cats, casting expectant eyes in your direction. He nudged your leg with his nose, as if sensing your mood. You crouched down, scratching behind his ears absentmindedly, your mind swirling with thoughts of Alex and the fact that he was getting ready to race in Monza with a new teammate. The team dynamics had shifted, and you couldn’t help but you could feel how the changes had affected Alex.

The idea strikes you suddenly—Logan lived across the hall, he hadn’t moved out yet. You remembered how he always seemed to light up the room, his laugh infectious even in the darkest of moments. You decided that a small gesture might help lift his spirits. Maybe a little treat would remind him that he wasn’t alone in all of this.

You set to work, gathering ingredients from the kitchen. Flour, sugar, and eggs scattered across the countertop as you rummaged through the cabinets. Stan watched you curiously, jumping up onto the counter and tilting his head as you started mixing the batter for chocolate chip cookies. The scent of melting butter and sugar filled the air, sweet and comforting, reminding you of simpler times when you spent all your time out of school baking for your brother in between his competitions.

You popped a spoonful of the thick, glossy batter into your mouth, savouring the taste of nostalgia. With each stir, your thoughts drifted back to the late-night conversations you had with Logan after the races when everyone was setting down, the way he would joke about the pressures of the track, the bond that formed between the three of you by some weird miracle.

As you shaped the dough into perfect little balls and placed them on the baking tray, the oven preheating with a soft hum. You couldn’t help but smile at the thought of Logan’s expression when he tasted them. You knew he had a sweet tooth, often indulging in baked goods after a long day of training.

While the cookies baked, the kitchen filled with a warm, inviting aroma. You sat on the counter, swinging your legs next to Stan. You thought about Logan again, about the pressure he must be feeling, and how a small act of kindness might brighten his day, if only for a moment.

The timer dinged, and you hopped down, excitement bubbling within you. You carefully pull the tray from the oven, the golden-brown cookies looking perfect and slightly gooey in the centre. As you let them cool down, you grabbed a small tin and placed the cookies inside, sealing them with a lid.

Stan watched as you grabbed the keys, tilting his head again as if asking where you’re going. “Stay here, buddy. I’ll be back soon, and make sure the rest of the cats don’t do anything silly” you said, giving him a quick scratch behind the ears. You glanced in the mirror, smoothing your hair before stepping out into the hallway.

You walked the few steps to Logan’s apartment, knocking softly, the sound echoing against the walls. Moments later, you heard the shuffle of feet and the door swung open, revealing Logan, looking slightly surprised but smiling at the sight of you.

“Hey! What brings you here?” he asked, his voice coloured by his shock.

You held up the tin with a grin. “Thought you could use some cookies after. First race since you know.”

His expression shifted, a mixture of surprise and appreciation crossing his face. “You made these for me?” he asked, reaching for the tin, the warmth of his smile easing the tension in your chest.

Logan grinned, his eyes lighting up even more as he popped open the tin. “These look amazing! I was just about to start a movie. Want to join?” You could tell he was figuring a way to ask.

For a moment, you considered it, the thought of settling into a cosy couch with him, laughter echoing as you watch a film together. But then you remembered the little furballs waiting for you in Alex’s apartment, their mischievous antics demanding your attention.

“I’d love to, but… I really should stay here with Stan and the rest of the cats,” you replied, feeling a twinge of disappointment yourself as you watched the initial spark in Logan’s expression flicker. His shoulders slumped slightly, and you could see the hint of disappointment in his eyes.

“But...” you hesitated, feeling a burst of warmth rise in your chest. “You could always come over.”

His expression shifted from disappointment to surprise, a slow smile spreading across his face. “Are you sure? I don’t want to impose.”

“No, it’s fine! It’ll be fun, Alex doesn’t get back for another four days,” you insisted, trying to sound more enthusiastic. You stepped back, giving him room to think it over.

“Alright, then!” he said, his voice brightening again. “Let me just grab my keys.”

As he disappeared inside his apartment, you took a moment to collect your thoughts. Your heart raced a little at the idea of him coming over, the casual invitation feeling more significant than you had intended.

Logan reappeared a moment later, a hoodie thrown on over his t-shirt, and you couldn’t help but notice how comfortable he looked, a sudden urge to hug him washing over you. “After you,” he said, falling into step behind you as you headed down the hallway.

As you walked back to Alex’s apartment, the air buzzed with unspoken energy. You pushed the door open and stepped inside, the familiar scents of cookies enveloping you. Stan greeted you with an enthusiastic brush of his body against your legs, bounding over to Logan, who bent down to give him a quick scratch behind the ears.

“Looks like you’re already popular,” you teased, watching as Stan practically flops onto his back, craving attention.

“I have a way with cats,” he replied with a grin, straightening up and looking around. “So, what’s on the movie menu?”

“Cars? Mine and Alex’s favourite. You can pick—unless you want to help me wrangle the cats first,” you laughed, walking over to the living room where a large, comfy sofa waited. You felt the soft cushions call to you as you settled in, motioning for him to join you.

He took a seat beside you, and you couldn’t help but notice how easily you fell into conversation, the nerves dissipating as you laughed and joked around. Pulling the tin of cookies onto your lap, you offered him one. Logan took a generous bite, his eyes widening in delight.

“Wow, these are incredible! You’ve outdone yourself,” he said, and you couldn’t help but beam at the compliment.

“Thank you! They’re a family recipe, so you know they come with some serious baking credentials,” you said, a playful glint in your eye.

As you scrolled through the movie options, the atmosphere felt easy and relaxed. For the first time since Alex left you before Monza you didn’t feel to lonely.

The opening credits rolled, and for a moment, you sat in comfortable silence, the warmth of the cookies and Logan’s presence wrapping around you like a cosy blanket. You glanced sideways at him, catching him grinning at the screen, and your heart swelled a little more.

You were glad you made those cookies now.

ynalbon

liked by alex_albon, logansargeant, georgerussel63 and 34,5827 others

baking and night in >>

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userone: she is so pretty

usertwo: KATCHOW

userthree: i need her to bake me something stat

logansargeant: best cookies known to mankind

userfour: wait-

userfive: oh..?

alex_albon: now wait a god damn minute

usersix: my fav ever

userseven: someone needs to study the albon family genes

alex_albon has posted a story

alex’s apartment singapore race week

The hallway felt familiar under your feet now, the subtle creak of the floorboards as you crossed from Alex’s door to Logan’s. It had become a kind of routine, these quiet visits to each other’s apartments while you were housesitting. Sometimes it was to share a plate of freshly baked cookies or just to unwind after a long day. You’d fallen into an easy rhythm with him, a shared understanding that neither of you had to say much to enjoy the other’s company.

As you knocked softly on his door, you didn’t expect anything unusual. But when the door opened, the first thing you noticed was the packed bag by the entryway. Your smile faltered just a little, your eyes flicking from the luggage to Logan, who stood in front of you, rubbing the back of his neck. There was a slight tension in the air, something you couldn’t quite put your finger on.

“Hey,” he said, his voice softer than usual. He stepped aside to let you in, but the bags remained in your peripheral vision, a silent question hanging between you.

“Hey,” you replied, trying to keep your tone light. “Going somewhere?”

Logan glanced at the bags, then back at you, his lips pressing together for a moment. “Yeah… I’ve been meaning to tell you. I’m heading to America for a few weeks. Got an offer to test for Indy.” His voice was calm, but you caught a hint of something else underneath—maybe uncertainty or excitement.

Your stomach dropped just a little at the news. It shouldn’t surprise you—racing had always been his world, his dream—but it still hit harder than you had expected. “America?” You repeated the word softly, trying to wrap your mind around the distance.

“Yeah,” he said, leaning against the doorframe, his hands shoved in his pockets. “It’s not set in stone, but they want me to test, see if I’m a good fit.”

“That’s… amazing, Lo,” you said, a genuine smile tugging at your lips despite the sudden knot in your chest. You’d always known he was destined for more, something bigger than these quiet evenings in a shared hallway.

“Thanks,” he replied, his own smile faint but appreciative. He watched you closely, as if gauging your reaction.

You stepped further into the room, glancing once more at the bag, before turning back to him. “I’ll miss you,” you admitted, the words coming out before you could think to soften them. It was the truth, plain and simple, though you hadn’t realised how much his presence had come to mean to you until now.

Logan looked at you for a long moment, something softening in his expression. “I’ll miss you too,” he said quietly. His words were steady, but there was an unmistakable sincerity behind them, as if they meant more than he’s letting on.

The air between you felt heavier now, filled with the things neither of you were saying. The silence stretched on, but it wasn’t uncomfortable—just the weight of the realisation that something had shifted.

You laughed softly, trying to break the tension. “Guess I’ll have to bake my cookies for Stan instead.”

Logan chuckled, though there was still a warmth in his eyes that made your heart ache just a little. “Yeah, I’ll bet he won’t mind. But I’ll miss them… and you.” He said it again, the words lingering in the space between you.

You both stood there, neither quite knowing what to say next. The easy back-and-forth you’d grown so used to had shifted into something more meaningful, something deeper. And as much as you were happy for him—excited for the possibilities ahead—there was a small part of you that wished you could keep these moments just a little longer.

“When do you leave?” you asked, your voice quieter now.

“Tomorrow morning,” he replied, his eyes never leaving yours.

Tomorrow. It felt so soon, so sudden, but you nodded, offering him another small smile. “Well, I hope it’s everything you want it to be.”

He stepped closer then, just a little, as if drawn to you. “Thanks,” he said, his voice low. “I’ll be back before you know it.”

You nodded again, but the reality of it felt different, like something precious slipping through your fingers. And yet, there was no bitterness, only a quiet acceptance that this was the path he’d always been on.

You gave Logan one last smile before turning back toward the door. “I'm going to head back to the cats.”

As much as you hated the thought of him leaving, there was nothing more to say. His world was racing, and you knew how important this opportunity was for him. Stan and the rest of the cats would be wondering where you are by now, and you began to tell yourself it was better not to linger.

Your hand was on the door handle when you heard his voice, quiet but insistent.

“Wait.”

You stopped, heart skipping a beat, and turned back toward him. He was standing in the middle of the room, his brows slightly furrowed, as if debating something with himself. His eyes met yours, searching for a moment, and then he took a step toward you.

“Don’t go yet,” he said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper.

Something shifted in the air between you, the tension tightening around the words you hadn’t spoken. You opened your mouth to respond, but before you could, he closed the space between you. His hand reaching out, brushing against your arm, the warmth of his touch sending a shiver up your spine.

“Lo…” you started, your voice catching in your throat, but the look in his eyes made your heart race. There was no need for words now. You’d shared so many moments, so many small, unspoken things, and suddenly it all felt like it had been leading to this.

He leaned in, and everything else fell away—the packed bags, the uncertainty, the days apart that lay ahead. His lips met yours gently at first, tentative, as if testing the waters. But then something deeper took over, the kiss becoming more sure, more real.

You sank into it, your hands instinctively finding his chest, fingers curling into the fabric of his hoodie as if to hold on to him, to this moment. His hand cupped the side of your face, thumb brushing softly along your cheek, anchoring you to him in a way that felt both overwhelming and perfect.

The kiss deepened, the world narrowing to just the two of you. It was everything you didn’t realise you’d been waiting for—his closeness, the feel of him, the quiet intensity in the way he pulled you toward him as if he was afraid to let go.

When you finally parted, you were both breathless, standing there in the stillness of his apartment. Your forehead resting against his, the shared warmth between you a quiet comfort. Neither of you spoke right away, but the weight of what just happened lingered in the air, filling the silence with unspoken promises.

“I’ve wanted to do that for a while,” Logan finally said, his voice rough, almost a confession. He still hadn’t let go of you, his hand sliding from your cheek to your shoulder, as if grounding himself in the moment.

You let out a shaky laugh, your own hands still resting against his chest. “I’m glad you did.”

He smiled then, that soft, crooked smile that had always made your heart skip a beat. “I really am going to miss you.”

Your chest tightens at the words, but this time, there was a new kind of warmth behind them. It was no longer just a casual statement—it was filled with meaning, with everything that passed between you in that kiss.

“I’ll miss you too,” you whispered, your voice soft as you leaned into him again, the closeness between you now something tangible and real.

For a moment, neither of you moved, standing there in the middle of his apartment, lost in this bubble you’d created. But then you heard the faint sound of probably Stan scratching at the door across the hall, and it brought you back to reality, reminding you of the world outside.

“I should go,” you said reluctantly, your forehead still pressed against his, though now you were reluctant to pull away.

Logan nodded, his thumb brushing your skin one last time before he stepped back. “I know.”

You moved toward the door, this time with a weight in your chest that felt different—full of things you still wanted to say, but that could wait for another time. You glanced back at him one last time, his eyes following you, filled with the same mixture of emotions you felt.

“Good luck,” you said softly, your hand lingering on the doorknob. “I’ll be here when you get back.”

“I’ll hold you to that,” he replied, and the sincerity in his voice tugged at your heart.

ynalbon

liked by alex_albon, logansargeant, lilymhe and 32,382 others

missing my cookie (also looky says hi)

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userone: NO SHES IN A RELATIONSHIP KILL ME NOW AND MAKE IT QUICK

usertwo: there goes my chance

userthree: PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE DON’T LET IT BE SOME MEDICORE BORING MAN PLEASE GOD PLEASE

userfour: we lost her ☹️☹️

alex_albon: i think you have something to tell me

lilymhe: i think you have something to tell US

ynalbon: oh wont you look at that, looky has started cooking dinner, need to go help out!

userfive: now who the heck is cookie

usersix: i think i know what’s happening 🤭🤭

logansargeant: that’s one grumpy ass cat

alex_albon: watch how you talk to my kid

ynalbon: yeah watch how you talk to my nephew

alex_albon: i thought you needed to go help looky cook?

ynalbon: 🏃‍♀️🏃‍♀️🏃‍♀️💨

userseven: FUCK I THOUGHT SHE WAS FOR THE GIRLIES NOO

alex's apartment autumn break

Walking into your Alex’s apartment, you were greeted by the familiar scent of coffee and the quiet hum of an afternoon sports program playing in the background. Stan padded over to you, meowing as you bent down to give him a quick scratch behind the ears.

“I’m just grabbing my jacket,” you called out, heading toward the living room where Alex was sprawled on the couch, watching something about Premier League Football.

He glanced up from his phone, half-focused on the screen and half on you. “Sure, no rush.”

You pulled open the closet door and rummaged around for the jacket you left here the other night, the one you’d forgotten in the rush to go pick up said brother from the airport because “he was too tired to drive home”. As you tugged it off the hanger, Alex’s voice cut through the silence, casually.

“I’m heading to America next week to support Logan during his testing,” he said, almost offhandedly. “Thought I’d ask if you wanted to come with me.”

Your movements stilled for a moment as his words sank in. You tried to act nonchalant, but your heart skipped a beat at the mention of Logan—memories of your last night with him flooding back in an instant. That kiss. The way he’d held you like he didn’t want to let go. The late night facetime calls and watch parties held.

You pulled your jacket out of the wardrobe and closed the door slowly, turning to face Alex. “Why would I want to go?” you asked, trying to keep your tone casual, maybe a little too casual.

He didn’t even look up from his phone, but you could see the smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Come on, I’m not stupid,” he said, finally glancing up at you, eyebrow raised.

Your stomach flipped, and you quickly dropped your gaze, hoping your face didn’t betray the warmth creeping up your cheeks. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He rolled his eyes, sitting up a little straighter on the couch. “You really think I haven’t noticed? The way you and Logan have been on those little secret calls? The way you light up when his name comes up?” He leaned back, folding his arms across his chest, clearly enjoying how uncomfortable he was making you. “I’m your brother. It’s kind of my job to notice.”

You bit your lip, feeling caught and not quite sure how to deflect. “We’re just… friends,” you mumbled, though even you didn’t sound convinced.

He raised his eyebrows, clearly not buying it. “Right. Just friends who happen to pop into each other’s apartments all the time. And who bake each other baked goods. And who look at each other like…” He trailed off, smirking again, clearly enjoying your discomfort.

“Okay, okay, stop,” you groaned, burying your face in your hands for a moment, trying to hide the smile that was threatening to break through. When you peeked up at him, he was still watching you with that knowing look.

“So?” he asked, clearly waiting for you to admit what he already knew.

You sighed, dropping your hands. “Fine. Yes. I’ll go with you.”

Alex grinned, triumphant. “I knew it.”

You grabbed a pillow from the couch and tossed it at him, but he just laughed, catching it effortlessly. “Don’t make a big deal out of it,” you warned, though you couldn’t help the small smile tugging at your lips. It'd been at least a week since Logan left for America, and even though you’d kept yourself busy, you’d missed him more than you care to admit. The idea of seeing him again, of surprising him there, made your heart race in a way you hadn’t felt in a long time.

“I won’t,” Alex said, though the twinkle in his eye suggested he wasn’t not entirely telling the truth. He stood up, stretching his arms over his head. “It’ll be fun. Besides, I’m sure Logan will be glad to see you.”

You rolled your eyes, trying to play it cool, but inside you were already imagining what it would be like to see Logan again. “Yeah, yeah,” you muttered, heading toward the door. “Let me know when we’re leaving.”

As you turned the handle, Alex called out after you, voice teasing. “Don’t forget to pack something cute!”

You threw him a glare over your shoulder, but the door was already swinging shut behind you, and you couldn’t help but laugh to yourself as you headed back to your place, thoughts of Logan filling your mind.

By Friday you were in the hot American Sun. The hum of engines and the low chatter of mechanics surrounded you as you step onto the pit lane at the American track, the late afternoon sun casting a golden hue over everything. The sound and energy of the place were both exciting and overwhelming, but all you could think about was finding him.

Alex walked a few steps ahead, already scanning the area for new faces, but your eyes darted around, searching for Logan. The journey here had been long, full of anticipation, and now that you were so close, your heartbeat a little faster, eager for the moment you’d been waiting for.

And then, you spotted him.

Logan was standing near one of the garages, his back to you at first, talking to a few team members. He was wearing his racing suit, the top half unzipped and hanging around his waist, revealing a fitted t-shirt beneath. You froze for a second, just taking him in, that familiar rush of emotions surging through you.

He must have felt your gaze because suddenly he turned around, his eyes sweeping across the pit lane—until they landed on you. His face lit up instantly, and before you could even think, your feet were moving.

You broke into a run, dodging past a few crew members and weaving between equipment, Alex forgotten behind you. Logan’s grin widened as he stepped forward, bracing himself as you closed the distance. When you reached him, you threw your arms around his neck, and in one swift, effortless motion, he caught you, lifting you off the ground.

You laughed, the sound light and free, as he spun you around, the world momentarily disappearing in the rush of joy and adrenaline. His hands were firm on your waist, holding you close, and when he finally set you back on your feet, neither of you could stop smiling.

Before you could say a word, he pulled you in, his lips found yours in a kiss that was both urgent and tender. It was a kiss that made the long days apart disappear, one that said everything you’d both been holding onto since he left. The noise of the track faded into the background, leaving just the two of you, lost in the moment.

But then, from somewhere behind you, you heard a not-so-subtle clearing of the throat.

You pulled back from Logan, cheeks flushed, and glanced over your shoulder to see Alex standing there, arms crossed, eyebrow raised in a way that was both amused and exasperated. Logan looked over too, blinking like he’d just come back to reality.

“Sorry,” Logan muttered, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly, his usual confidence slipping for just a second.

Alex shook his head but walked forward with a grin. “Nah, man, you’re good,” he said, clapping Logan on the shoulder in a way that was more approving than anything else. “Just… maybe keep the PDA down when I’m around, yeah?”

You rolled your eyes, but you were grinning too, feeling the warmth of Logan’s arm still around you. “I’ll try to keep him under control,” you said, shooting your brother a teasing look.

“Good luck with that,” your brother muttered, shaking his head with a chuckle. “Anyway, I’ll leave you two for a bit. Want to see what this Indy Racing is all about.” He waved lazily and headed off toward the paddock, giving you and Logan some space.

As he disappeared into the crowd, Logan turned back to you, his grin returning, though there was a slight blush colouring his cheeks. “So… surprise?”

You laughed, standing on your tiptoes to press a quick kiss to his cheek. “Yeah, I’d say you’re surprised.”

“I can’t believe you’re here,” he said, pulling you closer, his voice softer now that the moment had quieted down. “It’s been… weird without you.”

“I missed you too,” you admitted, resting your head against his chest for a moment, the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath your ear comforting. “And besides, I couldn’t let you have all the fun over here without me.”

He chuckled, his arms tightening around you. “I’m about to test, but maybe you could go sit in the tent over there with the other girlfriends?”

You glanced up at him, raising an eyebrow. “The other girlfriends?”

Logan smiled, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “Don’t play coy, you were mine the minute you kissed me back in my apartment.”

You laughed, nudging him playfully. “Damn maybe I shouldn’t have kissed you back then.”

He smirked, that familiar glint in his eye. “Don’t be stupid now. Come on cookie, let’s go over to the tent, I want to introduce my cool and sexy girlfriend.”

logansargeant

liked by alex_albon, ynalbon, lilymhe and 985,342 others

got the best fan ever

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userone: oh my god

usertwo: i just fell to my knees in the middle of walmart parking lot

userthree: at least our logan is happy

alex_albon: yuck

logansargeant: hater

userfour: that's alex's sister omg

userfive: what in the fanfiction

usersix: is that alex's sister? how did that happen?

logansargeant: she texted me after the news and then dropped off some "feel better soon" cookies and it's pretty much been history since then, i'm a lucky guy😊😊

usersix: oh my god i'm sick

ynalbon: this was not on my 2024 bingocard btw

logansargeant: its' been on mine since 2022

userseven: OH MY GOD THEY'RE SO CUTE

ynalbon

liked by logansargeant, alex_albon, lilymhe and 334,236 others

no longer just a formula one sister, im now an indy wag 🤭

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userone: WE LOST HER SOLDIERS

usertwo: if i see one more picture of them baking, i'm kissing my gun

userthree: most unexpected couple of 2024

alex_albon: who tf is going to look after my cats?

ynalbon: bring them to america

alex_albon: how about no?

ynalbon: hater much?

userfour: this is too cute

userfive: thank you for looking after logan for us

lilymhe: ignore the haters babe, you two are very cute (@/alex_albon)

ynalbon: yes ma'am

alex_albon: ARE YOU CALLING MY EX TEAMMATE CUTE?!

usersix: i was mourning the loss of aa23 and ls2 but yn has solved all my issues

logansargeant: 🍪🤍

the end.

722 notes · View notes

aethelwyneleigh27 · 4 months ago

Text

Little Ghost Holiday Drabble

Synopsis: Baking during the winters with your kids and husband during the holidays.

A/n: Hi, my lovelies! I know that I have a lot of works to catch up on, I'm a little behind on everything right now as school has taken a toll on me and so has writer's block. I'll try my best to post more consistently, I know most of you who followed me for the domestic content miss it so here is a little something for our favorite family.

Taglist: @wishesforyou @puff0o0 @simping4konig @simp4konig @blingblong55 @azereus @rustic-guitar-notes @callsignsnowpunisher @anonymuslydumb @skeletalgoats @icarustypicalfall @connorsui @capuccino192 @miss-gms-and-the-rotten-womb @celestialhole @the-second-sage @starryylies @everlastingmoonlightsworld @keiva1000 @iexiam @drewsmusee @konigceo @duck-a-doodle

"Momma, look!" You turned your head away from the preheating oven to look at your little sunshine, although she was struggling to mix the cookie batter, her laughter filled the room. Your baby boy coos in your arms as you lifted yourself up.

"Be careful, butterfly. The bowl's really heavy " You smiled at her, she nodded obediently, trying to sneak a taste. "Butterfly, that has raw eggs. How about the chocolate chips instead, hmm?"

Her grin widens, foot stomps like a clumsy, cheery dance on the wood floor as she ran to the pantry. Nothing makes you smile more than the pitter-patter of tiny feet, wherever you were, it was always accompanied by her sugar-laced pitchy voice calling out for you.

She came back a minute or two later, the bag of semi-sweet chocolate chips you specifically bought for her sweet tooth. You give her the child safe scissors, your little girl wanting to be more independent nowadays, something Simon was both proud of and heartbroken about.

