#and management is not Managing and i hate that

[lucabyte]

my favourite big-hatted not-men with giant holes in their brains where their memories should be (and their kinda-dead doubles called loop/lup)

+bonus doodles because thinking about the taz balance cast for 0.2 seconds reminded me how much i like themmmm

[pedgito]

𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐘𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆 | Tommy Miller x reader x Joel Miller

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summary | You need something to ease the pain, but Joel and Tommy aren't very generous.

author's note | this isn't for everyone, please read the tags. i'm already working for a follow-up on this, but if you decide to read this - thank you!! <3 also ily and thank you for the betas @gracieheartspedro @amanitacowboy

content warning | DDDNE — noncon & dubcon, there's not defined consent, reader is both drugged and has a head injury that is blurring the lines of reality, early outbreak days, dark!tommy, dark!joel, unprotected piv, restraints, degrading, deepthroating, creampies, this is literally them fighting over a shiny new toy, joel spitting on reader, marking/claiming, very little aftercare. this is dark fic, don't engage if you don't like.

word count — 5.3k

You had struck gold.

On, well, drugs.

There was the saying—only the strongest will survive. But, you’ve seen a clicker take down a man double its size without an ounce of struggle.

Then again, they were literal killing machines.

You’ve learned that sanity is what has kept you alive.

And lately, yours had been slipping.

It was the anxiety, the lack of food and water, the seventh group you’ve filtered into torn to bits overnight and because you were so weary – always sleeping above ground level and never really letting yourself succumb to deep sleep – had managed to slip away in the knick of time.

Regardless, you needed the drugs.

You’ve been on the run for two weeks, completely alone, raiding every hospital and pharmacy you’ve come across with no luck, all wiped clean.

Sometimes, the anxiety made your chest hurt — blood pumping into your ears so loud you couldn’t hear anything else, too aware of the functions within your own body.

It has gotten explicitly worse the past couple days and when you finally find some luck, therein follows the immediate feeling that it was too good to be true.

There was a catch.

This was a trap.

Well, fuck it.

What did you have to lose anyways?

You’ve been in this dilapidated house before, months ago when you were passing through with another group. So, when you find the bags, you’re wondering if this was just a mistake.

Someone had left these behind, surely.

There wasn’t anyone in the nearest vicinity, not a speckle of life anywhere to be found.

So, you dig.

There’s a treasure trove of bottles all half full or almost empty, scanning through the names until you find something worth taking.

Diazepam.

It could work, it would work.

By the looks of it, there’s only ten pills left and if you used them sparingly enough, you could stretch it out for a couple months, long enough to continue your search.

The end goal was always civilization, hopeful that you could stumble upon a well-established group that would be kind enough to take you in. 

Though, the outlook was grim.

You stuff the bottles of pills into your coat pocket and continue to dig, unsure why you’re feeling so greedy. Some of the labels are ripped and unintelligible, some of the bottles simply don’t pique your interest, crouched on the floor and burrowing through someone else's belongings like a rat.

You’re so focused that you don’t hear the footsteps until it’s too late.

“Don’t move.”

The voice is sharp, cuts through the silence like a knife and you freeze, hunched over and caught red-handed.

“Turn around slowly.”

You comply, unwinding yourself carefully, heart pounding in your chest.

There’s one man standing in the doorway, another a few steps ahead. 

They share a similar build and face, undoubtedly related. 

You raise your hands to show no threat, hands shaking slightly. “I’m just passing through,” you say, trying to keep your voice steady. “I didn’t think anyone was here.”

The closer man takes a step forward, but the gun doesn’t waver. “You with anyone?”

“No.” You hate how weak you sound, “No—just….just me,”

Dumbass. You should have lied.

Your hands are shaking noticeably and you’re not sure if it’s from fear or adrenaline or relief that you’ve scored something.

It doesn’t matter. 

“Empty your pockets,” his voice is indescribable, but demanding, eyes lingering briefly to the quieter man behind him that lingered like a shadow, as you hesitate, the gun clicks, “I’m not askin’.”

“I didn’t—take,” you panic, licking nervously at your lips, “I—you don’t understand,” you know they can hear the shuffle of the half-empty pillow bottle in your coat pocket, clear as day, “please don’t kill me, god—”

The idea seemed more intriguing now than it ever has.

The two men share a look, clearly one they have passed along a million times before.

“Turn around,” the man demands, “keep your hands up,”

You follow instructions with minor hesitancy, hearing the footsteps grow closer before the hands spread around your waist and up your ribs and you catch the gentle woosh of longer hair against your cheek that ultimately belonged to the other man.

You’re not sure whyor where the courage takes hold – it was stupid, outnumbered and unskilled when it came to combat, you were fighting a losing battle.

Your elbow swings back into the other man’s ribs and he grunts, roughly grabbing you by the back of your neck before shoving you at the one wielding the revolver, “Screw this, I’ll just fuckin’ shoot ‘er,” the voice belonging to the one with the menacing scowl and hard gaze.

“Joel, slow your goddamn roll,” it was a tidbit of information that he shouldn’t have let slip, feeling the hand at your bicep as it twisted behind your back tightly, gasping at the sharp sting of pain.

“Kill first, take later,” Joel reminds the other man, “we’ve been over this, Tommy.”

Joel. Tommy.

Brothers, clearly.

The outbreak was still fresh in hindsight, only two years since the attacks on the city started. It was clear that some people thrived in environments like this, feeding off violence to achieve their goal.

You’d stumbled into the wrong hands, all of your luck having officially ran out.

You’re not sure why they decide to spare you, but they do.

Time passes — seconds that feel like hours, before the butt of a gun is making contact with the side of your head. 

You’re out like a light, meeting the floor with an unkind thump that splits open the skin near your temple, blood pooling around the wound and along the dilapidated hardwood.

“She’s your responsibility,” Joel tells his brother, shoving the gun into his chest, “take care of it.”

—

There was no expectation of waking until it happened.

Everything felt fuzzy, light, more welcoming than you expected. You could feel the cool sheets under your skin, a hastily applied bandage to your head, but your hands were bound.

There was an uneasy feeling to the picture painted before you, the usual diluted blues and green and greys of the apocalypse replaced with something warm.

You moan slightly, shifting as you blink to collect yourself, immediately faced with one of the men from earlier with a different kind of concern etched on his face. 

As far as you could tell, he was alone.

And much more docile.

“Oh, woah, little lady,” he says, all charm in his thick southern twang, “you took quite a spill earlier.”

You moan again, this time in response, “You—he…hit me.”

“Joel? Yeah, he ain’t much of a people person,” Tommy explains, “he left for a bit, though. I patched ‘ya up, gave you some meds to help with the pain,”

He notices your gaze drifting, like it was too hard to keep focus despite your valiant effort. 

You nod in compliance.

You can feel the hand that settles between your thighs, a soft caress as Tommy checks gingerly at your wound, the press of his fingers digging into the supple flesh at the inside of your leg.

“I think you’ll be right as rain, probably best to keep you here for a couple days until we can let you go,” he admits, “seems a little negligent and unfair to force you outside to deal with infected in your condition.”

Tommy liked his trinkets, though.

Sweet, shiny things that peaked his interest.

There’s a softness to your features that has been long lost on many, just the subtle glint of weakness he needs.

“I’m so sleepy,” you slur tiredly, groaning softly as you turn to your side, feeling the hand shift from between your legs to graze up the curve of your ass and against your back.

It was a nice touch, comforting — warm, safe. 

No part of you can recognize who the hand belongs to, not in this state of mind, the room swirling with faint orange from the setting sun — was it a bedroom? 

Living room? 

Or, it was a dream. The afterlife, even.

Maybe you had died and this was the sick way your body was deciding to cope, cared for by your captors.

But, nothing about Tommy outwardly screamed danger.

Not like the way Joel's bared teeth, scruffy beard and stench of blood had. 

No, Tommy was sanitary, preened and clean; a wolf dressed up in sheep’s clothing. 

You can’t muster the care to worry about this now.

“Get some rest, darlin’,” he encourages, the touch moving to your hair now, curling the strands around his fingers gently.

You give into the medicine slowly creeping through your veins. Sleep overtakes you with little resistance. There is only darkness for a while, the absence of thought or feeling, until there’s the strange sensation you are being moved and manhandled. 

Your limp body in someone’s arms, then in their lap, against their chest before you’re pressed into the mattress again but on your stomach, head carefully angled to avoid injury or irritation. Not that it mattered, your entire body was numb now.

It is a new kind of warmth that blankets you.

You can distantly hear a voice before you slip back into unconsciousness.

“... sweet little thing,” he says.

The passage of time feels endless.

The weight in the bed beside you comes and goes, the room filtering between light and dark, unsure how many days have passed. Occasionally you wake to drink water or take a few sparing bites of food, just enough to placate your angry stomach as you’re continuously fed meds to remain complacent.

It isn’t that you mind—you don’t. It was the best care you’ve had in months.

Actually, you don't ever remember being cared for like this.

There’s only ever one set of footsteps, no voices aside from one, and the constant looming feeling that he was around. You weren’t unsettled by it, rather comforted. 

Tommy was being unbelievably kind despite your actions—he could have killed you outright, but instead, he was caring for you. You weren’t sure if his brother would be delighted at the idea, but he wasn’t here right now.

You can hear the faint chirp of crickets and a room blanketed in blue when the bed dips under the weight of someone sitting down again, and warm fingers brush across your cheek.

“Hey there,” Tommy’s voice sounds from behind you. “glad to see you awake.”

He sounds genuine.

You turn slightly to peer up at him, vision still hazy.

His eyes are crinkled with a slight smile, a thick mustache covering his upper lip. He’s stripped out of his jacket, clad in a shirt and jeans, and his touch still hasn't left you. Instead, it grows.

Explorative, you lie still.

There’s a wondrous edge to his gaze, his touch roaming the expanse of your body, clean of dirt and grime and suddenly you realize you’re dressed in fresh clothes, pants folded at the end of the bed. There was only a shirt and a thin pair of underwearing covering your body.

He had bathed you? Changed you?

Tommy notices the panic of the realization but soothes your worry with a touch that is gentle against your forehead, a much smaller bandage covering your head injury.

It’s weird, the faint glow that surrounds him.

Part of you wonders if this is still just a dream—maybe you’ve been dead for days.

His touch is so warm, guiding your legs apart as you gasp, his fingers resting over your core like they weren’t meant to be there.

“Wait,” you breath, thighs closing instinctively, “don’t—”

“Shhh,” Tommy soothes, the fingers of his opposite hand running along the side of your face, thumb brushing over your bottom lip as he traces the flesh, “s’alright, you’re still lookin’ a little sleepy, sugar. Go on, you can rest,”

You’re only vaguely aware of how your bindings have changed, spread out at either end of the bedpost rather than bunched over your head, somehow feeling more restrictive than the latter.

Sleep was incredibly hard to fight, eyes fluttering through the growing curiosity of his touches, eventually slipping under the fabric of your panties.

“....well, look at that,” his voice is distant, but he’s met with a wet, warm heat as his fingers slide between your folds, watching as your lips part with the touch, “she loves me, don’t she?”

A soft mumble of a response in protest because it shouldn’t feel this good.

Tommy takes it in stride, the swift whip of his belt as it comes undone.

“Think I can make it quick,” Tommy says mutedly, feeling like you were underwater, “Joel should be back later, but I’ll treat your right, don’t worry,”

As the fabric goes, you come to, eyes widening as Tommy was already stripped of his jeans and underwear, cock hard and proud in his hand as he positioned himself between your legs, a gentle touch of his finger pressing inside of you.

The stretch makes you gasp, the fullness even more apparent as he adds another finger, pushing deep. It’s too much, the intensity of it all as you gasp and squirm against the bed. It was akin to something your body craved but your mind hasn’t caught up to yet.

It’s good, though—almost dizzyingly so. Tommy smirks; he knows it.

There’s a tightness in your chest that screams danger, but every time you open your mouth to protest, only a moan comes out.

“Fuck,” Tommy groans as he watches your eyes fall shut, finger working loudly inside of you against your squelching heat, “how am I supposed to wait with you so ready for me?”

He wasn’t. You could feel him shifting instead, hands spread out over your thighs as the head of his cock pushed between your folds—up, down, his face tilted to examine the sight before him, neglecting the tugs against your bindings in protest.

“Just watch,” he murmurs with a nod, barely above a whisper, “you’re gonna come on my cock before you even realize what’s happenin’, darlin’.”

“Tommy, please—” you choke, but everything else is a soft cry as he pushes inside of you.

His hips snap forward, filling you in one swift motion. 

The stretch is intense and overwhelming, a gasp of pain ripping from your throat.

You nearly whimper at the sensation after, his hand twisting around to your back to push up, arching you off the mattress as he rocks his hips in a steady timing—so tender in his affections, now languid thrusts drawing out a heat in your core that you didn’t ask for but can’t fight against.

The fight was useless, no give to the fabric tied around your wrist, the weight of his body against you as his hands spread out on the sheets beside the pillow under your head, his head level with your own but his eyes focused on the way your cunt sucked his cock up to the base.

He looks up briefly, tears in your eyes as they flutter shut in continued exhaustion.

“Don’t pass out on me now,” he teases when your eyes threaten to close, hips snapping forward to knock you back into the waking world, “I want you here for this, darlin’.”

He shifts slightly and your head is thrown back with an involuntary moan, every thrust dragging against that sweet spot inside of you that makes the world go white around the edges. 

He was right—he’s fucking right—and there’s no saving you from his cock as a full-body shiver invades you. You mumble something unintelligible, head throbbing with a dull pain.

“Look at you,” Tommy breathes and you force yourself to focus, unable to look away as his thumb dips between you both, teasing your clit with feather-light circles that make you tremble.

His touch is surprisingly kind, not indicative of his intentions or actions. He wants to make you feel good, he’s relying on it, actually. And you hate how it was working. Your walls clamp down tight on his cock as he grunts deep in his chest, pace increasing to an unrelenting speed that echoes through the room, skin on skin.

“God, please,” you moan, praying to an unknown, barely recognizing the needy pitch of your own voice. You tug at the fabric binding once more out of reflex, not even sure what you’d do if your hands were free.

He grins, low and predatory. “That’s it,” he says with a punctuating thrust, “Take it. All of it.”

His name is the only word left in your vocabulary for a moment, over and over and over again until he’s pulling out of you suddenly, hot streams of cum spreading out of your stomach and chest as he shoves your shirt up, the loss sudden and devastating despite your mind telling you otherwise.

Tommy slumps to your side after a moment, catching his own breath with a hand over his chest and his erection flagging between his thighs, biting your lip to stifle the quiet sobs as the realization of your situation had come into full-view.

No haze, no confusion, the medication wearing off. You were left with nothing but pain.

–

He’s sleeping beside you, has been for a while.

He redressed eventually, unsure as you had closed your eyes to feign sleep.

But, he looked so fucking peaceful.

He hadn’t bothered helping you much either, only slipping your underwear back on and shifting up the flimsy blanket to cover your shivering body, the cold biting at your skin—and you can feel the dried cum against your belly, the fabric of your shirt sticking to your skin.

You swallow the dryness in your mouth as you study him, the shadows under his eyes, the flutter of his lashes against his skin. There wasn’t an ounce of remorse on his face.

Your thoughts are interrupted by the creak of floorboards outside the room, and you freeze. 

It could only be one person.

“Tommy,” A voice booms in the distance, “Tommy!”

Tommy stirs beside you, groggy and unfocused, a slow realization dawning as he registers the call. It was Joel’s voice.

“Fuck,” he mutters under his breath, pushing up from the mattress.

By the panic on his face and the minimal calculation in your head—you should be dead.

He was supposed to take care of the problem.

Instead, he’s treated you like a plaything. A toy.

Your heart hammers in your chest as you watch him. He puts on his boots with haphazard urgency, more worried about Joel finding him beside you rather than your obvious state of living.

He meets your eyes for half a second, but there’s nothing there—not pity, not guilt, nothing.

A coward, through and through.

He ducks out the door before you can respond, leaving it ajar enough that you hear Joel’s accusation cut through the silence.

“...always makin’ me clean up your fuckin’ mess,” He argues, “if you hadn’t left those bags out and let me shoot her then—”

“I know, I know,” comes Tommy’s reply, more distant now, but you can still hear him scrambling for an excuse. “Just hold on a sec!”

You can hear the heavy footsteps approach, “Just get the fuck outta here for a few hours before I kill you too,” he threatens, though it sounded empty.

A creeping fear begins to settle in as you realize this is it—this time, there’ll be no reprieve.

When he approaches, his shadow creeping through the door, you have no choice but to face him. Hands still bound, you were helpless.

“Rise and shine, little thief,” his voice carries.

Joel examines the room with careful eyes, taking note of the half-eaten food and dirtied rags. It doesn’t take a genius for him to realize his brother had dragged this out for a while. Joel was only gone a few days, but he’d been keeping you sustained and alive without needing to.

And against Joel’s instruction.

Joel shakes his head in silence before he’s pulling the gun out of his jeans, finger on the trigger and you don’t know why—but you beg.

“I–please, please,” you begin, your voice raw, “I don’t wanna die. Joel, please.”

He flinches at you using his name, stepping closer as he presses the barrel into your forehead and cocks the lever back, “I’ll do anything. I’ll help—I’ll be…be good. Tommy kept me alive for a reason, r—right? He could have killed me too.”

“He can’t,” Joel tells you, “my mistake for thinkin’ he could.”

