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plutotheplum · 8 months ago

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Felt Good About You

akaashi keiji x fem!reader

summary: delivering a revised manuscript to your editor turns into something more.

cw: nsfw (18+) - mdni!!, smut, fluff, post-time skip, oral sex, vaginal fingering, praise kink, handjob, p in v

wc: 4.8k

a/n: i'm afraid i have the fattest crush on akaashi

also on ao3!

“The romance isn’t working.”

You groan when your editor pushes your manuscript for this week’s chapter towards you. You didn’t need any more bumps in the road, not when you were already running behind on deadlines, with the publishing company breathing down your neck to get the next volume out.

“The romance is fine, Akaashi” you mumble, flicking through the pages of the manuscript to skim through his notes.

“If it was fine, I wouldn’t be here,” he replies dryly.

Akaashi was as blunt as ever. Most of the time you appreciated his honesty, he was the reason for such success with your manga after all, but sometimes he managed to get on your nerves.

“It’s an unnecessary subplot,” he continues, flipping through a couple of pages to show you a few of the panels you had drawn, “there’s just no plausible progression between the two, no chemistry.”

You glare at him. He was really starting to get on your nerves. Akaashi rolls his eyes when he sees your glare, reaching out to flick your forehead.

“You’re already behind on the scheduled publishing date,” he reminds you, crossing his arms over his chest, “and I get the short end of the stick because I’m your editor.”

“The higher-ups love you,” you retort.

You stare pointedly at the small stash of awards that were tucked onto a shelf in his office, the small trophies and plaques a clear display of the company’s commendation for his work.

“Not enough to let me work in the literature department,” he mutters bitterly.

“I’m right here!” you protest, an exasperated expression spreading across your face.

“Yeah, yeah,” Akaashi murmurs.

He taps your manuscript a few more times before giving you a stern look.

“Get me the revised version by tonight, otherwise you’ll miss out on this week’s issue.”

You curse him under your breath, giving him one final glare as you gather the pages of your manuscript into your hands. You had come into his office thinking he’d been fine with the story, but now you had somehow ended up with more work than before, and an even tighter deadline.

A few hours later, you end up finding yourself outside Akaashi’s apartment. Guilt had won out in the end, and you figured that it wasn’t fair to let him take the blame for your tardiness. Revised manuscript clutched against your chest, you ring his doorbell.

You can feel your throat dry when he opens up the door. His hair is damp, towel slung around the back of his neck. He’s wearing an old volleyball shirt with sweatpants, and you don’t think you’ll ever get used to him looking so domestic.

Akaashi stares at you blankly, clearly not expecting you. Usually you would’ve just emailed the revised manuscript over to him, not show up outside his door.

“I felt guilty,” you blurt out, cheeks flushing at the awkwardness in the air, “and- and I ordered gyoza so it should be here in a few minutes.”

“Right,” he says after a moment, “you didn’t have to.”

You stare at each other for a moment longer until he sighs, opening the door wider to let you in.

“You’re just as bad as Bokuto,” he informs you.

The mention of the pro-volleyball player makes a smile spread across your face. You had met Akaashi’s volleyball friends a few times when they had enlisted your help in throwing Akaashi a surprise birthday party - which had maybe ended up in a disaster - as well as when you had wound up to a few of their games.

“He’s a sweet guy,” you reply, handing him your manuscript.

Akaashi only hums in response, walking over to his desk. He hangs his towel on the back of his chair before sitting down. You watch as he slips his glasses on, examining the pages of your now edited work.

“I thought you’d try and fight me about the romance,” he murmurs, his pen making a few adjustments here and there.

“Figured it wasn’t worth it,” you sigh, slumping on the couch in his living room, “you were right, as always.”

He peers over at you, his eyes narrowing as he watches the sulky look on your face. Despite your random bouts of laziness, even Akaashi had to agree that you were a good mangaka whose popularity had built up a loyal reader base.

“Look,” Akaashi says, setting his pen down, “if you’re that hung up about cutting those scenes, start drafting it now.”

Your gaze shoots up to meet his eyes.