Looking up at you with a look of asking permission so you nodded, she squealed before shoving her clean hand in the plastic bag to have a handful of the treat, stuffing her little mouth. "Alright, put the rest in and mix it well, butterfly." You told her as she picked up the wooden mixing spoon again, multitasking on her munchies.

Simon came out of your bedroom together after a steamy shower with the towel around his neck, he wrapped his arms around from behind you, his face buried on your neck which caused you giggle and squeal his name in a playful warning when he lightly nipped at a sensitive spot.

"All done, momma!" She said taking it into her own hands to roll the cookie dough and plop it down on the parchment lined baking tray, her blonde hair sticking out in messy little spikes from what used to be a teeny-tiny bun.

She dusted her dress and flower printed apron before you helped her out in placing the filled tray into the preheated oven. Simon, taking your baby boy off your arms and inviting Ghostie onto the playing mat with them.

You watched them, keeping an eye on the oven which made your whole house smell warm and cozy against the snow outside the windows.

With warm cookies and cold milk, you stare at your loves before you, Ghostie practically stuffing her chubby cheeks full of the baked sweet with one hand, light beige crumbs and the sticky chocolate on the same bouncing cheeks while her other hand was offering half a cookie to her dad's lips.

Reminding you of moments during breakfasts and mornings when it was syrup and whipped cream instead of the crumbs and chocolate, when her giggles and birds chirping filled the otherwise depressingly silent rooms. You aren't ready for her to grow up despite your husband being more open about it.

Your baby boy chewing on his blue rubber teething toy as you enjoyed the ambiance of your warm home. Enjoying and savoring every moment you had while your family is complete, while Simon was still home for this time of year..

Within the very home and family that you and your husband built, your heart as full as it could ever be <3

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jihyoruri · 6 months ago

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❚ ❚ ❚ ❚ ❚ ❚ ❚ ❚ WINTER AND HER BAND GIRLFRIEND kim minjeong x reader

↳ warnings yn is apart of wave to earth, fluff, idol!au, yn is haerin’s older sister

𓇼꩜ jimin was the one who introduced her to wave to earth, minjeong personally thought the whole band was talented but there was something about the girls voice that always had her captivated, it was like she could put her sleep with how soft it sounded.

𓇼꩜ the day minjeong met yn from wave to earth was a pretty weird day, both her and yizhuo had finished filming a dance challenge with haerin and hanni from new jeans and were waiting with the two girls to get picked up from sm, making small talks with them but then something hanni said caught her attention.

𓇼꩜ “haerin actually has an older sister that’s an artist, the band is pretty popular.” what shocked minjeong even more was the fact that yizhuo actually did know, “yeah she’s apart of wave to earth right?” “what?!” “yeah she’s so cool, she’s actually picking us up.”

𓇼꩜ minjeong remembers how shocked she was at the fact that someone she was so close with was close to the person she had a small celebrity crush on.

𓇼꩜ when she came face to face with yn it felt like it was out of a movie, it wasn’t only her singing voice that was soft her speaking one was also, she was really captivating, she barely knew what to say when yizhuo outed her “winter unnie is actually a big fan of wave to earth, you’re her favourite.”

𓇼꩜ it was humiliating but it seemed like that whole day was just minjeong feeling shocked because yn surprisingly smiled and said that she was a big fan as well, she wished the conversation could’ve gone longer if it wasn’t for the fact that haerin’s social battery was low and she tugged on yn’s arm indicating that she was ready to go.

𓇼꩜ “give me your phone.” is what yizhuo said before snatching minjeong’s phone and going straight into instagram and dming yn, “what are you doing?!” “I’m doing you a favour.”

𓇼꩜ now everyday minjeong thanks yizhuo for snatching her phone from her.

the intoxicating smell of ripe peaches filled the entire apartment, mingling with the faint scent of rain drifting in through the slightly cracked window. minjeong perched on the kitchen island, her eyes following every graceful movement of her girlfriend. yn, with practiced ease, slid the freshly prepared peach pie into the preheated oven, a contented smile gracing her lips as she dusted the flour from her hands.

it was raining outside the rain becoming background noise along with the soft voice of frank ocean coming from yn’s record player, minjeong couldn't help but smile, captivated by the sight of yn swaying gently to the music, as yn hummed along, minjeong felt an overwhelming sense of peace and happiness wash over her.

she was definitely the most successful fangirl in the word.

"staring at me?" yn’s voice broke through minjeong's daze.

startled, minjeong blinked and refocused her gaze. yn stood before her, a playful, toothy grin lighting up her face, her sharp canines on full display. "you’re so obsessed with me," yn teased, a mischievous twinkle in her cat like eyes.

"shut up," minjeong grumbled, her cheeks flushing slightly as she tried to downplay her evident admiration. yn chuckled softly and moved closer, slipping between minjeong's legs as she sat on the island. she picked up a slice of peach from the counter, along with some other remnants of their pie-making adventure.

taking a bite of the peach, yn’s eyes never left minjeong's. the sweetness of the fruit mirrored the tenderness in her gaze. then, with a playful glint in her eye, she offered the remaining half to minjeong, gently pressing it against her lips until she took it into her mouth.

"I’m obsessed with you too," yn murmured, her voice soft and teasing, the words carrying a warmth that matched the cozy atmosphere around them.

"you know I’m not as obsessed as you make me out to be," minjeong mumbled, her gaze dropping low. she reached for the strings of the pajama shorts that hung low on yn’s hips, her fingers deftly tying them into a neat bow.

“oh really?”

“yeah, it wasn’t even me that texted you that one time it was ning,”

“then maybe I should go and give ning a fat kiss on her cheek as a thank you,” yn teases.

minjeong's eyes widened in surprise, her hands pausing mid-motion. the mere thought of yn kissing someone else, even as a joke, sent a jolt through her. her expression shifted from shock to playful indignation, a slight pout forming on her lips.

"you wouldn’t dare," she replied, her voice tinged with a mix of disbelief and challenge. minjeong's hands resumed their gentle movements, her fingers brushing against yn’s hips as if to stake her claim.

yn laughed, "how about you set a timer for the pie, and I'll go pick out a movie for us to watch," she suggested, her eyes twinkling with anticipation.

minjeong nodded, she slid off the island and made her way to the oven, the aroma of the baking pie growing stronger, as she carefully set the timer, she felt yn’s presence linger for a moment longer before she turned and padded towards the living room, only a few steps away.

"hey, when are you gonna go back to your dorms?" minjeong heard yn’s voice call out as she made her way over to where yn was sitting, comfortably nestled on the couch looking through netflix

minjeong settled next to her, a playful glint in her eyes as she responded, "never. I'm too obsessed with you."

#aespa #aespa x reader #winter x reader #winter aespa #winter #winter aespa x reader #aespa fluff #aespa imagines #girl group imagines #kim minjeong x reader #minjeong x reader #minjeong aespa

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hanglimi · 9 months ago

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are we just friends? - chaewon

5 times y/n and chaewon were "just friends" and the one time they weren't.

TAGS - non-idol! chaewon x non-idol! reader, friends to lovers, fluff, f!reader

WORDCOUNT - 2000~

WARNINGS - like two swears or something

A/N - not proofread, ending kinda rushed

(1)

“isn’t that chaewon’s sweater?” yunjin mentioned in passing as she sat down your bed, looking around and observing the walls.

you threw a quick glance to where she was, noting the baby blue sweater draped on the back of your chair. you hummed absentmindedly in response and ushered your roommate off your bed, swiping at the sheets.

“can you please get out of my room and go clean up yours instead,” you muttered while continuing to fix every nook and cranny. you turned to look behind you, and groaned at yunjin’s slow pace, pushing her through the doorway of your room.

“chaewon’s coming over in like,” you checked the watch on your wrist and your eyes widened at the sight. “she’s coming over in 10 minutes!” you exclaimed shocked, rushing around your apartment trying to organise everything.

yunjin simply let out a chuckle as she inched towards her room, “you act like she doesn’t come over every day. i’m sure she won’t mind the sight of people actually living here.”

“fuck off!” you said in response and continued to wipe down the counters of your small kitchen.

“y/nnie!” chaewon exclaimed in joy as you opened the door for her, widening your arms for a hug. she slipped into your hold, fitting into place exactly like how she always did. your body untensed during the hug and you held her tight, smelling her hair.

you pulled away after a short time, noting the slight look of disappointment on your friend's face.

“i forgot to give it to you yesterday before you left, but I’ll wash the sweater you gave me and give it back to you as soon as possible.” you said, leading chaewon into the living room.

“don’t worry about it. you can keep it.”

“really? I thought it was your favourite one,” you raised your eyebrow in pleasant shock and sat down on the couch, chaewon following suite, grabbing the remote to the tv.

“it’s fine, really. i like how it looks on you anyways.” her smile grew as she leaned her head on your shoulder. your face felt warm at the comment and you quickly switched the topic, snatching the remote, and scrolling through movies to watch.

you swore you could hear yunjin cackling through the thin walls of your apartment.

(2)

“would you be interested in coming with me to sakura’s party?” chaewon said, preheating the oven as you whisked together the ingredients in the bowl in front of you. “she mentioned that I needed to bring a plus one, and you're obviously my go to,” she finished. you could feel her eyes on the back of your head as you continued moving your wrist.

“i’d love to, but isn’t a plus one supposed to be someone you're interested in?” you stopped whisking to turn to look chaewon in her eyes. “i think I’d feel weird if I came along.” at the sound of your subtle rejection, the glimmer in chaewon’s eyes dimmed and she faced the other way again, putting the ingredients away.

“it’s just,” chaewon started, gripping the edge of the counter, “we’ve been going to events together for such a long time– even things that were usually for couples. it’d be so weird if I were to suddenly stop bringing my closest friend because this time it's a little more serious.” she vaguely bent her fingers at the word serious, deepening her voice for the effect.

you nodded along to her words in silence, testing your response in your head before replying.

“i’ll go.” she cheered in response before you could finish, and jumped up and down, fully turning around again to grab onto your arms.

“but,” you drawled, rolling your eyes at her actions. “next time one of these things happens you’re bringing someone else. you gotta talk to other people these days, chaewon. i won’t be here forever.” you smiled slightly at your words, but quickly frowned at the sight of chaewon’s shoulders slumping down, even as she tried to fake her own laugh.

you quickly grabbed a handful of flour and threw it at her face, causing her to slap you on the arm.

“yah! what was that for!” she growled, ready to retaliate.

“you just looked like an angry puppy. whenever you have that face i can’t help but swoon.”

the pink of her neck rose to her cheeks and her ears, so she continued to hit your body, muttering random things.

you had always hated making chaewon sad.

(3)

you checked the time on your phone before glancing back up at your friends. the three of you had been eating for two hours, and the time felt right to leave and go home.

“i gotta go guys, but it’s been really fun catching up again!” you wrapped the conversation up, gathering your things.

“aww. is grown up y/n gonna go to her girlfriend now?” aeri imitated a child’s voice as minjeong giggled alongside her, hitting her shoulder urging her to stop.

you raised your brow in annoyance at her voice and confusion of the statement, “who’s my girlfriend?”

“chaewon, duh.” aeri stuck her tongue out at you, saying it as if it was common knowledge as she continued packing up her things.

“when have you guys ever even met her?” you were totally confused now, trying to recall a past date where the two friend groups had collided.

“never. but you talk about her enough that we could practically write a whole biography on her.” minjeong grinned at her words.

you pinched your nose at your two friends' antics. there was no way that you talked about chaewon enough for them to fabricate her being your girlfriend. it was obviously an over exaggeration on their part.

“you guys are literally liars. there’s no way you even know who she is.” you leaned back in your chair and crossed your arms. “you probably know her name because I’ve mentioned her before.”

“call us all the names you can construct in that little brain of yours, but we know her like the back of our hands.” aeri said, continuing to rile you up.

you soon left the restaurant with a throbbing headache because of aeri’s annoying self.

you’d need to ask your other friends if you really did talk about chaewon that often.

(4)

“why’d you bring me here again?” chaewon asked, grabbing onto your outstretched hand as you led her up the hill.

“can’t a girl just bring her best friend somewhere special?” you said lightly, continuing up and dragging chaewon along.

the both of you reached the peak of the hill, and you brought out a soft blanket from your backpack, laying it down on the grass.

“so this is what you prepare instead of studying for final exams.” chaewon stated, hands on her hips as she analysed the get up.

you chuckled and gestured down towards the blanket, “i took the time out of my studying to set this up. you can at least appreciate me and my efforts a little bit.”

“oh I definitely appreciate it. i think it’s cute.”

you laid down on the blanket, interlocking your fingers onto your stomach, gazing at the dark sky above as chaewon lowered herself down to the ground. her shoulders brushed against yours as she got comfortable, fidgeting with her feet.

the two of you stared up at the night, watching and searching for the stars. minutes passed, and chaewon’s breathing evened out, her body relaxing. the bright lights from the city drowned out the twinkling of the stars anyways, so you turned your whole body towards your friends, roving your eyes up and down her face. You propped up an elbow and laid upright onto your side, taking in chaewon’s features.

“why’re you looking at me like that,” a mumble fell from the girl’s lips, and she slowly opened her eyes, her words piercing the silence.

“no reason.” you fell back down onto your back, going back to staring upwards.

“y/n.”

“mmm.” you let out, trying to fuse into the blanket underneath you for warmth. chaewon noticed this and shifted closer, letting her arms wrap familiarly around your body.

“thanks for this.”

“of course chaewon. anything for you.”

you really would do anything to make chaewon happy.

(5)

“i wonder how it’d sound if it went like this.” your friend’s voice drifted from one side of the room to the other. you looked up from your schoolwork and directed your attention to the girl on the other side of the room. her brows were furrowed deep in concentration, and she tapped a pen to her lips, a pouty look to them

she continued to sing unknowingly, stopping to make tweaks, and continuing from where she left off. it was a ritual – you would bring the work you needed to catch up on to chaewon’s little studio room while she would practise her singing. something easy to fall into, somewhat of a tradition really. all your friends knew when it was “y/n and chaewon” time – or whatever they liked to call it, so they’d leave the both of you to your devices.

chaewon’s smooth voice brought you back to where you were, and you glanced back at the schoolwork you were doing not too long ago, to see scribbles and words relating to chaewon on your paper. a groan escaped your lips as you erased the illegible comments.

“you alright?” chaewon asked, pausing her melodies to push her glasses up her nose and glance in your direction.

“just fine.” you whispered back, throwing a thumbs up in her direction.

“we can leave early if you’d like-”

“no!” you shouted, covering your mouth in shock at your outburst. “no thank you, i like the quiet of this room.” in reality, you just wanted to stay with her alone a little longer.

she laughed a little and went back to her own work, fully in the zone again.

you dropped your pencil, and quietly turned in your chair to look at her. her hair seemed to be shining in the light of the room, and her whole body posture was loose, showcasing her love for what she was doing. it felt as though her aura was pulling you in. the thought of looking away from her– looking away from her when she was doing what she loved, looking so entranced, was not a thought that stayed in your mind. you’d rarely seen her this focused on what she was doing, and you selfishly wished for just a second, that all that attention was on you.

“are you sure you’re okay?” she looked back up to you, your eyes burning a hole into the side of her face.

“yep. just enjoying the view.”

she giggled and told you to shut up.

you are definitely going to watch her do this again.

(+1)

“y/n?” chaewon called to you as you held the door open for her, her music and notes in her hands. “i hope that wasn’t too boring for you. i wasn’t really talking to you that much this time.”

“oh no it’s alright! i quite enjoyed the peace and quiet.”

“are you trying to say i talk too much,” chaewon glared sarcastically, a slight smirk playing on her lips.

“who knows what i’m trying to say.” you shrug, falling into step with chaewon as you walked her to her apartment.

the evening sun was setting, but you were still able to feel its warm rays hit your face and body as you stepped forward. the comfortable silence enveloped you two, and you didn’t think much of it.

halfway through the walk, chaewon stopped walking and turned to face you, “look over here.”

so you turned, and the girl in front of you seemed to be looking more ethereal than ever. the sun was framing her face perfectly, her eyes were glimmering, and her mouth was wide with a smile. she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, and just stood there, looking at you.

the thought that this was your best friend – someone who you had known for years – didn’t cross your mind as you closed the gap between you two, your lips connecting. you shut your eyes and leaned into the kiss, letting her take the lead. her papers were pressed between you guys, the sound of the rustling entered your ears, but it didn’t stay long as chaewon slowly moved back, opening her eyes slowly.

and as you reached an arm out to pull her back in, you thought that maybe, just maybe, you were a little bit in love with her.

A/N - this is so jank im so so rusty, please forgive me. I hope you enjoyed it though!

#chaewon x reader #le sserafim #chaewon imagines #kpop x reader #kim chaewon #le sserafim imagines #kpop gg #le sserafim x reader

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justwinginglife · 6 months ago

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Friends With Benefits ft Soshiro Hoshina

Soshiro just fucked your brains out and had the gall to ask you to bake him cookies afterwards.

You pant against the pillowcase, hands still gripping the sheets tight. "Excuse me??"

He smirks. "You heard me. Cookies. I want 'em."

You roll your eyes, wiping sweat off your brow and turning to look at him. "You're ridiculous, you know that Shiro?"

He grins. "What are friends for?"

You roll your eyes again at that word. Friends. What a strange word to use for whatever this was. You and Soshiro had been close ever since you joined the defense force together, always pushing each other to train harder and bantering with each other to no end. Then one night after everyone had gone to bed, you found yourself alone with your hand and he'd walked in on you to your shock and embarrassment. But he just smirked and offered to help and ever since then you've had this little arrangement for whenever one of you needed to blow off steam. It was convenient at first, but then you'd be minding your own business brushing your teeth or eating dinner- something unassuming- and you'd find yourself thinking about the way his neck looked when he swallowed or the way his back looked after you'd dug your nails into it. Then it wasn't even about the sexy things anymore, it was the way he absentmindedly started playing with your hair when he was bored or the way he chewed when he was eating your cookies. Right. He wanted you to make him cookies. You shake your head to snap yourself out of it.

You pull yourself out of his bed, groaning at the effort, and then throw on one of his oversized t-shirts. "If I burn myself, I expect you to kiss it better." You tell him, starting to preheat the oven.

He laughs. "If you burn yourself, I'll be shocked. You've made me so many batches of cookies before, you should be able to do it in your sleep."

You start pulling ingredients out of the fridge and say to him, "I bet one of these days you'll actually ask me to do it in my sleep too. You're shameless, you know that?"

He grins cheekily. "You just can't say no to me, I've got to take advantage of it where I can."

You roll your eyes again but start mixing up the cookie batter because, as he said, you just can't say no to him. He'd been your closest friend for so long, and to your surprise, he'd started to become something else to you too. But you couldn't let him find out about that. He'd never let you hear the end of it.

You place the bits of balled up dough onto a baking sheet and pop it into the oven, setting the timer.

"You're cooking dinner since I just did dessert. You know that's the deal." You poke him in the arm. He feigns being offended but he gets started cooking. You watch as he pulls on that familiar apron he always wears when he cooks you dinner. After you accidentally discovered he was a great cook by stealing a bite of his bento box at lunch one day, you'd forced him to cook for you frequently after that and he claimed that he wanted your baking as compensation.

It was hard to imagine life without him at this point. You sigh, earning a concerned look from him. He set his knife down on the cutting board. "What is it? C'mon, you don't make that face for nothing." He tucks a finger gently under your chin and props it up so you're meeting his gaze.

"I'm just hungry and you're slow." You lie.

He laughs slightly but he shakes his head at you in a knowing way. "You may be hungry, but I know that's not what you're really thinking about. I'm here when you wanna talk, okay?" He continues to cook, letting you have some space to think. He's too damn considerate for his own good. If he keeps this up, you could really be in love with him.

You fidget with your fingers. The kitchen starts to fill with wonderful smells and you inhale, letting the scent of his familiar cooking warm you. You close your eyes and try to relax as you listen to him hum to himself while he starts to fry things on the stove. You sense that he is looking over at you every couple minutes just to make sure you're doing okay and it drives you crazy. So damn considerate, you think to yourself again, frustrated.

Finally you sigh, exasperated and you open your eyes, about to say something when he presents you with a plate of food. Your eyes gleam and you happily accept. He watches you carefully as you eat and you try not to think too much about how his beautiful eyes are focused so intently on you.

"So-" He starts, but the oven timer beeps. You shoot up out of your chair and go to take the cookies out of the oven, thankful for the distraction. He looks like he wants to say something but the smell of cookies distracts him, and he starts crowding around you to get a view of the sweets.

"Hot. Okay?" You warn him, knowing that if you weren't there, he would've burned himself shoveling these things into his mouth.

He nods quickly, but you can tell he's impatient for the cookies. You laugh and poke the tip of his nose. He grins. "What was that for?"

"You're just like a little puppy. Wagging your tail, waiting for treats." You tease and he rolls his eyes at you, playfully yanking you towards him and ruffling your hair.

He realizes he has time to ask his question since he has to wait for the cookies to cool down, so he loosens his grip on you, it's just enough so he can face you properly but not enough that he can't feel your warmth on his skin. "So what's going on?" He asks finally.

You sigh. "Can't we just wait for the cookies in peace?"

He shakes his head no. He's let you have your time to think but now he wants to help.

You sigh again. Might as well get it over with. "What are we?" You ask, cautiously.

He blinks. "What do you mean?"

You rest your forehead in your palm, wondering how you're going to explain this to him.

"Like what am I to you?" You say again, unprepared for the sweat that's started to trickle down the back of your neck and the heat that's started to rise in your cheeks. The words that you've spilled into the air seem to want to crawl back down your throat and hide for dear life in your stomach.

He blinks again. "You're my best friend?"

Great. So now he's just bestfriend-zoned you. And since when were you best friends anyway?? This relationship of yours is escalating both too quickly and not quickly enough. You groan. You're in love with the sweetest, sexiest, smartest man alive and yet somehow he's an idiot when it comes to stuff like this. You're going to have to put it bluntly. Very bluntly.

"Soshiro. We fuck. I bake you cookies. We fuck. You text me all the time saying you miss me. We fuck. We share secrets and jokes with each other. We fuck, again. What in the hell are we? Lovers, idiots? Serious, unserious? Give it to me straight." Your words tumble out like they're falling down stairs, once they gain momentum you can't stop until you've hit the bottom. You don't realize just how desperately you need his answer until the chaotic mess that is your feelings crashes through your lips and lands at his feet.

Please answer me. Don't answer, don't tell me what you think. Ignore what I just said. Tell me what you're thinking. Don't tell me. I need to know. I don't want to know.

Your thoughts bound back and forth in your head like a tennis ball constantly changing sides on the court.

The silence in the air is so loud that it almost splits your skull. Your ears feel like they're bleeding from the lack of a response. You're spiraling. This is it. This is how we end.

He grabs your chin and forces you to look at him again. Your heart stops. You see his eyes. They're warm and light and they make you feel like everything is going to be okay. He finally smiles at you. Yeah. Everything's okay now.

You exhale softly, not even realizing you'd been holding your breath.

He cups your face in his hands and rubs your cheeks softly with his thumbs.

"Well how about we start with what you want to be? Can we start there?" He asks gently, as though you've got all the time in the world to answer.

You nod slowly. "I-I want to be more."

He smiles. "Okay. I can do that. How much more?"

You flush red.

"I see I'm going to have to take the lead on this one." He chuckles. "Okay, will you settle for being my girlfriend for now? Let's see where this thing goes, and see if we want to do more than just date, yeah?"

You nod again.

He kisses your cheek and it's not the rough, hungry, demanding kiss that you're used to. It's sweet and soft and you think you could do with a few more of these kisses. You tap your other cheek and he laughs but he leans in to kiss the other one too.

"Now, can I please have my cookies?" He teases.

You roll your eyes. "Most insufferable boyfriend ever." You shove a cookie in his mouth.

"But a happy boyfriend, nonetheless." He winks at you.

Yeah, you could get used to this.

#kaiju no. 8 #soshiro hoshina #soshiro hoshina x reader #oneshot #anime #han's library

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joemama-2 · 7 months ago

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Midnight Baking

megumi x reader

a/n: a little cute fluffy drabble after my last megumi post, he's so lovely.