You struggled against the bindings as you kick your feet, shoving the sheet away to reveal your state of undress, “He did a lot worse,” you snap at him, “you—your brother, you’re fucking monsters, no real men would do what he did.”

That has him lowering the gun just a fraction, like he’s considering it. 

The shadows of doubt flicker over his eyes, and in that moment you see your chance.

“I can help. Steal—lay low,” you attempt to convince him, helplessness thick in your voice. “You don’t gotta kill me. I’ve just been trying to survive.”

“You think I believe a word comin’ outta your mouth?” Joel says, but now it feels more like he’s trying to convince himself, “Why were you stealin’ our meds? You got some camp you were takin’ ‘em back to?”

“No,” you reply quickly, insistent, “no—it was just me. I just—I needed something, anything to get rid of this feeling that I have all the time. It’s constant panic.”

Joel seems to pause, a silent deliberation. He eyes your figure, strung up and helpless. It was worse than just killing you outright.

“Or, let me go,” you plead, hoping desperation might unearth some small fragment of mercy. “I’ll leave. You’ll never see me again. I swear.”

His jaw tightens, and you think he’s about to pull the trigger. Instead, he curses under his breath and lowers the gun entirely.

“You’re pathetic,” he spits, tossing the gun aside and opening his knife to cut at your bindings, “Get up.”

“Thank you,” you whisper, hugging your arms over yourself for some semblance of modesty, unmoving on the bed.

“Don’t thank me yet,” he says, his voice low and threatening. “I don’t trust you. You’re gonna prove yourself or die tryin’ to.”

He throws you your old pile of clothes folding on the table beside your bed, reeking up mildew.

“Get changed, now,” He demands, but doesn’t leave,

Fine. Whatever.

You shift to your knees and strip the top over your head, wincing at the throb of pain between your legs as Joel seems to freeze, spotting the mess dried on your stomach.

“You ain’t never shot a gun, have you?” Joel asks suddenly, “Killed anyone?”

You shake your head impishly.

“I’m good at being quiet, sneaking around,” you admit, aware of the way his eyes examine your breasts, the gentle curve as you pull the shirt over your head and toss it aside, “At least—I was.”

Letting you go was risky, but shooting you now seemed like a waste.

You had nothing to offer and Joel didn’t need that on his conscience.

Not that he really cared, but disposing of your body was more trouble than it was worth.

You recognize that same flicker of greed in Joel’s eyes that was prevalent in Tommy’s.

For Joel, it was more subdued and brought out by the sight that his brother had already staked a claim over you when he shouldn’t have, leaving Joel to clean up his mess.

He really didn’t appreciate that.

Luckily, Joel knew just how to fuck with Tommy; stealing his favorite toy.

He steps closer, a dangerous grin spreading across his face as you freeze, pausing your movements as you sit stripped down to your underwear before him.

“Didn’t even clean ya up, did he?” Joel mocks using the barrel of his revolver to motion at your chest, growing increasingly irritated at the situation before him.

“No, he didn’t,” you admit sheepishly, watching Joel’s free hand disappear behind your head until he could tip your neck back, exposing your bare chest as he gathered saliva in his mouth to dribble the spit over your chest.

You hated to admit it, but you were pliant.

Like putty in his hands.

“Clean it up,” he demanded.

Your eyes searched for mercy that would never come before dropping to your chest, the glistening mess trickling down to the waistband of your underwear. You stare back up at him nervously, but his face is stoic, unwavering.

You clear your throat softly and trial your fingers through the spit and drag it back up your chest, cleaning away the mess that Tommy had left, using the dirtied shirt to wipe yourself clean.

Before you can muster a response, he’s shoving two fingers past your lips, pressing against the back of your throat so hard that you choke, “He use this too?”

You shake your head impishly, lashes fluttering as he presses his fingers down against your tongue, eyes watering at the sudden intrusion. You sputter around his digits, tasting him and the salt of his palm.

Leaving his fingers in your mouth, he pulls you up to your feet with a matching furiosity to his previous actions that has you paw at his wrist for leverage, eventually releasing his fingers from your mouth with a pop and leaving you slack jawed and breathless. 

You don’t have time to recover, though, before he’s pulling his knife out and slicing clean through the thin fabric of your underwear.

“Joel,” it’s a moan this time, breathless. 

He ignores you.

“Gonna show you what a real man does,” Joel says ominously.  

His rough hands push you to the floor, knees hitting the wood with a painful thud as they knock against each other.

“I’ll let you live,” he says gruffly, his own pants unfastened until he can shove them down enough to free his cock, precome already beading at the tip and dripping down his shaft.

He’s hard—so fucking hard—and just the sight of him makes your stomach churn in anticipation and fear, made worse by the hand that grips into your hair, forcing your mouth open as he pushes past your lips with the head of his cock.

“But, it ain’t without you provin’ how much you wanna,”

You gag instantly and Joel tightens his grip against the back of your head. There’s little to no fight in you after the display of power, your breath hitching as he pulls his cock out suddenly, gasping for air before he’s guiding himself back into your mouth, a rough but steady rock of his hips as he holds your head between his palms, fearful that he could kill you like this.

A simple snap of your neck and it would be over.

You were a fool for thinking this would be an easy end for you.

But, at least Joel was upfront about his fucking intentions. 

“Keep lookin’ at me,” Joel seethes, snapping his hips twice and rough as you sputter around his cock, chin slick with your drool, “want you to remember this,”

There’s no choice other than to comply, quick and shallow breaths through your nose as Joel fucks your mouth with little care, the taste of him heady on your tongue as his cock forces down the cries in your throat.

He was making you earn this.

Making you work for the trust, freedom—your life.

He’s relentless, a predator through and through.

There was no haze keeping you compliant, only a faint throbbing at your head and the sight of a powerful man standing over you, fist in your hair as stared up the line of buttons that led to his face, a soft growl in his throat at the sight of his cock disappearing into your mouth, eyes rolling back slightly when he pressed too hard.

You knew there wasn’t much choice in the matter, but you weren’t sure how defiant you would be if things were different—it was clear that Joel and Tommy could survive, and in turn, they could keep you alive too—couldn’t they?

You nod gently to his earlier statement, focusing on him as your now free hands roam up under the fabric of his clothes and squeeze, thankful for the brief reprieve as his cock slide back toward the tip of your tongue and rests there, watching his face scrunch and contort as he comes without warning.

It’s thick spurts against your tongue that are blended with his low, guttural groans as he slowly loosens the grip on your hair and offers a low, “Know damn well what’s good for you—like that,” he notes casually.

You wipe hastily at your mouth with your open palm as your rise on shaky legs, eyeing him cautiously before he tuts with his tongue, pushing your hand away, “Ain’t done with you quite yet,”

There’s a split second where you think about making a break for it, eyeing the door with a flicker of hope, but Joel’s grip is tight and forceful, feeling the sharp tug as he pulls you into his lap, facing you toward the bar at the end of the bed, gripping it as he silently guides your hands there—for a moment, you think he’s going to tie you back up like Tommy had, but he doesn’t.

He takes a seat on the center of the mattress and shifts his jeans down and off, your back to him as he settles you between his legs, watching the discarded clothing fall to the floor as you hold your breath.

You can feel the hot press of a palm flat against your back, up your spine as it curves around your shoulder, “You’re gonna go to Tommy after I fuck you,” Joel explains, gripping his cock as he slides it between your folds and presses in slow, gasping at the thickness as it spreads you open, “and tell him how this is all mine,” his hand squeezes at your hip, guiding your back against his cock as you grip at the metal frame, feeling him shift slightly until he’s on his shins, pistoning his hips into you with fervor, “and I don’t,” thrust, a rough grunt following, “fuckin’—” you moan shakily, biting at the skin on your bicep to muffle the noise, “share.”

He’s relentless, really.

His grip is bruising, not holding back in his strength as he guides your hips down against his cock, feeling the sweat in his palms as he breathes heavily behind you.

“Maybe you were a damn blessing,” Joel says softly, maybe not even aware he’s said it aloud until he continues, “been prayin’ for one for a while,”

“I’m—” You croak, speaking weakly, “I’m not,”

“Dunno,” Joel argues, “ain’t religious either, to be honest,”

You laugh at that, though it was mostly just a soft noise that filters out of your nose as your teeth sink into your bottom lip, frustrated with how much pleasure he was bringing you despite his nature and intention, using you for whatever means he felt was necessary.

“Pussy like this,” He notes with amusement and a tinge of fondness, “goddamn miracle if you ask me.”

Then suddenly, his chest is at your back, hand wrapping around your neck as he pulls you back.

His other hand curls around the inside of your thigh, drifting close to your dripping, swollen cunt.

There isn’t much expectation in a return of pleasure until his fingers are moving against your clit in tandem with his quick thrusts, a begrudgingly welcomed touch as he groans against your shoulder, his teeth biting into the skin until you cry out.

“Difference between Tommy and I,” he states, guiding you over the edge of your orgasm as you shake, head falling back against his shoulder helplessly before he groans low, animalistic in your ear before you feel his grip tighten, hips stuttering as he came deep inside your cunt, “I claim what’s mine.”

Joel didn’t need your response—he just held you tighter, like something earned, a prize won, something no one else would touch again.

When the silence settles around you and you’ve dressed obediently under his command, the only thing stronger than his words was the way your body still remembered both of their touches.

[firewasabeast]

Summary: Tommy has to go before a disciplinary board for stealing a helicopter. The 118 shows up to have his back.

“Firefighter Pilot Thomas Kinard, are you aware as to why you are here today?”

Tommy cleared his throat, leaning in closer to the mic. “I was told it was to discuss potential disciplinary action for alleged recent behavior.”

A panel of five men and women were seated in front of him, all there to decide his fate. He settled into his seat as they introduced themselves one by one for the record.

“Aiden Gioseffi, Fire Equipment Dealer.”

“Martin Kaden, State Fire Marshall Appointed Designee.”

“Carol Haney, Administrative Officer for Los Angeles County Fire Department.”

“Roy Simpson, Los Angeles Fire Department Chief.”

“Tina Eason, Administrative Officer from a Building Department Representing Los Angeles County.”

“What was that last one again?” Tommy asked, head tilted.

“Administrative Officer from a Building Department Representing Los Angeles County.”

Tommy shook his head, letting out a sigh. “I’d hate to have to keep repeating that title,” he mumbled. “Maybe ask them to shorten it to AOBDRLAC. Or-”

“Let the records show Mr. Kaden will be leading this meeting today,” Simpson interrupted, giving Tommy a glare. “Are we ready to begin?”

“Ready as ever, Sir.”

“I’m going to begin by stating what we’ve been told,” Kaden informed Tommy. “Then you will have a chance to confirm or deny the allegations one by one. Understand?”

Tommy nodded. “Loud and clear, Sir.”

“Okay, two months ago, on April 17, 2025, you overheard on the radio about a situation happening with your old station, the 118, at SoCal Tech BioMed. You decided of your own free will and volition to contact a member of the 118, along with a police sergeant, and take a helicopter to then use as a distraction against the army and the FBI. When you were ordered by the army to stand down, you proceeded to lie and tell them you had orders of your own, which you did not, and started a helicopter chase through Los Angeles. You ended up landing inside the Los Angeles Coliseum, with another firefighter and a prisoner in tow. Afterward, you were escorted back to the bio lab, where you barely managed to escape federal charged of domestic terrorism and treason.”

When Kaden had finished, the other members of the board appeared speechless. Tommy’s eyes wandered to each of them as he waited to be allowed to speak.

“Is there anything I have said that you would like to deny or challenge, Mr. Kinard?”

“You can just call me Tommy,” he replied, folding his hands and resting them on the table in front of him. “And I’d like to challenge the treason charge. I wouldn’t consider it that. If anything, maybe light treason.”

Eason pulled her mic closer. “Light treason isn’t a real thing, Mr. Kinard, and it’s not the main reason you’re here. You’e already been cleared of those charges.”

“Again, Tommy is fine,” he corrected. “But, um, no I think the rest is all fine and good.”

“I don’t think I’d call it ‘fine and good,’” Haney muttered.

“So, you’re not going to try and challenge anything that was mentioned?” Gioseffi asked. “These are serious allegations, Tommy.”

“I’m aware of that, Sir, but I don’t see a reason to try and lie. What you’re saying happened is what happened. Do whatever you think is necessary, I won’t fight it.”

“But we will!” A voice boomed from the back of the room. Everyone looked up at once, and Tommy turned to see Howie, Buck, Hen, and Ravi all bursting through the double doors.

Tommy’s eyes widened, “Guys, I don’t-”

“What you’re doing here is a travesty of justice!” Chimney exclaimed. The entire group walked up until they were standing directly behind Tommy. “And we won’t sit by and watch it happen!”

Hen leaned down closer to Tommy. “The grand entrance was Chim’s idea,” she whispered. “He wouldn’t let us come in until the perfect time.”

Chief Simpson sighed, pressing his thumb and forefinger against his temple. “What’s happening here?”

“Nothing,” Tommy answered quickly, shooting a glare over to Buck. “They’re confused. It’s been a rough couple of months and-”

“No one’s confused,” Buck interrupted.

“Evan.”

“No, Tommy. First of all,” he held up a finger, other hand on his hip as he turned to Tommy, “you told me you were working overtime today. You lied. We’re talking about this when we get home. Second, I know you’re not telling the whole truth here because you don’t want me to get into trouble, and I’m not going to let that happen. Third-”

“Okay, can everyone just hold on a second!” Kaden interrupted. “Who are you people and why are you here?”

“Sir, my name is Howard Han, better known as Chimney.” He placed a hand on Tommy’s shoulder. “I’m here to defend my good friend Tommy Kinard today, along with my colleagues, Henrietta Wilson-”

“Hen,” she interjected.

“Evan Buckley-”

“Buck.”

“And Ravi Panikkar.”

Ravi nodded. “Ravi’s good.”

“And I’d like to add,” Buck continued, “that I’m also his boyfriend, and we’ve recently moved in together. I’d agree that starting a new chapter of our relationship by lying to your partner about where you are and why you’re there is not great.”

“No one said that,” Haney replied. “And Mr. Kinard-”

“Tommy.”

“-doesn’t need to have people here defending him. This is a very simple meeting to discuss what disciplinary actions should be taken for stealing a LAFD helicopter for personal use.”

Tommy sighed. “I’d just like to say, I did not ask them to come.”

“That’s clear, Kinard,” Simpson answered.

Hen stepped forward. “We’re here to make sure Tommy gets fair treatment. He may have broken a couple of rules, but he did it with good intention and, in the end, he helped save the United States, and possibly the world, from a killer virus far more dangerous than Covid.”

Well, that wasn’t so bad. And it seemed to grab the attention of some of the board members. “Thanks, Hen,” Tommy said, giving her a nod when she turned back to him.

Then Ravi stepped up. “Plus he’s not the only one who committed crimes.”

Tommy groaned, head falling to his hands. “Please, stop.”

“I did things the army specifically told me not to do. Now, usually, I wouldn’t be admitting that here in front of you all. But recent events and, I believe, longterm exposure to this team, has made me more likely to speak out.”

“And it’s not even the first time he’s done it!” Chimney exclaimed.

“Dude!” Tommy screeched.

“Last year, took a helicopter straight through a hurricane to rescue our captain and his wife from a capsized cruise ship.”

“That was never brought to our attention,” Eason said.

“And it’s not the issue now,” Simpson clarified.

Buck nodded. “Yeah, he got a medal for that. We all did! And I’m sure he didn’t tell you-”

“Evan, no-”

“-that I was the one who asked him to steal the helicopter. I- I knew we’d never get Chimney the cure if we didn’t distract the FBI and the army. It was our only shot at saving him. So I called up Tommy, knowing good and well that, even though we weren’t together at the time, he’d do it for me. He’d do it for any of us. Th- That’s the kind of guy he is. Any one of us could call him right now for help and he’d be figuring a way out of this meeting, straight into a chopper!”

Tommy reached out and took Buck’s hand, giving it a squeeze. “Babe, I love you, but you’ve gotta stop talking.”

“You know what?” Kaden said, looking like he was seconds away from pulling every remaining hair out of his head. “I think we’ve heard enough. I’m going to suggest a one month suspension at half-pay. Anyone object?”

Tommy squeezed Buck’s hand tighter when he went to open his mouth.

“Great, no objections. You, uh, the- the boyfriend?”

“Evan Buckley, Sir.”

“Yeah, you were the one who called Mr. Kinard and asked him for the helicopter?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Two weeks paid suspension and you won’t have to come sit in front of the board yourself. How’s that sound?”

Before Buck could answer, Chief Simpson spoke. “Sounds fair to me! We’re done here, yes?”

“We’re done,” Kaden confirmed as the board members began to stand. “Have a… a day, I guess. I don’t know anymore.”

*****

The walk out to the parking lot was a quiet one.

“Hen drove me,” Buck said, clearly still annoyed that Tommy had lied to him, “so we’ll be heading home together.” He kept walking to the truck, even as the rest of the group stopped.

Tommy grabbed his wallet from his pocket, pulling out a card and handing it to Hen.

“What’s this?” Hen asked.

“That’s the number for Chris Oletto. He’s a pilot I trained, works at Harbor. A loose cannon and annoying as all hell.”

“Why are you giving Hen his number?” Chimney questioned.

“Because I want you to post it up on a cork board somewhere,” Tommy replied, “and the next time you guys need someone to steal a helicopter, call him!”

“Tommy, let’s go!” Buck yelled, pulling on the handle of Tommy’s locked truck.