“Seriously?” you ask, eyeing him suspiciously.

Akaashi was dedicated, sure, but he wasn’t exactly one to take on extra work. Sometimes you felt as though he would’ve been right at home in the literature department, editing novels instead of volumes of manga. It was like he worked with you out of obligation, not enjoyment, despite the friendship you had built up over the years.

“Yeah,” he says, pushing his glasses up a bit further to sit better on the slope of his nose, “I’m serious.”

You don’t get to dwell any longer on your editor’s change in mind, the sound of the doorbell piercing through your conversation. Akaashi waves you away when you move towards the door, grabbing the delivered containers of gyoza himself.

He sits down beside you on the couch, handing you one container whilst he takes the other. For some reason, you’re feeling more on edge than usual. The brush of his arm against yours has heat rising to your cheeks, body growing taut with the way your stomach is swirling with nervousness.

It was no secret that Akaashi was one of the most handsome men in the office, and you had maybe developed a tiny crush on the man, which was now inflating into something that was not so tiny, and much, much harder to control the more time you spent with him.

“You okay?” Akaashi asks, peering over you.

You don’t trust yourself enough to reply which is why you stuff a gyoza into your mouth and nod rapidly.

Silence lapses over you both as you eat, but you can feel his eyes boring into the side of your head. You pretend not to notice, trying to engross yourself in the taste of the gyoza and the tang of soy sauce.

Akaashi slouches slightly, his body relaxing as time passes. You can see it in the way his shoulders drop, his thighs spreading as he gets more comfortable.

“Instead of adding romance as a subplot, why don’t you make it into another story altogether?”

You blink over at him, surprised.

“I don’t have time to write another manga,” you say, shaking your head, “I’d have to find another publisher if I wanted to write something that was purely romance.”

“Shonen manga in the romance genre exist,” he replies, running his hand through his hair, “or you could just self-publish.”

You’d been hoping to avoid the topic of self-publishing. Sure, you knew of it, participated in it even. It’d been used as a creative outlet, to get out some ideas that you couldn’t work on when your success as a mangaka had grown. Besides, it wasn’t like you could tell Akaashi that you had drawn up stories that were, well, inappropriate.

“But that would be too much work,” you sigh, trying to stop his train of thought.

Akaashi stares at you thoughtfully. The more you spend time with him, the more you begin to regret your choice to come here. Emailing the manuscript to him would’ve been the smarter choice, but you just had to feel sorry for the guy.

“I did read one the other day that had a similar art style to yours.”

Fuck, fuck, fuck. You can feel your composure slipping. There was no way he could know that you self-published stories that were practically panel after panel of porn. Maybe he enjoyed it? One thought leads to another and you find yourself imagining Akaashi with his hand wrapped around his cock, his head tipped back as he strokes himself.

“What was it about?” you manage to grit out, trying to see through the haze of your indecent thoughts.

“About a couple,” he says simply, “they ended up fucking.”

You can feel the hope swirling in your mind fade. Akaashi definitely knew.

“Didn’t know you read that sort of thing.”

“I’m a man, aren’t I? Sometimes porn just doesn’t cut it. The story was pretty great too.”

He thought the story was great? You can’t help yourself from perking up, the compliment making you feel warm.

“I just find it so strange,” he murmurs, leaning closer to you.

You swallow harshly, mustering up a smile with your trembling lips, “why’s that?”

“The author’s note,” Akaashi says, “the little bunny avatar was the same as yours.”

So, you had messed up. You spy the front door from the corner of your eyes. If you walked, you’d get there in about ten steps, but if you ran, you’d get there in about three - maybe two - strides. Sure, you wouldn’t ever be able to face Akaashi again, but you think you’d be fine with it. Report filed to the higher ups stating creative differences and you’d be able to find a new editor, no problem.

“It’s all probably just a coincidence,” you say nonchalantly, “plenty of people like bunnies.”

“Some of the dialogue was similar to yours, distinct writing and all that.”

You grit your teeth. The man didn’t know when to let go.

“Like I said, coincidence.”