"move over.” megumi's gruff, but tired voice startles you, almost causing the whisk in your hand to fall to the ground. you turn you head over your shoulder, it's dark and late at night so you have to squint your eyes to actually see him. he's rubbing his eyes, standing in the doorway to the kitchen. only then do you realize that he wants you to scooch when he lazily motions with his hand.

confused, you move a bit to your right and he walks to the sink, turning the water on and getting started on washing the several dishes you already had in there. he wants to scold you about the number, especially since you obviously just started. but everytime he does, you hit him with a "i'm baking, obviously i'm gonna dirty dishes".

"did I wake you up?" you ask, voice quiet in case he actually is just sleepwalking, which would explain this. never has megumi helped out with your late night baking scandals, considering he wasn't an insomniac like you and he was a pretty heavy sleeper.

"no." he mutters, a lie. "i was awake for a while, figured i'd help you." his hands work diligently at the dishes, lathered in soap suds. and you can't help the small flutter of your heart and grin forming. but, he quickly adds on. "don't wanna wake up to a shit ton of dishes to wash either."

"hey!" it's a little too loud since he gives you a side glare, causing you to lower your voice. your attention turns back to whisking. "i always clean up after myself."

a huff. "you mean I do." you want to roll your eyes, but you know he won't see it, so you hold back.

a small silence envelopes you too and he finishes washing, wiping his hands. "brownies?"

"mhm." you nod. "but i'm adding some matcha in them, cause remember you said you had them that one time at that cafe you didn't invite me to."

a sigh is held back from him. you two have gone over this already, he says it was a lunch invite from itadori, but you say it was a date and he's cheating on you. "didn't think you remembered that."

"why wouldn't i?" you look at him, setting the whisk down. "i remember everything you tell me."

god, he feels his cheeks heat up. he fights back a smile, instead huffing. "yeah, yeah, whatever." he reaches up to grab one of the trays from your cabinets. a thought goes through his mind that makes him wonder how you would reach it if he wasn't there.

setting the tray down, you begin to fill it with the matcha brownie mix. "you need to start just reading a book if you can't sleep." he says.

you scoff. "i'm not you."

"what's that supposed to mean?"

"it means you're a bookworm." he frowns, that cute one that makes you kiss it off his lips every time. after the mix is successfully poured in, he opens the oven and places it in. you already had it preheating.

he leans up and see you licking the whisk clean, like always. and like always, he allows you to offer him some, tongue swiping over the same areas yours just did. "a cute bookworm, though." you say, gently chuckling as you welcome his arm around your waist to bring you closer.

"i'm not cute." he holds the whisk out for you to get the last few licks, because he knows you'd throw a fit if he took it all. been there done that. his thumb absentmindedly rubs soothing, small circles along your hip.

"uh huh, sure you're not, cutie." he grimaces and you laugh, hand cupping his cheek as you two share a light kiss to one another's lips. at least that's what you think before he dips down for another. and another. and ano--

"okay, okay." you huff playfully hand squeezing his cheek. "don't get ahead of yourself, you'll hurt yourself."

his face buries itself into the crook of your neck, inhaling your oh so sweet scent, placing a small kiss to your pulse. "shut up." he grumbles.

you two move to the couch, laying on him and idly playing with the hem of his shirt as you discuss mundane things to pass time until the pastries finish. you tilt your head up to meet his eyes and he's already looking at you.

he stares back. "what?"

"nothing, just thinking."

"about?"

"how much i love you."

and you always knew just the right things to say. his ears heat up again. "why are you being so cheesy right now?"

"can't i express my love to the greatest, bestest boyfriend ever?" you scoff.

"i'm your only boyfriend." he retorts. his eyebrow raises as you look away, holding back a smile. "don't do that." he nudges with his shoulder.

"do what?"

"not agree with me."

you roll your eyes now, looking back at him. "don't get your panties in a twist, you already know you're right." he says nothing and you let out an overdramatic sigh. "you're my only boyfriend."

he hums in approval, it's your turn to nudge him. "your turn?"

"for?"

"tell me you love me and that i'm your only girlfriend and i'm the best." now, he turns his head away, inhaling a hiss as if you couldn't be further from the truth. "megumi!" you say, lifting your body up slightly.

he lets out a small chuckle, pulling you down and kissing your lips, thumbs caressing your cheeks. "you're my only girlfriend, you're the best, and i love you."

you smile. "i love you more."

he lets out a small sigh, but gives into your cheesiness. "i love you most."

#jjk x reader #jjk #drabble #fushiguro megumi x reader #x reader #jujutsu kaisen x reader #fluff #megumi x you #jjk fluff #jujutsu kaisen x you #jujutsu kaisen

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the-travelling-witch · 1 year ago

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𝐂𝐔𝐓𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇 𝐇𝐈𝐌

tokyo rev masterlist || haikyuu version

Accidentally matching outfits x Koko

You swear it’s a coincidence when you show up to your date spot matching Koko’s outfit of the day. But then again, your boyfriend has always insisted on gifting you outfits and accessories, so is it really a surprise you mirrored his style without noticing? That still doesn’t stop your cheeks from warming when he takes your hand and leads you inside, a small smile playing around his lips.

Carrying your bags x Inui

Inui is a gentleman all around but one thing he never fails to do is carry your bags for you. Usually, he asks beforehand if he should take them from you -even though he hardly accepts ‘no’ as an answer- but if he can tell you’re struggling with the weight he’s rather adamant about it. His beautiful partner shouldn’t strain themselves and he can easily handle it, so please let him do this. (Inui also rocks carrying your purse, it might as well be his.)

Weird nicknames in each other’s contacts x Ran

It’s almost as if you’re in a secret relationship, that’s how abstruse your names for the other are. If your friend ever looks at your phone when you ask them to read out a message, you can basically hear the confusion in their voice. There’s also a pretty high chance the contact name is accompanied by a picture that’s just as unflattering, probably taken when you were taken off guard. Well, at least both of you know you’re not in it for the other’s looks.

Walking on the side of the road x Draken

Draken is your protector through and through. Not only does your knight in shining armour catch bugs for you without a fuss and order your food as well if you’re too shy to, he also always makes sure to walk on the side of the road where the cars drive. Whenever you change streets or directions, he quickly switches to your other side, not letting your hand go for too long. You’re not sure if it makes a difference at all but the gesture is sweet nonetheless.

Laughing ‘til your cheeks hurt x Chifuyu

Nevermind if you’re grown adults, Chifuyu and you can still be as silly as children. At times, you’re literally the most unserious pair ever, giggling and holding your stomachs because of a stupid pun one of you told. Sitting at home on a night in, wiping the tears from your eyes and holding your hurting cheeks as you gasp for air, just to start laughing again when you remember the situation five minutes later.

Flour fight during a baking session x Mitsuya

Neither of you are about wasting food, just making that clear. But when you’re standing side by side in front of the kitchen counter, the oven preheating in the background and Mitsuya rolling the dough to then press into your cake form, you just can’t help yourself. Some leftover from the filling you prepared sticks to your hand and before you know it, you’re wiping it against your boyfriend’s cheek, giggling as you go. But Mitsuya only looks shocked for a second before he grins and wraps his flour-covered hands around your waist before you can get away.

Waking up tangled together x Rindou

It’s a calm night in, the take-out boxes still sitting on the coffee table in front of you as you snuggle in the corner of the couch, not really paying attention to the film anymore. And neither is Rindou, judging by how he yawns from the other side of the couch, his legs crossing with yours as he sinks deeper into the cushions. By the time both of you wake up again, your respective spaces of the couch have been abandoned in order to tangle yourself together bretzel-style, with your cheek squished against his biceps and his hand somewhere under the back of your shirt.

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e1dritchjackal0pe · 8 months ago

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ᴘᴏɪꜱᴏɴ ᴏɴ ᴍʏ ʟɪᴘꜱ

Summary: You didn't expect that chasing after a bounty in the middle of the desert would lead to perhaps the most insulting and upsetting predicament of your entire career. But after being lead across barren land and scathing heat, you know that you're running out of time to escape.

All you can do is hope that you can beat the clock before your luck runs out.

Warnings: 18+ MDI! Canon typical violence; violence against reader (not by Cooper), depictions of gore and death. AFAB Reader, some fem pronouns used, PiV sex, unprotected sex, boot riding, oral sex (M!Receiving), deepthroating. Mild overstimulation, multiple orgasms.

Notes: 23.1k words. I lied and told myself that this was going to be a short story . . . two weeks later. . . Ended a little bittersweet, which was entirely unintentional, but oh well. Not proofread. A little bit of sweet Cooper but not too much.

The sun is a crippling thing, beating down on you with a stifling heat that nearly feels like a physical presence driving down and tugging on your limbs and the crown of your skull. Intent on wringing your strength and every drop of moisture from your body in its torrid grip. It's debilitating and the only thing that you could ever possibly compare it to is standing next the roaring flames of a bonfire, or maybe, from what you've heard, like opening an oven door and being blasted by the rush of the preheated air. But it's the weight of your tongue pressed against the roof of your mouth that really seems to wave your circumstances in your face. It feels like sandpaper; brittle and harsh, like one attempt at swallowing could cause the walls of your throat to grind and split along each other.

You remember specifically when your last drink of water was. A few casual sips taken from your canteen only a few hours earlier, close to thirteen now to be exact. You've been counting. Torturing yourself with each passing second and every weakened, slipping step. It goes by slow in your mind, dripping by like molasses, and the scorched, barren ground cracking beneath your feet and giving way to loose, lifeless sand just makes it all that much slower. But truthfully, it's the sound of their laughter that's really getting to you. The group of them chortling like a pack a wild dog's; coyotes giggling and gloating over a kill. You aren't sure what they're all joking about. Probably something twisted that would make your stomach turn if you paid it close enough attention, but you've been making an effort to focus your concentration on absolutely anything else. The crunch of the rock underneath your boots; the lonely, empty whistle of the low wind brushing across the ground; your own panting breaths. Even the gentle clink and jingle of the rusted handcuffs that dig into your wrists like a taunt.

You're not supposed to be the one in fucking cuffs, trudging across the desert with a bunch of lowlife criminals keeping you hostage.

In your defense, you were only expecting one, not four. It's a flimsy excuse. Even in your own eyes, but to be fair, coming by caps as of late has been difficult. And no caps means no food or water, and your supply of RadAway has become concerningly low. And it was becoming increasingly difficult to come by funds without murdering someone over it. It had made you a little reckless. Desperate honestly, and the need to get some actual currency in your palm, instead of scraps, had hung heavy on you. So when you had caught sight of some random wanted poster fixed behind the counter of a dingy hole-in-the-wall bar, you had all but jumped at the opportunity. He was low rung and inexperienced by all accounts. Just another random, petty man with a propriety for violence who had shaken down the wrong establishment. He wasn't anything special. There are thousands of others just like him, just as there always will be.

It was supposed to be a low effort job. You were planning on shooting him dead and taking just enough of him with you to retrieve your money. But what you hadn't accounted for was getting jumped by three (four technically, you did manage to kill one) other men when you confronted him. But they had been like ghosts, leaping out of the empty shadows of the night in the manner of creeping phantoms when you had approached the bounty with a loaded gun trained at his head. The cocky, gnarled grin that had stretched across his chapped lips should have been a big of enough clue to let you know you were on losing side of your fight.

But even now you aren't sure where they had even come from. You had been tracking your bounty for a couple days across the desert landscape, and not once had he met up with a single person. You hadn't heard a word of gossip about him running with any groups or raiders either. So imagine your surprise when the figures that had stepped from the dark had all been familiar. Familiar in the regard that you've seen the rough sketches of their faces pinned up along just about every business and dilapidated building in the Wasteland. Drawn out on rough parchment that declared them all wanted, dead or alive. The Silva Gang; a small band, but a notorious one. They've been making a name for themselves as of late, snatching up people in the cover of the night to sell them off to organ harvesters and sex slavers.

You aren't sure which of the two they have planned for you, but you aren't exactly psyched to find out. Regardless, if they have a buyer in mind, it'll be a wonder if you even manage to survive the trip there in your current condition. After you had shot down one of their members, made his head explode in a splatter of red and brain matter, they had all been quick to gang up on you. Knocking you to the ground to kick your stomach in with their steel toed boots until your lungs couldn't manage much more than a pathetic, airy wheeze. You had bit the inside of your cheek in the middle of the beatdown, tearing it open until iron had flooded the inside of your mouth and stained your teeth scarlet.

Every breath hurts. It's like your bones have been rattled loose, and you swear you can feel them wiggle with each sharp gasp, just barely held in place by the bruised sinew that binds it all together. All you can do is hope that there isn't any internal bleeding, but it's difficult to tell with the wound in your cheek tainting your mouth with a coat of blood. Though, if you can't manage to find a way to escape, then passing out from hemorrhaging might actually be a blessing in disguise. A mercy carried in on violent wings. But then again, the Wasteland has never been known for its mercy.

A brittle, whistling laugh breaks out with all the subtly of a gunshot. Though it sounds closer to a cough with the way that it sharply cuts across the atmosphere like cracking a bone-dry branch over your knee. It's about the only warning you get before the man strolling in front of you - your bounty - harshly tugs at the chain connected to your cuffs, jerking your joined wrists forward and forcing the rest of your body to follow in an ungraceful lurch. Your legs scramble to right themselves, weakly trying to balance the entirety of your body's weight on feeble ankles. For a split second you think that you might actually collapse and get a face full of sand, but you just barely manage to catch yourself on time, flinging a foot forward to get a hold of your equilibrium.

He doesn't give you proper time to gather yourself before he's nudging you along again with the chain, flashing you a nasty grin over his shoulder in a show of filed down teeth. You've seen the pictures of sharks before. A few years back when you had stumbled upon the old remains of a school building. You had meandered through the halls, searching for what little you could find, anything that might have been useful. For a moment your mind had wondered and wandered as you allowed yourself to entertain what the halls and rooms may have looked like all of those years ago when the paint wasn't chipping and brimming with radiation, even though you really had no basis to go off of. And you were quick to find yourself sidetracked, digging through old textbooks and sheets of homework. It was just some biology book, with wrinkled, stained pages and dust collected on the hard cover. There had been a chapter about marine animals: dolphins, fish, and the like. But what had really caught your attention was the drawling of a shark that had been in the corner. Particularly its teeth. Massive rows of lethal points designed to slice through meat and tear flesh. Underneath the depiction of the great white there had been some offhand little fact.

Did you know that you're more likely to die by bees than a shark?

But this shark, you're certain has taken countless lives; sank his teeth into human skin and gorged himself on their bodies. And you might just be next if you don't manage to find an opening soon. You aren't certain where they're taking you. How many more miles you have to cover on shaking legs and bruised lungs, but the longer they lead you the closer you're getting to a death sentence.

"What do you say, lovely." The voice jumps out with the pressure of a dead weight linking across your shoulders, pulling you close into the cradle of someone's chest. The stink that rises up to greet you is abhorrent; stale and putrid from weeks, if not months' worth of sweat and dirt and grime. You could choke on it. "You ready for a break yet? You look like shit."

A brief scathing glance upward reveals that it's the one that you had shot in the leg. Right in the artery. It would have killed him too if they weren't fortunate enough to be in the possession of a stimpak. He still has a bit of a limp in his stride, but now he's here to gloat. Squinting at you to combat the unrelenting glare of the sun with a crooked smile, his tongue reaches to slip across his teeth in an unsettling leer. If all the posters haven't left you astray then this would be the one that calls himself Vulture. A fitting moniker for a cannibal and a scavenger, you suppose.

You want to shove him off and flee. Even with the cover of your jacket still secure over your torso, his body heat feels like acid on your skin, biting and stinging. He has your gun on his hip, secure and snug within his holster. The silver steel of the handle glints like a taunt. Your fingers itch with the urge to slip around the familiar grip. To feel the heft of it in your palm and the recoil reverberating up your arm as you squeeze the trigger. But the chain pulling your hands taut and forward isn't very giving. Even if you managed to tug your bounty down by the tether in his hands and grab ahold of Vulture's gun (your gun), with how sluggish you are the other two would be on you in a blink. And then you really would be dead and left to bleed out on the parched ground and give it the only moister it's probably seen in decades.

Though you might have an opportunity soon. Reluctantly, you lift your head up and shift your focus from him to survey the horizon, and in your unsteady vision you notice a few buildings nestled close along in the distance. A weathered sign is fixed to the roof of one of the structures, declaring something in a mixed bold font. But what those letters spell you're unable to make out from the large gap of space, about a half a mile, give or take. But you think that one of them may be a gas station, based of the old pavilion posted out front; tilted and threatening to lean over on its columns.

"What do you say, Vernon?" The man with his arm still cinched around the back of your neck asks, shouting over his shoulder to look at one of the men walking behind you. "I say we give her a little break. She might collapse otherwise, and we wouldn't want the goods to spoil, now would we?"

He leans in low when he says it, wafting his humid breath over your face in a revolting puff. You don't even bother fighting of the grimace that crosses over your expression, letting disgust twist up your features into an offended sneer. But Vulture doesn't seem to be insulted in the slightest. If anything, you catch a glimmer of amusement pass through his bloodshot eyes in a mirthful wink. A part of you entertains lunging forward and sinking your teeth into the flesh above his cheek bone; letting the sun burnt skin there break underneath the weight of them to ease the way that his words sear across you mind like a brand. But you can't lose your head yet. So you keep your mouth firmly shut, teeth tucked behind your dried lips while you fantasize about gutting the four of them open from pelvis to groin.

You let them lead you across the desert floor, still guffawing and cackling over their perverted jokes and braindead banter. It still makes you nauseous how you've managed to let them get advantage on you and drag you miles across barren land. Humiliation settles in your gut like you've swallowed oil and salt. And despite your lethargic limbs and tender stomach, it's safe to say that your pride is the most damaged thing out of this entire situation. It's tart on your parched tongue. No respectable bounty hunter should ever be caught in a state like this. You can hardly even recall the last time a query has managed to get the upper hand on you, much less captured you in handcuffs and held you hostage. It's pathetic.

You can practically hear that grouchy bastard's voice berating you in that lazy, accented lilt. Chiding you for getting caught. For slipping up like some kind of rookie.

Well that just ain't like you, sweetheart, lettin' a coulpa shitkickers get the jump on ya.

But as harsh as the echo of his voice is, it does serve as a sort of comfort in a paradoxical sort of way. Like a soothing balm on a fresh, stinging wound. Bittersweet from the familiarity of it; sharp and smarting like a fresh bruise, but also dulcet and homey like the swaddle of a soft blanket. As big of a pain in the ass as he is, a part of you has to be curious how life has been treating him these past couple of months. You're sure he's fine. No matter how dire the situation, he always manages to survive somehow, whether that be by sheer luck or by the skin of his teeth, he always makes it out. He's older than you by decades; experienced in horrors and calamities that you would struggle to imagine. Still, sometimes you can't help yourself from being a little . . . worried. It's so nonsensical to be fretting over a man that has the blood of a thousand souls on his hands; who's just as hardened and unforgiving as the land he walks. Especially when you're the one with your hands fastened together by old metal, and the damaged taste of iron in your mouth.

Despite your hard exterior, you've always been a bit of bleeding heart deep down. And somehow, someone as brash and knavish as him has managed to worm himself past all your defenses and latched onto that tender little piece of your soul. He was purely competition at first. A rival. A thief is what he was. Then a reluctant acquaintance, and eventually a . . . tentative friend. A vulnerability, really. But you can't ever keep yourself from wondering about him. Even now, with a violent band of criminals crowded around you and guiding you like a twisted procession towards death or slavery, you can't fight of the impression of a smile that begs to lift at your lips. You have to contemplate the next time that you might see him. If you'll even have the opportunity to see him again, so's long that this doesn't go tits up and you end up dead on the ground. If he'll still smell with the subtle musk of the earth; the residue of soil staining his tattered duster, all damp and rich hidden underneath a layer of dust, and at times blood.

That bastard. That old, mean bastard -

"What are you over there grinning about?" Vulture queries, slipping his other arm up to clutch your jaw between his dirty fingertips, squeezing your cheeks close like an uncle with boundary issues would do at a family reunion. It has you mouth splitting into a snarl and the urge to bite is back again, like an itch on your gums. But you hold yourself back.

"I was imagining what your blood might look like on the sand," you snap, jerking your face from out of his tight grip with venom on your tongue. It nearly could have surprised you when a splitting white-hot heat erupts across the side of your face with enough force to swivel your head to the right, licking an electrical current down the back of your neck, but you were honestly expecting the strike. You draw in a deep breath, ignoring the way that your lungs rattle while you focus on keeping your legs steady. You can feel him when he leans in close again; you can see the hint of him in your peripheral vision too, a little blurry and unfocused from how close he is.

"Well, keep dreaming. Cause that ain't never going to happen."

You don't agree or refute that remark. Not even while you picture wrapping the chain lead hooked to your cuffs around his throat and watching the light dim from the pale blue shade of his eyes. It's then that you decide, even if they do manage to kill you today, you're taking at least one more of them with you.

You let yourself fall silent again, counting the soft tread of everyone's footsteps. The way that the dry, dead earth splits underneath the soles of your boots in a weary whisper. But you mostly try to think about all of the weapon's secured to everyone's person. The gun - your gun - cradled in Vulture's holster. The idiot had tossed his away earlier to swap it out with you own. And you're pretty sure that it had still had a few rounds left in its chamber. There's the handle of a small hunting knife peeking out from past the lip of your bounty's (Thatcher is his name) boot. You didn't see him brandish any other weapon when you had tried to corner him, but that doesn't mean that he doesn't have any.

As for the other two following closely behind, you know for a fact that the one called Vernon has a 10mm pistol, and the other's been totting around an old baseball bat with nails buried through the barrel. The nails are rusted, tinged red, but you're certain that the dusty, maroon and vermillion is old caked up blood and not just oxidation.

There are too many guns. Too many of them. And you're weakened from exhaustion and dehydration; sore from getting your stomach kicked in. Running as of now is entirely out of the question. But if you make it to the gas station you should be able to use it as cover. There should be counters in there, shelves and a backroom. All of which can be used as protection against you and them, and the possible spray of bullets. But if you aren't careful enough, the tight quarters can also be used to box you in and keep you trapped between the four of them. You'll have to be cautious.

The twin buildings ahead of you are much closer now, and you're able to make out the worn, crippled details of the ancient establishments much better now. Old remnants of a time long before yourself, left shabby and broken by harsh conditions and war. The paint is all chipped and sun faded on both the motel and gas station; the colors muted down into dusty, pale shades that are probably a far cry from what they used to look like. Windows are opaque with dirt, and some of the panes have been busted out entirely, making some of the curtains still hung above the sills to billow softly. There's an old Nuka-Cola machine posted out front of the station with bullet holes peppering its metal casing; and a long bordering piece of the of the pavilion's roof is hanging from the edge, creaking and trembling with the influence of the wind, groaning and squeaking sharply with each tremor. Like the cries of a wounded, wild animal.

Apprehension settles deep in the pit of your belly like a stone, and you can feel it prickling along your fingertips and toes. The presence of the four men walking along you is like a heat on your skin, searing and stifling. It makes you hyperaware of everything. The brush of your own clothes, the weight of their eyes burrowing into your body; the light, shifting sounds of the desert. It's putting you on edge, making your muscles longing to tense and lash out but you have to keep yourself collected and calm. If you were to act out prematurely or let your nerves get to you, you might just end up with a bullet lodged between your eyes.

Thatcher stops short of the threshold of the gas station, which is left wide open from the twin doors that seem to have been blown from their hinges. He pivots on his feet suddenly, turning to you with another one of his nasty smiles. "Lady's first," he coos obnoxiously. That's the only warning you get before he's jerking the chain a second time. This time is much harsher than the first, and it sweeps you off your feet in a rush that snaps your neck back. You don't even register yourself falling. It's the pain that washes over your knees and eventually your right side that your mind notices first. Blossoming over your flesh like boiling water, and you can feel the stinging tingle of fine glass shards burying past your clothes to poke at your skin.