“Now if you’ll excuse me,” he said, shooting Buck a fake smile and a wave, “I’ve gotta spend an hour in traffic getting yelled at by my boyfriend.” He gave Chimney a pat on the arm, nodding to Ravi and Hen. “Thanks for coming, guys, really. It means a lot.”

The three watched as Tommy walked off, then Chimney plucked the card from Hen’s hand. “We’re not really gonna call this guy the next time we need a helicopter, are we?”

“Nah,” Hen scoffed. “Tommy’s our guy.”

[sweetheartspence]

✰ mind over matter - s.r. ✰

Spencer thinks you hate him. That couldn't be further from the truth.

pairing: spencer reid x bau!reader

genre: fluff

content: idiots in love, a little bit of miscommunication, reader is anxious, gn!reader i think, mutual pining, garcia the matchmaker, not proofread

wc: 1.4k

a/n: in second person this time :) i hope you all enjoy, let me know your thoughts! requests are open :D likes and reblogs appreciated! dividers by @/saradika-graphics - thank you!

Spencer is not good for your head.

Every time he's in the room, your brain stops working. Just- flatlines. No activity. All you can do is stare, stumble over yourself, blush, and eventually flee from the room in a panic.

It's his fault, really. With his stupid big brown eyes and his stupid hair and his stupid hands and his stupid voice, and the way his eyebrow crinkles at the halfway point when he's thinking really hard about something. And the way the corners of his mouth turn down when he's thought of something that he thinks is funny, but thinks no one else will find amusing, and the way that his collar is never quite straight. He's always around, always trying to strike up conversation, and it's infuriating.

Not because you don't want to talk to him. Because you do. Because you do, and you can't.

You're stirring a spoonful of sugar into your second cup of tea of the day when Spencer walks into the break room. His collar is slightly askew, his purple tie a little bit crooked (and, you think, knotted wrong), and he's carrying his mug. You know it's his because it's patterned with the periodic table. If that wasn't a dead giveaway, it's specially labelled with his name on the bottom.

He flashes you a smile, and your heart seizes. You're pretty sure you look like a deer in headlights, your eyes wide and a little panicked.

Spencer stops in front of you, and you're pretty sure you've died. You've died, and this is your heaven- or purgatory, maybe, since you still can't get your mouth to work.

"You're standing in front of the coffee maker." His voice is smooth and uncertain, a little amused, matching the quirk of his lips.

Your mind blue screens. "That- I- um, yeah. I am." You make no motion to move, and he tilts his head, like a curious puppy.

"Would you, um... mind moving?" Spencer asks, blinking at you. You let out a squeak, and duck out of the way, your cheeks beginning to flame.

"Sorry! I, uh, that's- yeah." You manage, intelligently, before bolting out of the break room and back to your desk. You've just gotten to your desk when you realize that you've forgotten your tea in the break room, freshly brewed and now abandoned on the counter. You sigh, pushing your chair back, making your way over to Garcia's lair of computers.

Spencer is pretty sure you hate him.

You're decently new to the BAU, having been there under a year, and at first, he thought you were jut shy. You were awkward around the entire team, not just him. But as the weeks passed, you became smiley, articulate, and entirely endearing, with everyone except for him.

With him, you're... different, to say the least. He clearly makes you uncomfortable, if the flushed cheeks and inability to meet his eye is anything to go by. There's moments he thinks he might be getting through to you, when you nod along with one of his statistics during briefings, or try to hide a smile at one of his nerdy jokes. But then he tries to talk to you directly, and you shut down again.

And Spencer just had to develop feelings for you. The one person in his life that can't stand being in the same room as him for longer than necessary. He's not the type to spend time and energy on people who clearly don't want to be around him, but you... there's something different about you.

When he approaches you in the break room, you give your stuttered answer, followed by your usual quick departure. He hadn't even wanted coffee, if he was being completely honest. He had just wanted a chance to talk to you.

Spencer sighs, leaning his hands on the counter and hanging his head. And then he notices your tea, left on the counter. He glances into the bullpen, but you're not at your desk. Spencer hesitates, before picking up the mug and bringing it over to your desk. He takes one of the pens out of your cup, a purple one, and writes a quick note, leaving it with your tea.

"You need to figure out how to talk to him," Garcia is saying, but you're barely listening, having heard this spiel at least a dozen times from her. You roll your eyes.

"I'm trying, Pen, I am," you mumble, fidgeting with one of the trinkets she has proudly displayed on her desk. "It's like I lose all control of my mouth when I'm around him. I can't... make it work." You set the trinket down, sitting back in your seat.

Garcia sighs, clicking her tongue. "The two of you are hopeless, honestly," she mutters, her manicured nails clicking on her keyboard.

You wrinkle your nose indignantly, giving her a look. "What? No," you protest. "We work fine together, so it's not like it even matters."

"You do," she agrees, looking over at you for a second and wiggling her eyebrows. "But you could work together so much better. And in much different ways."

Her innuendo isn't lost on you, and you narrow your eyes. "What, you think this stupid crush is even going to go anywhere?" You grumble.

"He likes you too." It's not a question, but a definitive statement. You blink.

"He told you that?" You ask.

"Well, no, but..." Garcia trails off for a moment, tapping a nail against her teeth. "C'mon, we can all tell. You need to just-"

"Okay, well, thank you for your delusions," you interrupt, pushing your chair back and standing up. "Gotta get back to work. You know how it is."

"Not delusions," she calls back, as you start to walk back to the bullpen. "Observations."

You consider this as you walk back. Observations. Maybe he feels it too? Or maybe, you've ruined any chance you might have had by being completely socially inept around him. Would it even change anything if you knew he liked you? Would you be able to make your mouth work, say something that didn't sound like you were speaking English for the first time?

You're still pondering the possibility when you sit down at your desk.

There's a mug. Your mug. And a note.

"Sorry for scaring you out of the break room. You forgot something. S.R."

You stare at the note, at the purple pen, at the loops and smudges on the paper. There's a smiley face haphazardly drawn in the bottom corner, and it's so Spencer that it makes your heart ache.

That's it, you decide. You have to do something.

In an uncharacteristic show of bravery, you take a breath, pushing back from the chair and standing up, making your way over to his desk. Spencer is bent over a case file, his glasses low on the bridge of his nose.

"You didn't," you say, a bit too loudly, and you finch at the volume of your own voice. Spencer startles, looking up from his work.

"What?"

"You didn't," you repeat, at a more normal volume. You can feel your cheeks start to burn, but you push on. "Scare me. Out of the break room, I mean."

He blinks up at you owlishly. "Oh. Then why did you-"

"I like you," you blurt. You can't help it. The blush creeps down your neck, across your chest under your sweater. Spencer stares. "Like, I like like you. Which make me sound like I'm in third grade, but I just-" You let out a heavy breath, your shoulders shrugging helplessly. "I get all tongue tied, around you. You make me... you make me nervous." Your voice gets quieter as you go on, and Spencer's heart swells.

"Yeah?" He asks, tilting his head, fighting back a smile.

"Yeah," you manage, nodding meekly. "And you don't have to... say anything. I just wanted you to... to know." You turn on your heel, then, intending to go back to your desk, but a hand catches yours. Spencer's slender fingers wrap around your wrist, halting you in place.

"Your tea is probably cold by now," Spencer says, his voice soft. His gaze is intense, but gentle, full of affection. "Let me buy you a new one."

Butterflies flood through your stomach, and you manage a very shy smile, giving a little nod. "Um, like... just hanging out, or.."

He laughs, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "Like a date. If you'd want."

You nod again, completely breathless. "Yeah. Yeah, um.. that's good. Great, even. Yeah."

"I think we're gonna have to work on these nerves around me," Spencer teases. He smiles at you, soft and fond, and tugs on your hand.

"Let's get you that tea."

[cricketcat9]

PLEASE! Share positive feedback about ANYTHING! Anything that went better than usual, anyone who did really well, any service above the average. There's much negativity and hateful bitching, and Karens calling for the manager... I try to do it, costs me nothing, easy way to make someone's day better.

Just a reminder that it's a perfectly valid option to send a nice message or give a nice phonecall for a business or person supporting the LGBTQIA+ community, in whatever fashion.

I was at a place and they had a sign basically inviting people to use the restroom that was most comfortable for their identity. I decided that they needed to hear about it, because the people who would be mad about it are usually VERY LOUD and VERY ANGRY about it. Especially because it was a place you usually take children to.

So I explained that while I am cis, I have dear friends who are not, and I care about their comfort. And more than that, I'm trying to teach my daughter to have respect and kindness for others and celebrate people's differences, and that is a good example. I made SURE to mention that I was happy to spend my money there and would be proud to come back and spend more.

The message I got back was so nice -- they explained that it's not often visitors reach out to share positive feedback with them.

Allow me to highlight --

It's not often visitors reach out to share positive feedback with them.

Like I said, the people who are against this stuff have no problems being very vocal with their hatred. Take the two minutes to share your positive feedback and give them something tangible they can take to their bosses or boards or whatever to prove that representation and inclusivity is important and valuable.

Plus, you can give that one person on the other end of your message something to smile about, knowing there's someone who cared enough to reach out and show support.

[neeeooon]

Hey neo!Literally ran to ur requests as I found out!I wanted to ask specifically if u can do a fif for nagi or Rin or both about them having a girlbest friend they absolutely adore!!!💕

i swear i read reo and got like two paragraphs in before realizing im blinder than yuki 🙃 hope you enjoy!

a goth, a slob, and a ray of sunshine

nagi seishiro & fem!reader, itoshi rin & fem!reader. platonic, crack, fluff. reader is nagi and rin’s best friend but nagi and rin are constantly competing for her affection

“i’m taking y/n to watch the minecraft movie in theaters tonight.”

“think again. you took her to wendy’s last night. it’s my turn to hang out with her.”

your head flicked from nagi to rin as they went back and forth, arguing about your schedule as you stood there with a smile. “why don’t we all go to the movies together?” you suggested, drawing their attention.

neither looked happy to have to share you, their best friend, but they also hated seeing you upset. nagi was the first to speak after shrugging. “‘m not paying for his ticket.”

“i didn’t ask you to,” rin snapped back with a glare. you stepped forward and took one of their hands in each of your own. “tonight will be fun!”

you should have known better than to force your two best friends to sit through a nearly two hour film peacefully, but you managed to keep your eye from twitching as rin and nagi pulled your arms like you were a tug-of-war rope.

the theater was great at distracting you from your friends, as it was full of lively movie-goers, but even they couldn’t save you fully.

“y/n,” rin whispered into your ear. “do you want any snacks?”

you smiled at him and shook your head. a moment later, there was a tap on your other shoulder, and you turned to see nagi staring at you before leaning it. “thirsty?”

shaking your head again, you fell back against your seat. big mistake, as in doing so, your head stopped acting as a block between nagi and rin. they glared at each other, and you sighed when neither refused to get comfortable.

thankfully, the movie came to a quick end. you jumped up on your own, ignoring both boys when they offered you their hands, and left the theater without the normal skip in your step.

“slow down,” rin called from behind you, quickly followed by nagi’s “‘m tired.”

you waited until you were outside of the building before spinning around to face them, your smile back but tight. “yes?”

rin blinked. then he shuffled uncomfortable and tugged at his sleeve, avoiding your eyes. “i’m sorry.”

both you and nagi stared at him, your lips parted in shock as nagi rolled his eyes.

“it’s okay,” you replied, mouth twisting into a real smile as rin tried his best to mimic the look. nagi practically waddled forward and let his head fall against your shoulder. “‘m sorry, too.”

you chuckled when his words tickled your neck and playfully ruffled his white hair. “it’s okay, too. i appreciate you both for joining me. maybe next time we’ll have more fun!”

nagi and rin internally cooed at your adorable excitement. nagi lifted his head from your shoulder just enough to shoot a silent glare at rin, who quickly returned the look.

“one day, maybe the three of us will be best friends!” you exclaimed.

“never.”

“not on his life.”

you expected that. instead of letting it put a damper on the rest of your evening, you reached both hands out—one for rin and one for nagi. neither hesitated long before accepting, and you swung their hands in yours as the three of you finally left the theater.

[leashybebes]

Hi!! Can i please request the prompt "caring for each other while ill" for bucktommy? ✨💖 It can be post 8x15 or not, i'm not picky, write however the muse hits! (Although i do agree that many of these prompts give post 8x15 vibes! Like what do you mean "reacting to seeing the other one cry" we literally just saw that happen in canon😭😭)

Anyways no pressure of course and also i love your writing! Have a nice day! 🤗

also for @devirnis 💖 went with some nebulous point after they get back together so let's say this features schroedinger's father figure lol

Buck's learned a lot of new things about Tommy, this time around. What he likes, what he hates, what he's scared of. It's been like watching a flower unfurl. It's beautiful to begin with, sure, but you give it some light and you make the soil right, and it becomes something you'd never have been able to predict, with colours and textures and shapes that take you by surprise.

It's wonderful. It's a privilege. 

It's a nightmare and Buck is going to murder him.

Because the latest thing that he's learned about Tommy is that when he's sick, Tommy is apparently an absolute asshole. 

He doesn't really get sick, is the thing. He has allergies in the summer for which he pops antihistamines and merrily carries on. He has a bum knee that he cheerfully RICEs when the air pressure goes too high. Buck has seen him bruised up from Muay Thai, concussed from a rope rescue that went bad, on oxygen for smoke inhalation, and now…now he has a cold.

The first two days, he'd miserably denied he was getting sick (I feel fine, Evan), refused to take any medication (because I don't need to be drowsy, Evan), went to work (I can't believe they grounded me, Evan), and spent the evening sulking on the couch (I'm not in a mood, Evan). 

The third day, he found Tommy at the kitchen table at 5am wearing Buck's favorite blue hoodie with the hood pulled up and the drawstrings pulled tight, a pile of used tissues at his elbow, the tip of his nose bright red, and his eyes teary.

"I woke you up," he says, except it comes out I woag you ub, and the tears spill.

"Uh," Buck says. "Hey there."

"Hi," Tommy says, and scrubs at his eyes with the cuff of Buck's hoodie which…rude. "I think I'm sick." I thig I'b sig.

"You think?"

Buck loosens the drawstrings on the hoodie, pushes the hood down, scratches his fingertips through Tommy's sweaty hair. Tommy nods pitifully against the touch, like he'd managed to completely miss the sarcasm.

"I'm sorry I was mean," Tommy says. I'b sore-y I was bead. "But I think I'm dying." Bud I thig I'b dyig.

Buck bites his lip so he doesn't laugh.

"Okay," he says. "Well, would you rather die in bed?"

"Yes please." Yed bleadth.

Buck does a mental inventory of the medication in the house, the ingredients for a spicy chicken noodle soup while he helps Tommy back into the bedroom, peels him out of his stolen clothes, presses a kiss to his clammy forehead.

"You're a big baby," he says gently, and Tommy gives another one of those miserable little nods, letting his forehead drop onto Buck's shoulder.

"I'b sore-y."

"I'll forgive you if you lay down and take some pills."

"You still lub me?"

"Yes, I still lub - love you, dummy."

Tommy's eyes well up with tears again and Buck tries to remind himself what people say about colds - two days coming, two days here, two days going, right? They've survived worse.

Probably.

[starstuffandalotofcoffee]

it is admittedly, especially as a non-Catholic but someone who is extremely cognizant of how the Catholic Church's opinions have an impact worldwide, kind of wild to watch people go "well, yes, even the liberal papal candidates are going to have some regressive positions, it's the fucking papacy, you want the best option" and yet somehow, during the 2024 election, the "America is an Empire" crowd couldn't manage that. Like I think you guys just fucking hate representative democracy because it means you have to read and check boxes instead of lying on the couch reveling in your powerlessness.

[buriedpentacles]

I'm not sure if this response is a joke or not so apologies if it is but I'm not a fan of being called a coward even in a joking sense.

I have commit to my point. "You don't have to like it" is the point.

I'm a zoologist, but there are some animals that I just don't like. They creep me out or I don't enjoy working with them or I just don't like them. And that okay. Because I will never use that dislike to justify harm.

I used to have severe arachnophobia (like, panic attacks and throwing up when I saw spiders level bad). I managed to work through it with exposure therapy and a lot of time, but I don't like a lot of spiders still. If they have long, thin legs and move quickly, I will freak out and get a shiver along my spine.

But I still learn about them, I learn to tell apart the Money Spiders from the Orb Weaver, I help them back outside if they end up on my cabinets, or I let them live in the corner of my room in exchange for eating flies.

I don't like spiders. But I still respect them, I still connect to them.

You can't force yourself to like certain things. Some people will never stop hating nettles or seagulls or mosquitos. The solution isn't to suddenly like these things, it's to try and understand them, to respect them and their place.

Connection ≠ liking. It's acknowledgement, understanding and respect.

That's my point, and that's what's important.

When I say "connect with nature" I don't just mean the aesthetic forests with deer and beautiful flowers.

I mean the weeds growing through concrete, the fungus that grows on the rotten shed, the nettles that always seem to return and the scary, spindly cellar spider in the corner of the bathroom.

Nature is not always pretty or magical - the pigeons and seagulls you swat at are nature too, the wasps and flies that hover by your meals are animals too, store-bought strawberries and the leaves that fall from your neighbour's tree are not all that different from the Giant Sequoias and it's seeds.

If you want to connect and understand nature, I mean *really* connect to it, in it's entirety, you have to seek out and learn about the ugly, scary and mundane things as well. You don't have to like it, just don't forget that it's there.