“Right,” he says, nodding along, “a coincidence. Was it also a coincidence that the couple that had sex was a mangaka and her editor?”

You scramble to your feet when he says that. Letting out an awkward laugh, your cheeks heated with embarrassment, you decide that this is the best time to take your leave.

“Have- have a good night!” you say, voice pitching.

Determination has Akaashi’s eyes gleaming and now you’re bolting, feet nearly tripping over each other as you dart towards his apartment door. It seems as though fate isn’t in your favor tonight, Akaashi’s hand curling around your wrist as he catches onto you before you can open the door. You squeak when he slams his hand against the wall, right next to your head as he pushes you up against the door.

“Classic scene,” he murmurs, his eyes narrowing as he takes in your meek expression, “you always use it.”

“Fuck off, Akaashi!” you snap, pushing at his chest.

It’s a struggle, but you reach back behind you, hand grabbing blindly for the door handle. He doesn’t let you reach it, catching your wrist and pinning it against the door.

“You sure?” Akaashi asks, his eyes darkened, “or maybe you want me to fuck you.”

Your breath catches in your throat, mouth opening before closing again. There’s nothing left in you, no retorts, no words to get yourself out of this situation. He lets out a sigh when he feels your body relax, his hand on your wrist loosening as he lets go. You stare up at him, biting your lip nervously.

“You should’ve said something,” he says quietly, adjusting his glasses.

“And embarrass myself?” you mutter, picking at the wool of your sweater.

Akaashi doesn’t say anything, his hand smoothing up your hip and settling on your waist. Your eyes widen, arousal shooting through your body as he presses himself closer, his other hand finding your waist. Akaashi squeezes gently and you bite back a whine, eyes drooping slightly as he just squeezes and pets at your sides.

“It was good,” he says hoarsely, “the story, the details, the sex… came to it a couple of times.”

“You- you liked it?” you whisper, voice airy.

“Yeah,” he whispers back, his eyes meeting yours, “liked it… like you.”

Your eyes flutter shut when he kisses your cheek, your heart thudding in your chest. You never dreamt it’d come down to this, but you find yourself grateful for Akaashi’s observational nature.

He takes his glasses off, placing them into his pocket. Akaashi’s lips drag across your cheek, pressing soft kisses against your skin. He kisses the corner of your mouth, lips brushing against yours gently.

“Kiss me, Akaashi” you whisper, arms wrapping around his neck.

“Yeah,” Akaashi says softly, “yeah, I’ll kiss you, baby.”

A contented sigh escapes you as he slots his lips over yours, kissing you gently. The heat between you begins to grow, his hands slipping under your sweater to feel your bare skin. You gasp into his mouth, his hands surprisingly warm.

Akaashi smiles against your lips, his hand running up your back as his kisses turn hungrier, his tongue tracing the seam of your lips. You let him lick into your mouth, tugging at his hair desperately. Rocking up onto the tips of your toes, you deepen the kiss, pulling him impossibly closer.

He wraps his arms around your waist, groaning when your nails scratch his scalp fleetingly. You bite your kiss-swollen lip as he drags his lips down your neck, landing heated kisses to your skin.

Akaashi kisses the pulse of your throat, his lips finding their way back to yours. Soft pants fill the air, his smile hazy as he peers down at you. You smile back, head tilting to the side to let him kiss your cheek again.

“You’re such a dork,” he whispers, his eyes twinkling.

“Shut up,” you whine, pushing at his chest.

He grins, his hands grasping yours. Akaashi pulls you away from the door, his arms wrapping around the backs of your thighs as he picks you up. You laugh, legs wrapping around his waist, lips pressing against his as he carries you to his bed.

Akaashi lays you down on his bed and you watch with half-lidded eyes as he pulls his shirt off. He might not have played as competitively like he did in highschool, but you had been there when he had played with his friends. It’d been entrancing to watch the way he had set the ball for his friends, the ball curving through the air cleanly for the spiker to hit.

“‘s not fair how good you look,” you grumble, pouting.

He rolls his eyes, crawling onto the bed, his body hovering over yours.