The hiss of pain that slips past your lips is overshadowed by the boisterous laughter that rings out around you. The sound of it has hatred simmering along your chest and slipping up your jaw, making you clench your teeth together so tightly that a part of you distantly worries that they might break. A string of curses and pyrophanites are heavy in your throat, but you don't want to give them the satisfaction of openly swearing. To let them know that they're getting under your skin. You keep your focus forward instead, ignoring the way they all chortle around you while you scan the dilapidated space. All of the freezers and shelves have been picked clean and left like a discarded skeleton. They would give you ample enough cover to hide behind, but there's still a decent amount of space between you and the aisles, and you aren't sure if you'll reach them in time. The counter ahead might be your best bet. It's thick enough that it can block a decent number of debris and bullets alike. But there's only a small gap of room provided between it and the wall behind it, which would end up working against you if one of them manages to follow you and evade getting shot. And coincidentally, you only have four bullets left in the chamber. One for each of them.

You can't afford to miss.

You have to swallow back a groan when you rise up on your feet, lifting yourself slowly to properly collect your balance; building up the tension your muscles while anticipation and adrenalin run heavy in your veins. Their body language is all still relaxed and unbothered, and in their comfortability, Vulture has trailed close to you. Apparently insistent on sticking to you like a disgusting shadow, but for once in this entire journey you're actually counting on his close proximity.

Something almost close to excitement trails down your back, lashing a familiar buzzing fire down your palms; thrumming like a living thing. You can almost taste it too, sharp and prickling in your mouth, and you can feel your heartbeat pulsing along your tongue. It flutters in your chest like something wild and stirred; but not panicked. This is something you've done a million times. It's like breathing almost. Like your brain giving your body a command without you having to consciously tell it to; it's second nature.

You jolt forward like a blur, fluid and quick even with bound hands. And when your fingers slip around the grip of your gun it's almost peaceful, subtly warm and familiar within your grasp. But you remove it from Vulture's holster even quicker, and in a blink you squeeze the trigger. The burst of sound that rises out is deafening, making your hearing fade out and go dim. Vulture's head lolls back on his shoulders from the bloody crater that splits into his skull, driven there by the speeding bullet that lodges into the wall behind him. You're already pivoting on your feet before you can relish the sight of his body collapsing on the old tiles in a heap of dead weight. But your sense comes back to you just enough to hear the dull sound of him striking the floor when you raise your pistol up to line up the shot, training your weapon up on Thatcher, who looks like he's preparing to tug the chain again in the hopes of knocking you off kilter and ruining your aim. But you set the gun off with a single twitch of your finger, and just as his companion's had, his head swings back like he's been struck and a crest of red sprays from the back of his skull.

As soon as his hands go slack, you're tugging the chain from his grip, making it swipe across the floor like a wounded snake towards your feet. But you don't get a single moment to enjoy your freedom before a bullet whistles past your ear, splitting and hissing. It doesn't allow you time to return the fire before Vernon begins unloading his clip in your direction with an angry cry. And without any other options you move back to spring away from him, launching yourself across the floor on shaky legs; burdened and aided by both adrenalin and exhaustion, but your desire to keep yourself in one piece has you hurtling yourself over the counter. You knock over an empty rotating shelf as you go, and the chain drags behind you with a harsh, metallic drag, striking against the front of the counter as you slip over the edge and fall on the floor.

When you land, it's on your ass, and heat sears across your tailbone and trembles up your spine, but you don't give yourself time to dwell on the pain when a spray of bullets erupts around you, bursting through the air and eating up the bit of wall above your head in a scatter of fraying wallpaper.

"You fucking bitch, you killed 'em!" A voice shrieks, hoarse and raw in its distress. "You fucking killed them!"

Based off of the tone, you're willing to be that it's Vernon, and the near relentless flurry of bullets is definitely coming from the pistol he had hanging from his hip. He has to run out of rounds soon, and hopefully it'll give you an opening when he has to load up the chamber, which shouldn't be too far off. But you still have the other one to worry about too, with his stupid bat. It has you looking around at your surroundings for anything that may held you pick the lock of your cuffs, glancing behind you to check the empty cubbies built into the counter for an old paperclip or a bobby pin, but there's nothing except for dust and an old candy wrapper. There's another scathing swear on your lips, and you can't help but spare an aggravated glare up the water damaged ceiling; cursing the universe, or bad luck, or maybe even whichever god is out there. But you choose to take your frustrations out on the remaining raiders instead.

"Yeah, and I'm planning on you two being next!" You shout loud enough to be heard over the onslaught of bullets. They've got to have another gun at this rate, there's no other way. "I just hope you don't go out as easily as your friends did!"

It's then that you notice the fisheye mirror posted along the corner of the wall, just above the counter, giving you a clear view of the front of store and some of the shelves that stand along the right. But you're concerned with the two figures that are posted near the door, standing close to the fallen bodies of their partners. And sure enough in the other man's hand - Rocky? Rocco? You aren't entirely sure - he's holding a pistol up in the direction of the counter you hide behind, his baseball bat long forgotten and discarded on the floor near his feet.

They both have ammo pouches strapped to their thighs and cartridge belts strung around their waists. Your only saving grace might just be that the majority of the loops are empty of bullets, but between the both of them, there's still enough to be a problem. You've been counting the number of bullets that Vernon has blindly planted in his maddened onslaught. One, two, three, . . . He has a few more in the chamber. Four or five more, at least.

You should have a clear opening soon. And Rocco dares to creep forward, most likely in the hopes of coming around the side of the counter to close you in. Unfortunately for him, he was also taking it as the time to reload his pistol. Probably lured into a false sense of security while Vernon continues the assault with his own gun. His bullets should be running out shortly if your count isn't wrong, but Rocco will reach you by the time that Vernon's supply of bullets has been drained. It's an ill-timed assault on their part. Sloppy. You can hardly believe that they're the gang that's been ravaging the towns made from the remnants of old Los Angeles. The same gang that had trapped you in a pair of rusty handcuffs. This is going to be salt in the wound for years to come.

It must be the deaths of Thatcher and Vulture that's made them messy. But it is working in your favor, so you can't complain much.

You keep your eyes trained Rocco as he approaches, hand raised to slip another bullet into the cylinder. He curses when he drops it, fingertips probably shaking and slick with sweat and twitching from the rush of adrenalin and the deaths of his companions. It clatters on the floor, metallic and chiming, skipping over the tiles, sounding like a bell. You draw in a breath then, forcing your body to gulp in the stale air even though its hurts and sears around the edges; even while fire licks at your lungs, you never wince or remove your sight from the mirror posted along the wall. You keep your focus trained on their reflections; the even, calculated steps that Rocco takes in your direction, nearing closer with every movement. All the while Vernon continues to fire, gun blazing while he screams himself hoarse. And for a moment, one wicked moment, you worry that he isn't going to run out of bullets.

You might have to risk jumping out of cover and hoping that you aim is true while your hands are bound with metal and dragging a heavy chain. But then, like a blessing you hear it: the harsh, hollow click of an empty chamber. It's a dull sound, echoing across the confined space of the tattered gas station with a pronounced finality.

Click, click, click

He repeatedly presses down on the trigger like he might jostle loose a magic bullet and kill you with it. You hear him swear. A low, scathing, shit huffed under his breath. The sound of the empty gun is like a countdown, and you're quick to act before the timer runs out. With an aching pain in your gut and the taste of blood in your mouth, you scoot yourself across the floor to line your shoulder up with the edge of the counter. Rocco has just one more bullet to slip into the chamber of his gun before it's fully loaded, and he already has his quivering fingers clutched over the copper casing of a bullet, ready to drop it into the last empty slot.

It's like you're tugged forward on a string. Muscles twitching and lead by pure memory; instinct. You have your gun drawn before you pivot yourself around the corner on the point of your knees. You know where Rocco is standing. You marked his place in the mirror above. It's bleached behind your eyelids now; fixed across your mind like a picture. It's a blueprint, a set of instructions, and all you need to do is follow your body's orders.

The trigger is warm when your squeeze it. Rocco's head jerks up as he notices you, eyes rolling and a little frantic when he registers the glint of the gun in your hand. In that spit second, you see so much pass through his eyes: surprise, disbelief, fear, and finally, a fleeting shred of what might be angry acceptance. It's a look that you've seen on all of the faces of the people you've felled. The five stages of grief compacted into a singular, short moment before the killing blow lands. And the blow lands in his chest, puncturing a clean hole through the flesh and sinew and clipping his heart. His breath rattles. A nastier sound than the labored gasps that have been ailing you, and you can't help but relish in the wet noise of blood welling up in his throat.

The gun slips from his hand and clatters to the ground long before he stumbles back on weakened legs and collapses backwards with a death rattle. But you don't have any time to gloat. Vernon cries his friend's name in protest. Like it'll keep the blood in his veins if he does. And then his eyes are on you like a rabid dog's that's been crowded into a corner and is coiling to lash out. He doesn't even bother finishing up on reloading his gun before he tosses it like it's useless trash, and then he's lunging forward to cross the bit of space that's between you.

It has your body twitching to spin your focus onto him and shoot. But the abruptness of it all, the hindrance of the cuffs has your aim off by just a few inches, and instead of hitting his heart like you had intended, you miss your mark by a few inches and get his left shoulder instead. That was you last bullet. Your chamber is completely useless, and your pistol might as well as be dead weight. You try to right yourself. To shift yourself on your feet properly to launch yourself out of the way and behind the cover of one of the shelves, but you hardly make it more than a few scant feet or so before he's pile driving you to the floor with a violent snarl. The weight of him pinning in place is crushing. Digging your bones into the tiles and forcing the air from your lungs in a brutal press; squeezing a cry from your aching chest.

Your lips peel back into a feral sneer when one of his hands slip around your throat to wring the oxygen from your body. Your hips writhe and feet kick in some mindless scramble to shake him from you, but he might as well as be made of lead; fixed in place and unwavering. And for a horrendous moment your brain is reduced to an animal's. Wiped blank and clouded over with pure primal instinct. You hand claw up towards his face, desperate to feel flesh underneath your nails to tear, but he leans himself out of your reach with a caustic, demented laugh.

"You brought this on yourself," he hisses harshly and flexes his fingers to make you choke. You can feel your eyes roll towards the back of your skull; your muscles draw up tight when your lungs seize, empty and burning. Tears threaten to fall, prickling at your waterline while your brain fogs over in a suffocated haze, and for a brief, drifting second you wonder if this might be your final moments. But then you feel it. The pull of the chain tugging at your handcuffs. Tender around your wrists. And while he's distracted watching the life fade from your eyes, you slip your fingers around the groves of the chain, drawing up the metal links until you have it gripped tightly within your sweating palms.

You bare your teeth when you swing your hands up to launch the chain in the air. It cuts across the atmosphere with a heavy whoosh, and when it meets his cheek, it splits the skin underneath the force of it, parting his flesh with a rivulet of red. His head jerks on his shoulders harshly and his body twitches and tugs to the side from the sheer weight of the hit, but his grip around your neck doesn't so much as flinch. His free hand strikes out like a serpent, snatching ahold of the chain before you can strike him again and he pins it to his side, immobilizing your defense. And in some mad scramble your frayed mind catches onto the glint of red pouring from the hole in his shoulder. It guides you to lift a hand up to burrow your fingertips into the wound, pinching and tearing at the torn flesh until blood flows over your hand, all warm and damp.

The angry, anguished roar that he lets out could have been deafening if your hearing wasn't already tarnished and fading from the pressure of his chokehold. But instead of getting him to flinch away or weaken, somehow it makes him grip you harder. The sheer strength behind his fingers has your lips parting in a silent, tortured cry. It's here and now that you decide that your luck really must have run out. You suppose that the Wasteland can only do you so many favors before it comes to collect, and you've evaded horrors and troubles that would have shaken and killed the Devil himself. You were honestly just hoping that your death would be a little more honorable. A blaze of glory with fire and blood. Not delivered by the hands of some cheap raider. But you can't always refute the hand you've been delt - no matter how shitty it is.

You can feel your vigor and breath slipping. The blood rushing in your veins while your heartbeat pulses in the cage of your chest - all frantic and panicked in a hail marry to keep your body functioning while your lungs starve. Even with all of the adrenalin thrumming hot throughout your body, the exhaustion that tugs your limbs down is too great. It's like you've been dipped in syrup and glue and have been left to stick to the tiles like a rat caught in a trap. Your eyes roll again. Slipping back to focus past the sadistic grin curling on his lips; past the form of his head which has faded into a sort of silhouette. A dopey sort of smile blossom on your face when you catch sight of a stain marring the ceiling. Its shape is all random, made from a scattered assortment of moldy blotches that bleed into each other, made from shades of tan, and brown, and gray. It's nothing. Just stain on the ceiling. But if you squint your eyes a certain way, it kind of looks like a cowboy hat.

It makes you wonder if he'll miss you once you're gone. If he'll even notice that you're gone. That maybe, after a few more months or maybe even years, after fate or circumstance hasn't led you to cross paths again, that he'll realize that something has happened to you. That life has finally struck down the hammer on your head and snuffed you out. Maybe he'll look out ahead one day when the sun's brushing along the earth and painting the sky in searing shades of orange and red and rose in its descent and realize that you're well and truly gone. All you can do is hope that he'll think back on you fondly; that his deadened heart might actually miss you - if that is something that he's capable of. But the Wasteland is a vast place. It's so big that it can swallow individuals whole; get them lost in its sweeping landscapes and violence. It's so easy to forget people here. Family, lovers, friends can all get swept away and distant until they're hardly more than a mirage on the horizon. A ghost on the fringes of the mind. And maybe that'll be you. Just another ghost lined up alongside a thousand others.

And while you choke and sputter on your last remnants of breath you continue to stare up at that murky little cowboy hat on the ceiling with something akin to hope in your chest, taking the place of air. But he probably won't remember you at all, the asshole. He's too brash. Too guarded. The sharpness his eyes is always hardened and a little distant behind the sardonic glint in them. He's shown you parts of himself that others could only dream to know. Small pieces in the grand scheme of things. Like broken, trivial shards torn from a greater image. Hardly enough to make a full picture. But it still lets you see him a little more clearly. You've seen all the ugliness. The callous, indifferent brutality; the sarcasm and guarded emotions. He's a walking mystery. An impenetrable fortress. But every now and again you see a hint of the human underneath it all. The man, the movie star.

You can't believe that he's going to be your last thought while your lungs burn and draw up tight. His wicked, playful grin; the charming, languorous drawl of his voice; the gentle chime of his spurs when he walks. You can almost hear it over the wild roar of your blood in your ears and the relentless string of Vernon's swearing and gloating; repetitive and ringing and light. Like old useless coins jingling in someone's pockets. Almost musical in the rhythm of his phantom steps.

You always did like his walk. Always lazy and confident like a saunter.

When Vernon's head explodes like a ruptured balloon you think that you're imagining it. One second he's grinning down at you with his teeth bared and glinting, and the next his face seems to fracture. It erupts and cracks into tiny fragments and slivers like a dropped vase. But instead of water splashing out, it's sprays of warm, wet blood and chunks of brain matter. In your oxygen deprived daze, you're certain that you see a scatter of teeth soar across the air like nuggets of porcelain. The blood lands against your skin like the drops of a rare rainstorm. But it's still hot from the heat of his body, like something molten on your skin.

His torso wavers unsteadily, rocking and unbalanced from the sudden absence of its head, rolling back on its weakened spine like an old tower swaying in a strong wind. The debilitating grip around your throat slackens when the body finally gives underneath its own weight and topples over on the tiles in a bloody heap. The greedy, hoarse gasp that you draw in instinctive, but once you start, you can't stop. Not even when the air catches on your throat and threatens to choke you again with the twitching, painful coughing fit that wracks your body, clawing and itching at your lungs.

Clarity comes back to you slowly, nudging at the disoriented cloud that fills your skull like drugged stuffing. You shift onto your stomach with another long gulp of air, kicking at the corpses legs that lay across your own; and finally, it begins to feel like a cool balm inside of your chest instead of a fire. But the world is still sluggish. Muted and slow from your distress and you relax your belly on the tiles, suspending yourself on shaking elbows.

It's then you notice the figure standing in the open doorway. Your body coils up tight, sucking in a few more desperate puffs of air while you brace to fight again, even though your limbs are drained and quivering, and your stomach and chest ache and burn. But then you notice the little details of the silhouette. The worn brim of the hat, the tattered and torn edges of their duster, the relaxed and confident way they hold themselves. It has you thinking that you really are dead. That you passed away right on the floor from the pressure of the raider's hand around your throat. That he really did succeed in squeezing the life out of you. This must be some sort of deathly hallucination. Your mind playing tricks on you as pass out to the other side - into an afterlife or into nothingness, you aren't sure.

But then a tepid, clement wind brushes into the store, and it's perfumed with the scent of something earthy and rich and familiar: Soil. The figure tilts their head like a curious dog before they holster their gun against their hip. On the right side, just like it should be. He steps forward, and you can feel the weight of it pass over the floor in a gentle thrum; joined by the soft chime of a spur. Of the disk jingling and spinning in its rowel pin. He crosses the distance in a few calm strides with the metallic, melodic sound following each step, and pauses to consider you once there's little more than a foot of space between you and him just before he lowers himself into a crouch.

You watch his descent with a rapt, dazed sort of fascination, and you can feel the impression of a smile on your lips when the shadow made by the brim of his hat fades from his proximity. The familiar weight of his eyes surveying you is comforting, and the delirious grin on your face grows even more.

"You look like you've been dragged through ten kinds of hell," he observes tactfully. But you can't even manage so's much as a flicker of annoyance when the only thing you feel is pure relief. You want to greet him properly, like you usually do. Something witty or sarcastic, but your lethargic brain is about as useful as a bottomless bucket.

"I was just thinking about you," you blurt, and your voice is raw and shredded when it grates up your throat. You notice the way that his hairless brows perk up at the confession, and something amused passes through his eyes while he considers you from your gore-soaked place on the dirty tiles.

"Is that right?" He turns his head to scan the rest of the room, taking in the sight of the rest of the bodies that are strewn about like discarded toys. "Well, given the predicament I found you in, I'd say you need to get your priorities straight, sweetheart."

There it is. That damned pet name. Even though it's spoken with an air of derision, it always sounds so syrupy and sweetened. Cradled softly within his accented drawl like it's saturated with melted sugar. Even with your mind all muddled and scrambling to form a coherent thought, it's still lucid enough for you to register the uncomfortable thrum of embarrassment at the remark. But most prevalent is the sense of bewilderment that nudges up at you and breaks through all of the confusion and pain. You can feel your eyebrows furrowing on your head, openly showing your puzzlement.

"What exactly are you doing out here?" You ask around your cracking voice, drawing yourself up onto your knees with a ragged groan.

"That's no way to talk to someone who just saved your ass," he chides without any real bite. He rocks back on his heels just a bit, making the worn leather of his boots creak in a low protest. "I heard there was a bounty for the Silva Gang; a pretty hefty price is out for 'em. I just didn't expect to see Ezra Thatcher here. " His focus settles back onto you then, and the familiar, devious glimmer that shifts through his stare immediately has your hackles rising. "There's a pretty hefty price out for him too."

A snarl perks at your lips, and you can feel anger flaring in your chest; hot and searing around the bruising ache, and it singlehandedly douses out every bit of joy and relief that you initially felt upon seeing him. He appears to be nothing but amused by your apparent outrage. Not that he ever isn't. But you're sure that shackles still secure around your raw wrists only serve to cement his security. Plus, you don't look particularly threatening, all glistening with a layer of sweat, bags under your eyes while your lungs gasp and shudder harshly. But you're a little tired of this little cycle of yours. Ever since the day that you two have met he's been sweeping bounty's out from under your feet. Sneaking up like a shadow to rip out criminals from your grasp to take the prize money for himself.

"No!" You snap, lurching forward on the points of your knees to lean you face close to his. Close enough that if he still had a nose, it would probably brush against your own. "You are not taking another one of my bounties."

He doesn't answer you yet. He cocks his head again, slow and intrigued while his vision lowers to the handcuffs binding your arms. The smile that lifts at his rough lips is patronizing all in itself, but the way that he slips a gloved finger through the link of metal that secures your wrists together is just more salt on the wound. He tugs it lightly like he's testing its hold, checking to see if it'll give underneath the weight, but you know that he's really just rubbing in your current situation in further. Letting you see how well and truly helpless you are with your hands literally and metaphorically tied.

"I really don't think you're in any position to be making demands," he responds easily. "And considering that I just saved your skin, I'd say that it would properly suffice as payment."

You settle for rolling your eyes. An otherwise childish gesture, but as much as you want to argue, you know by now that trying to reason with him once his mind is set is about as successful as trying to have a conversation with a brick wall. It's a waste of air, and as of right now you're in short supply with how ragged and strained your lungs are. You're in no condition to be trying to pick a fight with someone as treacherous as the Ghoul. Sure, the two of you are . . . somewhat friends. But his sympathy and courtesy are a delicate thing, separated by an even weaker sense of resolve that often blends in with his cunning and brutality. Associating with him is like befriending a feral dog. He has his moments where he's cordial and even companionable. But those moments are few and far between. Borrowed time. At the end of it all, he's still wild. Corroded and shaped by the harsh, ferocious nature of his environment. Even when he's laughing and smiling, you know that he's really just baring his teeth. Waiting for a moment of weakness so that he can lunge for the throat and rip until rich blood flows, and he can drink.

It's like reaching your hand out to pet something vicious, even when you know that it can twist around and sink its fangs into your flesh; saliva dripping with poison.

He can see the defeat weigh down at your body, shoulders slumping as a part of you relents. His satisfaction glints in his gaze like an ember. Buring with the potential to become something greater; something roaring and consuming if need be. But there's no need for that fire today. You know when to give in. Even when it makes your pride curl up into something brittle and pathetic in the center of your chest.

"Take these damned things off at least?" You nudge them up as much as you can while he still has one of his fingers looped around the small metal rings. The pause that takes over is a little stifling. It's like all of the walls have drawn up tight, and for a second you dread that he might not answer. That he'll leave you to suffer in silence while he snatches up what he needs from the bounties and vanish off into the desert while you rot away in this damaged little gas station in the middle of nowhere.

"That very much depends on you. 'Sides, I kinda like you in these." He replies, tugging lightly on the cuffs with a glint in his eyes that could be considered dangerous, voice dipping down low like he's sharing a secret or reprimanding you for a sin you haven't committed yet. And you know him well enough to know that he's doing it on purpose, dropping his tone down into something smoky and warm. "Are you gonna behave?"

For whatever reason it has a smile perking at your lips again. It's soft despite the simmering affect that his voice has on you, rushing your body with a dull flutter of heat. The smile is far from beaming or broad, but you can still feel a delicate trickle of humor spread over you; peeking through the pain that riddles your body. "Come on, Coop. We're friends, aren't we?"

A huff rises from his chest, not quite enough to a laugh or a chuckle but close. "Didn't you shoot at me the last time we seen each other?"

You hum in agreement. There's no way that you can deny that accusation. That was roughly five months ago on the outskirts of Junktown, on what should have been another easy job. But it had been quick to go tits up when bounty hunters and desperate residents alike came scrambling and crawling out of the woodwork to get ahold of a single criminal; like a circle of starved animals stalking a wounded rabbit. And Cooper had been one of those animals. As dangerous and troubling as his presence had been, it did work in your favor with the other hunter's serving as a distraction and an obstacle for him to get through. Still, he had picked through the majority of them fairly quickly, and once the dust had mostly settled, he was free to turn his attentions onto you and the rambling lowlife that had been clinging onto your forearm - begging to be spared. He had even drooled on your coat while in the midst of his blubbering; hanging from you like a dead weight. So yes, you had shot at Cooper. Actually, he was being generous. You didn't shoot "at" him. You shot him. A light graze really, just along the thigh. But it had worked to waver his concentration just enough for the remaining hunters and armed citizens to sweep in and unintentionally give you time to flee the scene of the chaos with your sobbing bounty in tow.

So, you can't exactly blame him for being for being wary.

"And the first time we met you nearly put a bullet between my eyes. It was nothing personal, you know that." It's hard to tell what he's thinking with how unchanging his expression is. That amused edge is still heavy in his features and keeps you from seeing if he's willing or not. "Look, I'm tired, I'm dehydrated, and I feel like I've swallowed a handful of nails. All I want is the stuff that they lifted off of me, and one of the stimpak's they've got, because I'm pretty sure I'm going to start bleeding out of my ass if I don't. You can have the bounties. I don't care."