[rosierin]

heat of the moment | atsumu miya

synopsis; it started with a massage. she’d had a long day, he offered, and she didn’t think twice. but then his hands slip under her shirt, his hands slowed, and suddenly they’re somewhere they were never meant to be.

warning; very suggestive!!! mature content

this fic is part of the off-season quartet™ series! for more, click here :)

The apartment was dark when she stepped in—just the faint glow of the hallway lamp left on, humming gently against the silence. The scent of fresh linen and something faintly sweet lingered in the air, a comfort she didn’t know she’d been craving.

Her shoes hit the wall with a dull thud as she kicked them off with little ceremony, limbs dragging like she was wading through molasses. Her legs were heavy. Her spine ached like it’d forgotten how to hold her upright. And her shoulders—tight as wire, wound so high they nearly brushed her ears.

She didn’t sigh. She groaned. The kind that came from deep in her soul, coaxed out by too many hissing steam wands, clattering mugs, toddler meltdowns, and customers who still couldn’t grasp the concept of boiling water.

And of course, it had to be Free Drink Day.

More like Free Mental Breakdown Day.

They say not to cry over spilled milk, but after the third oat latte incident of the day, she was ready to weep into the mop bucket.

Her bag dropped with a final, resentful thud. She muttered something obscene under her breath and shuffled toward the living room like the ghost of capitalism’s finest victim—burnt out, steamed dry, and foamed to death.

“Rough day?” came a familiar voice—low, lazy, and way too smug for someone who didn’t just spend eight hours on their feet dealing with entitled customers who kept insisting on speaking to her manager.

She didn’t look at him, just flopped face-first onto the couch with a grunt. “Don’t speak to me, Miya.”

Soft footsteps, then:

“‘Miya,’ huh?”

She could hear the grin in his voice.

“Don’t.”

“I’m just sayin’. You only call me that when you’re feelin’ a certain way.”

“Yeah, when I'm tired, cranky, or borderline murderous."

He snorted. “You sure it ain’t somethin’ else?”

Her only reply was a muffled groan into the couch cushion.

Normally, she’d have some kind of quip locked and loaded—something dry, vaguely threatening, maybe even flirty if she was in the mood. And sometimes she did use his last name with that teasing edge, just to get a rise out of him.

But not tonight.

Tonight there was no smirk behind it. No playful undertone. No provocative lilt that made it sound like something else.

When she said Miya, she meant it. Plain and simple. No code. No joke. Just: leave me alone before I bite.

She was tired. Everything hurt. And she wasn’t in the mood for verbal sparring or Atsumu’s usual theatrics—not even a little bit.

Not tonight.

Beside her, the floor creaked.

And then she felt it—his fingers, brushing the fabric of her hoodie aside, settling gently on her shoulder.

“Let me help.”

Her head lifted slightly and—ow. Even that took a great amount of effort. “What?”

“You're all wound up,” he murmured, thumbs circling slow against the knots in her back. “Let me fix it.”

She narrowed her eyes suspiciously, but god… the way his hands were already working over her hoodie—firm, warm, grounding—it was hard to protest.

“Take this off,” he said, tapping her back.

She shot him a glare over her shoulder. Everything?

He raised his eyebrows, amused. “The hoodie.”

“…Oh.”

Still grumbling, she pulled it over her head and tossed it aside, revealing the flimsy camisole beneath. She settled back onto her stomach, cheek pressed to the couch, breath leaving her in a long exhale.

Then his hands returned—bare, strong, and unfairly skilled.

Her eyes fluttered shut.

She hated how good he was at this. How steady his palms felt against her skin. How his fingers dug in deep enough to hurt, but just enough to make her feel relaxed. Like he knew exactly where the tension lived—exactly where to press, where to drag his thumbs to unravel her piece by piece.

“You’ve done this before,” she muttered, face still buried in the couch.

“Mmhm.”

“Who?”

“Not important.”

That annoyed her more than it should’ve. But the way his hands pressed into her lower back, dragging down, circling, gripping—god, it was hard to stay mad when her brain was slowly turning to soup.

A breath she hadn’t realized she was holding left her in a soft sigh.

“You know,” he said casually, “there’s a dangerous amount of trust involved in lettin’ me touch ya like this.”

“Don’t ruin it,” she mumbled.

“M’not. Just sayin’. One minute I’m bein’ nice and helpful, the next…”

She didn't let him finish his sentence.

“Atsumu?”

“Yeah?”

“Be quiet.”

He laughed—quiet, smug—and kept going, kneading along the tight lines of her shoulders, down the dip of her spine, slow enough to make her toes curl.

The kind of slow that made her forget things. Like how tired she was. How annoyed she’d been walking through the door. How many hours she’d spent on her feet.

Each pass of his hands pulled her deeper into the couch, deeper into herself. Her thoughts blurred into a soft haze. And for a moment, it didn’t feel suggestive or flirty or like something to overthink.

It just felt good.

Safe. Easy. Blissful.

Until he shifted.

Straddled her hips.

The weight of him was gentle, careful—not overwhelming. But it still took her by surprise.

“Wh—what are you—?”

“Better angle,” he said, offhand. Like it was nothing.

Somehow, it wasn’t very convincing.

His hands returned, slipping beneath her shirt. The change in temperature made her shiver, but his palms were warm—gliding lazy, deliberate lines along the soft skin of her back. Steady. Measured. Too measured. Like he was focusing too hard on not making it something else.

“You’re tense here,” he murmured, thumbs pressing slow circles just beneath her shoulder blades.

That’s when she heard it. The dip in his voice—the subtle, sultry shift she’d learned to recognize. Rare, but unmistakable. The tone he only used when his thoughts wandered somewhere they shouldn’t. The kind that meant trouble.

(Y/n) tried not to react. Tried not to read into it—keep it casual. But her skin was too aware of his hands. Her breath, too shallow. Her thoughts, not nearly as neutral as she wanted them to be.

“Mhmm,” she hummed, noncommittal. A deflection. Weak, but it was all she had.

His thumbs slid lower.

“And here.”

His fingers fanned at her waist, dragging down her sides with a softness that didn’t feel so clinical anymore. It felt…curious. Attentive. Too much like a question.

Her breath caught. Not loud. Just a flicker—a stutter of air through parted lips. But he caught it. Of course he did.

He chuckled—low, quiet, maddeningly pleased.

“I can feel your heart racin’, y’know.”

She didn’t answer right away. It was difficult to when she was now hyperaware of every point of contact.

“I’m—tired,” she mumbled weakly. “...Not turned on.”

A pause.

Then—

“Liar.”

It wasn’t a tease. Not really. Barely a whisper, but it landed like a spark to dry leaves.

(Y/n) stiffened. Her brain scrambled for something—logic, protest, retreat—but her body had already gone still. Listening. Waiting.

Because suddenly, the room felt smaller.

The couch felt warmer.

The line between playful bickering and something dangerous blurring far too fast.

And Atsumu—still perched on her hips, hands firm and steady at her waist—felt like something more than a friend doing her a favour.

His hands never stopped moving in those slow, rhythmic circles. Not rushed. Not forceful. But no longer innocent, either.

And then—he moved.

Just a small shift of his hips. Barely there. But it was unmistakable.

Intentional.

She sucked in a breath. Her body tightened instinctively, unsure, unprepared—but she didn’t pull away. Not yet.

Atsumu exhaled—quiet, shaky, like he hadn’t meant to do it in the first place. Like her reaction had knocked something loose in him.

“Shit,” he muttered, almost to himself.

He rocked his hips again—slower this time. More tentative. Deeper. Lower.

Her lips parted.

She didn’t mean to make a sound, but it slipped out anyway—a soft little breath, something between a sigh and a gasp, too quiet for full embarrassment but loud enough that he heard it.

Felt it.

His hands tightened at her waist.

“Fuck, sweetheart,” he breathed, voice frayed and mildly stunned. “You keep makin’ noises like that and I’m gonna lose every bit of sense I’ve got left.”

She didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Because somewhere between the first touch and now, her resistance had started to unravel. Not all at once. Just enough to let him in.

Her body betrayed her—arching, pliant, already so far gone.

Her eyes were shut tight, pulse hammering in her throat as he ground against her again—slow, controlled, like he was savouring every second of it.

“You feel that?” he murmured, hips moving just enough to make her thighs tense. “That’s what you do to me. You come home all tired and soft and whiny and y'expect me to behave?"

He leaned down, mouth at her neck, hot breath tickling her skin.

“All those little sounds you’re makin’. The way you're meltin' under my hands. You gotta know what you’re doin’ to me.”

Another roll of his hips—harder this time.

Her mouth opened.

A sound escaped her—quiet, shamefully honest. Just enough to make his breath catch this time.

He stilled.

Then groaned. “Jesus.”

Something cracked open after that.

He braced himself over her—slow and heavy—elbows caging her in, breath rasping as his hips ground down again, rougher now, less restrained. Over and over.

His mouth brushed her shoulder blade—hot and barely contained—and then he kissed her there. Once. Then again. Then a third time, slower now, lips dragging over her skin like he couldn’t help it.

(Y/n)’s eyes squeezed shut.

And that’s when it hit her—really hit her. The weight of his body. The heat of his skin. The way his hips pressed into hers like it was instinct, and the way her body arched into him like it had a will of its own.

Her mind screamed at her to push him off. To tell him to stop.

This was too much.

Too intense. Too close.

They didn’t do this.

This wasn’t banter. This wasn’t teasing. This wasn’t some flirty game they’d forget by morning.

This was heat. This was need.

This was her—on her stomach, panting into the couch cushion—while Atsumu Miya kissed down her spine like he was about to lose his goddamn mind.

She should’ve told him to stop.

But she didn’t. Couldn't. Not when her every nerve in her body was screaming for his touch.

“Atsumu,” she breathed.

His movements stuttered—just a fraction. One word. Just his name.

But fuck—did that turn him on.

He groaned softly into her skin, hips still locked against hers, grinding like he needed the friction. Like it physically hurt not to move.

“...What are you doing?” she managed, voice hoarse, thin with disbelief.

“Losin' it,” he whispered, like it wasn’t obvious.

His hand slid up her back, fingers tangling in her hair—then tugged. Lightly. Just enough to lift her face from the cushions, just enough to bare the sound that slipped out of her—something between a wince and a moan, sharp and breathy.

His mouth found her shoulder again—open-mouthed this time, breath hot, tongue brushing slowly over her skin like he was trying to memorize the way she tasted.

“I shouldn’t be doin’ this,” he muttered, more to himself than her, like he was trying to convince his body to back off.

He didn’t.

And she didn’t stop him.

Her fingers dug into the cushion. Her breath caught in her throat. Her body burned in places she didn’t know could ache like this.

Every roll of his hips sent a shockwave through her spine, and every kiss on her skin made her forget why this was a bad idea in the first place.

She felt his breath by her ear.

Felt the restraint in the way his hand clenched at her waist, like he was holding himself together with threads.

And then his mouth was at her neck—warm, open, hungry—before his teeth sank in just enough to make her gasp.

He exhaled hard, barely catching himself as he pressed his forehead to her shoulder, like he needed the anchor—like staying close was the only way to keep from falling apart completely.

“You’re lettin’ me,” he said hoarsely, disbelief threaded between his words. “You’re not tellin’ me to stop.”

She didn’t answer.

Couldn’t.

Because if she spoke, she’d confess something they couldn’t take back.

And maybe he knew that—because his hand slid from her hair, tracing along her cheek before curling around her jaw. Gentle, but firm. He tilted her face toward him, made her look at him.

And god, he looked ruined.

Eyes blown wide. Lips parted and pink. Expression completely wrecked.

And still, he moved.

Hard. Needy.

Her moan slipped out—quiet, involuntary, the kind that tore straight from her chest.

It was all he needed.

“Fuck, baby—” he breathed, voice shredded and barely holding together. His hips stuttered, movements turning messy, desperate—like he couldn’t slow down even if he tried.

His mouth found her skin again. Kissed whatever he could reach. Sloppy. Starved. Every kiss less precise than the last.

He was close.

Too close.

A deep, broken sound tore from his throat as his hand locked tighter at her waist—his other still cupping her jaw like he needed to see her. And for one breathless, blinding second, the world narrowed to this:

Heat.

Friction.

Sweat.

His hips snapped into hers, too drunk on her to stop. Like she was the only thing keeping him grounded.

They were right at the edge of something they weren’t supposed to reach.

So close to—

CRASH.

A loud, metallic clang. Something hit the floor in the kitchen.

They both froze. (Y/n) almost whined.

A beat of stunned silence—

Then:

“For fuck's sake—My ramen!”

Suna’s voice cut through the moment like a slap.

A second later—

“YOU’RE CLEANIN’ THAT!”

Osamu’s voice, furious and far too loud.

Just like that, the spell shattered.

Atsumu collapsed onto her back with a guttural groan, his entire weight slumping down like the wind had been knocked out of him.

“…I’m gonna kill 'im.”

(Y/n) didn’t move. Just whimpered into the cushion. “...Why are they like this?"

He slid off her slowly, like he wasn’t sure how his limbs worked anymore. His breath was still uneven, his cheeks flushed. He flopped onto the floor beside the couch like he’d just fought for his life.

For a moment, neither of them said anything.

A long, awful silence stretched between them.

Her heart still pounded in her chest like it hadn’t gotten the memo.

Then—

“…Three more seconds and I'd have bust.”

She blinked. Then let out a broken, exhausted snort. “Miya.”

He covered his face with both hands and dragged them down his face. “Don’t say my name like that right now.”

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Bonus:

The next morning...

The apartment smelled like eggs and impending doom.

(Y/n) sat stiffly at the dining table, fingers curled around her mug like it was the only thing tethering her to reality. She hadn’t spoken more than four words since she entered the kitchen. Not because she was mad. Not because she was tired.

Because Atsumu was in the room.

Leaning against the counter.

Hair messy. Shirt slightly wrinkled. Cheeks still flushed from whatever godless dreams he probably had last night. Arms crossed over his chest like they hadn't just been gripping her hips twelve hours ago while whispering pure filth and sin into her shoulder blades.

She took a long sip of coffee.

Don’t look at him. Don’t think about it. Don’t clench your thighs.

“You’re bein’ real quiet this mornin’,” Osamu said, setting down a plate of toast in front of her.

She blinked. “Hmm? No, I’m fine. Just a bit tired is all."

Suna, across the table, didn’t look up from his phone.

“Someone’s tense,” he muttered. “Again.”

Her soul left her body.

“I’m not tense,” she snapped a little too fast.

Atsumu made a small choking sound behind her. She didn’t turn around.

Osamu raised an eyebrow, glancing between them. “Did you two fight or somethin’?”

“No,” she said.

“No,” Atsumu echoed.

Osamu squinted. “Weird. Yer both lookin' a lil guilty."

Suna finally looked up, eyes slow and calculating. “Did something happen?”

“No,” she said quickly.

“Nah,” Atsumu added, voice a little too casual.

A long silence.

Suna’s eyes narrowed. “Y’know, the couch is looking kinda... dented this morning.”

(Y/n) stared at her mug. “Rin, please stop speaking.”

“And there was a hoodie on the floor. Yours, I think,” Suna added.

Osamu frowned. “Weren’t you wearin’ that last night?”

Suna turned fully in his seat. “Don’t tell me.” Seconds passed. Then—

“No way. Did you guys fu—”

Atsumu broke into the broadest grin.

(Y/n) turned bright red.

“NO!”

Osamu almost spit out his orange juice.

Suna's jaw actually went slack. “Holy shit.”

Osamu looked offended. “On the couch? Seriously?!”

Atsumu leaned forward, elbows on the counter, smirk straight out of a rated-R movie. “All I’m sayin’ is… ya leave a man alone with a pretty girl complainin’ about her back and—”

“It was JUST a massage!” (y/n) yelled, utterly mortified.

The room went silent.

Suna slowly pushed his plate away, crinkling his nose.

Osamu looked like he needed years worth of therapy. “I eat on that couch.”

"Okay," she blurted, pushing her chair back with the grace of a dying goose. "I’m going back to bed. None of you speak to me.”

“You didn’t finish your toast,” Suna called.

“You didn’t finish your massage, either,” Atsumu added.

(Y/n) stormed off, narrowly missing the doorframe on the way out.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Her door slammed shut.

Her body hit the mattress.

Her soul left her body.

She face-planted into her pillow with a strangled groan—the same noise people make when they think they’ve beaten a final boss, only for it to regenerate full health and announce a hidden phase two.

Her brain felt like the scrambled eggs she'd left behind.

Because it was replaying everything—every. single. second.

The massage.

The way his fingers dug into her back like he knew where she was most vulnerable.

The phantom warmth of his hands still lingered on her skin, like her body couldn’t quite let go of his touch. And the weight of him—solid, hot, heavy—still pressed against the back of her hips like muscle memory. Like her body remembered what her mind was trying to erase.

His mouth on her shoulders, her neck.

His voice—needy, breathless—almost desperate.

Her whole body flushed so violently she was surprised she hadn’t burst into flames on the spot.

What the hell was that?!

They didn’t do that. They never did that. Sure, Atsumu flirted—he flirted with everyone. She was used to it. Used to rolling her eyes and brushing it off, calling him insufferable while secretly liking the attention.

But this?

This was not harmless.

This was him, grinding into her like he was trying to memorize the shape of her body. This was her, moaning into a cushion like she was part of some kinky romance novel. This was—

“I should’ve pushed him off,” she muttered into the pillow.