“You look pretty good yourself,” Akaashi says, his fingers playing with the hem of your sweater.

You lift your arms for him, letting him pull it off of you. His gaze fixes on the swell of your breasts and you flush, looking away.

“You’re shy now?” He murmurs, a soft laugh escaping him as he kisses your jaw.

“You’re such a jerk,” you huff out.

Akaashi smiles and you don’t think you’ll ever be able to be truly angry with him. He’s patient more than anything, caring and always honest. You’ve never met a man like him, never met someone who could quell your worries the way he could. It makes you want to never let go.

His body settles between your thighs, his nimble fingers pulling your bra free. Your nipples pebble in the cold air and Akaashi leans forward, his hot, wet mouth enveloping a hard bud into his mouth.

You whine brokenly, back arching slightly as he sucks your nipple, tongue swirling around the bud. He groans as you run your fingers through his hair, his mouth suctioning around your breast for a few moments before he pulls off with a pop.

His mouth finds your other breast, kissing the side of it, mouthing at your skin. You can feel his tongue caress the underside of it, laving across your breast before he bites gently at your flesh, his half-lidded eyes meeting yours.

“You’re a fuckin’ tease,” he whispers against your breast.

You shake your head, mewling when his hand slides up, his fingers pitching at your spit-coated nipples. He rests his head between your breasts, watching you contentedly as you writhe under the onslaught of his touches.

“A- Akaashi,” you whimper, hips bucking, “want- want more, please.”

“So polite, baby” he coos, his hands groping at your breasts.

He pulls away from you and you whine, lifting your hips for him when he peels your pants off. There’s a moment of silence and you’re anticipating the feel of his mouth on your body, only for him to let out a low laugh.

“Bunnies til the end, huh?” Akaashi asks, his fingers playing with the waistband of your panties.

Your brows furrow, not quite sure what he’s talking about until you prop yourself on your elbows and see that you’re wearing a pair of bunny-patterned panties.

“Oh, fuck off,” you groan, slumping back down onto the bed and slinging your arm over your eyes.

“They’re cute,” he smiles, prying your arm away from your face, “just like you, baby.”

Akaashi grasps one of your legs, bringing it to his mouth as he runs his hand along the length of it, kissing the sole of your foot and then your ankle. A soft hum leaves you, watching as he kisses up your leg, his kisses feather-light.

You run your fingers through his hair as he kisses the little bow on your panties, his nose pressing between your clothed folds to breathe you in.

“Pussy’s soaked through,” Akaashi murmurs, pulling back to look at your dampened panties.

“‘s your fault,” you slur, trying to push his face back to where you want it.

“All my fault,” he agrees, his tongue licking up over your panties, “guess I’ll have to take care of you then.”

You nod, trying to stop the little twitches that shoot through your body. Akaashi lets his mouth latch onto you, trying to suck the slick that’s soaked through the fabric of your panties.

“A- ah!” you pant, fingers fisting his hair as he squeezes your hips, his face nuzzling deeper between your thighs.

Akaashi’s lithe fingers pull at your panties, dragging them down your thighs. You don’t miss the way he tucks them into his pocket.

“Always so pretty, baby” he whispers, his thumbs pulling apart your folds to expose your pussy.

He moans when he sees the translucent strings of arousal that cling to your folds, his tongue darting out to lick up the little strings. You whimper when he kisses your clit gently, watching as he rubs the pad of his thumb against your swollen clit. Thighs twitching, you shift, trying to tilt your hips a little higher so you can feel his mouth on you.

“Ask for it,” Akaashi says, his cheek pressing against your thigh as he stares up at you.

“‘m not- ‘m not asking for it,” you retort, glaring at him.

“Bet it’d feel good,” he whispers, his tongue lolling out of his mouth.

You whine when he just keeps his tongue there, saliva dripping from the tip of it and onto your pussy. He makes an obscene noise, gathering some more saliva, spitting on your cunt.

“All you gotta do is ask,” he coaxes, his arms wrapping around your thighs, “clit looks so achy… makes me wanna kiss it better.”

“P- please,” you whisper, your voice barely audible.