When he pulls in a deep sigh you nearly think that he might be ready to deliver one of his famous quips. Some sarcastic remark on how little he cares, or that it sounds like a personal problem. But you notice something subtle shift on his face, and you know his answer before he speaks. It has your body relaxing, muscles unwinding and going lax without you consciously telling them to.

"All right then, sweetheart," he relents and shifts up to rise on his feet. His eyes don't leave you once, fixed on you with an intensity that could make you breathless. Evaluating you and weighing your soul with a single casual glance. Always stripping you bare with the disarming hold of his eyes. "Better not do something you'll regret."

All you manage is a nod. Looking up at him from your place on the bloody, dirt coated tiles with a promise lodged in your throat. You must look sincere enough because he doesn't ask you for any verbal confirmation as he pivots his feet to survey the bodies again. It's only then that you manage to spit any words up, forcing the shape of them out with a soft breath. "I'm not sure where the key is specifically, but Thatcher's probably our best bet."

He doesn't respond when he strides across the floor in the direction of the fallen body, leaving you to stew and sit in silence. As soon as he's crouched beside the fresh corpse, he's rummaging through the pockets. Slipping back the layers of the dead bounty's coat to search the inner, built in pouches when the rest of his pockets come up empty. You stare at the expanse of his back with bated breath, tracing the shape of the rifle secured behind his shoulders and the way that his ragged coattails drape along the tiles as you wait. Suddenly the pressure of the rusted metal around your wrists feels so much tighter. Grating and stinging around your skin. It has you shifting uncomfortably, tracing the nails of your thumbs underneath your fingertips to distract yourself. And then, blessedly, he's lifting a silver key from the depths of Thatcher's coat and jingling it in the air like a trophy.

The relief that floods you could make you double over on yourself. But luckily, he's standing in front of you before you can give into the weakened sway of your spine and grabbing ahold of the cuffs to slip the key into its slot. You let yourself admire him. It's a little shameless, you know, but you also can't be bothered to care. You always manage to get swept away by harmless little musings. Tracing his gaunt features with your eyes while you try to reimagine what he looked like before . . . all of this. And even though you've caught a glimpse of his former self, before the radiation and the horror, you still always fail to properly imagine smooth, unblemished skin in the place of leathered, marred flesh. The nose that would have filled out the place where a vacant cavity sits underneath the ridges of his browbones, gapping and almost painful looking. At one time he had hair. He could have been a dark blond, or brunette, or maybe it was an auburn color, or black.

"Take a picture, darlin,' it'll last longer."

Despite the low register of his voice, it snaps you from your trance like a gun shot. You're forced to meet the hold of his eyes; attention held and stuck by the dark shade made in flecks of a light green and rich brown and amber. For a pause too long, you're left to sit with your words lodged in your chest as the cuffs around your wrists come undone with a metallic rip, and the absence of their harsh pressure around your tender skin is like heaven on your flesh. All light and soft, even while they sting dully. It's only then that you manage to speak as you shake your hands out in the hopes of knocking loose the rest of the pain that thrums through your wrists.

"Yeah, but I doubt it would compare to the real thing," you quip back. It's completely corny, but it doesn't keep a smile from perking at Cooper's lips even though you can see a hint of what could be exasperation in his gaze.

"Careful," he chides and lets the cuffs fall onto the floor with a clatter. "You'd give a lesser man idea's." And with that he's rising himself up again to shift around you. Stepping past your shoulders to analyze Vernon's body for anything that might be useful. You can't see anything with him sitting behind you, but the sharp sound of a knife being freed from its holster is enough to tip you off to his plans. Knowing him, he's probably inspecting to see whichever part of Vernon might be the plumpest to make some jerky out of the meat. The thought does have a grimace threatening to curl at your features, but you're able to hold it off. You've seen him carve strips and chunks out of people more than once, but the sight of it will never truly desensitize you.

But you've got scavenging of your own to do, and with a quick sweep of the floor your eyes land on Vulture's body near the entrance of the store; limbs strewn outward and skull bleeding in a crimson pool like some sort of morbid halo. But none of that is important. The only thing you care about is the backpack that's still clinging to his shoulders.

You try to mentally brace yourself before you lift yourself from the ground, but you're quick to find there isn't a single peptalk that could prepare you for the aching, bone deep throb of pain that lashes through your body. It's like you've been gutted at the atoms; cut open from your throat to your bellybutton. You think that you could actually sob, but the last, worn remnants of your pride keeps the water secured within your body as you limp over to Vulture's. He's only a few feet away from you. Eight at most, but it feels like an eternity passes before you're able to collapse beside him with a soft gasp.

His eyes are dull and faded now. Completely devoid of the violence and arrogance that had once lit them up, but no they stare at the ceiling; dead and unseeing. Maybe at one point, a younger version of yourself would have felt a twinge of guilt. Some sort of remorse, even though his death is more than deserved. But now all you feel is relief. Peace. It's like a drop in an ocean, but at least the Wasteland is devoid of one less asshole. One last violent soul who was even more guiltless than you.

Of course, he landed on his back, pinning the back underneath limp, spiritless weight. With a reluctant, tired sigh you grip ahold of his shoulder and forearm to start flipping him over. It takes a bit of effort, with the burden of his slack limbs and the searing pinch in your lungs and ribs fighting you in your endeavor, but you do manage to flip him. You're face twists up when you palms make contact with his chest, soaked and warm with a fresh coat of blood, but you swallow your complaints down. Once you get him on his side and shove, gravity does the rest of the work for you and his corpse lands face first with a blunt thump and you're quick to reach and slip his arms through the straps of the pack. You've got it free and stripped from his body in a manner of seconds and in your desperation you're quick to unzip the pack and hold it upside down to jostle its contents out, letting it all spill onto the tiles with a layered clatter. When you drop the bag, you're too engrossed in surveying the strewn jumble to fully register the thud that sounds out when you carelessly drop the pack on the floor.

Your eyes scan over various items; a box of matches, an old watch, and a balled-up piece of tissue that reveals a morbid collection of teeth when it unfurls. But the most important is the familiar sight of a needle with a rusted gauge crowning the opposite end of the barrel. Your fingers are a little clumsy when you reach for it, slipping with sweat and fried nerves as they wrap around the chilled metal and wires. You try not to focus on the deep ache that wracks through your body when you shrug your coat from off of your shoulder, draping it low enough to expose the expanse of your arm.

It's with a shaky breath that you lift the needle up to your forearm and sink it into the tender flesh of your inner elbow. It stings when you inject it, flooding into your veins like a dull, white heat. You have to hiss through your teeth, trying to block out the pain until it finally gives into something soothing. You can feel the effects of the medication spread throughout your body like a balm, shifting a near unbearable discomfort into a faint echo of itself. The crushing sting around your throat melts into something soft and docile and the burning in your lungs is nearly doused out completely until your finally able to breathe without gasping and choking around your own breath. It's relief, finally. After hours - almost a day of pain and misery.

"You never did say how they managed to get you all caught up." Cooper's voice sounds out again, pulling your focus behind you even while you slip the needle from your flesh and let it drop to the floor. Though, you almost wish that you hadn't started listening in on him, because you can hear the sharp and tearing sound of a blade flaying through meat.

"I was only ever aware of Thatcher. The other's got the jump on me." It's such an awful excuse. You've known that this entire time. But actually, speaking it aloud - admitting it to someone else is entirely different. It tastes rotten on your dry tongue, and you swear you could gag on it.

"Made you look like a fuckin' fool, huh?" You can hear the delight in his tone. It's grating and acidic on your nerves, but you distract yourself with the dry feel of your mouth. It has you remembering faintly the way that the bag had thumped against the floor when you had dropped it, and with some new hope in your chest, you slip a curious hand inside the pack with some strange optimism that there might be some water tucked away inside. Your fingertips brush against something smooth and cool, and your brain distantly registers that it might be glass.

"You don't have to rub it in," you snap, gripping your fingers around what must be the neck of a bottle.

"No. I don't," he agrees, but it's all sarcasm and selfish amusement.

You pause in your current task, a bit of confusion and frustration setting over your face. "You said that you were tracking the Silva Gang. How long were you following us for?"

"Caught up to ya when y'all entered that canyon."

"That was about five miles back," you say with a scowl. Honestly you aren't sure how to take that little revelation, and it has irritation thrumming over your entire body and settling in deep.

"Yeah, it was," he confirms casually, and another wet slice rips across the air before his voice dips into something teasing. "Truthfully, I wanted to see if you'd try and make an escape attempt. Imagine my disappointment when you didn't."

"Asshole," you curse hotly with the rush of anger that flares over you, and you tug at the bottle, but it snags on the clothe lining of the pack, stubbornly staying fixed in its place. The wet sound of Cooper's knife slicing through another chunk of flesh rings out, all damp and soaked with blood. You nearly groan aloud; at your wits end from your dehydration and exasperation, but instead of openly lamenting about or turning your attention onto him, you focus that energy and wiggle the container free from the bag. When you finally work it free, the sound of liquid sloshing against the glass could be considered musical. If your body wasn't already wrung of all of its moisture, you could have drooled. So when your eyes and brain finally realize that the fluid contained in the bottle is a rich, dark amber, nearly brown in the shade, the disappointment that prickles at you and pulls at your limbs nearly feels like it could become a physical thing. Your muscles bunch up with the flaring urge to hurl the bottle across the room and watch it explode in a burst of glass and bronze and gold.

But defeat settles afterwards, dousing out the rage into a faint simmer, and it leaves you to stare at the bottle wordlessly. Your eyes scan over the faded label, probably once a clean, soft white now soiled and stained by years, if not centuries of dirt and grime. The words and artwork that decorated the sticker are now muted and completely incoherent, but you're certain that the liquid inside is a type of alcohol. Most likely a whiskey or bourbon based on the color of it. You shake the bottle lightly, absentmindedly watching as the fluid inside ripples and lulls against the glass, glinting and twinkling in highlights of gold from underneath the dimming sunlight that pours in from the threshold.

"Hey, Coop," you call and dare to look over your shoulder. It's an immediate regret when you see that he's tugged Rocco's pants down and has been slicing of generous strips of the dead man's thigh meat. A large pool of blood surrounds Cooper's feet, staining the tiles in a heavy red that taints the air with iron and fresh death. An inquisitive hum rises from the depths of his chest; a low rumble that seems a little irritated from being disturbed. He flicks off another ribbon of flesh with a quick, practiced glint of a knife and leans a little to place the dripping piece down onto the saddlebags he's sat beside himself; lined up along the rest. "Feel like sharing?"

It's then that he finally bothers to look up at you, forcing his eyes away from his task, and they're quick to gravitate towards the bottle of liquor that you now hold up in the air. You brandish it like he had done with the keys to your handcuffs, and the look that crosses over his face is answer enough.

"Well, shit," he grins, all sharp and a little teasing. "Pull my leg, why dontcha."

It took a little while to move all of the bodies over from the store to one of the rooms in the neighboring motel. Cooper had been able to carry the majority of them like they were a sack of potatoes, but that hadn't kept him from nearly leaving you drag Vulture's corpse all on your own; abandoning you to grip onto the corpse's feet in an effort to drag it across the burning sand. It had taken a good amount of glaring and the threat to leave the body out in the open for him to help you in lug it inside with the others, tossing it on the ratty rust colored carpet for safe keeping. By the time you're both finished up the sun has already dipped low in the sky until it's brushing along the shadowed mountains in the distance while you both tuck away in the adjoining room. Still fully decorated and furnished. Frozen in time from a past that's well beyond you with various pictures of cowboys on ranches and looking over sweeping landscapes from the saddle of their mounts are hanging on walls where the wallpaper is peeling and stained. There's even a landline phone on one of the nightstands and a water damaged Bible tucked away in the drawer.

But the air in here is stale from dust, almost cloying with the scent of mildew even with the glass from the windows blown out, allowing a soft, summery breeze to drift in and circulate throughout the room. It does nothing to chase out the dirt and probably mold. But it all becomes little more than an afterthought with the warm thrum of alcohol simmering through your system, making your fingers and toes feel as though they've been dipped into steaming water. You've only taken a few swigs from the bottle, but it already has the beginnings of a decent buzz stuffing your head. Granted you haven't eaten in quite some time. So it probably isn't a good idea to be drinking in the first place, but you're a little beyond caring right now. All you want to do is relax after the absolute disaster that these last fifteen hours have been. To forget it entirely, even if it's only for the night. Though you didn't manage much more than a few sips of the old alcohol before the burn of it had become too scathing and nearly nauseating, and you've long since passed up to Cooper who's downed the majority of it in nothing more than a few gulps.

A low groan erupts from across the room, drawing your attention over to its origin like a magnet to steel. It's low and raspy, and it has your fingertips curling in on the canteen you have clutched in your grasp, nails burrowing into the thick leather like it might distract you. But it's an awful diversion when your eyes are unable to tear away from where Cooper has slumped himself against the cushioned backrest of the old armchair nestled in the corner. The expression on his face could nearly be described as euphoric - or maybe that's just your own perversion talking. The sunken lids of his eyes are closed and nearly fluttering while he tilts his head back to let the liquor flow down into his waiting mouth. Some of it slips past his lips, trailing down the shape of his jaw to trickle across his throat in a shimmer of faint amber before it vanishes underneath the edge of shirts collar.

The sight of it could have made your mouth run dry, and suddenly you're even more thankful for the canteens of water that you had both managed to find on one of the bodies. It's shameful the way you watch him, and you can feel embarrassment prickle at your face in response. But it's even worse when his eyes open and pin themselves on you as he lowers the bottle away from his lips. There's something knowing in his glance. It's amused and a little too perceptive, making you feel as though you've been caught red handed, and it has a fresh coat of what must be guilt rushing over you. But you don't have any reason to be humiliated. You were just looking at him. You've done it a thousand times; this one wasn't any different.

Still the way that he watches you is stripping, like he's weighing you again and finds what he's discovered entirely entertaining. So when he finally drops his attentions down on the bottle cradled within his palm it makes you feel as though you can breathe clearly again.

"It's been about over two hundred years since I've had some of this," he remarks aloud, shifting the glass in his hand to watch the contents lap and sway inside. "Old Maverick's."

Your eyebrows perk up curiously and you shift slightly in your position settled on the dingy carpet as you consider him. "You can tell what type of whiskey it is? "

He nods just the slightest, letting you know that he's heard you even though he doesn't spare you as much as a glance; too caught up in his own thoughts and reminiscing to bother. "I had an old buddy that used to drink this like water."

You can't hold back the disbelieving huff that rises from your chest at the comment. It's odd, as small as the remark is, for Cooper to make any allusions to his past. He's always been so guarded in what he shares with you - with anyone. Even when he told you that he was an old movie star, he had said it so jokingly that you had assumed he wasn't being serious. That he was pulling your leg to try and make a fool out of you. It wasn't until about a year after he had shared it with you, that you had truly believed him. It was back when you were trying to make a purchase inside of some trader's cabin, staring at the withered face of an old man that was trying to highball you on a pack of ammo. The smarmy grin on his face had made irritation itch down your spine, and the urge to reach out and strike him on the nose had been strong. But it wouldn't have gotten you anything other than kicked out or shot at, so you had slipped your attention off of him and onto the old TV set that sat behind him on the counter. It was playing some vintage grainy film - long before your time when the air wasn't tainted and radioactive, and families sat around a dinner table to eat steaming hot meatloaf and talk about work, and baseball and the quality of their lawns.

It was the man on screen that caught your eye. He was doused under the monochrome hue casted over the film, which projected a deep shadow over his face from the brim of his cowboy hat. Though it had done nothing to dull the quality of the pleasing, dulcet smirk on he wore while he leaned against the wooden support beam of one of those old western styled buildings. A smirk that had been directed at a pretty starlet whose mouth was busy delivering some sarcastic remark at his expense. But it was his eyes that had really struck you. Even though it was impossible to make out their true shade - turned dark under the black and white pigment of the movie - the familiarity of them had given you pause. The snarky trader's rambling had faded into the background while you squinted at the screen across from you, trying to place a man that you weren't even sure that you had ever met before, and the smirk on his lips had grown into a large, mostly one-sided smile. The familiarity of it had your realization hitting you like a ton of bricks, all abrupt and a little disorienting.

He hadn't been joking, or mocking you with the tales of some past, fancy life. He really had been a movie star with his face drawn and printed across newspapers and gossip magazines. He had a mother and a father, friends, a lover. He might have even had a family of his own that dined with him and sat at his dinner table to gossip about baseball and the lushness of their house's front lawn when he wasn't standing behind a silver screen and dressed up as a cowboy. Or a marshal, like he had been in that particular film; hunting down criminals and fighting for the decency and virtue of the Wild West.

It's kind of ironic actually, in a dark and depressing sort of way.

Cooper's attention shoots up to you in the form of a glare from the sound of your amused, disbelieving snicker. You can see the defensive way his muscles coil underneath the cover of his coat, all bunched up like he might jump at you with his teeth exposed in a wicked snarl. "The fuck are you laughin' at?"

You shake your head softly, and you can only hope that you properly show your apology on your face. "Nothing. I just - I'm surprised you had friends, is all."

Luckily, he seems to catch the jest in your tone and the subtle tension that had been there melts back into his casual indifference. "And why's that now?" He asks, angling his chin lower as his expression shifts into something impish and mirthful. "You can't say that you haven't been at least a little bit enthralled by my boyish charm. "

"Boyish? There's nothing "boyish" about you." You nearly laugh again, but this time your reaction doesn't do anything to dull his own amusement. If anything, it seems to amplify it with that way that it seems to dance and glint in his unwavering stare.

"But I am charming?" He says queekily, and the rough ridge of his eyebrows lift with the question. "Come on, I'm sure this ol' ugly mug does something for you."

It always throws you a bit when he gets like this. Playful in a way that isn't violent or sardonic, almost soft - not that'd you ever tell him that. These moments are always few and far between, nestled between the gore and brutality of the Wasteland like something rare and delicate. This is when he lets you see a hint of the man he probably was once before, back when his concern was house payments and landing a role for an upcoming film. It's a type of humor and demeaner that's so different from the venomous delight and selfish sarcasm that he often indulges in, and it never fails to make a melancholic ache gnaw away at the pit of your chest. It's always a painful realization, that he had a life and loved ones at some point. He was a person who loved and was loved in turn, and now it's all gone. Scattered away and volatilized by the consuming rushing plumes of heat, and energy, and pressure. But you couldn't tell him that. Just how much sorrow and regret you feel for him. He'd lash out and bare his teeth. For him it wouldn't be sympathy, it would only be pity, and that's something that a man like Cooper just can't handle.

And you do like feeling the sharpness of his teeth against your skin, just for an entirely different reason.

"And what if it does?" It comes out easily enough, even though it's anything but unsubtle. The tone of your voice is too telling to be considered a joke, and the knowing look that crosses his face lets you know that he's caught onto the insinuation. The dark glint in his eyes is one that you've been pinned under more than once, yet it never fails to make a shiver shoot down the separate ridges of your spine; like an animal that's wandered to close to danger but isn't smart enough to flee. It's gone so quiet that you could probably hear a pin drop with the unhurried atmosphere around you slowing down into a sluggish but striking halt that makes it difficult to believe that the two of you aren't the only people left alive in a world so dead and violent.

"You sure you can handle this tonight?" His tone has taken on the low, graveled sort of edge. It serves as a warning, and it's only amplified with the way that his eyes glimmer from the receding sunlight that trickles in from the window in the shades of an ebbing gold and lavender, shining like the lethal cut of a blade or the barrel of a gun. It makes you feel frozen in place even though something molten licks through your veins and begins to smolder deep in the pit of your stomach. And you know what he's asking you, what he's cautioning you against. He won't be gentle, or sweet, or nice. Cooper is all want and greed. He takes and takes like something starved and gluttonous that's sole purpose is to devour and pick you down to the bone, all flayed open and quivering. But you don't want sweet, you just want him.

You could sit and tell him all the way's that you crave him, and all the things that you need him to do to you as proof of your desires, but you know that Cooper is a man of action and not words. If you really mean to prove to him that you need him to touch you, then you'll have to meet him halfway. It has you lifting yourself from the dingy mattress, making the springs groan and whine as you shift and rise to cross the floor. You could try to be sexy about it, swinging your hips enticingly to draw his attention in a performance, but you don't. He has to know that you're being serious, that this isn't a decision that you're making because of the stress or alcohol, but that it's something genuine and raw.

He watches you like a hawk as you approach, vision fixed to you like he might spring forward and snatch you if you so much as flinch. His fingers run across his thumbs, causing the leather of his glove to creak dully. There's a hunger in his gaze that should make you waver or reconsider your steps, but if anything, it only serves to have a dangerous rush through your body, fueling you with a risky sense of empowerment. It's like a drug almost, having one of the most dangerous men in the Wasteland looking at you like he could rip you apart and piece you back together again, all at once. Like he's going to break you with his tongue and draw blood.

You're close enough now that your knees almost brush along his. When you lift one of your legs to climb onto his lap, he's quick to place the bottle of whisky on the nightstand beside him before settling both of his hands your hips, gently guiding you sit up top him even while his fingertips flex and threaten to bruise your skin. He hasn't broken eye contact with you once, entirely zeroed in on you with the rapt, analyzing sort of focus, like he's trying to notice everything about you at once, searching for a vulnerability to make you malleable and pliant if need be.

You let your hands settle along his shoulders, feeling the smooth but worn leather of his coat underneath your palms, all buttery and warm from the tepid air and the heat of him. Almost as though it has a mind of its own, one of your hands sweep close to his neck and you glide the pad of your thumb across the textured skin peeking out from his button up's collar, all raised and slightly gnarled from radiation exposure. You've always wondered if it ever hurts him to be touched, if the brush of your hands along his skin might sting or prickle. But you suppose that he might be too dopped up to even register the pain that might come with the old burns and damaged nerves. A look of relief always takes over his features when he drinks that pale amber liquid from those chem vials. The chems that keep him from turning Feral; all drugged and dulled as the effects of it course through his body to soothe and suppress those mental and physical ailments. But even with the chemicals in his system, he is still able to feel you. This you know for certain. You've witnesses the influence that your hands have had on him before. You've reveled in how he's pressed into your palm and demanded more while his chest has risen in greedy, panting breaths.

And that's all you want. To see his control slip again while he grips your hair to bare your throat to him so he can scatter more bites along the delicate skin, breaking capillaries underneath the wet suction of his tongue and parting flesh from the pressure of his teeth.

"I know what I'm asking," you answer firmly, fully resting yourself on the support of his lap. "And right now, I'm asking for you to touch me."

A dangerous smirk breaks across his face; the kind that immediately lets you know that you're in for nothing but trouble. He cocks his head when he considers you, eyes glinting underneath the brim of his hat. "But I am touchin' you, sweetheart."

This is another one of the moments where you could probably slap him if you weren't already so taken with the charming mischief dancing in his stare, the honeyed drawl of his voice. It never fails to make you a little weak in the knees, and it's a crack in your armor that he never fails to exploit to the fullest. There's already a dim pang of desperation growing in your chest, but you won't dare to let him know that. It's always a constant push and pull in this little dynamic that you've cultivated with him - a constant state of cat and mouse. And unfortunately for you, you're typically the mouse. But every once in a while, if you play your cards right, you can get his claws to slip just the slightest.

You lean close to him, angling your head just enough to keep from nudging his hat from its perch but also close enough to brush your lips against his. They're rough against your own, rugged from the texture of his skin and a little chapped by the baren, harsh elements just outside the safety of the room. But the shiver that trembles down your spine is far from disgust. It's excitement, clear and burning; thrumming along your nerves like an electrical current. The scent of him only strengthens it, perfumed with the earthy musk of soil and smoky with leather, and there's whisky on his lips, spicy and wooden, and you long to taste it. But you can't be too hasty, not with him poised to strike and sniffing out even a hint of weakness.

You take ahold of the lapels of his coat, running your fingertips over the stitching worked along the edges as you lock your stare with his own. "Come on Coop, do we really have to do this tired routine, again? " You murmur it lowly while leaning in to nip your teeth along his ear, relishing the subtle salt of skin when it washes over your tongue. "Can't we just treat ourselves, and give in?"