But she didn’t.

She let it happen.

Worse—she wanted it to happen.

Oh my god.

The doorframe she almost walked into? Deserved.

The toast she didn’t eat? Deserved.

The ghost of his voice still echoing in her ears, haunting her?

Absolutely deserved.

She flopped onto her back, stared at the ceiling, and whispered:

“What have I done."

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Meanwhile in the kitchen...

Atsumu wasn’t proud of himself.

Okay, maybe a little. But also not really. Not when Suna was staring at him like he was one word away from committing a crime, and Osamu looked ready to throw up in the sink.

“You touched her where?”

He groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “I already told ya,” he said, sinking deeper into the kitchen chair. “It was a massage. She was tired. I was bein’ helpful.”

“Helpful?” Osamu echoed, crossing his arms, his expression somewhere between offended and utterly gobsmacked. Probably both.

Atsumu winced. Yeah, maybe that hadn’t been the best word.

“What happened to runnin’ her a bath? Or—I dunno—cookin' her dinner like a normal person?”

Atsumu just shrugged.

Not defensively. Not exactly confident, either.

Just that lazy, noncommittal lift of his shoulders—the kind he pulled when he didn’t have a good answer and hoped no one would call him out for it. Sheepish. A little guilty. Mostly trying not to squirm under the look Osamu was giving him.

Suna, meanwhile, hadn’t blinked once. Didn’t even flinch. Just stared at him, jaw tight. “You’re genuinely insane.”

Atsumu threw his arms up. “Whaaat? (Y/n) didn't seem to mind."

Osamu made a noise. Something resigned, possibly a little traumatised.

“Keep it to yourself,” Suna muttered, voice low, sharp.

“You asked!” Atsumu protested, slouching into the kitchen chair like he was halfway through a trial he was absolutely guilty of. “It wasn’t supposed to go that far.”

“But it did,” Osamu snapped, gesturing dramatically. “On the couch. Where I eat.”

That earned him a grimace. “Okay, ya don’t gotta say it like that.”

He slouched further. Rested his chin in one hand. “It wasn’t even a thing. She came home all cranky and— I dunno. I just wanted to make 'er feel better.”

That was the truth, wasn’t it? At the time, it was innocent. Mostly. He hadn’t planned to grind on her like a man starved.

But then she'd moaned, and the rest was history.

“Right,” Suna said, and something in his voice made Atsumu look up.

The usual flat deadpan wasn’t there. Something sharper had taken its place.

“Are you sure she was okay with it?” Suna asked, meeting his eyes at last. “She didn’t look like she was in a good mood this morning.”

Atsumu blinked. His heart stumbled over itself.

“What? She’s probably just—embarrassed,” he said, a little too quickly. Then, bristling, “Are you sayin’ I did somethin’ she didn’t want?”

Suna didn’t back down. “No. I’m saying you didn't think." A beat passed. "'Least not with your head."

The kitchen got quiet. That kind of quiet that made Atsumu want to throw something just to fill it.

His nostrils flared. He straightened in his seat, bracing his hands on the table like he was ready to stand.

Suna just stared.

Unflinching.

Judging.

Calm and lethal as always.

And yeah, okay, maybe Atsumu hadn’t thought it through. Maybe he had gotten carried away. But he wasn’t some creep.

“She didn’t stop me,” he muttered, then immediately winced because wow, what a terrible sentence.

Osamu, to his credit, jumped in before the stare-down turned into an actual fight. “Alright, both of ya, enough.” He slapped a palm to Atsumu’s shoulder, forcing him back down when he’d started to rise. “I’m sure (y/n)’s fine. She probably is just embarrassed. But, 'Tsumu—” He gave his brother a look. “Make sure ya check in on 'er."

The tension thinned. Barely.

Atsumu slumped back into his chair.

But he never looked away, still locked in a silent death stare with Suna, waiting for someone to blink first.

Osamu rolled his eyes and went back to his breakfast.

But the words were already climbing up Atsumu's throat, too big to keep inside.

“…She moaned.”

Osamu’s fork hit his plate with a clink.

"Please," he groaned, covering his ears. “Spare me.”

“I’m not makin’ it up!” Atsumu insisted, leaning forward like this was somehow a defence. “I wasn’t even doin’ that much and she—" He cut himself off, then added in a desperate whisper, “She was movin’ with me, so she definitely—”

“Atsumu.” Suna’s voice was cold. Firm. “We get it.”

Atsumu’s mouth snapped shut. His ears burned. God, he sounded like a perv.

Osamu exhaled slowly, like his brain had just rebooted. Then, against all odds, he snorted. Covered his face, elbows braced on the table, but that stupid grin was peeking through his fingers.

“What is wrong with you guys?”

Atsumu stared at his cereal. Suddenly way too aware of how pathetic he must’ve looked, sitting here like a kicked puppy, talking about a moan like it was a Nobel Prize.

Still… his lips twitched.

“...What?” he said, trying for innocent. It came out boyish.

Osamu didn’t even look at him. “Nothin’,” he muttered, voice muffled and lowkey judgmental.

Suna shook his head and pulled out his phone. “You’re the horniest person I know."

Atsumu sighed.

Ran both hands through his hair.

And smirked.

Guilty as charged.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

The kitchen was quiet.

Dim, too—lit only by the under-light above the stove, casting everything in a sleepy haze. It was late. Past midnight, maybe. She’d lost track of time after her shower, after the world stopped spinning quite so fast.

(Y/n) padded in with socked feet, her damp hair sticking to the back of her neck, water bottle loose in her grip. She wasn’t even thirsty. She’d just needed somewhere to be that wasn’t her room. Somewhere her thoughts wouldn’t chase her down and pin her to the bed like they’d been trying to do all evening.

The massage.

The weight of him.

The way her hips moved.

The sound she made.

God.

She opened the fridge just to cool her face against the blast of cold air. Stood there a moment longer than necessary, trying to freeze the memory out of her skin.

She stared at the contents without really seeing them.

If she was lucky, she could grab a drink and slink back upstairs before anyone—

The floor creaked behind her.

She knew that creak. Recognised the rhythm of those lazy footsteps.

Atsumu.

Of course.

She didn’t turn. Just shut the fridge, hugging the bottle to her chest like it could absorb the flush threatening to rise to her face.

“Hey.”

His voice was quieter than usual.

Not cocky, not teasing, but... soft.

Her heart stuttered.

She braced herself, then glanced up at him. “Hey, ‘Tsum.”

He looked like he’d come down for something too, but now he was just… standing there. In his sweatpants, hair mussed from his pillow, rubbing at the back of his neck like he wasn’t sure what to say.

Her chest tightened. It was impossible to ignore it.

“Couldn’t sleep?” she asked.

“Somethin’ like that.” He shrugged, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “Figured I’d grab somethin’ to drink. But…” he trailed off, rubbing the back of his neck again, “…guess ya beat me to it.”

She gave a breath of a laugh, barely there. “Sorry. I was just... thinking.”

A beat of silence stretched between them.

He hummed, mulling over his next words, like he wasn’t sure if now was the best time to ask—but he did anyway.

“You okay?”

(Y/n) blinked.

The question was soft. Careful. And completely sincere.

It disarmed her more than it should have.

She opened her mouth—then shut it. Swallowed. “Mhmm. I'm okay.”

Atsumu nodded, but didn’t move. Didn’t turn back around like he meant to leave. Instead, he stepped a little closer, resting one hand against the counter, glancing down at her.

“How’s your back?” he asked, lips quirking slightly.

That earned a glare. She stood up, arms folding over her chest, suddenly too aware of how warm the kitchen was. "Very funny."

He almost smiled again—but this time, it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

She was dodging. That much was obvious.

And he hated that he almost let her.

“What? Too soon?” he offered, like the teasing might lighten things again.

“You’re an idiot.”

“Ya love it, really,” he shot back—without thinking, without blinking. It was one of those lines. One of his lines. Something he said all the time, to her, to anyone, usually with a smirk and no consequences.

It rolled off the tongue like second nature. Easy as breathing.

But this time… it landed different.

Because her face changed.

She looked down at her water bottle, fingers tightening around the cap. Her smile—if it could even be called that—faded. Not annoyed. Not offended. Just... gone.

And for the first time, Atsumu regretted saying it.

He felt the air shift. He took a breath.

“…Listen,” he said, more seriously now, his voice low and laced with hesitation. “About… y’know. The other night.”

She stiffened.

And he noticed.

“I shouldn’t have—uh, gotten so carried away,” he added, scratching the back of his neck. “Didn’t mean to make things weird. I was just—”

“—It’s okay,” she cut in, too fast.

He blinked.

She still wouldn’t meet his eyes. “It’s fine, 'Tsumu. Let’s just… pretend it didn’t happen, okay?”

His heart stuttered.

Pretend it didn’t happen?

He watched her closely. She was fiddling with the bottle cap now, like it was the most interesting thing in the room. Her expression guarded. Tight.

She was embarrassed.

Not because he crossed a line—he was sure of that—but because she didn’t know what to do with what happened. Because she let it happen, and maybe, just maybe, she regretted it a little.

And that stung him a little.

“Really?” he asked, careful.

“Yeah,” she nodded. “Like. It was a one-time thing. Heat of the moment. Whatever.” She waved a hand in the air vaguely. “Let’s just never bring it up again.”

A one-time thing?

He tilted his head, slowly. “…Never?”

She looked at him then. Briefly. But it was enough.

“Never,” she confirmed. Then, a little firmer: “Forget it ever happened.”

He paused.

“…Even the part where you—”

“Yes.” Her cheeks flared. “Especially that part.”

There was something so sharp and exasperated in her voice that he couldn’t help it—he pressed his lips together, biting back a laugh. “Ya sure? ‘Cause I think about it like… hourly.”

“I swear to god—”

“Alright, alright.” He looked at her a second longer than he should’ve, hands held up in surrender, then forced a grin. “Forgettin’ it. Totally gone. Brain wiped.”

He paused. Tilted his head.

Then, dryly: “…What were we talkin’ about again?”

She groaned, but her mouth twitched too. Just a little.

And he'd have been blind to miss it.

The way she tucked her hair behind her ear, how her shoulders finally relaxed. He wouldn’t push. Not tonight. But he also wasn’t going to pretend he didn’t feel it—didn’t want it.

He cared. More than she probably realised.

And if forgetting it made her feel safer, more in control… then fine.

He’d let her forget.

For now.

[amiableness]

Hockey!James Potter x Lupin!Reader ❆ 980 words | it's been forever since i posted, hope you all enjoy this <3

series masterlist ; main masterlist

James Potter took his birthday seriously—it always had to be loud, chaotic, and completely unforgettable. It suited him. But this year was different. No plans to fly somewhere warm and throw a beachside party, no talk of renting out an entire pub for the night—nothing. 

Just a quiet night at a local pub with his closest friends—nothing more. When Remus and Sirius heard about the lack of celebration, Sirius’ shoulders slumped in dramatic disappointment. He’d already laid out his suitcase, half-packed and ready to jet off to wherever James decided to party this year. Remus, on the other hand, wasn’t nearly as dismayed. If anything, he was relieved. Traveling meant leaving you alone, which he was never fond of—and worse, it usually meant playing designated caretaker while the others drank themselves into oblivion.

Being James’ closest friends meant they fully expected him to change his mind. Any day now, he’d come bursting into their shared house, grinning like a madman, rambling about the last-minute trip he’d just booked—or the outrageous party he’d suddenly thrown together.

But none of that happens. And even now, as they sit in a perfectly average pub, Remus and Sirius keep one eye on James, still half-expecting him to announce some last-minute twist. But he doesn’t. He hardly smiles a real smile all night, nursing his beer and casting hopeful glances toward the door—like he’s waiting for something, or someone.

“Mate,” Sirius slaps his hand down on the bar beside Remus, startling him as he waits for his drink. Remus glances over at a rosy-cheeked Sirius, who’s pointing toward James with his drink in hand, as if he couldn’t tell exactly who he’s talking about. Any mention of you always seemed to loop back to James. “Did he invite your sister?”

“Very likely. He probably chatted her up at practice and slipped it in casually,” Remus replies, arching an eyebrow. “Why?”

“Is she coming?” Sirius presses, leaning forward with a hint of urgency in his voice.

Remus snorts. “She’s probably at home reading some romance book.”

Sirius frowns, nodding towards the phone he knows is tucked away in his pocket. “Call her. Right now.”

“Why?” Remus raises an eyebrow. 

“Because, look at that miserable bastard!” Sirius bursts out, his voice carrying across the pub and catching the attention of a group of girls sitting a few seats down. Remus flashes them an apologetic, embarrassed smile.. “He hasn’t taken his eyes off the door all night. I hate to admit it, but this night’s a total bust.”

Remus raises an eyebrow, his lips quirking into a half-smile. “So, you want me to call her so you can have a better night?”

Sirius glares at him, unamused. “No, I want you to call her so he can have a better night. Also, I didn’t get him a birthday present, and I’m pretty sure this would top whatever you all managed to get him.”

Remus glances over at James, and sure enough, he’s nursing his drink, his eyes flicking toward the door before quickly returning to the curly-haired girl in front of him. She seems completely unaware of his wandering gaze, but James, on the other hand, looks entirely disengaged from the conversation. It’s clear to Remus that Sirius is right—if you were here, James’s attention would be entirely on you. There wouldn’t be any doubt about whether or not he was enjoying his birthday.

Remus exhales a soft sigh, grabbing his phone and standing up. Sirius claps him on the back with a grin, muttering praises about making the right call.

You don’t take nearly as long to show up as Remus expected, leaving him wondering if you were already ready for James’s birthday but didn’t quite have the courage to show. His gaze lingers on the soft hue of lipstick glossing your lips, then dips to the denim skirt he’s certain he’s never seen you wear. An amused smile tugs at the corners of his mouth, slow and knowing.

“That didn’t take you long.” He comments casually. You shoot him a sharp glare, pure annoyance as you take the drink from Sirius’s outstretched hand. He ushers you along with a grin, clearly pleased by your arrival.

“I can’t stay long—” Remus hears you start to protest, your voice trailing off as Sirius pulls you through the crowd, undeterred. There’s a slight wince on your face when he cups a hand around his mouth and shouts, “Oi, James! Got your birthday present, mate!”

A few of their teammates whistle, exchanging knowing grins as their eyes land on you—well aware of James’s long-standing, schoolboy crush. Remus watches your expression shift somewhere between mortified and amused, but you let Sirius lead you on anyway. 

James turns away from the girl mid-sentence, a confused frown flickering across his face—only to melt into a grin the moment he sees you. He doesn’t hesitate, weaving through the crowd like nothing else exists. Remus can’t hear what he says, but he doesn’t need to. He knows James greets you with that soft, honeyed “angel”—a tone he reserves for no one else.

Remus has heard it a thousand times, but only when James is talking to you.

He makes a mental note to ask him about it later, but it’s obvious to him now that James kept things simple this year, just in case you decided to show up. There was no way you’d have gone along with the kind of wild birthdays he'd thrown in the past.

And for someone who insisted they weren’t staying long—who told Remus to fuck off, I’m busy when he first asked—you don’t exactly look eager to leave. There’s a soft smile tugging at your lips as you tilt your head up to meet James’s eyes, like you forgot what excuse you’d made in the first place.

Remus knows without a doubt that Sirius did win best present.

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please please pleasae consider reblogging and/or commenting. it keeps me motivated to continue writing and reblogging spreads it to others <3

[comatosebunny09]

more ex-assassin!reader shenanigans

cw: non-mc reader, reader implied to be femme, crossover, mild language, unrequited (?) feelings, mild jealousy, angst, not proofread, stream of consciousness

You throw your door open, prepared to go into town for groceries. But you don’t expect to see a familiar riotous mop of white hair and the unmistakable scarlet eyes that always accompany them standing at your door.

Six months. He’s been an apparition living in the bowels of your mind for six months. You were starting to get over him. Slowly beginning to release those feelings squeezing your heart in their unrelenting grasp.

And then he had to go and fuck it up by showing his stupid face.

“Hi,” he says, voice a little shaky, a little unsure as he peers down at you with a twitch of a smile. That tone still disturbs the dust particles around you. His presence is still overwhelming, as if commanding time and space to bend just for him.

When you pick your jaw up off the floorboards, you manage a meek, “Um, hi.”

His shoulders drop the tiniest bit. To anyone outside, he’s a confident hulk of a man. But to you, still well-versed in his tells after all these years of working under him, you know he’s stalling. A scared little man who didn’t expect to see the woman he jilted thriving and free. Alive and putting herself back together, brick by rickety brick.

“Can we talk?” he asks, tone so low, it barely carries above the breeze sifting through the grass on your lawn.

Always straight to the point. Always down to business. No, ‘How are you?’ No, ‘How have you been?’ Just straight to the nitty gritty, to the meat and potatoes. Of course, that’s one of the things that drew you to him—you hated when people beat around the bush.

You will your voice to work in your favor today. Not to waver, not to belie the conglomerate of emotions welling in your chest—fear, anguish, resentment.

One hand on the door, you step aside to usher him in with a faint smile pulling at your lips. “Sure. Come in.”

You’re going to learn to regret this. You’re doing more than just inviting your old boss into your home; it’s almost like you’re inviting him back into your life.

—

Of course, seeing Sylus, a dark cutout of power and refinement, sitting on your quaint armchair with a teacup and saucer in his giant hands, surveying your humble surroundings, loosens some of the tension in the air—just a little bit.