“Didn’t quite catch that,” Akaashi smiles up at you, his eyes twinkling.

You’ll have to get him back for his teasing later, but right now you can’t wait.

“Please lick my pussy!”

You squeal when he latches his mouth onto you again, his tongue lapping over your wet pussy. He groans and you tug at his hair, thighs squeezing around his head as he laves his tongue over you greedily, letting his tongue dip into your hole before he sucks your clit into his mouth.

Legs kicking out, you let out a strangled noise as he flicks his tongue over your clit. Akaashi lands the filthiest kisses to your clit, alternating between sucking and little pecks, while he’s sunk two fingers inside of you. They curl up inside of you, grazing your sensitive spot perfectly. He fucks his fingers in and out of you, your wanton noises filling his bedroom.

Akaashi presses his face deeper, his fingers crooking. The feeling of his mouth in tandem with his fingers has you whimpering and whining, airy noises spilling from your lips at his ministrations. You might not ever be able to go without him ever again.

He holds you in place as you thrash, the overwhelming feeling inside of you building and building. Akaashi slips his fingers out of you in favor of devouring your cunt again, licking through your velvety folds, his tongue swirling before he presses it inside of you.

“Taste so fuckin’ good,” he growls.

You blink down at him dazedly. There’s a light flush covering his cheeks, his mouth glistening with your wetness. He opens his mouth to say something else but you ignore him, pushing his head so that his lips are flush against your cunt. Akaashi lets out a muffled laugh against your pussy, his tongue licking over you again.

Hand squeezing at your breast, you bite your lip, losing yourself in the caress of his tongue. He laps over you, again and again, pressing sloppy kisses to your clit.

“Gonna come,” you whisper, feeling the softness of his hair under your palm, “gonna come, ‘kaashi.”

He tilts your hips a little more, rising up onto his knees with your legs slung over his shoulders. You squeal again when he shakes his head, tongue dragging from side to side before he plunges it inside of you, his thumb pressing against your clit at the same time.

Your thighs squeeze tightly around his head as you come, loosening after a while when twitches rack through your body. Akaashi squeezes your thighs, lets your legs slip from his shoulders as he kisses your trembling thighs.

“Good girl,” he whispers.

Akaashi kisses your cheek and wipes the stray curls of your hair away from your face. A soft sheen of sweat covers your body and he hums, smoothing his thumbs over the underside of your breasts.

He lays down beside you and you curl up beside him, eyes catching on the bulge in his sweatpants.

“Need some help?” you murmur, fingers dragging down his chest.

“If you don’t mind,” he sighs, his arm wrapping around your waist to hold you close to him.

You smile, kissing his jaw gently as your hand slides past his navel, disappearing into his sweatpants. The weight of his cock is heavy and hot and Akaashi moans softly when your hand curls around his length.

“Ask for it, ‘kaashi,” you whisper, voice lilting.

“You’re such a brat,” he mutters.

“Use your manners, Keiji.”

His eyes widen when you use his name and you grin, landing a soft kiss to his cheek as your breasts squish up against his bicep. You squeeze around his cock and he lets out a soft whine, his hips bucking.

“Fuck- fuck hah-,” Akaashi grits out, “stroke my cock, baby, hm? Please?”

You hum softly, beginning to move your hand. His thick cock twitches as you stroke him, your wrist rotating.

He pants softly, his head turning to meet yours. You smile, running your fingers through his hair, brushing the soft strands out of his eyes. Affection bursts inside of you, heart fluttering as the flush on his cheeks deepens.

His brows have drawn together and you smooth your thumb over them, peppering soft kisses over his face, leg slinging over his as you pull down his sweatpants to free his cock completely. Akaashi’s cock has filled out, pre-cum smearing across his abdomen. You caress the head of it, giggling when he lets out a broken moan as you rub your thumb against the tip.

“You look so handsome,” you say, stroking his cock a little faster.

Akaashi smiles and you dip your head, kissing him. He groans, his hips chasing after the feeling of your hand around him as you kiss. Your hand tightens a little, squeezing at the tip of his cock. Pre-cum wets your hand, soft gasps escaping Akaashi as you let your tongue slip into his mouth.