The grip on your hips tightens just a bit and you can feel him sweep his thumbs over you, though its agonizingly dull through the material of your pants, making it almost impossible to properly feel the way he caresses you. And then his voice rumbles out with the pleasing lilt, dousing out the tiny flicker of hope near your heart. "Oh, call me old fashioned, but I've always been at the mindset that it's best to take these sorts of things real nice 'n slow."

He wants you to beg. To give in and whine. And pathetically, with the way that one of his hands slips around your front to tease and toy with the button on your jeans, it already has fissures breaking along your sense of restraint. It's such a small touch, but the graze of his knuckles gliding across your skin leaves something blazing in their wake, making kindling out of your bones and threatening to set you on fire. But in your defense, you haven't been in the company of someone in a good while. The last person that you had touched had been him, and that had been all of those five months ago in Junktown, tucked away in some shady back alleyway before you both turned on each other in favor of trying to snatch up the bounty. You had left the dingy passage with your back clawed up from the rough exterior of a building and your knees smarting and stinging, and those little scratches and bruises have long since healed and vanished.

But you don't want to break just yet. You want to try and hold onto those slipping, fraying little pieces of your pride for as long as you can, but this his deft fingertips are popping the button of your pants open and gripping the zipper to tug it down on its tracks with a sharp, metallic hiss. It has your breath catching in your throat, and the oxygen is all but siphoned from your lungs when one of his fingers softly plucks at the elastic band of your underwear. Like he might finally humor you and slip it inside to properly touch you. But that's such a foolish idea.

"You know, I think I've missed you," he muses against your throat. You can feel the vibrations of it softly reverberating along the skin and tendons there, sinking in deep and humming along your blood. "Have ya missed me at all?"

It sounds like such a genuine question, but the tone he's using is entirely too mocking and yet your clouded over brain wishes to give him an authentic response. It's right there on the tip of your tongue, a single, devout yes. But you snap it shut behind your teeth before it can escape. Instead, you settle for a strained maybe, that nearly hurts to say, a bitter half-truth that taste like chemicals and ancient coffee grounds.

"Don't be like that now," he nearly coos, all patronizing and falsely sweet. His face shifts, brushing the rough drag of his lips over the edge of your jaw as his free hand lifts to cradle your chin, guiding you to tilt your head and meet his eyes again. The leather covering his thumb glides over the shape of your bottom lip, while the colorful glimmer of his eyes captivates you and holds you hostage with shimmers of green and amber and rich brown. "I think you did miss me, my little hunter. "

You hate the heat and want that bleeds throughout your limbs and chest and trickles down from your spine to settle between the cradle of your hips. It nearly feels like a type of betrayal, that way that your body longs to give into him so easily, with nothing more than a few calculated touches and some honeyed words. And when he slips his thumb past your lips and into your mouth your mind nearly draws a blank, falling flat and fuzzy like radio static at the smoky taste of old leather. He flashes you that charming, crooked smile, and you're certain that you must look just as dazed as you feel. When you run your tongue along his thumb, brushing it along the stitching and seams, you see something spark in his stare, all starved and restrained like he's trying to keep himself from eating you alive.

"Why don't you get down on your knees and show me just how much you really missed me?"

Those words enter into your brain like a burning bullet splitting through empty air, piercing through the fog and stuffing packed into your skull abruptly. It draws all of your attention onto him, narrowing all of your senses down into a point to latch onto him. Even with the hunger and greed shining through his expression, you can still see a clear sense of patience showing through it all and it grounds you like a stream of warm sunlight cutting through the cover of heavy storm clouds. And despite his words, you know that he's waiting to see if you want to back out. Cooper is a lot of things: a murderer, a cannibal, and easily one of the most underhanded individuals that someone could cross paths with in the Wasteland. But if you uttered the smallest no or showed even the faintest hint of hesitance, then that would be that. You'd be back alone at your place on the bed, and he, sitting across from you while you both catch up on your lost time and exchanged stories and recite the past few of months in words and passing comments. But that's far from what you want right now.

You don't look away from him when you shift and slip down onto the floor, and his eyes trace you hotly when you settle between his spread open thighs and place your palms just above his knees. His warmth radiates through the worn fabric of his pants, soothing and grounding, but what really draws your attention is the familiar shape of his cock making a heavy impression against the hidden zipper. The sight of it alone has your mouth watering, and you swear that you can already taste him, all salt and musk and like a rough velvet against your tongue.

His head tilts and the action has the brim of his hat casting a soft shadow over his sunken eyes. "Get on with it then, it ain't gonna take care of itself," he remarks, a little condescending. His brows perk upward when he speaks, and the rumbling edge that his tone has adopted as anticipation and electricity singeing over your limbs and fingertips. And it has your hands lifting forward like they've been drawn up on a string, all impulse and instinct driving you forward to start working on the buckle of his belt and then the clasp of his gun holster. You're a little impatient when you slip the leather strap through the metal ring, with your movements all a little hurried and the amused huff of laughter that rises from his chest has you openly glaring up at him. The way that he casually meets your scowl nearly feels like some kind of challenge. There's an unsaid taunt in his eyes when you pinch the zipper of his pants between your fingertips and tug it downward over the metallic tracks.

That smug smile is pressing at the corners of his mouth, growing wider and threatening to show teeth when you impatiently tug at his pants, hooking your fingers into the belt loop to try and shift them down his waist. But it's only when you shoot him a pointed, unamused look that he finally lifts his hips to help aid you in your efforts and allows you to drag his pants down around his thighs. It's almost a little surprising when his cock springs from his pants, half-hard and already leaking a few drops of precum. Of course, he isn't wearing any underwear.

You can see another taunt rising up in his expression, probably at the ready to leave his mouth and mock you, and that wicked glint in his eyes is more than enough to have you leaning forward with the desire to finally have him speechless. A challenge for sure, but you're determined. You take ahold of him in the grip of your palm and drop your jaw open to lick up the length of him. He's warm along your tongue, just as textured as the rest of his damaged skin, but it isn't unpleasant in the slightest. The taste of him spills over your palette like salt and a little musky, and the familiarity of it has you eager to take more of him. You hardly give yourself time to adjust to it before you slip the head of his cock past your lips and work more of it down until your nose brushes along his groin, and you can feel the weight of him press along the back of your throat until water threatens to well up in your eyes.

You hear hiss sharply through his teeth over the haze in your skull and the obscene sound of your tongue and mouth gulping around him wetly. His thighs clench and flex underneath your palms, hips twitching like he might already start thrusting until you're gagging around the thickness of him, so it surprises you when he holds himself back. His impulse control is such an unpredictable thing that seems to revolve entirely around his terms. Usually, he's intent on seeking out his pleasure. Not to say that he's entirely selfish - he always makes sure to leave you a breathless, boneless mess, no matter if it's an impromptu quickie behind a random building or an entire night spent on top of the roof of some old, dilapidated diner with the stars scattered above while coyotes cackle and yelp in the distance (that won't be a moment that you forget any time soon). But he's more than a little self-serving, and that often translates into sex. Particularly when getting head, he enjoys fucking your throat until tears are pouring down your face and you have to remind yourself how to breathe.

But he's being gentle, almost - something that you never would have associated with a man like Cooper. Though there's no other way to really describe it when he slips on of his hands over the side of your face, curling his fingers near the nape of your neck and gliding his thumb across the swell of your cheek. It's how you touch something that's delicate; made of porcelain or glass, and it might shatter and crumble if it's handled too harshly. It makes your heart ache and long for something that you weren't even entirely sure that you wanted from him.

Maybe he's sudden display of uncharacteristic sweetness is just his way of extending a sense of control to you after the sorry state that he had found you in, all clinging to air and bloody with a hand around your throat. It's such a simple thing really, but in a world as greedy and stripping as this one - from a man as selfish and ruthless as him, it almost feels a little vulnerable. And maybe it is a little stupid how a simple touch has a tender gash opening inside your chest, and a small barrage of emotion welling up to the surface and threatening to spill out. It doesn't help that you can feel his eyes on you when glide your mouth over him, all heavy and unwavering when you trace the subtle veins that trail across his length with the tip of your tongue. And even with the chaotic torrent of emotions that are trying to bubble up to the surface, you can't help but to delight in the way that his hips twitch and roll upward to meet you when you bob your head down on him.

It's all sort of pathetic. The flurry of admiration and want that pools in the center of your gut and pours downward in rivulets of liquid heat to settle in the apex of your legs, where you're already certain that you're wet. And when you dare to look up, glancing through the tears that blur your vision and cling to your lashes, you have to all but slam a door shut on every single one of those dangerous little feelings, packing them up tight and shoving them deep down when you meet the weight of his stare. His head is leaned back against the back rest of the chair, threatening to nudge his hat from the crown of his head and his lips are already parted to release quiet puffs of air that rise and fall from his chest.

It's dim. Sort of blink and you'll miss it, but you swear that you can nearly catch a kind of glazed over glint to his eyes. Like if he allowed himself, the pleasure could take him apart. It has the warmth smoldering within you fuming into a licking, desperate heat that feels like it could devour you whole. The expression on his face has you mind flatlining into something thoughtless until all you're nothing but impulse and want. You need to see more of that look. To watch the pleasure overcome him until his voice stretches out into rumbling sighs and fucked out swearing.

It has you doubling your efforts. You lift one of your hands to twist it over the girth of him, adding to the stimulation when you lap at the head of cock and take his balls into your free palm. The low, almost strained fuck that you get in response is like a reward, brushing a shiver down your spine like fingertips and you can feel your cunt clench around nothing. It has a whine slipping from your chest, nearly choking you when you take more of him into your mouth and the walls of your throat flex and ripple over the girth obstructing your airway.

A dazed, bewildered moan escapes you when one of his hand grips you from its place around the back of your neck and guides you up until you only have the flat of your tongue against the head of his cock, catching the beads of cum that trickle from the slit.

"Easy there, now," he warns lowly. "Wouldn' want you to hurt yourself, now do we darlin'?"

The saccharine implications of his words and the subtle mocking of his tone has a conflicting set of responses rising in you. A part of you preens underneath his attentions and the other bristles from the taunt. In a small act of defiance, you halt the stroking of your fingertips from his balls and drop your hand entirely from him in favor of slipping it underneath your pants and the elastic band of your underwear. You can't help but to think him for unbuttoning your pants earlier when you nudge them downward until they glide along your clit in tight circles, spreading sparks and heat across your nerves and you mouth drops open even further into a drunk gasp. "Maybe that's what I want," you reply, even though your voice is already a little raw.

"Well, with way you're touchin' yourself from just suckin' dick, I'd say you'd like that," he rumbles softly with that sharp grin on his face. You can see the lust and delight burning in his eyes when you lick against the head of his cock and eagerly swallow the taste of him - too shameless to even register a shred of embarrassment at his taunt. It feels like your body might turn itself inside out when he grips ahold of his length just above your own hand; stroking himself and making the leather of his glove creak lowly when he guides the tip across your lips to smear them with spit and cum like perverted sort of gloss. "Oughtta grab those cuffs you were in earlier. Bind you up nice 'n tight and use you up until there's nothing left. . . If only I could remember where I tossed 'em."

It's disgusting how the thought excites you. It should be abhorrent. Something you should shy away from or openly reject considering that you had just been cuffed and dragged across the desert only a few hours earlier, but it only has something burning and heavy filling up your skull again. It threatens to sweep you under, clouding you mind over like a haze and the scent of him only intensifies it, all earth and dust and leather and salt. It's enough to have your mind twisting up and fraying around the edges until it might become completely useless. It makes it difficult to notice the impression of his hand slipping back around your neck again, digging into the tender flesh of your nape to guide your mouth back onto his cock.

You yield underneath the nudging pressure of his hand easily, allowing it to coax you downward until your throat is flexing and swallowing around his girth; saliva slipping past the suction of your lips to drip and coat him in a way that's entirely filthy. But you welcome and bask in it completely, relishing in how it aids you when you begin to work your hand back over him, syncing it up with the drag and glide of your mouth.

The hinges of your jaw are already beginning to ache a bit, straining from how he stretches your jaw wide to fit between your lips, but you still have absolutely no desire to stop or take a break. You can hardly even focus on the dull throb while you sweep your slick fingertips around your clit, flooding your veins with molten lust and endorphins. And it isn't long until you're rolling your hips against your own hand, and it has you almost completely pulled under, enraptured by the weight of and taste of him in your mouth and the pleasure you have building between your thighs. It makes you completely helpless. All caught up and moaning lowly around his girth when you sweep your tongue along the head of his cock in each upstroke before you glide your head down until he nudges the back of your throat.

"You know, I never did give you permission to start touchin' on yourself like some cheap slut," he comments, all casual and sardonic, but you can still a sweetened edge to his tone. A little too sweet honestly. It would have concerned you if you weren't already hazed over and unbothered, but you should have taken it as a warning, because he's suddenly shoving one of his legs between your thighs and rudely grinding the toes of his boot up between your thighs. The pressure of it crushes against your knuckles and forces you to remove your hand from your pants to try and evade the sting of pain that spreads along your tendons and the back of your hand. It has you split in your reactions, and in your confusion, it has an almost melancholic whimper bubbling from your chest at the loss of your fingertips while you also glare up at him through the blur of tears from you place on the floor. Though, you can't imagine that you seem all that imposing with his dick completely stuffed in your mouth.

The smug grin that he sports is confirming in that little assumption, and the arrogant glint in his eyes has a little trickle of irritation skipping down your back. "Don't worry, now. You've caught me a generous mood," he says, much too composed even when a soft groan rumbles from him at the wet glide of your mouth. "I'll play nice with you; just this once."

And then he's pressing his boot up against the heat of your cunt. Even with the layers of your pants and underwear still secure around your hips, the friction and weight of it against you is exquisite. Your eyes nearly roll back at the feel of it as you get caught up in the fire and burning, liquid honey that scolds and eats at you bones and flesh. The fit of your jeans is loose enough that it has the seam of them dragging along your clit, and it's only amplified by how he nudges the firm leather of his boot against you. It has your hips twitching and rolling over him mindlessly; your body instinctively seeking out pleasure before you have to consciously tell it to.

It all already entirely too much and too little. You can feel the creases in the leather along the top of his boot pressing underneath the material of your clothes, firmly grinding against the wet heat of your cunt in a way that's almost mean. A sob rises in your throat, begging to slip free but the gentle press of his hand on the back of your head keeps you pinned in place as he rolls his hips to work himself into your mouth. It's obscene, the way that you can hear yourself, whimpering and moaning weakly around the ceaseless thrusts of his cock; the sloppy, wet glide of your spit slipping past your lips and tongue.

You should be ashamed of yourself. A bounty hunter reduced to a mess with your knees digging into the dingy carpet while your mouth and hands are full of someone who should only be a rival. A threat to your survival and lively hood. But you know damned well that even if you weren't currently blowing him like you'd been paid for it that you could never bring yourself to see him as such. Cooper - even with as infrequent and unplanned as your interactions always are - has been the only constant in your life. The closest you've ever come to a friend or anything of the like. Everyone else is dead and gone. Killed off by time, circumstance or bad decisions. Ever since that night in the Mojave when you were both strangers with nothing more than the driving force to survive and the need to claim the same bounty there was an intrigue there. A morbid sort of curiosity that comes with leaning over to admire the depth of a canyon and wondering what it might be like to just dive in, and like a glutton for punishment you had been unable to resist the call to it. You had flirted with danger every chance that you had gotten; nearly each time you had crossed paths. He's been a sort of shadow in your life ever since. Always looming in hanging in your peripheral vision, even when he isn't close. Always present, despite being miles and months apart.

Maybe that's why you always end up on your knees or on your back whenever you cross paths with the ghoul. Not that you're complaining. Especially not now with fire searing at the base of your spine and settling deep inside the cradle of your hips. It has your cunt clinching around nothing, begging to be filled while you desperately roll them against Cooper's boot in a fruitless attempt to nudge yourself close to the edge that seems to rise and fall and extend out in front of you with no end in sight. You swear you could sob. And with the dim groans and rumbling breaths that nearly pant out of Cooper's chest he seems to be getting just as worked up as you. But you can feel his cock pulsing along your tongue and his thighs tense and clench, signaling that he's about to reach the precipice that you're helplessly dangling along.

You can hear him whispering over the roar of the blood pounding in your ears; hushed praises and snippets of "that's it - just like that." His head is still lolled back against the rest of the chair, chin tipped upward, and lips parted while his eyes are all lidded and dark and threatening to slip shut while he watches you. It's almost lethal, how gorgeous he looks like this. Just a little glazed over with pleasure, but still coherent enough to have a hint of that smug smile pressing at the corners of his mouth. Despite his viciousness; all jagged, rough edges and scathing sarcasm; gaunt and worn features crafted by the Wasteland, there's a brutal sort of beauty about him. A kind of repartee and charm that you don't find in many anymore, and you can still see a faint reflection of that suave, chivalrous move star in that smile of his. Even if it's just a vague ghost. A faded reflection of something - or someone - who's dead and gone and buried.

You like those old glimpses of Cooper that you've seen. The star that graced the silver screen and entertained and enraptured the masses with his gallant declarations and witty one-liners. That old version of him seemed kind with a sort of virtue and gentleness glinting in his eyes. Something that you're always unable to find reflecting in Cooper's gaze now that centuries of war and violence and bloodshed have carved him into an entirely new being. One that has to fight and tear and kill to survive. But you like this version of him too. Maybe just as much, skeletal features, jagged edges and all. You can't tell him that. Not when you can hardly admit it to yourself. Not when the revelation could tear apart this delicate little friendship that you've curated with him throughout the years.

But you can show him as best as you can. As best as he'll allow. And you'll pretend that every tough of your fingers, the stroke of your palms and the brush of your tongue along the salt of his skin is completely detached, even while it digs and cracks at some pathetic little piece of your soul.

You swivel your tongue along the head of his cock, lapping at the precum that's collected there as your work both of your hands along the base of him. You're desperate to taste him, to feel him pulse in your mouth as that long, guttural groan slips from his throat, and his thighs twitch and shudder. Just the thought of it has your hips working against the firm shape of his boot with even more fervor, shooting electricity throughout you with each grind along your clit. It already has your stomach clenching, muscles seizing up tight in the preparation to squeeze every ounce of ecstasy from your body.

You're both right along the edge, you can feel it. The anticipation of it has that smoldering, debilitating wave rising over you and cresting up higher with every roll of your hips. You can feel him throb in your mouth, only seconds away from coming. It has your body twisting up tight, moaning wantonly around the length of him while you eagerly await the rush of cum to spirt from his cock. But that's when the guiding hand on the back of your hand suddenly grips ahold of your hair, grabbing it tight to use it as leverage to pull your mouth from his length with a nasty pop just as your orgasm sweeps over you like a burst of fire and smoke. It forces you to make eye contact with him while bliss and heat ravages every ounce of you and your mouth drops open in a silent cry.

He doesn't even wait for the bliss and pleasure to subside or for you to get your bearings before he's all but lurching forward with a quickness that's frightening. You just hardly catch the dark, starved glint in his eyes before he's on you and sweeping you up from your place on the floor with a jarring speed. Taking you into his arms as his rough lips meet yours in kiss that's mostly teeth, and then he's backing you up, guiding you towards something that you can't see and nearly dragging you in his urgency while his hands grasp the back of your neck and hip with an iron grip. The ferocity behind it has you moaning, all wanton and depraved when he licks into your mouth, tasting himself and biting at your lips with the ardor of a man possessed. Your hands are everywhere they can reach, sweeping along the expanse of his chest and shoulder, slipping up his neck and knocking his hat free from the crown of his head to land somewhere forgotten on the floor.

He follows you down onto the support of something soft yet firm when the back of your knees hit what must be the edge of the bed, making the old springs squeak and groan in your shared weight. When he speaks next, it's nearly mumbled against your lips, grumbled out between the sharp, starved nips of his teeth. "You're too pretty for your own good," he drawls, breath tasting of whisky and salt. He pulls back just enough to look at you, supporting his hands on either side of your head as he wedges himself between your thighs. "I could just eat you alive." He dips his face into the crook of your neck and biting into the tender flesh there just harshly enough to sting. It's just enough for you to think that he might actually follow through with it and eat you alive; sink his teeth into you while you're vulnerable and dazed to lick your blood from his lips. It should disturb you that you wouldn't really mind it. But then his voice speaks out against your ear, thick and slow like molasses. "I think I'll just settle for fucking you."

That's when he starts shoving your pants down your thighs, shifting back enough to peel them down your legs roughly. When he reaches your boots, he doesn't bother with any sort of finesse or tact, he just starts tugging them from your feet and tossing them like he's being timed for it and is running behind. It has you worried that you might slip from the bed and your fingers sink around the old comforter to try and stay latched on as he finally pulls your underwear and jeans free from you, digging your nails into the stitching sewn into the blanket like it might help you stay put. But he's on you with all of the fervor of a wild animal, eyes blazing even in the dark that's fallen over the room.

You're completely enraptured while you watch him slip two of his fingers between his lips, biting into the tips of his glove to tear the leather from his hand before spitting it out somewhere on the mattress. But even with the entirety of your focus zeroed in on him it still takes you by surprise when he reaches down and swipes his fingers along your cunt, spreading you open to glide one of his knuckles along your clit. It has your back bowing and your mouth dropping open in a silent scream from the pressure of it. You're still sensitive from your previous orgasm, and your nerves feel as though they've been zapped with an electrical current. It has you hissing through your teeth, your breath snagging in your lungs while your body writhes and jerks like it isn't sure if it wants to squirm away or lean closer to his touch.

"You're fuckin' soaking," he gloats openly with a shameless grin.

"Cooper - I don't know if I ca-"

"You can," he insists. His voice is coated with a layer of satisfaction and perhaps even humor, but there's still an edge of patience to it despite the boastfulness. It almost seems like enough to center you, quieting your thoughts down in to dim background noise. But it's the brush of his lips along your own that truly silences everything, drawing you attention onto him when he licks into your mouth, still tasting like whisky. It's almost enough to distract you from the tight circles he draws around your clit, forcing a broken whine from your throat when he replaces his fingertips with his cock, smearing your cum along his length in filthy, teasing glides.

Now you find yourself pulling him forward, slipping your hands around the back of his neck and hooking your legs around his waist to tug him closer even though you're still too sensitive; lit up like a live wire from his touch. It has you gasping into his mouth, nipping your teeth along his bottom lip like you might be the one to eat him alive this time, and the pleased rumbling sigh that rises from his chest feels like a reward all in itself. For a moment everything is all soft. Placid and unrushed despite the frantic, zealous edge to it. Like you've been drawn into a hushed pocket of time. But it's just as dangerous as it is gentle. Begging to lure you into a sense of comfort and adoration that you can't afford to succumb to. An adoration and comfort that you know that a man like the Ghoul will never be able to give- the vicious, maverick creature that he is.

Loyalty in the Wasteland is a liability just as much as it's an advantage. It's the people you cherish the most that cut the deepest. They slow you down and keep you tied. A death sentence for a world so violent. It makes your time with him limited. Always borrowed until the seconds tick down to zero and either one of you slink away until you cross paths again weeks or months later. After tonight you aren't sure when you'll see him next. If you'll ever see him again. There aren't any guarantees in this life, and at any moment your days could be cut short. A single bad decision or one bad move and your breath could be snuffed out like a weak fire on a short wick. You aren't sure how much longer you have left, but here and now it's safe to pretend that there's more waiting for you. That he won't slip away into the night as soon as the rush has worn off and the tension has ebbed from your bodies.

It's the drag of his cock slipping over you harshly that snags you from the chaotic scatter of your thoughts, forcing your attention to snap onto him abruptly. The look in his eyes fixes your focus onto him like it's magnetized. There's a weight and fervor burning in them that leaves you completely breathless, pinned underneath his gaze and left malleable and wanting. But the smug, calculating glimmer to it should have tipped you off that he's planning something, because it's the only warning you get before he's notching the head of his cock at the entrance of your cunt and shoving himself into you in a single thrust.

Your jaw drops in a silent cry as your walls stretch to accommodate him. Your hands scramble for purchase, clawing and clinging to the leather of his coat, slicing along the material and probably leaving visible marks along the tanned hide while you try to hold on and survive the wild pace that he's set. He's driving into you with a sort of ardor that already has your back bowing, driving his cock into you with debilitating strokes that punch the air from your lungs each time he bottoms out. You feel like you've been set on fire, all tingling, burning nerves and electricity rippling up your spine while he splits you open on his length.