You stifle a snort behind your fist, setting your tea down on the coffee table. He reminds you of a Doberman puppy, still capable of violence in the right hands and situation, but curious and unassuming as he takes in the pastel colors and grandma-esque decor littering your home.

It’s nothing like the luxurious fibers adorning his mansion in the N109. Nothing like the posh furniture he decked your safe house with in Linkon, reasoning you needed the best. It’s a simple style that suits you and this new life you lead. Earthy, minimalistic. Nothing complicated, but still synonymous with this soft-girl thing you’ve been trying out.

“I didn’t know you liked pink,” he says into his teacup once he’s done quietly judging you, taking a sip, eyes creased with a bit of humor over the rim, watching you.

You adjust on your armchair, halfway offended. Cross your legs, throwing up that mask of nonchalance he seasoned you into wearing. “Well, there’s a lot of things you don’t know about me.”

There’s a bite of malice to your voice. An underlying resentment beneath the playfulness. He catches it if the tightening of his jaw is anything to go by—the slightest sharpening of his gaze, gleaming like heated steel.

Under normal circumstances, you wouldn’t dare try him like that. Sure, you’ve teased and bantered with your old boss. But saying anything else would warrant a fate worse than death.

But, do you really care right now? He’s the one encroaching on your space, your peace, with his stupid, still handsome face and his ridiculous stature that still makes you feel a sparkle of something low in your belly.

He could kill you right here and now for running away. For leaving his side after he shattered your heart like sea waves scattering against the rocks. That prospect doesn’t scare you. Not like it used to when you first fled. No one would notice. No one would miss you, save for Leon, who would eventually get over the tiny crater you left in his life.

Sylus sets his teacup down, and you stiffen, half-expecting him to snap his fingers and turn you into cinders. But, he doesn’t. Instead, he hits you with a “Fair enough,” around the resigned curl of his lips as if he missed you giving him shit.

You blink owlishly, watching him sit back in your armchair as if he’s always been a part of the decor. He props his elbows on the armrests, tapping the tips of his fingers together, scrutinizing you like a rare protocore he’s hellbent on buying.

You try not to shiver under the weight that gaze still carries. Under the power he still boasts over your body, your psyche, and he’s only said a few things to you.

Ignoring how your heart pounds something violent in your throat and how your throat feels dry as if coated with sand, you pitch yourself forward, elbows on your thighs, gaze narrowing. The buzz of questions in your mind outweighs that of fear. You want him out of your home, this town, your life, as quickly as possible. But not before you interrogate him on how and why he’s here.

He beats you to the punch, eyes softening, smile a little more disarming. “You look well.”

You’re taken aback again. You half-anticipated him insulting you. You blink, your mouth trying vainly to form coherent words. “Uh, thanks.”

He leans forward to mirror your posture, and you get a good look at those scarlet irises. “You got a tan? It looks good on you.”

You chuckle nervously, sweeping an errant lock of hair behind your ear. Inwardly admonish yourself, because what’s with you acting like an enamored little teen in the face of your heartbreaker?

You clear your throat, remembering yourself. Putting back up that indifferent, tough girl front. He’s trying to manipulate you. Wear you down. He knows he’s fucked up. You won’t fall for it.

“Yeah. Easy to get a little color when I’m not stuck somewhere the sun doesn’t shine.”

It’s like you punched him in the gut. He flinches the slightest bit. Winces, huffing out a quiet chuckle as he studies the floor. Good. You want him to hurt.

Tired of beating around the proverbial bush, you spout out, “Why are you here, Sylus? The twins send you? I know you sent them and Mephisto to snoop around. Keep tabs on me. You trying to drag me back? Because I’m not going back to that shit hole or anywhere with you without a fight.”

You brim with confidence beneath the glacial fear snaking down your spine. You mean every word—even if you know you’ll lose, he’ll have to drag you back kicking and screaming.

He made his choice. You weren’t it. And you’ll be damned if you fall back at his side like a sad, lovestruck puppy, watching him fall in love with someone who isn’t you.

Sylus fixes his mouth to say something, a little taken aback by your defiance. A little wounded. But before he can get an excuse out, the chime of your doorbell fills the thickened atmosphere of your home, effectively disrupting whatever come-to-Jesus meeting you were having with your boss. Perfect timing.

You exchange a glance. You don’t miss the desperate flash in his gaze when you peel yourself from your chair, striding towards your front door.

You snatch the door open, relieved to see serene ocean blues staring down at you.

“Hey,” says Leon, voice all playful and smoky. He leans against your doorframe, bicep spilling from the short sleeve of his shirt, smile devastating against the stubble on his cheeks. “Your parents home, little lady?”

You snort despite yourself. Despite the tension coiling in your gut. You tamp it down, trying to play it cool. Cross your arms, propping your shoulder against your doorframe to mirror him. “How can I help you, Mr. Kennedy?”

His gaze flits between your eyes and lips. Leon grins all the more wider, straightening to gently tug at a lock of your hair. It’s a pleasant sensation, pins and needles sparkling in your scalp. You bite your lips, bite back a smile, shaking away from his touch.

He reminds you of a kicked puppy, the way his smile drops and his brows fall at the outer corners. You’ll make it up to him later—you promise.

“Came to take a look at your dryer,” he says once he’s picked up his pride, holding up a toolset.

Ah. Fuck. You forgot.

As if remembering your nefarious guest, you pull the door slightly closed, wedging yourself in the gap to blot out the sight of otherworldly white. “Can you come back tomorrow?”

“Why? What’s wrong?”

You rub the scruff of your neck, a nervous titter on your lips. “Um…something came up.”

Leon chuckles, fingers skating over your cheek. “Like what?”

“Like me,” a resonant voice sounds from over your shoulder, and you stiffen.

Leon glances up, his humor traded for confusion at the towering man behind you. He narrows his eyes, and the tension brewing in the air between them is palpable. You don’t have to look back to see that stone-faced look Sylus is wearing. To see the tense set of his jaw, the fire and brimstone in his eyes.

You’re caught between them, a flimsy barrier amid their stare-down, and all you can do is sigh and shake your head.

This wouldn’t have happened if you just told Sylus to fuck off in the first place.

How do you even begin to introduce them to each other? Old love interest who broke my heart, meet boyfriend-in-training who’s mending it?

[marvelstoriesepic]

Poison of the Spotlight

Pairing: Security Guard!Bucky x Actress!Reader

Summary: Paparazzi have always been the part you hated about fame, but Bucky is there to shield you from the noise.

Word Count: 1.6k

Warnings: Paparazzi; media harassment; sensory overload; anxiety; themes of fame; public scrutiny; loss of privacy; protective Bucky

Author’s Note: As an actress myself, this was so interesting to explore. Thank you so much for the request, my love!! I hope you'll enjoy ♡

2k Drabble Challenge Masterlist | Masterlist

You’re not sure when the crowd doubled in size but the second the venue doors open, it feels like the damn has broken.

Flashes go off like lightning, rapid-fire questions are hurled from all directions, voices overlapping.

You hadn’t expected this. Hadn’t expected the sound of your own name to be swallowed by a hundred voices, spat back out like chewed gum, mangled and glittering and meaningless. You hadn’t expected the bodies to press this close, to squeeze the air out of your lungs with their questions, their cameras, their hunger.

You are smiling because you’re supposed to. Because the dress is perfect and the makeup is flawless and your publicist said just thirty seconds of poses, baby, that’s all they need.

But it’s louder than you thought it’d be.

Hotter, brighter, closer than it should be.

A voice - a thousand voices - explode around you and you can’t tell where they’re coming from. You flinch as someone steps too close, as someone shoves another forward to get the best angle.

But he is here.

“Back up!” Bucky’s voice is suddenly louder than anything else. Firm and sharp. His arm is at your back and you feel the warmth of his hand at your shoulder blades.

A flash pops too close. A mic nearly clips your cheek.

“Hey, back up” Bucky snaps again, voice inpatient.

His hand winds around your waist, his body moving in calculated lines, his face stony and jaw tense.

He maneuvers you expertly, weaving you through the growing knot of bodies with one goal in mind: get you out.

He moves like a storm and a wall and a prayer all at once. He says your name but not like them. Not like a transaction.

You’ve only had him as your bodyguard for a few months now, but somehow, he’s managed to become the only thing in your life that makes sense when the noise gets too loud.

He doesn’t talk much. Doesn’t ask for selfies. Doesn’t try to be your friend in the way most people do.

He just shifted in front of you without a word when you flinched at the flash of a camera the very first day. He noticed the way your hands shook after a press junket and handed you water before you asked. He called you by your name, not your character, not the headline version of you.

“Keep moving, sweetheart,” he now says quietly, calmly. As if he’s not being crushed by a wave of shouting strangers. “Just breathe. I’ve got you.”

You’re walking but you’re not walking - you’re being guided, steered, protected - his body forming a shield against the frenzied press of paparazzi. He’s bigger than you remember. Broader. He plants himself in front of you when the flashes come too fast. He catches your elbow instantly when you wobble in your heels, and you think he might actually tear someone apart if they touch you again.

You wonder if he can feel your heartbeat hammering under your skin.

You wonder if he hears the way your breath hitches in your chest.

“I’ve got you,” he repeats, close to your ear.

You press into his side without thinking, head ducked as he leads you through the mess as though he’s cutting through a warzone.

He’s saying things - short, clipped words to security, to crowd control, to the driver - and then suddenly, miraculously, there’s the car. The door swings open like salvation and Bucky helps you inside, tucking you in with careful hands.

You take a deep breath as if you’ve just broken the surface of the ocean.

Bucky slides in beside you and pulls the door shut. The windows tint. The voices vanish. You feel your heart crashing in your chest, blood singing in your ears, your throat tight and dry and useless.

You’ve always hated this part.

Not the acting. Not the scripts. Not the lights on set or the long rehearsals or the hours spent curled up in a trailer memorizing lines. No. You love that part.

You love disappearing into someone else.

But the moment the cameras turn on you - when it’s your name and your face and your body they want - everything inside you clenches.

Paparazzi have always been the prize of admission. And you’ve never stopped resenting it. They’re everywhere. Always everywhere.

Outside the airport. Outside your home. Outside your life. Their lenses are long-range weapons and their questions are landmines. You can’t move without being watched. Judged. Picked apart as if you’re a crime scene.

It’s not glamorous. It’s not fun. It’s not part of the job like they always say it is.

It’s invasive. Intrusive. Violent, in a way no one talks about.

Bucky is looking at you.

“Hey,” he says, so soft you nearly miss it. “You okay, doll?”

His voice is honey and gravel and everything safe. His brow is furrowed, the lines around his mouth carved deep with concern. He looks as if he’s ready to go back out there and dismantle the crowd with his bare hands.

“Yeah, I’m okay,” you answer in an exhale. “That was just-”

“Too much,” he finishes for you.

You nod. Or maybe you don’t. You’re not sure. You feel out of place for a second.

“I should’ve stayed closer,” he says, jaw tight, voice firm and guilty. “I usually- damn it- I didn’t like the layout tonight. Too many press zones. Too many exits. I should’ve pulled you sooner.”

You shake your head at him, almost confused. “You were perfect Bucky.”

He stills.

You see the glimmer of something behind his eyes, something quiet and careful and maybe a little touched, like he’s not used to being told that. As if he doesn’t know how to believe it.

“I brought your water,” he says, as if needing to change the subject. His voice is rough. “And the bar you like. The one with the chocolate and honey.”

He reaches for the cooler under the seat as if he’s done it a thousand times, as if he knew you wouldn’t have time to eat, as if he made a checklist in his mind and checked it twice before the night began.

You take it from him. “You didn’t have to, Bucky,” you say, voice a little weaker than you’d want. But it sounds thankful.

Bucky exhales. “Nah, I did,” he counters easily.

He nods for you to go ahead and drink, as if he doesn’t want to make a big deal out of it, but you see the way his fingers twitch, the way his shoulders don’t relax until you’ve taken a sip, taken a breath, looked at him as though you really are okay.

And you are. Because of him.

Because you’ve spent so long trying to armor yourself against a world that wants to consume you.

And then this man - this silent, serious, steel-spined man - walked into your life and made it his mission to be there for you. To make those situations as comfortable as they can get.

And maybe you fall a little in those moments.

Maybe you’re still falling now.

“I’m getting you something,” you say suddenly.

He blinks over at you, startled. “What?”

You turn toward him, straightening your back in your seat. “You’re always saving me. Protecting me. I need to thank you properly.”

Bucky’s ears go red almost immediately.

He shakes his head, gruff and sheepish all at once. “Nah, doll. You don’t have to do that.”

“I want to,” you counter fiercely. Fiercely enough that he genuinely looks a little shocked. “You’re the only reason I don’t lose my mind at these things.”

You see the way he swallows, the way he starts to shake his head, so you continue.

“I owe you something. I’m getting you- I don’t know, something big. A car, maybe. Do you need a new one? Or a vacation. You deserve a vacation.”

His eyes go wide. Wide and horrified and - bless him - so bashful.

“No- no, doll, you don’t have to-” he stammers, the words tripping over themselves like newborn deers. His usually so sharp cheeks turn the faintest, most beautiful pink. “You don’t have to do anything. M’ just doing my job.”

You stare at him. At the man who has blocked cameras with his body, shielded you from flying elbows, memorized the foods you like when you’re too stressed to eat.

You lean in, close enough to see the silver flecks in his blue eyes. Close enough to see his breath hitch.

“Let me spoil you a little, okay?” you press softly.

Bucky ducks his head as if he’s embarrassed. Mumbles something under his breath, eyes darting everywhere but to you.

“Come on, Barnes. You know you deserve it.” You smile at him, really smile, for the first time all night as it feels like.

Bucky releases an awkward, breathless laugh. And suddenly he doesn’t look so serious anymore.

Because you know that under all that steel and stubbornness and the wall he can be to shield you against the uncomfortable things of your job you can’t escape, he’s a real ass softy.

And you think, maybe the world outside can keep screaming.

Maybe the cameras can keep flashing.

Maybe the whole damn circus can keep spinning.

But as long as you have him, you'll be okay.

[benevolenterrancy]

If you're taking prompts: He Xuan (reluctantly) trying to soothe a sad (drunk) Hua Cheng?

next time He Xuan will be checking exactly how potent the divine wine Shi Qingxuan gifts him is before offering to share

[jarofstyles]

Getaway Car

Hi lovebugs! I have a one shot for you. We have a villainous Harry and his assistant turned lover for this one. I hope you guys enjoy this one, I enjoyed writing it! Please make sure to read the warnings

Check out our Patreon for early access and 260+ exclusive writings

WC- 6k

Warnings- organized crime, use of weapons, violence, blood, murder, injury, dom!H, degrading, breeding, kinda primal tbh

Harry leaned against the cold, hard wall of the jail hallway, handcuffs digging into his wrists. The pristine suit he wore was tailored to perfection, crisp and clean against his broad shoulders. His dark hair was combed back neatly, not a strand out of place. The suit jacket hugged his broad shoulders, perhaps a little too tightly, but it emphasized his powerful build. He crossed his ankles, nonchalant, as if he hadn’t a care in the world, but his eyes were sharp and focused, watching the door that he knew Y/N would emerge from any moment now.

His tie was loose around his neck, the only sign of him being disheveled. His strong jaw was set, a muscle twitching as he ground his teeth together in irritation. He hated being caged, even if it was just a hallway. The man was used to being in complete control, to having power and calling the shots- and yet here he was, waiting like a restrained animal for her to emerge from the lion's den to break him out of here.

Harry's eyes flashed with a hint of his morbid nature as he thought about how he rarely got caught. How the fuck had it happened? He was slick, careful, calculated. There was no denying he knew what he was doing, and yet he had managed to get in some sort of trouble.. This little misstep was...unusual. His mind raced, trying to figure out how he could have slipped up. Was it arrogance that made him sloppy? Or was it...her? That infuriatingly alluring woman who had somehow managed to ensnare him.

A smirk played on Harry's lips as he thought about their dynamic. He wasn't used to having a partner, let alone one who was so fucking captivating. She was like a breath of fresh air, a challenge he couldn't resist. He had vowed to never take a lover, but Y/N went beyond that. The woman was simply different in every way. The way she handled herself, the fire in her eyes, the curve of her... His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of a door creaking open, and his head snapped towards the sound.

The metal handcuffs clinked softly against the wall as Harry pushed off from his casual lean and straightened to his full height. His dark eyes narrowed as he focused on the door, the intensity of his gaze enough to make even the toughest criminal squirm.

As soon as Y/N emerged, Harry's smirk widened. Oh, she was good. Too good. He could see the fire burning behind her eyes, the exhilaration of the game they were playing. The way her face remained stoic, unreadable, was admirable. He was the experienced one, the one who was supposed to be impossible to read, yet she matched him in that regard. No one else had ever been able to match him in any regard, and Y/N never faltered. "My dear." He drawled, his voice low and smooth.

As Y/N stepped closer, Harry felt his body relax just a tad. She slipped between his handcuffed arms, her chest pressed to his, her waist nipped perfectly by his arms. He could feel her warmth through the thin fabric of her blouse, hear the soft rustle of her skirt. "You took your time." He murmured, his breath tickling her skin. His eyes never left her face, drinking in her expression as she played her part to perfection.

“I had to take care of some things.” She smiled coyly, wrapping her arms around his neck. “Poisoning the coffee isn’t a quick job, but I had to make sure they weren’t responsive. Had to sneak you out of here somehow, didn’t I?” Her nails ran over the back of his neck, rounded eyes laced with something sharp.

Harry's gaze remained locked on hers, his heart rate kicking up at the touch of her nails against his skin. "Impressive." He praised, his eyes glinting with admiration. "I didn't think you had it in you to be so...thorough." He leaned in closer, his face inches from hers, his breath mingling with hers. "But then again, I shouldn't be surprised. You're full of delightful little surprises, aren't you?"

“I am.” The girl purred, leaning up on her toes as their noses brushed. “How thankful you must be to have such a cunning partner in crime. Thankful to see me?”

Harry's eyes flickered with a dark hunger as their noses brushed, her warmth and scent enveloping him. Coffee lingered over the natural sweetness. Part of him was still astounded that she’d pulled off a feat like that, but he shouldn’t be. She’d been proving herself quite easily, every step of the way. Y/N was a natural at all the bad things he liked to do. 

"Grateful doesn't begin to cover it." He whispered, his voice husky with desire. "I'm...thirsty, actually." He admitted, his gaze dropping to her lips. "For a kiss, to taste that clever mouth of yours again." His arms, still cuffed, tightened slightly around her waist as he pulled her closer. It was infuriating to not be able to run his hands over her to inspect and roll over her soft hips, but he didn’t mind giving her this moment.

“I’d like a thank you.” Her nose brushed his, taunting him a little. “I’ve got the key to those cuffs and everything, you know. The car outside. The security footage deleted, the cameras are all turned off.” Her nails dug into his skin just ever so slightly, making him hiss. “Say thank you, and then you can kiss me.”

Harry's eyes flashed with irritation at her teasing, his breath catching as her nails dug into his skin. He hated being at her mercy, hated that she had the power to make him beg. But he needed her, needed that kiss, needed to taste her. "Fuck," he spat out, his voice strained. "Thank you, you clever, infuriating little brat."

“Nicer.” She hissed, taking a bit of his hair and tugging roughly. “Be nice to me, or I’m not letting you touch me tonight. And I know just how much you need to let loose after shit like this.” The threat was a valid one, but Y/N knew the moment the cuffs were off he’d be able to take charge again. She was biding her time and power accordingly. “Be nice to me, baby.” The croon was soft, though her grip wasn’t. “M’a good girl for getting you free.”

Harry's eyes narrowed in frustration and a tinge of arousal at her tugging on his hair, his jaw clenched- but he knew she was right. As much as he hated it, he needed to play nice for now. He needed to be grateful, to show her how much he appreciated her efforts. "You are a good girl." he said through gritted teeth, his voice dripping with false sweetness. "My very good girl. You deserve a reward, don't you?"

“I do.” She purred, reaching up on her toes and smearing their lips together. “Lots of them. A necklace with the money you took, a vacation once this is over, and your face between my thighs when we get back to the house.” Pecking his stubbed cheek, she moved her lips back to his. “Now kiss me. Show me how much you missed me.”

Harry's control snapped at her words, a low growl rumbling in his chest. He crashed his lips against hers in a bruising kiss, pouring all his pent-up frustration and desire into it. His tongue delved into her mouth, claiming her, tasting her tongue in the way he always loved to do it. Feeling her body press up against his as she chased his kiss, the soft sound of her hum against his mouth. Y/N was perfect, and he knew it. He nipped at her bottom lip hard enough to sting, soothing it with his tongue. "Fuck," he panted against her lips when they finally broke for air. “Fine. All of it. Just get these fucking cuffs off of me. We need to leave.” They’d been tempting fate just staying here as it was.

“Yes, sir.” She snickered, leaving one last kiss to his lips before pulling his arms back up so she could duck underneath them. The key was hidden in her bra, kept warm from her tits as she giggled from his expression. “What? I needed a hiding place.” Pulling the key out, he lifted his wrists up and began to unlock them.

Harry glared at her, his eyes narrowing dangerously. "In the future, if you're going to hide something important in your tits, at least give me a peek." He growled. "And if you ever call me 'sir' again like that, I'll bend you over my knee and spank you until you beg to be fucked. You know how I feel about that." Y/N knew to save that for the bedroom, but she was a bit of a brat. He knew that much, very well.

“You know I like a good spanking.” She purred, undoing the cuffs and letting them fall off his left wrist, then his right. It wasn’t smart to leave them, so she opened up his suit jacket to tuck the key and cuffs in the internal pocket. “We can play with these another day. Need t’get you out of here.”

Harry flexed his freed hands, relishing the feeling of being unbound. He grabbed Y/N's wrist before she could pull away, pulling her flush against him. "Oh, we will play with these again. Very soon." He promised darkly. "But first, let's get the fuck out of here before your little stunt attracts too much attention." He released her and stepped back, straightening his suit. "Lead the way, my clever little thief."

Y/N turned on her heel, strutting towards the exit with a confident sway to her hips. Harry watched appreciatively, his eyes locked onto her backside. He couldn't help but admire her poise, the way she carried herself like she owned the place. It was something that had drew him to her in the first place. Very few people had been able to make him feel interested in his life, but she’d caught his attention the moment she’d walked in the room. She glanced over her shoulder at him, catching him staring, and smirked knowingly. "Eyes up here, pervert." She teased, tossing her hair back with her nose in the air. Like she didn’t love feeling his eyes on her. She preened every time he looked her over and paid her extra attention.

Harry's gaze slowly lifted to meet hers, a lazy grin spreading across his face. "Can't blame a man for looking." He drawled, sauntering after her. "Besides, I think I've earned the right to ogle you after you paraded around half-naked in front of me." He fell into step beside her as they exited the building, his hand resting possessively on the small of her back.

“First of all, you bought this dress for me. Secondly, you’re the one that got caught outside of a casino. Since you like me to be your distraction, I’ve got to look at least a little bit scandalous.” She scoffed, flipping her hair over her shoulder before reaching into her handbag for the car keys. “Can you handle driving, or do you need me to do it?”

Harry's eyes flashed with annoyance. "I didn't buy that dress for you to be a distraction. I bought it because it looks fucking incredible on you." He grunted. "And I didn't get fully caught. I'm here, aren't I?" He snatched the keys from her hand as they reached the car. "I can handle driving. Get in the passenger seat before I put you there myself."

Y/N rolled her eyes but climbed into the passenger seat, buckling up as Harry got behind the wheel. He started the engine and peeled out of the parking lot, weaving through the streets with a skill that spoke to his experience in driving the getaway car. As they drove, the comfortable silence was interrupted when he reached over to rest his hand on her knee, giving it a gentle squeeze. "You did well back there." he mumbled, his voice softening from the monotone it usually was. "I'm impressed."

Harry’s praise wasn’t something he handed out generously. Sure, she was showered in it in the bedroom, but when it came to things like this? He was a much tougher critic. Harry and business were a serious pair, and he didn’t like mistakes or slacking off. He was harsh and eager to correct to ensure there weren’t any fuck ups.  Considering this was the first time he’d been actually dragged to the station in years she had been worried about his mood, but it wasn’t as bad as she thought. There had been a lot of panic when he had been taken away, but she did her best to handle it as well as she could. 

“Thanks.” She sighed, placing her hand over his. “You taught me well.” Y/N didn’t have a background in this stuff, only what Harry had taught her and she had picked up- but she did have to admit she did a very good job. A natural, really.

Though if she was honest, she had never anticipated that becoming his assistant would end up in her delving head first into the world of crime after catching something she wasn’t supposed to. Even less so, that she would fall for her man. Her boss. A criminal mastermind. “I told Delgado that the meeting to exchange would need to be moved to tomorrow, by the way.”

Harry's hand tightened slightly around hers before he released it, keeping his eyes on the road as he navigated the dark streets. "Good thinking." He murmured. "Delgado can be a bit too eager sometimes. We need to make sure everything is in place before we make the exchange." He glanced at her briefly before focusing back on the road.

"And just to be clear," He continued, his tone sharper. "Tomorrow, during the meeting, you're going to stay in the car. I don't care if Delgado tries to shoot me or if he offers you a million dollars, you do not get out of that vehicle. You understand me?" He asked, his gaze intense on the road ahead. "Your safety is my number one priority, and I won't risk losing you over some stupid deal."

“I know. Stay in the car, aim the gun, shoot only if necessary.” She drawled, rolling her head to look at his side profile. It was almost irritating, how unnaturally beautiful the man was. He was evil in a lot of ways, downright terrifying- but you’d never expect it considering he looked like one of the most beautiful works of art. A face like his belonged in a museum, painted with oils or carved into marble. “I know the drill. The man gives me the creeps anyways. I’ll let you and George deal with him.”

Harry chuckled darkly. "Good girl. Don't worry, George and I will make sure Delgado doesn't try anything stupid- though he isn’t a very smart man." He turned down a familiar street, heading towards their safehouse. "In fact, I think George might be looking forward to this meeting a bit too much. The man's got a real hard-on for scaring the shit out of our past clients."

Harry pulled into the garage of the safehouse, parking the car and turning to Y/N. "Now, come inside. I think we both need to... unwind a bit." He gave her a wolfish grin, his eyes glinting with that familiar predatory look. "And I think I promised you something earlier, didn't I?" He asked, stepping out of the car and rounding to open her door. "Something about my face between your thighs?"

——

Y/N sat in the passenger seat, her eyes fixed on the meeting taking place outside. Harry stood tall, his back straight as he spoke with Delgado. George loomed beside him, his arms crossed over his chest as he watched the other man with a cold gaze. Delgado the creep, on the other hand, fidgeted nervously, his eyes darting back and forth between two men.

Something was definitely up. Her eyes could see it but her body could sense it even if he hadn’t pulled anything quite yet. The man had always been creepy, but something else was at play here. She just wasn’t sure what.

Harry had insisted she stay in the car as she usually did, but she had a feeling he would need to get out. one way or another. Her hand flexed on the weapon, watching between the men and the van opposite them.

The meeting seemed to be growing heated. Delgado's gestures became more animated, his face red with either anger or frustration. Harry, however, remained calm, his expression unreadable. Y/N could see the tension in his shoulders, though, the way his hand tightened around the briefcase he was holding. Beside him, George’s hand slowly drifted to the gun at his side, his stance widening slightly. Something was definitely off.

The van's side door slid open, and a man stepped out, his hand resting on the handle of a gun holstered at his hip. Delgado nodded towards him, and the man approached Harry, speaking in a low tone. Harry's expression didn't change, but his gaze flickered to Y/N in the car before returning to the man. George’s hand tightened around his gun, and Y/N could see the muscles in his jaw clenching.

The man from the van handed Harry a small device, which he examined briefly before pocketing it. He turned back to Delgado, his voice low and even. "We've got a problem," he said. Delgado's face paled, and he glanced nervously at the man who had spoken. 

As if sensing the impending danger, Harry's head snapped towards Y/N just as she heard the click of guns being cocked. Without hesitation, she burst out of the car, her own weapon drawn and firing. The first bullet hit the man closest to Harry, and chaos erupted. Harry dove for cover, his own gun now in hand as he returned fire. George spun, taking out two more men with precise shots. They surely didn’t know who they were messing with when they tried to fuck over Harry, but they were finding out very quickly.

Delgado, realizing that the situation had spiraled out of control, turned to run but was cut down by Harry's shot. The man himself rolled, coming up in a crouch to fire at another of Delgado's men. As he straightened, he saw Y/N, her hair billowing around her as she moved like a dancer, each step graceful yet deadly.

In mere moments, it was over. The bodies of Delgado's men littered the ground, and an eerie silence fell. Harry approached Y/N, his eyes dark with a complex mix of emotions - anger, concern, and something almost akin to pride. "What the fuck were you thinking?" He growled, but there was an undercurrent of relief in his voice. "You could have been killed." Reaching out, his hand cupping her face tenderly, a contrast to the stiffness in his body and anger boiling over that she could physically see.

His thumb brushed gently over her shoulder, coming away with a streak of red. He looked at the blood, his eyes flashing with anger. "You're bleeding." He said, his voice low and dangerous. His gaze flicked to her shoulder, where a tear in her dress revealed a graze from a bullet that she hadn’t even felt. The adrenaline hadn’t even made her aware she’d been hit at all, too focused on making sure Harry was okay. "We need to get you cleaned up." He pulled her against him, his arms wrapping around her protectively. "But first, let's get out of here. I don’t know if the stupid fuck has anyone to call for backup. We’ve got our money."

—

Harry drove them back to the safehouse, his entire body visibly tense as he gripped the steering wheel, his leather gloves stretched over his clenched knuckles. The silence between them was thick, charged with unspoken words. He was mad at her for getting out of the car. Y/N knew as much, but he wasn’t about to fight him right now. 

 Once they arrived, Harry gave her no choice to walk on her own. Strong arms scooped her up carrying her through the house wordlessly, making his way upstairs to their bedroom. Setting her down gently on the bed, his touch was surprisingly tender given his earlier anger. "Let me get the first aid kit. Stay sitting right here. Do not move." He said gruffly, disappearing into the bathroom.

As Harry returned with the first  kit, Y/N reached out, grabbing his arm and pulling him down onto the bed with her. He landed on top of her, his eyes widening with surprise. "Y/N, you're fuckin’ hurt-" He began, but she cut him off, crushing her lips against his. She kissed him hungrily, her body pressing against his as she wrapped her legs around his waist. "I'm fine. I don’t even feel it. Jus’ want you." She panted against his lips.

Harry hesitated for a moment, his moral compass warring with his desire. He barely had one to begin with, but with her in his life it had shifted to give the shreds of care he had to her and her wellbeing. But when Y/N's hands began to roam over his chest, her touch hot and insistent, he groaned and gave in. As much as he wanted to resist, his little devilish brat was his one and only true weakness. There was nothing else he gave a fuck about, but Y/N had managed to snare and tangle him in her web. Make him things he never felt in his life. It had been thought by everyone, himself included, that he wasn’t capable of love. Or caring. But the girl underneath him had torn down everything he had thought he once knew, making him give into the unfamiliar desires. There was no way he could say no to her. His own hands slid up her thighs, pushing her dress up to her hips. "You're so fucking reckless. Should spank you raw for what you did, but I know why you did." he growled, his fingers finding the edge of her underwear. "But god, I love that you gave the first shot. Love that you’re so needy for me."

He tore her underwear aside, his fingers sinking into her slick heat. Y/N cried out, her back arching off the bed as he plunged two fingers inside her. He wasn’t patient in the slightest with his pace, pumping them in and out, his thumb rubbing rough circles against her clit. "So damn wet," he muttered, adding a third finger and scissoring them inside her. Y/N's hands fisted in his hair, tugging him closer as she rocked her hips against his hand. “Works you up to be bad, hm? Y’like to make me worry about you? Like to ring the first shot out? Trying t’protect me. Silly little fucking brat. Can’t listen t’me ever, but you still manage to make me proud.”

His fingers curled up, finding that sweet spot inside her and stroking it relentlessly. It hadn’t taken him long to memorize her body, make a mental map of where she liked to be touched, the most sensitive areas he used to his advantage. It didn’t take much to get her off, his needy slut. Harry was dedicated to the craft of getting her off and he wasn’t about to stop it now. Y/N's moans filled the room, her body tensing as he drove her closer and closer to the edge just with his hand. He could feel her inner walls clamping down around his fingers, her breathing coming in short, sharp pants. He leaned down, his mouth latching onto her breast, drawing her hardened peak into his mouth through the fabric of her top

“Fuck me.  Fuck me right now.” She hissed, growling up at him as the hunger burned through her. “I need it. Give it to me.” Y/N was beyond reason, her body burning with need. She reached down, fumbling with Harry's belt and zipper. Her hands were shaking, but she managed to free his cock and pushed down his briefs, grabbing it and guiding it to her entrance. She was soaked, her pussy clenching around his thick head as she tried to push him inside herself. "Fuck, fuck, fuck!" She chanted, her nails digging into his bicep as she tried to impale herself on him.

Harry gritted his teeth, his body shaking as he held himself back from slamming into her. "Baby, let me..." He panted, but she was beyond hearing him. Her hips bucked, taking him in another inch. He groaned, his head dropping to her shoulder as he tried to regain control. "You'll hurt yourself. Be careful." He ground out, eyes feeling blurry at the feel of her trying to drag him inside.

Her legs wrapped tighter around his waist, her heels digging into his back as she urged him on. "Y/N..." he warned, his voice low and dangerous. But she ignored him, her hips lifting again, taking more of him inside her. He hissed, his hands gripping her wrists and pinning them above her head. "Alright, you leave me no choice." he growled.

With a swift, powerful thrust, Harry buried himself to the hilt inside her. She let out a loud moan, her head thrown back as he stretched her impossibly full. He set a steady and full pace, fucking into her with deep, hard strokes. The bed creaked beneath them, the headboard hitting against the wall with each thrust. Harry's eyes were dark with lust, his face a mask of concentration as he took what she so desperately needed. She had brought him over, made him lose that control he liked to keep wrapped up. He should have known she was going to do it. 

"Harry...please, I want more." Y/N panted, her body writhing beneath his. He growled in response, his hands tightening around her wrists as he increased the tempo. The sound of flesh slapping against flesh filled the room, mingling with their moans and the creaking of the bed. "Harder, Sir. Please, want it harder..." she begged.