It's stupid how easily he always reduces your mind to a useless pile of mush. But no matter how many times you wind up underneath him or on top of him, he always manages to strip you down to your basest levels. And the way that a bout of low, guttural groans slips from him with each thrust has you squirming even more, meeting his rhythm with the roll of your hips. You feel the sound of him more than you hear him with his breath puffing against the crook of your neck and reverberating along your chest as he mouths along your throat with the sharp scrape of his teeth and the soft brushes of his tongue. The sounds echo along the room are filthy, filled with the sharp, repetitive squeak of the mattress's springs and the wet slap of skin on skin. It's all a little filthy. The unrestrained way that he fucks into you, the tender bruises that he's leaving along your neck - like he's trying to leave his claim on you. Like he wants to carve a place for himself inside of you that no one else will ever be able to fill. Making you a wreck and mess just for him.

The buckle of his belt has become pinned between both of your bodies, and the chilled brass and silver rubs against your clit with each and every thrust. But it's the bumps on the plating that really make you twitch, almost forcing your body to tighten and clench around his girth with each deep drag. It has you gasping in seconds, clinging to his shoulders like the support of them underneath your palms might save you.

Sharp, warbling moans split across the air, and it takes your sluggish brain a few moments to register that it's your own voice that's whining and sobbing. You can feel your lips moving, the shift of your tongue in your mouth but you can hardly comprehend what you're even saying. It could be anything from rambling pleas to cries of Cooper's name, but you can't be entirely sure. Not when your body is already coiling up tight, muscle seizing and your abdomen bunching up while that familiar surge of smoke, and fire, and ecstasy rises up to take you over and apart.

It has you entirely conflicted, mourning the thought of already reaching the end and what might happen afterwards, but your body also craves the release. It has you staring up at the ceiling while you cling to him, darting your vision along the cotton webs and dust that sticks to the surface like it might stave of the wave of bliss that threatens to pour over you. But he must be able to tell that you're resisting somehow, because of course he can.

He nudges his head back from its place along your throat, and his bare hand rises to grip your face between his fingers. Stroking along your chin and your lips as he stares into your lidden eyes with a sharp grin. "Come on now, sweet girl, what'er you holdin' back for?"

It almost sounds rhetorical in your dazed out state, but honestly, you couldn't answer him properly even if you wanted to. The way that he pistons himself in and out of you gives you no breathing room to form a coherent sentence or even so much as a word. Your tongue is useless in your mouth, and it leaves every little motion that you make nothing more than instinctual. Driven by pure impulse and bodily desire as you scratch your nails along his back and cry out into the dark. And it's now that you realize that you are indeed saying his name. Whispering it out brokenly alongside wild, broken cries of rapture.

One particular thrust from him brushes along that devastating spot inside of you and it has your spine arching in almost painfully and you toss your head back with a noise that's close to a sob. Like a feral animal drawn to a weakness, he's unable to resist the exposed collum of your throat and suddenly you can feel the wet, hot heat of his tongue laving along your neck. No doubt feeling the scattered thrum of your pulse and blood beating wildly and coursing throughout the veins underneath your tender skin. The damp drag of it continues upward until glides up to the edge of your jaw where he nips and bites with his teeth like he might sink them in deep and gulp down the rivulets of red that would pour from the wound.

"I can feel you fuckin' squeezin' me," he groans raggedly, now staring into your eyes. His glimmer faintly in the final scraps of light that trickle in from the twilight. Searing and gleaming like the vision of some sort of otherworldly entity that's come to take you in the night and drink you of all of your vigor and affections; leaving him incomparable to anyone else who may touch you.

You try hard to bite back the scathing fire that's ripping across your nerves and atoms like something molten and consuming, but your body is yielding to it despite that fact that you don't want to give in yet. You don't want this moment to end. You aren't ready for the quiet that may come afterwards. The way that you'll have to pretend to be indifferent and unaffected when he begins to buckle his belt and holster before he disappears into the dark. And you'll be left to wonder if he's alive or hurt as he trudges across the barren earth in search of the thrill of a fight, and the gore-soaked glory that comes with it. But even with all of your fears and anxieties looming in the back of your mind like unwelcome phantoms it's too difficult to stave off the bliss scorching at your flesh and rushing alongside your blood. Not when he's holding you so closely, and the scent of him hands heavy in the air like leather and rich soil. Not while he's still holding your face in a grip that could almost be taken as soft with the sensation of his bare palm cradled against your skin. It's warm and intimate.

You can hardly see him anymore with the final traces of the sunlight having finally wanned behind the distant mountains, but you can still make out his silhouette above you. You can still feel him, firm and real and present; you can hear his breath and words in the hushed, heavy atmosphere. It's such small things. Little minute details that hurtle you closer to the end. It makes you latch on to him with even more fervor, hitching your legs around him tightly and digging the heels of your feet into his lower back.

"Quit holdin' yourself back," he it urges in a snarl against your lips like a devout prayer, like an addict asking for absolution or another fix, and the hot coil in your gut burns hotter. "Let me fuckin' feel you. Just let go for me - you can let go."

That's all it takes for the band to snap and the waves to crash down on you in an unforgiving torrent. Everything in your winds up tight simultaneously as a rush of an almost violent sort of euphoria tears throughout you and leaves your lungs gasping for even a shred of oxygen. You're certain that you might be screaming. Your throat feels raw enough. But it's difficult to make sense of anything while stars dance across your vision in a flurry of burning white like you've gone lightheaded and might faint. And you might would have if not for the support of the ragged mattress underneath you or the grounding weight of Cooper above you, still driving himself deep inside you with heavy, practiced strokes as he chases after his own release.

The aftershocks of you twitch throughout your body, forcing weak sobs from your empty lungs as the pleasure melts back into that electrical sort of overstimulation. It makes you weakly lift up your head to bite into the leather draped over his shoulder as your body bears down on the girth of his cock to wring out his pleasure. And the ragged string of curses and loud, guttural groan that breaks out across the room is quickly followed by the flood of warmth that spreads throughout your cunt, stuffing you with his cum with a few more uncoordinated thrusts before he collapses on top of you.

The hush that falls over the room is almost jarring now- a complete juxtaposition to the desperate pleads and blissful sighs that had filled the space just moments before. You can still smell the scent of sex in the air, all tangled up with the fragrance of tobacco and leather that always clings to him like a kind of cologne. It seems so bittersweet now. And when he pulls out of you - the both of you hissing lowly from the sensitivity that it brings - you expect to hear the familiar metallic chime of him slipping his belt through its buckle so that he can right himself to leave.

But he doesn't do that.

"Jesus fuckin' Christ," he huffs and rolls over onto his back with a ragged groan, situating himself next to you before he curls one of his arms around you to guide you to lay alongside him. Your head is cradled along his chest, allowing you to listen to the wild, steady thrum of his heart raging underneath all the blood and bone while you both pant and collect yourselves. It brings a comfort and fondness to you that you still know is stupid to entertain, but it's so damn easy to give into. Everything with Cooper is always so damn easy with him even though he's as difficult as they come. And you suppose that's what's made you so helplessly stuck on him. How easily you've been lulled into this relationship with him, this cat and mouse game; the constant, simultaneous state of both confidant and rival. It's isolating and welcoming all at once. Despite being such an infrequent presence in your life, he's also managed to become such a permanent fixture as well. The mere thought of his absence always leaves you completely lost, and you aren't sure how to deal with that.

"You should try and get some shut eye," he mumbles, and you swear that you can feel the brush of his lips against your forehead, much too gentle and delicate for a man so rough. It has a smile threatening to break across your face and suddenly you're thankful for the darkness, and the cover it provides. The last thing you need is for him to taunt you for going soft, even though you certainly could do the same to him with the way that he's got you curled against his chest. But for once you don't have the urge to ruin with moment with sarcastic quips or well-meaning insults. You want to stay here forever. Even though you know it's impossible to remain paused in this moment with the delicate, cooling desert air gliding into the room to brush along your bare skin like a lover's fingertips.

For once in this hellscape, everything is quiet. Intimate and peaceful. But just like always it's all on borrowed time. And come a few minutes or maybe hours, if you're lucky, Cooper will lift himself from the old bed and slip into the dark to claim whatever poor soul manages to catch his eye. But here and now, you can play pretend. You can imagine that when you wake up in the morning, while the horizon is blossoming with the golden hue of the dawn, that he'll still be here to greet you with that honeyed drawl. It's a fool's dream. But dream you do.

#the ghoul x reader #cooper howard x reader #cooper howard x you #cooper howard smut #the ghoul x you #cooper howard #fallout x reader #fallout

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nayaesworld · 1 month ago

Text

The Beast in the Woods

Warnings:SMUT,breeding,supernatural situations

Aaron Pierre X OC!Willow

Part 2

In which the lion and lamb fall deeply in love with each other and bind their beings as one…

Life felt truly and utterly complete for Willow. The handsome man that harbored a beast deep inside him had swept her off her feet and made her feel so bubbly and warm inside. Even though most days she felt obsessed with him, he assured her he felt the same way as she did maybe triple fold. The two were connected at the hip, when one moved the other moved. A graceful display of love. Her scrapbook in her living room now filled with pictures of them taken from her digital camera, pictures that somehow captured how they truly felt in the moment they were taken. Willow was at peace, happy, and in love… she said the last part a lot to herself sometimes it didn’t feel real. She loved this man, loved everything he stood for and loved how he worshiped her. She was a goddess to him.

Draped in one of Terry’s shirts she crept into her kitchen where she heard him rustling around.

“I can hear you my love… you couldn’t ever hide from me.” She smacked her lips as he laughed aloud at her attempt to creep up and scare him.

“You’re no fun… you never met me get you.” She pouted and crossed her arms over her chest giggling as he reached out for her and wrapped his arms around her waist. She sighed to herself as he sucked and licked at her neck, his large hands groping and palming her cheeks through her black boyshorts.

“Mmm.. but I always get you, and I get you good every time” And get her he did, Terry had managed to completely turn Willow out. She was eager to learn how to please him, and he was eager to teach her.

They fucked often. On every surface and every position. Everytime she thought she had been put in every position possible, he’d bend her body a new way. Willow was severely surprised that she hadn’t fallen pregnant yet. Would it be so bad if she did…?

“It’s not fair… you have your hearing and smell. I could be down the road and you’d still hear me before you ever saw me!” She exclaimed and giggled as he tickled her against her butcher block island.

Her hands found his warm face and she caressed him, peering into his ever expressive eyes.

“Did I tell you how much I love you today?” She playfully questioned him while trying her best to jump into his skin. Close was never close enough for her and she needed to touch him whenever he was near her.

“Mmm… you did my baby… but I’m never tired of hearing it. If I said I loved you more would you believe me… girl I’m obsessed with you..” He squeezed her into him, soft and content was it anything better?

A heavy downpour covered the cozy cottage and the woodlands, hard white rain coming from the sky in angry spurts of water. Willow loved the rain though, the sound would serenade and calm her. It nurtured her plants and everything around her, she was grateful. But this weather called for something hot and hearty, and her vegetable garden had sprouted nice juicy tomatoes and a tomato soup with a grilled cheese sandwich sounded divine.

Opposed to getting her freshly washed curls wet again, she sent Terry out to snatch a few tomatoes from their green vines. She laid her tomatoes,garlic,onions,and bell peppers onto a baking pan to prepare to roast them in her oven. She cracked black pepper and salt on top and slid them into her preheated oven, setting a timer on her phone she glanced around for Terry.

“Baby?…where did this man go so quickly” She chewed her bottom lip as she looked all over the house for him. For a man of such size and height he always managed to evade her, quiet as a church mouse and cunning as a panther.

Finally the sound of running water led her to her bathroom. Pushing open the door her dark brows scrunched as she finally made out his massive form fully clothed and sitting against the shower wall soaking wet as his head laid in his palms and he breathed heavily.

“Terry baby oh my god..Are you ok?!” She rushed to fling open the glass door, ice cold water stinging her hand.

Not caring about the icy water raining down onto her, she grasped his head into her hands and gasped. His skin was searing hot and his usual soft green eyes had been replaced with honey gold ones with blown pupils. He breathed heavily and raggedly in her presence, scaring her.

“Willow baby…please move away.. I-I don’t trust myself right now… you need to leave me be.” His words came out rushed and she was confused on whether or not she’d be able to leave him in this state as he requested.

It took everything in her to turn away from him and rush to her kitchen to shut off the oven, she didn’t need a fire starting.

_________________________________________________

Terry didn’t see this coming. He thought he’d get away with loving Willow and his instincts would sit on the back burner while he restricted himself. A joke was what it was, because he had known better than to suppress his nature, yet he couldn’t bear to put it all on her. His feelings for her were raw and real. Deep inside him he knew this day was coming, but primal instincts didn’t follow the human calendar so he had no time to prepare.

Heat had came for Terry. All of his kind had to experience it one day but none of them were ever truly prepared for the carnal experience. A Lycan in heat was a Lycan in love, a Lycan bound so tight by their mate that they could only see them; and no future without. Terry had felt all these things for Willow times infinity, he looked back often at the dull life he lived before her and realized he was never actually living; just existing.

Terry being in heat symbolized everything he truly felt for her and everything he wanted them to be, a husband to her; and a father to their future children. She was his soulmate and his supernatural soul had solidified that. There was no life for Terry without Willow and tonight he’d make sure she knew and believed that.

“Baby?… I know you wanted me to leave you… but I can’t, I need to know for sure if you’re ok!” His keen hearing allowed him to hear Willow’s honeyed voice over the loud shower.

Gathering himself his legs shook as he stood to his full height to turn off the water.Peering through the partition glass of the shower he watched her grab him a large fluffy white towel to dry off with.Stepping out of the shower he felt his hot skin cool off in her presence, she was the one; the only one.

“Let me help you please…you’re scaring me baby” he let her help him out of the soaking clothes he breathed in her sweet scent and let it take him away. Standing fully naked he grabbed the towel from her and wrapped it around his waist.

“Your eyes.. I’ve never seen them look like this before, does this have anything to do with what you are, being a Lycan?” Her curious hands ran up and down his body, seemingly checking for signs of harm on his body.

“I’m not afraid, I accepted you fully and completely a year ago when you showed up near my house… nothing is keeping me from you.” She continued on talking but stopped when she peered up into the intense gaze of his.

“I’ll tell you everything… starting with the fact that this is even happening to me right now is your fault.” A sly smirk graced Terry's face as he backed her into her room.

“My fault…bu-but how… what did I do?” The little gasp she let out made his dick swell just a little; he knew he would explode at the lightest touch.

“You little sneaky vixen… look at how you just seduced me and fucked up my head..and I just let you. This that you see in front of you is my body’s raw reaction to you.. I crave you so badly baby, I’m in love with you .” Terry watched as her pretty brown eyes seemed clouded by his words, and he burned to touch her.

“It’s all on you baby…you make me feel like this, it’s all solidified now…there’s no going back. I’m in heat, baby…my body is begging for me to make what we have a lifelong love…to marry you and give you my babies..” He let her slide her soft palms along his bulky arms and felt the tingles that were left behind. She leaned up on her tippy toes and kissed him beneath his ear and whispered.

“So do it..”

_________________________________________________

Terry engulfed Willow into his heated embrace and began to slide his hands underneath his shirt that she was draped in. He felt her plump nipple pebble up under his touch as he tugged on them and ran the pads on his fingers over them.

“Hold the shirt up, let me eat my pussy.” Terry grumbled and sank down onto the plush cream carpet on her bedroom floor. He tugged down her boyshorts and she placed her hands on his shoulders to step out of them.

He placed her leg onto his built shoulders and let his pointer finger and thumb open the lips of her vulva. His plump lips gave open mouth kisses and he slowed his slurping and paced himself.

Willow was sweeter than any fruit or any treat he’d ever consumed, and he found it hard to control himself when they often tangled in the sheets.

“Ouu baby fuck…why are you eating my pussy like this?” Willow threw her head back and grinded her pussy across Terrys face.

“Mmm fuck mama feed me my pussy…I want you to nut.” Terry wagged his tongue back and forth as he sent Willow to another dimension with French kisses to her clit.

“Tell daddy you love him…I said tell daddy you fucking love him!” He nipped her inner thigh and stood to his feet.

“Ohh I love you..I-I love you so damn much!” Willow squeaked and held onto Terry as he carried her to her king sized bed.

“You about to get your money's worth out of this bed…I hope you know that. Might fuck you into the mattress mama..” Terry grabbed up a few plush pillows from her bed and placed them between the headboard and the wall, he didn’t want damage to the walls or paint.

The location of something very special came to the forefront of Terry’s mind; a ring. A pear shaped ring with a green quartz gemstone, a dazzling engagement ring that captured the beauty and love for greenery and nature that Willow held. A true embodiment of what Terry truly felt for her every passing day.

The ring normally sat in its box nestled in her nightstand, he had to move it often to be sure she never stumbled upon it and most days he just resorted to keeping it on his personal. He wanted the proposal to be huge and elaborate but today had taken him completely by surprise and his instincts urged to do it as soon as possible.

“Willow baby… forgive me for not giving you the absolute best when it comes to what I’m about to ask you, but I-I just couldn’t wait any longer. You know how much I love and care for you; how strongly my heart beats for you. Would you grant me the privilege of loving and caring for you for the rest of both of our lives…Willow will you marry me?”

He watched her big eyes fill with tears and she nodded her head quickly. “Yes yess I’ll marry you, I’ll marry you in every lifetime!” He hurried to grab the ring and hit onto his knees to place it onto her slim finger; it fit perfectly.

The shiny celadon green ring clashing with the creamy smooth brown skin of her hand was the perfect contrast, and she beamed internally and externally.

“You ready for some loving Mrs.Richmond?”

With a flirty smile and a bite of her lip she pulled him closer “Always ready Mr.Richmond !”

Promises of a 2025 baby had Terry flipping and tossing Willow every which way but loose,and the pillows behind the headboard? Useless. The bed squeaked and groaned under the ravenous couple who were hell bent on going straight through it. A permanent dent in the shape of them would be sure to form.

Hands locked with hers Terry rutted into her. “You want my babies… you want me to make you a mommy..hmm?” Expecting Willow to give him an answer right now was pure insanity as she shook and shuddered beneath him, the girl was literally dickmatized.

Rising slowly out of her stupor she locked her Legs around his hips. “Please daddy..yess I want you tooo, I want you to nut in me so badly!” Willow’s tongue slithered into the shell of his ear, nipping and sucking.

“Fuck me baby…harder. Uhn daddy my pussy…you’re so deep!” Opening his eyes to finally look down into hers he watched tears of pleasure cascade down her pretty face,her lip wedged between her teeth trying to quiet the loud screams in her throat.

“Mm mm let it out my baby… let daddy hear how good I’m fucking you…FUCK I can’t wait until you all swollen with MY babies!” Terry’s vision blurred and the veins in his neck protruded like they would pop from his strong neck. A loud sigh slipped from his mouth as his dick pushed out more cum than he’d ever thought he could produce, he was spent and he let his weight drop onto Willow.

He picked up her hand where the ring sat and kissed along her ring finger; his wife,his mate, and the future mother of his offspring. He lifted from her after some time and let his hot hand come down between them to press his palm onto her lower belly, almost like he was putting a spell on her womb to quicken her body into a pregnancy. His forehead sat in place of his hand and he pressed feather-like kisses to her soft belly, in a few weeks there’d be a baby forming inside.

“Thank you Willow. A lifetime of solitude would be worth fighting in every dimension if you were the end goal every time…I hope as your husband to one day pay you back tenfold for all you’ve made me feel and see in our time together.”

“What if I feel everything you just said? Before you I would’ve never imagined a love so sincere and sweet, it just didn’t seem possible for a girl like me…and yet here I am a wife to be with you by my side. It’s safe to say I’m the real winner here.”

The newly engaged couple stepped into the shower together high off of each others presence. They cleaned each other and washed each others face with their matching skincare products. Dressed in cozy holiday clothing and thick socks Terry insisted on finishing the tomato soup and grilled cheese sandwiches that Willow had abandoned earlier.

Once the food was ready the two cuddled on the plush sofa sharing a bowl,dipping the buttery cheesy sandwiches into the savory and herby soup. They coordinated hand feeding each other scraping the bottom of the bowl quicker than they’d like to.

A cheesy hallmark movie played in the background meanwhile the two sat lip locked for a second time since exiting the shower. Throw cover thrown over them and their wooded paradise turning into a mini water oasis, pure content rolled over them as a new brewing need for each other captured them. As long as Willow had Terry and Terry had Willow, the fast paced and ever changing world around them would never penetrate the shell their love provided.

———————————————————————————

A/N:Heyy guys (tucks hair behind ear)this is the end of my little beast in the woods fic. I really do hope yall enjoy and stick around a while if you’d like,for future updates with our favorite guy, I’m not done with him yet 🫦

@simplyzeeka @zillasvilla @blowmymbackout @kimuzostar @playgurlxoxo @kumkaniudaku @megamindsecretlair @pocketsizedpanther @theereina @keyaho @brattyfics @uzumaki-rebellion @nahimjustfeelingit-writes @fakxmbj

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lila-lou · 1 month ago

Text

✨Presents&Gingerbread✨

Summary: Ben has little interest in the season’s traditions but keeps up with the wrapping and decorations just to see you happy. Still, it didn’t take long for him to draw your attention away from the preparations, making it clear that you’re the only thing he cares about.

-Christmas Special-

Pairing: Soldier Boy x Reader

Warnings: 18+ only! Smut, Language, Fluff

Word Count: 5893

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

You could hear Ben’s frustrated grumbling from the bedroom, but you chose to ignore it for the time being, focusing on the dough in front of you. Baking wasn’t exactly your strong suit, but you figured gingerbread couldn’t be that hard. The dough stuck to your hands in a stubborn mess, and you sighed, wiping your forehead with the back of your wrist.

The smell of sugar and cinnamon wafted through the kitchen as the oven preheated, and you couldn’t help but smile at the thought of surprising Ben with the cookies, even if they turned out a bit misshapen.

From the bedroom, another curse echoed down the hall, followed by a loud thud. You stifled a laugh. "Everything okay in there?", you called, your voice teasing.

"Yeah, yeah, I got this", Ben replied, his tone sharp but with that underlying hint of amusement you had grown used to. He was stubborn, always determined to do things himself, even if it was something as simple as wrapping a present. But it was moments like this—him grumbling over a bit of tape and wrapping paper—that reminded you there was more to the Soldier Boy façade than he let on.

You brushed some flour off your hands, glancing toward the doorway. You could almost picture him in there, brow furrowed, jaw clenched, struggling with the wrapping paper as if it were some kind of enemy.

"You sure?", you teased again, pulling open the oven and sliding in the tray of misshapen gingerbread men.

A pause. Then, "I swear, if this doesn’t stay… You’ll get a box and nothing else. Hope you like fucking cardboard".

You chuckled, shaking your head. "I’ll take what I can get".

Seconds later, you heard another rip of wrapping paper, followed by a string of curses so creative you couldn’t help but stifle a laugh. It was clear things weren’t going any better for him. You wiped your hands on a dish towel, half tempted to go in and offer help, but you knew Ben well enough to know he’d refuse. He wasn’t the type to let anyone see him struggle—even with something as trivial as wrapping a present.

Instead, you leaned against the kitchen counter, waiting for the cookies to bake, and called out, "You know, it’s the thought that counts, not the presentation, right?".

"Presentation matters, dammit", Ben shot back, his voice slightly muffled but dripping with frustration. "What kind of guy gives his girl a mangled present? I can blow up tanks, but this… this paper is kicking my ass".

You bit your lip to keep from laughing out loud. The image of Soldier Boy—America's perfect warrior, fighting to the death with a roll of wrapping paper—was too much. "Pretty sure I’ll still love it", you replied, trying to sound reassuring.

"Yeah, well, I’m not pretty sure of anything right now", Ben muttered. You heard another tear, then the sound of tape being yanked furiously from the dispenser. "This shit's defective".