Harry's thrusts became rough, his cock slamming into Y/N's soaked pussy with relentless force. Her legs trembled around his waist, her hips bucking to meet each of his powerful strokes. She was a dripping mess, her juices coating his cock and running down her thighs, but she didn’t care. There was nothing she cared more about than getting to cum. The sound of his balls slapping against her ass filled the room, accompanied by the lewd squelching of his dick plunging in and out of her sopping cunt.

"Don't stop...please don't stop..." Y/N whimpered, her eyes rolling back in ecstasy. The rush of adrenaline had hit her full force, and she needed this to get it out of her system. The only person who could give it to her the way she needed was the man above her, and she wasn’t above begging. 

Harry snarled, his teeth sinking into her shoulder as he doubled his efforts. He could feel her tightening around him, her body tensing as she approached her peak. "That's it, love...cum for me, all over this cock." He snarled, his hand snaking between their sweat-slicked bodies to rub her clit. "Let go..."

He pinched her swollen pearl between his fingers, rolling it roughly as he pounded into her. “There. Give it to me, now.” 

There was no way to disobey. Playing her body like his favorite game, Y/N screamed, her body trembling as she shattered. Her inner walls rippled around him, squeezing him like a vice as wave after wave of pleasure crashed over her. He felt the gush of her release, her juices coating him as she cried out his name. But he didn't stop, continuing to pound into her through her release. "Oh my god- oh my god, Harry.."

With a powerful arm around her waist, Harry pulled out momentarily to flip Y/N onto her stomach, his hands gripping her hips and pulling her ass up to meet him. She braced herself on her hands and knees, her fingers clawing at the bedspread as he entered her from behind. The new angle allowed him to sink even deeper, and she gasped at the intense sensation. She was still sensitive and shaky, but he gave her no time to recover. Secretly, she didn’t mind. Underneath it all, she liked being used. She loved being fucked by him, feeling his powerful body pin her down and let her be used by him to get him to the place she knew she owned.

Harry's hands tightened on her hips as he began to thrust again, his voice low and growling in her ear. "You love that, don't you? You love the way my cock fills you all the way up." He punctuated each word with a sharp hip thrust, his hips slapping against her backside. "Say it," he commanded, his voice hoarse with desire. "Tell me you love my cock fucking that filthy cunt..."

Y/N moaned, her head dropping forward as he set a relentless pace. "Oh god, yes...I love it...love your cock in my filthy cunt.” There was an attempt to push herself up onto her palms but it failed miserably. “Filling me so perfectly… I love it so much." Her words ended in a cry as he reached around to fondle her breasts, his fingers tweaking her hardened nipple painfully. 

Y/N's body was consumed by lust, her own mix of adrenaline and primal urges taking over. She rocked back against him, meeting each of his powerful thrusts. Her hair was a wild mess, sticking to her sweat-slicked face. She bared her teeth in a feral grin, reveling in the delicious stretch of his cock inside her. "That's it...fuck me like the bitch in heat I am..."

Harry's breath hitched in his throat, his body tensing at her words. His hands gripped her hips painfully tight, his fingers digging into her soft flesh. "Is that what you want? You want me to mount you? Filthy slut." He snarled, slamming into her with such force that she slid forward on the bed. "You want me to breed that needy little hole?"

“Yes, yes, yes, yes, I need it.” She slurred. “I can take it. I want everything, I want you to give me everything.” It was delirium, maybe, but she loved becoming unhinged like this. After a meet, after a robbery, after anything that set her nerves on fire, Harry knew what she needed every damn time. 

"Then take it." He pulled out, spinning Y/N around to face him before slamming back inside her. His arms wrapped around her waist, lifting her off the bed as he stood and let her back hit the cool wall, his cock driving into her as he held her up. She screamed, her legs wrapping around his waist as he fucked her against it the wall, her head rubbing up against the drywall with each thrust.

His eyes locked onto hers, black with lust as he continued to drive into her. The sounds of their bodies meeting filled the room, punctuated by Y/N's breathless moans and his own guttural grunts. His hands squeezed her asss, spreading her cheeks apart to allow him deeper inside. She could feel him so deeply, the pressure bordering on pain, but she never wanted it to end. "Fuck- fuck me.” She whimpered, tears welling up in her eyes. “It’s so good. Use me. Please, I want t’make you happy.”

"You are, baby. Make me so happy.” As happy as a man like Harry could be. It had been a foreign emotion the first time he felt it, the weird warmth in his chest making him worry he may be having a silent heart attack- but it had been happiness. Butterflies. An odd sensation that he came to look forward to. “You do such a good job every time. Perfect slut, taking every fucking inch..." He panted, his sweat dripping down onto her. He could feel her tightening around him, her body preparing for another orgasm. "Want you t’cum for me again." he demanded, his thumb finding her clit and rubbing in tight circles. "Know you can do it."

He increased his pace, his cock slamming into her with punishing force. The wall shook with each impact, the painting he had hanging up rattling on the surface. Y/N's mouth fell open in a silent scream, her eyes rolling back as he fucked her with wild abandon. He could feel his own release approaching, his balls drawing up tight. "Fuck, 'm going to fill this cunt up. Breed it like y’want me to." 

The words were a trigger. Y/N's body heated up as she took it, the overwhelming feeling cresting and falling over the edge as her back arched as she came with a guttural moan. Her pussy clenched around him like a vice, rippling along his length as she gushed around his pistoning cock. It was a mess, dribbling down to his balls as more was forced out with each slam inside of her sensitive, quivering pussy.

 The sensation was too much, and with a deep growl that came from the center of his chest, Harry buried himself to the hilt, his cock pulsing as he pumped her full of his hot cum. He ground against her, making sure every last drop was inside her. "Take it all..." Y/N whimpered, her oversensitive walls fluttering around him as he filled her to the brim. The feel of the heat inside of her soothed something bone deep, clinging to his body as she felt herself go weak. His hips jerked with each pulse, working his cock deeper, ensuring his seed was planted as far inside her as possible. "There it is, baby. It’s all for you. Shit."

Finally spent, Harry slumped forward, pinning Y/N against the wall with his weight. They were both panting, sticky and exhausted- but happy. He could feel his softening cock still nestled inside her, plugging her up. "Mm. Want t’keep it all inside," he murmured, his lips brushing her ear. "Let it soak into my greedy cunt..."

Y/N's body went limp in his arms, letting him take over in holding up her body. It was the least he could do, after all. A blissful smile played on her lips as she basked in the afterglow. "You took me so well," Harry praised, his voice a low rumble. "Such a good girl." There was the praise she knew would be coming. He was more generous in these moments, after he’d given her all he had. The selective vulnerability was something she cherished.

Despite her disobedience, Y/N's impulsive actions had ultimately saved him. And as his nature took over, the only way he knew how to express his gratitude was by giving her what she needed. "You were disobedient, but you saved me." His hand slid up to collar her throat, pressing a kiss to her swollen lips. "You deserved to be rewarded..." he murmured. "And oh, how you took it."

[enwoso]

blood, not bond | alessia russo x child!reader

-> based on this request

grumpy masterlist | leah is in it but she kind of pops in and out of it - more focused on: harrison, alessia and lovie.

at seventeen, you had gotten used to the strange rhythm of your relationship with, your dad, harrison.

once every four or five weeks maybe longer if life got in the way, you'd meet up with him. lunch or a quick shop around town, maybe both if you were lucky.

he'd always ask you about school, about your football commenting on the fact that he managed to watch your match on a stream like it meant something to you, or if you were still writing in that journal you'd started in year nine.

it wasn't uncomfortable, wasn't bad either. it just wasn't what people imagined when they heard the word 'dad'.

because really you didn't have a 'dad'. you had an alessia and a leah. they were your parents. your constants.

harrison well, he was.. something else? a figure which floated in and out your life with well meaning eyes and clumsy attempts to connect.

this time you were spending a rare saturday with harrison. but it wasn't in a 'cherished' kind of way, more like it was an obligation.

you didn't hate seeing your dad, sometimes on the rare occasion you'd actually enjoy yourself but most of the time were just.. odd. scheduled. like fitting a phone call in with a stranger into a diary full of people who actually knew you.

this one had started like the others: brunch at the cafe that he liked, shopping afterward if he remembered that you needed new trainers or a jacket. a few attempts at small talk — 'is school going okay?', how's football? scored any crackers yet?', 'how's your mum?'

the day had been fine, until it wasn't.

"so," harrison started, halfway through his eggs benedict. "louis and lily would love to meet you one day."

you blinked, pausing mid-forkful of your pancakes, "who?"

he just smiled like it was a name you should recognise, "your younger brother and sister. i've told them about you, there always asking when they're going to meet you."

your fork hovered still in mid-air, your mouth going dry. "you.. you have kids?"

"yeah, i do" he said as if it was nothing and that it should have been common knowledge to you. "well, you knew about zoey—"

"i knew you had a girlfriend when i was like eleven, you posted her once and then never mentioned her again."

he frowned, "louis is five and lily is three. and the only reason i didn't tell you sooner is cause i didn't want to throw too much at you all at once, but they've been asking about you for a while — especially louis, he's a big football and arsenal fan"

you didn't respond, just looked down. you now suddenly hyper-aware of the clink of cutlery around the cafe, the swirl of the cream in your coffee cup. your appetite vanished.

the rest of the day passes in awkward silences and occasional comments which you couldn't force yourself to reply too. he asked if you liked a jacket, you shrugged. asked about football, you said 'great'

finally, when he pulled up outside your house, home, he put the car in park but didn't turn off the engine.

"i'm serious, y/n" he said, hand still on the steering wheel like he might need to grip it to keep the conversation from drifting. "think about it please, they'd love to meet you."

you nodded slowly, "we'll see." it came out small, flat. a placeholder for all the thing you didn't know how to say.

you slipped out the car muttering a 'thank you' but before he could say more, you were heading up the driveway with quick steps and slipping through your front door like a ghost.

the front door creaked with the same familiar cream it always did. leah was in the kitchen, stirring something in a pan which you knew she'd of been instructed to do by your mum. music drifting through the hallway, quiet but calm.

"hey, angel. you good?" leah called out, you nodded again, tossed your shoes by the door, alessia bundling down the stairs as she ruffled your hair a warm smile on her lips.

"lovie! how was your day?" she asked as she leant against the banister, you knowing she wouldn't drop it until you said something.

"fine" you said, dropping your bag by the stairs.

"did you go for food?" alessia asked, her eyebrows raising at your short answers and the way you were behaving.

"yeah." you hummed, one foot on the bottom step waiting for your exit to go straight to your room.

"you want tea?"

"i'm good." you didn't wait for more. just walked straight up to you room and closed the door with a quiet click.

leaving your mum at the bottom of the stairs, her being slightly confused at your quiet behaviour, usually you'd come home with a story or maybe at least complaining about your dad asking you a question about something you hadn't done since you were ten.

but today, nothing. silence. but alessia knew better than to push. you'd tell her eventually.

—

alessia waited. she didn't follow after you. didn't push. she never did. she left you in your room while her and leah ate tea together. a slight look of concern on leah's face when alessia told her to leave you when she asked if she should call you down for dinner.

but a few hours later, after you had spent most of the evening buried in your duvet with your headphones on, alessia knocked softly and poked her head in.

leah had taken the dog out. the house was still, humming only with the low buzz of the boiler and the occasional car passing outside.

"can i come in?" you shrugged glancing up at your mum as she poked her head through the door.  you were sat cross-legged, staring blankly at your phone screen. alessia walked in, sat on the edge of the bed like she always had since you were small.

"so how was today? with your dad."

alessia looked at the way your face changed at then mention of it. she could tell something was off. not just because you were quiet, but the way you moved as if your skin didn't quite fit right. your shoulders were tight, tense.

"hey" alessia said gently. "you okay?"

your eyes stayed on your phone screen, you having been doom scrolling for the past few hours trying to get rid of your thoughts however it was probably making them worse.

your jaw clenched once. then again. then— "he told me he has another family."

alessia's heart thudded, a pout forming over her lips, "lovie.."

"i have siblings," you snapped, you voice sharp. "siblings, mum. five and three. and tells me like it's some lovely fun little surprise over brunch!"

alessia's face dropped, she knew about harrison moving on with zoey, in a way she was delighted it had meant he wouldn't keep sticking his nose in her relationship with leah and she knew about louis.

not because she found out from harrison himself first (no surprise there) but, from one of harrison's friends she bumped into while doing a late shop one afternoon. harrison then telling her a few days later, alessia urging him to tell you but he promised he would when the time was right.

"wow. i-i didn't know about the three-year-old. just louis but that was years ago."

"you knew!?" your voice hitched as you head snapped to look at your mum. hurt blooming behind your eyes.

"i knew about louis and yeah we both knew about zoey, but i didn't know they'd had another child." alessia explained, her voice calm, too calm for your liking. with the way your chest felt like it was about to explode.

"and what? you didn't think to tell me?" you snapped, your voice dripping with bitterness but also hurt.

alessia took a slow breath, "it wasn't my place to say anything. at the end of the day lovie, he is your dad. it should've come from him."

your eyes flashed. "oh, come on. that's such a cop-out."

"no, i didn't mean it like that."

"then how did you mean it?" your voice rose, frustration starting to build. "cause right now it sounds a lot like you just didn't want to deal with it. just like he didn't either."

alessia flinched but she didn't move her eyes hardening. "hey, no, don't put me in the same category as him, lovie. i've been here. every day. for every meltdown, for every match, for every homework crisis."

you started pacing back and forth in your room. "yeah, you have. you've been here. and he's been off playing happy families with some other kids. buying them toys, tucking them into bed, going to their school plays, their out of school clubs—"

"you don't know that."

"i don't have to!" you nearly shouted. "cause i can guess. cause i know what it looks like when someone doesn't show up, and he's had plenty of practice."

alessia took a careful step forward wanting to try and help calm you down before you did something silly. "you're allowed to be upset. you're allowed to be angry."

"well, good. because i am." you said, voice cracking with each word. "he shows up once a month, if that, buys me lunch, asks me about school like he knows me, and then drops this on me like it's something i should be excited about."

you stop pacing and turned to your mum, eyes shining with unshed tears. "he said they want to meet me. that they know all about me. like i'm just some story that their dad tells sometimes at bedtime. like i'm not even a real person."

alessia's heart broke a little more with each word. "he should've told you a long time ago. but he also should have done a lot differently then he did when you were growing up."

your voice shook as you sniffled. "i spent years thinking i did something wrong. that i wasn't enough. that i was the problem. that if i'd been better—quieter, smarter, easier—maybe he'd have stayed, maybe he'd of made more of an effort to get to know me. and now i find out he did stay. just not for me."

"oh, lovie..."

"he just replaced me, mum. he left you, and then he replaced me. like i didn't even mean anything."

and that was it—the dam broke. your legs gave way as you collapsed onto the side of your bed, and the tears came hard, your chest heaving with the weight of everything you'd been holding in for years.

alessia was beside you in an instant, pulling you close, her arms wrapping tightly around you like a shield. alessia didn't speak right away. just held you. let you sob.

"i don't want to meet them," you whispered eventually, voice hoarse as tears still streamed down your face.

"you don't have to," your mum murmured against you. "you don't owe him anything. this isn't your responsibility."

"he said they'd love to meet me," you scoffed bitterly. "but they don't know me. i'm just a name. some girl he sees sometimes. i'm not part of his family. not really."

alessia pulled back just enough to look you in the eye. "then let's make something very clear—you do have a family. me. mama. this house. your many, many aunties. your friends. the people who show up. that's your family."

you nodded, barely. your hands clutched the hem of your mum's jumper.

"do you think it makes me a bad person for not wanting to see them?" you asked softly, slight hiccup coming from your lips.

"no," alessia said without a beat of hesitation. "it makes you honest. and human. and hurting. and that's perfectly okay."

your mum stood, slow and careful, like you might shatter if she moved too fast. "your allowed to be angry."

"i don't even know what i am." your hands were trembling now. "i'm not mad he has a family. i'm mad i'm not part of it. that i never was. that he never gave me the chance. that he never loved me, not properly."

flash— age four: harrison meeting you for the first time after walking away after alessia had told him she was pregnant. bringing a little teddy bear like it could fill four years of nothing.  you didn't even remember it—but you remember your mum's face when the door had closed again.

flash— age nine: he missed your school plays. said he had work, but you saw the tagged picture later on. a dinner. smiling. a different world.

flash— age twelve: he missed your birthday. fourteen: he never messaged to say congratulations on your first start for the england youth team.

flash — age sixteen: he said he'd take you out for dinner after your exams, you sat waiting for hours - he didn't even bother to call and cancel.

instead it was just a pattern of promises that never really included you.

alessia took a slow step closer as she knelt down in front of you, you sat looking at your hands in your lap. "you don't have to figure this all out today, lovie."

"i don't want to meet them," you said, voice still hoarse but still sharp. "i don't want to play happy families with strangers. i don't want to pretend i've ever been more than a once-a-month reminder for him."

alessia arms wrapped around you like muscle memory, strong and warm and safe. "and that's okay, you don't have to do anything you don't want to. you have us. you always have and always will, that's never going to change."

you pressed your face into her mum's shoulder in front of you, letting the tears come again, now that you weren't pretending to be okay.

the front door opened. leah's voice floated in, as she called out, the sound of the dogs collar echoing as it shook itself in the hallway. "i'm backk!"

alessia looked over the top of your head, eyes soft as she whispered. "we'll get there. i've got you."

she stroked your hair gently as you curled into her side, exhausted and broken but safe. it wasn't fixed. not yet. and maybe wouldn't be for a while. but you had what mattered most. you had home.