You finally gave in to curiosity, walking to the doorway of the bedroom and leaning against the frame. There he was, hunched over the bed, a mess of torn wrapping paper scattered around him, the box he was trying to wrap looking more like a battle casualty than a gift. His face was a picture of sheer frustration, a rare sight considering how confident and in control he always seemed.

"You good?", you asked, grinning.

He snapped his head up, narrowing his eyes at you. "Don’t say a fucking word".

You held up your hands in surrender, though your grin only widened. "Wouldn't dream of it".

Ben huffed, turning his attention back to the mangled mess of paper. "This is stupid. I don’t know why people bother with this shit".

Stepping into the room, you sat on the edge of the bed, watching him for a moment before saying softly, "You don’t have to do this, you know. I already know how much you care".

Ben paused, his fingers gripping the paper as he looked over at you. His expression softened just a fraction, the frustration easing from his shoulders. "Yeah, well, you deserve something nice", he muttered, glancing away as if embarrassed.

Your heart warmed at the sentiment. Without a word, you reached out, gently touching his arm. "This is nice, Ben", you said quietly. "All of it. You trying… It means a lot".

He sighed, dropping the tape. "I’m not good at this stupid shit".

"I think you’re doing just fine", you reassured him, leaning in and pressing a light kiss to his cheek.

Ben turned to face you fully, a rare smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "You’re just saying that because you like me".

You laughed softly. "Yeah, maybe I do".

You looked down at the “present”, if you could even call it that. It looked more like a ball of crumpled wrapping paper than anything resembling a gift, with tape sticking out at odd angles and creases everywhere. Yet, Ben placed a small red bow on top with an exaggerated flourish, looking—despite everything—a little bit proud. The fact that the paper had actually stuck this time and didn’t peel off again seemed like a victory in his book.

“There”, he said, handing you the half-ball of paper, “for the tree”.

You took it from him gently, doing your best to suppress a laugh. You gave him a soft smile, admiring the effort more than the execution. “It’s… definitely unique”.

Ben grinned, catching onto your amusement but not minding it. “It’s gonna stand out from all the other perfect presents you wrapped”, he said, motioning to the stack of neatly wrapped gifts under the tree, each one with straight corners and perfectly tied ribbons.

“I think it’ll fit right in”, you said.

Ben stood up, stretching his arms above his head and surveying the room. He glanced down at the floor, where scraps of shredded wrapping paper littered the carpet. With a sigh, he began gathering the mess into his hands. “I swear, next time, I’m just getting a bag”.

You chuckled, getting up to help him. “Next time, you could just ask for my help, you know”.

He gave you a sideways look. “Yeah, like that’s fucking happening”.

“You act like wrapping presents is some top-secret operation”.

Ben snorted, crumpling another piece of paper. “For me, it might as well be. Fighting’s easier”.

You smiled, watching him as he cleared the floor. For someone so used to being seen as a powerhouse—a legend even—these small moments of vulnerability were rare. And yet, here he was, standing in the middle of the room, surrounded by torn wrapping paper and Christmas lights, doing something as simple and human as trying to wrap a present for you.

Once the mess was cleaned up, he straightened, looking over at you. “You still baking those cookies?”.

“I’m trying”, you said with a laugh. “But they’re probably not turning out much better than your wrapping job”.

Ben shrugged, tossing the last ball of paper into the trash. “We’ll call it even, then. Cookies for my screwed-up present”.

You grinned. “Deal”.

The two of you walked out of the bedroom. Ben had a few crumpled bits of wrapping paper still in his hands as he made his way toward the trash can in the kitchen. You followed him with his “present” carefully balanced in your arms, the lumpy shape almost endearing in its awkwardness.

As you knelt down to place the gift under the Christmas tree, you took a step back to admire how it sat among the others, its irregular shape standing out, but in a way that made you smile even more. There was something perfect in its imperfection—like it held a little more heart than the perfectly wrapped boxes surrounding it.

Ben, meanwhile, was peering into the oven, his hands resting on his hips, inspecting the cookies with a critical gaze. “How long do these things usually take?”, he asked, squinting at the misshapen gingerbread men that were slowly starting to brown around the edges.

“Shouldn’t be much longer”, you said as you joined him by the stove, leaning slightly against the counter. The two of you stared through the glass window in silence for a moment, watching the cookies bake as the scent of cinnamon and ginger filled the kitchen.

Ben glanced at you from the corner of his eye. “They look a little… rough, don’t they?”.

You chuckled softly. “Well, I wasn’t exactly going for ‘perfect’, just edible”.

“Edible’s good enough”, Ben agreed, nodding like it was some grand compromise. He opened the oven just a crack, feeling the wave of warm air hit his face. “I’ve had worse, believe me”.

You raised an eyebrow, giving him a teasing grin. “Is that your way of saying you’ll actually eat one?”.

He shrugged, stepping back and letting the oven door click shut. “Hey, I’ve survived worse. They smell alright, so… why not?”.

You laughed softly, bumping your shoulder against his arm. “I’ll take that as a win”.

Ben leaned back against the counter, crossing his arms, watching you as you moved around the kitchen. The glow of the Christmas lights from the tree in the other room flickered softly, casting a warm hue over the space. You could feel his eyes on you, and when you looked up, he gave a small, almost shy smile.

“This whole Christmas thing”, he muttered, glancing away for a second before meeting your gaze again. “Why do you love it so much?”.

His question hung in the air for a moment, catching you off guard. You’d never really thought about why Christmas meant so much to you—it was just something you always enjoyed. The lights, the warmth, the smell of baked goods filling the house—it was a feeling, more than anything. But for Ben, who’d never really had a reason to celebrate it, you realized it probably didn’t make much sense.

You set the oven mitt down, leaning against the counter beside him. “I guess it’s not just one thing”, you said thoughtfully, your voice soft. “It’s about the little things—the warmth, the coziness, the way everything feels kind of… special, you know? It’s like the whole world slows down for a bit, and you can just focus on the people you care about”.

Ben raised an eyebrow, looking at you like he was trying to understand. “So, it’s not just about all the eating?”.

You laughed, shaking your head. “Well, that’s a part of it. I’ve seen how much you enjoy that part”.

He smirked, his gaze softening as he leaned a little closer. “You’ve been cooking up a storm these past few weeks. I’m not complaining or anything—it’s been pretty great”.

You smiled, remembering the countless batches of cookies, pies, and everything in between you’d made over the last few weeks. You’d thrown yourself into it, trying different recipes to make sure Christmas Eve dinner would be perfect. You wanted the apartment to feel like home, especially for Ben, who wasn’t used to this kind of thing.

“But it’s more than just the food”, you continued, your voice softening. “It’s about making the place feel like… like somewhere we can be ourselves, away from everything else. Somewhere safe”. You glanced at him, your gaze gentle. “I know it’s probably cheesy to you. But Christmas has always been about family, about togetherness, and even though things aren’t perfect, it’s a time to just appreciate what you’ve got”.

Ben’s expression shifted, something unreadable flickering in his eyes. He wasn’t used to that kind of sentiment. You knew that much about him. Christmas was just another day for most of his life—another day he didn’t have to care about. And yet here he was, going through all this “crap”, as he called it, for you.

“I guess I just never had that”, he admitted quietly, his voice almost a murmur. “Never really celebrated it. My father didn’t think much of it, and after that… well, it was just another day”.

You nodded, understanding what he wasn’t saying. His life had been far from ordinary, far from the kind of life where holidays held meaning. But the fact that he was doing this, trying to wrap presents, watching cookies bake, and standing in a cozy apartment surrounded by Christmas lights—for you—that meant more than he could ever know.

“Maybe that’s why it’s important to me”, you said, your voice gentle. “Because we get to create our own version of it. You and me. We get to decide what Christmas means, and it doesn’t have to be perfect”.

Ben glanced down at the floor, then back at you, his eyes searching yours. “Yeah, well, I’m doing all this crap for you, you know. The wrapping, the tree, the whole deal”. He scratched the back of his head, looking almost sheepish. “I still don’t get it, but if it makes you happy…”.

You smiled, your heart swelling at his words. “It does. But you being here with me, doing all of this… that’s what makes it special”.

For a moment, Ben didn’t say anything. He just stood there, looking at you, and you could see something shift in him—a softening, maybe even a realization. He stepped closer, pulling you into his arms again, his embrace warm and steady.

“Well, I guess I can live with that”, he muttered, his voice low but full of something unspoken, something that said more than the words ever could.

You wrapped your arms around him, resting your head against his chest. “Thank you, Ben. For trying. It means a lot”.

He huffed a small laugh, his chin resting on your head. “Yeah, yeah. Just don’t expect me to sing any carols or whatever”.

You grinned up at him, still nestled comfortably in his arms. “No carols, huh?” you teased, playfully. “Not even Jingle Bells?”.

Ben rolled his eyes, his grip on you tightening just a little before he pulled back to look at you. “Don’t fucking push it. I’m doing enough with the whole ‘festive spirit’ thing”.

You opened your mouth to respond, but just then, the timer on your phone went off, the cheerful chime cutting through the cozy silence. The cookies.

You sighed, reluctantly stepping out of his embrace. “Hold that thought”, you said, giving him a wink as you grabbed the oven mitts and hurried to pull the tray of gingerbread cookies out of the oven. The warm, spiced aroma filled the room, and despite how unsure you were about how they’d turn out, you felt a little wave of excitement.

Ben leaned against the counter again, watching you with a mix of amusement and curiosity. “Let’s see these masterpieces”, he said, his tone dripping with sarcasm.

You pulled the tray out, setting it down on the stove and looking over the cookies. They weren’t exactly bakery-level quality—some were a little darker around the edges, a few misshapen—but all in all, they weren’t half bad.

“Well”, you said, eyeing them critically, “they’re edible”.

Ben snorted, stepping closer to inspect them. “Not bad, actually”, he said, grabbing one without hesitation. He blew on it briefly before taking a bite, chewing thoughtfully. “Crunchy, but I’ve eaten worse”.

You laughed, grabbing a cookie yourself. “I’ll take that as a glowing review”.

Ben leaned back against the counter, finishing the cookie in a couple more bites. “You should”, he said with a grin, wiping his hand on his jeans. “I don’t hand out compliments for free”.

“Of course not”, you replied, your voice teasing as you took a bite of your own cookie. You couldn’t help but feel a little proud of how they turned out, considering all the experimenting you’d done over the last few weeks.

“Alright”, Ben mumbled under his breath, his voice low and filled with something mischievous. Before you could even react, his strong hands found their way to your hips, gripping you firmly and pulling you against him in one swift, fluid motion. The sudden movement caught you completely off guard, and your half-eaten cookie slipped from your fingers, falling to the floor with a soft thud.

“Ben!”, you squeaked in surprise, but he was already moving, effortlessly lifting you onto his hips as if you weighed nothing. His grip was strong and sure, and his eyes glinted with a mix of playful intent as he began walking toward the bedroom.

You instinctively wrapped your arms around his shoulders, your laughter bubbling up despite the suddenness of it all. “What are you doing?”, you asked, though you already had an idea. Your heart raced as he carried you with ease, each step confident and determined.

Ben didn’t answer right away, just gave you a smirk. “No more baking for tonight”, he said, his voice low and teasing as he made his way toward the bedroom door. “You’ve been fussing over cookies and Christmas stuff for weeks. Time for a different kind of fun”.

You couldn’t help but laugh, your earlier thoughts of the cookies and Christmas decorations fading quickly. The warmth of the room, the soft glow of the lights filtering through the hall, and the way Ben held you with such ease—it was all enough to make your pulse quicken.

As he pushed open the door to your bedroom with his shoulder, you felt a shiver of excitement run down your spine. He stepped inside, kicking the door shut behind him.

Ben kicked the door shut behind him with a controlled force, and the soft click echoed through the room. You could feel the tension in the air shift as he leaned in closer, his breath warm against your neck. His hands, still firmly gripping your hips, slid up your waist with deliberate slowness, teasing but firm, the touch sending a shiver down your spine.

“You’ve been working so hard on that stupid Christmas cheer”, he murmured, his voice low, almost a growl, as he leaned in close to your ear. “But I think it’s time you relaxed a little”.

His lips brushed against your skin, so close yet barely making contact, and you couldn’t help the soft, involuntary gasp that escaped your lips. His smirk deepened, clearly pleased with your reaction. He always knew exactly how to get under your skin, how to tease you in just the right way, making your heart race and your thoughts scatter.

“You’re always fussing about something”, he teased, his voice a husky whisper as he hovered over you, “whether it’s wrapping presents or baking cookies. I think it’s my turn to get a little of your attention”.

You tried to play it cool, even though your pulse was quickening. “Oh? And what makes you think you deserve my attention?”.

Ben let out a low chuckle, his fingers trailing up your side, sending a rush of heat through you. “Because”, he murmured, his lips ghosting over the curve of your neck, “I’m not the kind of guy who fucking waits around for permission”.

His words were playful, but there was an edge of truth behind them—Ben never did things halfway, and he never shied away from taking what he wanted. And right now, he wanted you.

You felt his grip tighten ever so slightly as he shifted, pressing you back against the bed with a fluid motion. His eyes met yours, full of heat and mischief.

In one swift motion, he pushed you down gently but assertively, his weight following as he climbed on top of you. The heat between you was palpable, and the teasing smirk on his lips never wavered as he leaned down, his mouth tracing a slow, tantalizing line from the base of your neck down toward your collarbone.

His lips pressed soft, lingering kisses against your skin, each touch sending jolts of warmth coursing through you. You could feel the faint scrape of his stubble as his kisses became more deliberate, more hungry. Ben's hands moved with practiced ease, already starting to undo the buttons of your shirt, each one coming undone with a deliberate flick of his fingers.

"You’re not getting away that easy", he murmured against your skin, his breath hot against your collarbone as he pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes dark with intent.

Before you could respond, his mouth returned to your skin, this time pressing more insistently, his lips and tongue tracing slow patterns over the exposed part of your chest. He was already halfway down the buttons of your shirt, exposing more of your skin with each passing second. You felt your pulse quicken, your breath catching in your throat as his kisses moved lower.

Ben’s hands slid beneath the fabric of your shirt, rough and warm as they caressed your sides, his touch firm and possessive. His movements were slow, deliberate, as if he wanted to take his time unraveling you. He lifted his head for a moment, meeting your eyes with that same mischievous smirk, his voice a husky murmur as he whispered, "See? Told you I don’t need permission".

His confidence, his dominance—it was magnetic. You could feel your body responding to him, arching toward his touch as he lowered his mouth again, trailing hot kisses down your chest, leaving a trail of fire in his wake. Every touch, every kiss, felt like it was claiming you, making you his, just as he had promised.

His lips ghosted over the skin of your stomach, soft and teasing, the warmth of his breath heightening the sensation. His hands moved in sync with his mouth, sliding down your sides until they found the waistband of your jeans.

With a deft motion, he hooked his fingers around both your jeans and panties, pausing only for a moment to glance up at you, his smirk widening as he saw the look on your face. Without breaking eye contact, he began to pull them down, the fabric sliding against your skin in one smooth motion. The cool air met your heated skin as he peeled them away, tossing them aside with a casual flick of his wrist, as if discarding anything that stood between him and what he wanted.

For a moment, Ben lingered, his eyes roaming over your body with an intensity that sent a fresh wave of heat through you. His hands moved to your thighs, gripping them firmly, his thumbs brushing over the soft skin as he spread you slightly beneath him, positioning himself closer. His gaze was dark, filled with hunger and something primal, and it made your pulse race.

He lowered his head again, this time pressing a kiss just above your hip, then moving lower, his breath hot against your skin.

"You taste even better than I remember", he murmured against your skin, his voice rough and laced with desire, his lips hovering dangerously close to where you wanted him most.

Ben’s mouth finally met you where you ached for him most, his lips brushing lightly against your skin. His kisses were tender at first, exploratory, as if he was savoring each reaction he drew from you. But it was when his tongue made contact that the sensation became more intense.

His tongue traced a slow, deliberate path along the sensitive folds of your body, moving with a deliberate, teasing rhythm. The tip of his tongue explored gently, pausing at the most sensitive spots, before moving in soft, circular motions. His touch was warm and wet, the sensation both electrifying and soothing as he took his time to learn your body’s reactions.

Ben’s movements were calculated, his tongue pressing against you with a gentle but insistent pressure. He alternated between slow, languid strokes and slightly quicker, more focused flicks, each movement aimed at heightening your pleasure.

As you were lost in the rhythmic play of Ben’s tongue, his technique shifted suddenly without warning. He enveloped your clit with a firm suction, his lips tightly sealed around it as he applied a concentrated pressure that made your back arch and a sharp gasp escape your lips. The sudden intensity of the sensation, combined with a gentle, teasing bite that was just enough to send a shockwave of pleasure through your body, contrasted starkly with the gentle lapping that had preceded it.

This sudden change amplified the sensations flooding through you, drawing a fine line between pleasure and the thrilling edge of too much. Ben seemed to sense this razor-thin boundary and expertly walked you along it. He eased the pressure just slightly when it seemed overwhelming, then built it back up, pushing you closer and closer to the brink.

As he continued, his hands found their way to your hips, holding you firmly in place. This firm grip ensured that you felt the full range of his movements—every suck, every bite—while also grounding you, holding you steady.

The intensity of Ben’s actions, combined with the overwhelming sensations coursing through you, made you lose control. As you cried out his name, your hands gripped his hair tightly, pulling him closer as if you were trying to fuse him to you. The force of your tug was unintentional but fervent, driven by the powerful waves of pleasure crashing over you.

Ben’s reaction was immediate—he responded to your urgent touch by increasing the intensity of his efforts. His tongue worked with renewed fervor, the suction on your clit growing more insistent, while his lips and teeth continued.

As the waves of pleasure grew more intense, your cries became more urgent, blending with the sounds of his determined efforts.

As you lay there, your chest rising and falling in the aftermath of the intense release, you slowly began to catch your breath. The room felt warmer, the air thick. Ben pushed himself back up from his position, his movements slow, savoring the moment. He wiped the remnants of your pleasure from his mouth with the back of his wrist, his smirk already in place as he locked eyes with you.

There was a look in his eyes, one of pride and satisfaction, but also that unmistakable mischief you’d come to recognize. He knew exactly what he had just done to you, how completely he had unraveled you, and how only he had the power to make you lose yourself like this.

His smirk deepened as he leaned over you, bracing himself on his forearms, his face hovering inches above yours. "Looks like I’ve still got it", he teased, his voice low and rough, a playful challenge hidden in his words.

You could still feel the aftershocks of your climax humming through your body, your limbs weak and trembling slightly from the intensity. His gaze stayed fixed on yours, that knowing glint never fading as he took in the way you were still recovering, your body warm and flushed under him.

"Only I can make you come like that, huh?", Ben’s voice was a husky murmur, full of that trademark confidence. He leaned in even closer, his lips brushing against your ear as he whispered, "I think I’m gonna enjoy making you lose control again".

You shivered, not from the cold, but from the way his voice seemed to vibrate through you, reigniting a flicker of desire even though you were still coming down from the high he’d just given you.

As he pulled back just enough to look at you again. "Ready for round two?", he asked, his tone equal parts teasing and genuine challenge, knowing full well that you weren’t done yet.

You chuckled softly, still catching your breath, not entirely sure if you were ready for what Ben had in mind. "I don’t know if I—", Before you could even finish your sentence, Ben was already moving, his hands quick and sure as he undid his belt with practiced ease. The clinking sound of metal filled the air as his jeans slipped halfway down his thighs.

He didn’t wait for you to gather your thoughts or prepare yourself. In one swift, commanding motion, he pushed inside you, filling you completely without warning. The sudden stretch was overwhelming, and you gasped, your fingers instinctively gripping the sheets beneath you as your body tried to adjust to the sudden, intense intrusion.

Ben groaned low in his throat, his voice gravelly with satisfaction as he felt how tight you were around him, his hands gripping your hips with a possessive force. "Fuck baby", he muttered, his head falling forward as he closed his eyes for a moment, savoring the sensation of being buried deep inside you. He loved the way your body clenched around him, as if you were made just for him, and the way you reacted—your gasps, your body arching beneath him—only fueled his desire.

The initial shock of his sudden entry faded into a wave of pleasure, and your body responded instinctively, hips lifting to meet his as you adjusted to the fullness. Ben wasted no time, his movements sure as he began to thrust into you. Every stroke was deep, purposeful, each one sending a shock of pleasure through you, the force of his hips driving you into the mattress.

"You feel so good", he growled, his hands tightening their grip on you as he thrust harder, loving the way you trembled beneath him. There was a primal satisfaction in the way your body responded to him, how tight and warm you felt around him, and he couldn’t get enough of it.

Each thrust came harder than the last, his pace relentless, as if he was determined to claim you all over again, and you could barely catch your breath. The intensity of it all—his strength, his speed, the sheer power behind every movement—left you teetering on the edge of another climax, the pressure building inside you rapidly.

Ben leaned down, his breath hot against your ear as he murmured, "You’re mine". And in that moment, it was clear—he wasn’t going to let you catch your breath, wasn’t going to give you a second to recover. He was going to take you, completely and utterly, until there was nothing left but him.

And the way he moved, the way he knew your body so well—it left you no doubt that you were his.

About an hour later, the two of you sat on the couch, freshly showered and wrapped in the warmth of cozy sweatpants and hoodies. The energy between you had shifted, from the heated intensity of earlier to a comforting calm. The soft glow of the Christmas lights flickered in the corner of the room, casting a warm, peaceful ambiance over everything.

You scrolled through the list of movies, trying to decide which one would set the perfect tone for the evening. Ben, however, seemed completely uninterested in the selection process. He was too busy munching on the gingerbread cookies you had baked, his free hand absently brushing over your arm as he held you close against his side. The light pressure of his fingers against your skin was soothing, his casual affection a stark contrast to the earlier moments of intensity.

“You sure you don’t care what we watch?”, you asked, glancing up at him, though you already knew the answer.

Ben barely looked up from his cookie, grinning around the bite he had just taken. “As long as I have these”, he mumbled, gesturing toward the plate of cookies on the coffee table, “I’m good with whatever”. His words were muffled, but the lazy contentment in his tone was unmistakable.

You laughed softly, shaking your head as you settled more comfortably against him. His arm tightened around you slightly, pulling you closer, and you rested your head on his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his breathing. It felt good—safe—to be here like this, wrapped in the warmth of his embrace, with no urgency, no rush, just the quiet, cozy moment the two of you were sharing.

“Fine”, you said, picking a random holiday movie and hitting play. You weren’t really focused on the screen either. It wasn’t about the movie; it was about this—being here with Ben, comfortable and relaxed.

Ben’s hand moved to your hair, his fingers lazily combing through the strands, the simple gesture making you melt further into him. He shifted slightly, pressing a soft kiss to your temple, his lips lingering there for a moment longer than necessary. His touch was gentle, almost tender, as if he was savoring the quiet closeness between you.

“This”, he mumbled, his voice low and warm against your skin, “this right here is my favorite part of all this Christmas shit”.

You chuckled quietly, tilting your head slightly to look up at him. “Even more than the cookies?”.

Ben’s lips quirked into a lazy grin as he glanced down at you, his hand still resting on your arm. “Even more than the cookies”, he admitted, his voice softer now. “Though I won’t say no to another batch”.

You laughed, feeling the warmth of his affection settle deeper within you. It was rare for Ben to open up like this, even in small ways, but when he did, it meant everything. His affection was subtle, woven into small gestures like the way he held you close or kissed your temple—never needing grand declarations, because moments like these said it all.

Grinning softly, you leaned up just enough to whisper, "I love you".

The words came out gently, but with all the weight of truth behind them. It wasn’t the first time you’d said it, but somehow, in this quiet moment with the glow of the Christmas lights flickering in the background, it felt different—deeper, more meaningful. You could see the way the words affected him, even if he didn’t say anything right away. His eyes softened even further, the usual cockiness in his expression replaced with something that looked a lot like love.

Ben didn’t reply immediately, but the way his arm tightened around you, pulling you closer into him, said everything you needed to hear. He lowered his head, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your forehead, his lips warm against your skin. His breath was steady, and you could feel the slight hitch in it, the way your words had touched him even if he wasn’t going to let it show completely.

"Yeah", he murmured softly, his voice barely a whisper. "Love you too".

———————————

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

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