“Keiji,” you whisper, lips brushing over his, “Keiji, will you fuck me?”

You squeak in surprise when he manages to grab onto your waist, lifting you up and placing you on his lap. His cock is snug between your folds and you whine, dragging your hips along the length of it, biting your lip as more pre-cum leaks from him.

“Sit on my cock, baby” he whispers, smoothing his hands up your thighs.

You nod, shifting a little so that you’re up on your knees. Akaashi watches as you grip the base of his cock, moaning when you rub his cock against your pussy, letting it catch on your clit. Akaashi’s head tips back as you sink down, whimpery, little noises leaving you as your pussy swallows up his cock.

It’s so thick inside of you, fitting so snugly that you clench around him. Akaashi wraps an arm around your waist, bringing your front flush against him. He lets you tuck your face into the crook of his neck, his arms tightening around your waist. You can feel him move, his feet flat against the bed as he bends his knees.

“K- Keiji!” you wail when he begins to fuck up into you.

Akaashi grunts, holding you against him as he moves his hips, rutting up into you. His hands grope at your ass, gripping your ass tightly as he moves a little more forcefully. You bury your face deeper into the crook of his neck, pressing sloppy kisses against his skin as you smooth your hand over his hair.

“Is this- fuck,” Akaashi grits out, “is this what you imagined when you drew up those panels?”

You nod, too far gone to cling onto the remnants of your stubbornness.

“Yeah?” he whispers, “imagined me fucking up into you, huh?”

“Y- yes!” you cry out, body squirming when he lands a heavy spank to your ass.

“Good fuckin’ girl,” he growls.

A soft mewl leaves you at the praise, your hips swaying back lazily to meet his thrusts. The sound of his hips slapping into your ass echoes through his room, your wetness leaking around his cock and coating his balls.

Your body rocks against his, your hand gripping at the sheets beside his head when he adjusts his grip on you, planting his feet a bit firmer against his mattress to thrust into you harder. You gasp at the sensation, sinking your teeth into his shoulder when his cock hits deep inside of you.

Akaashi hisses at the feeling of your teeth, spanking your ass again before you clench around him with a scream, body shuddering on top of his as you come.

“Baby, baby, you gotta let go,” he rasps.

You shake your head stubbornly, pushing your hips down so that it swallows his cock all the way to the base.

“Inside, Keiji.”

He groans, his hands kneading at your hips roughly. You can feel the twitch of his cock, a satisfied coo leaving your lips when he comes, spurts of his hot cum filling you up. Akaashi’s hips stutter, thrusting into you unevenly as his cock jerks, more cum flooding your pussy.

You both pant, chests heaving. Akaashi rubs his hand along your back and you emerge from the crook of his neck, a drunken smile on your face.

He laughs hoarsely at your expression, cupping your cheek to guide you into another kiss while his cock softens inside of you. It’s a little uncomfortable, but you don’t mind, losing yourself in the heat of his body as cum leaks from your pussy.

“How long have you known?” you ask, tracing the slope of his nose.

“About a month,” he murmurs.

“A month?” you scoff, hitting his chest, “and you didn’t say anything?”

Akaashi grins, grabbing your hand and bringing it up to his lips to kiss across your knuckles.

“That would ruin the fun.”

You roll your eyes, prodding your fingers into his chest, “it was hardly fun, Keiji.”

“But you got what you wanted, didn’t you?” he whispers.

You laugh when he flips you onto your back, moaning softly when you feel his cock beginning to harden again inside of you.

“Put- put your glasses on,” you whisper, head tipping back as he rolls his hips into you.

Akaashi reaches over to dig his glasses out from the pocket of his discarded sweatpants, pushing them up to sit comfortably on his nose.

You clench around him at the sight, biting your lip as you give him a pleased smile.

“Knew you had a thing for ‘em.”

He grabs at your legs, moving them so that they’re pressed against his chest, your ankles resting on his shoulders.

“Use this as inspiration, baby,” Akaashi smirks, “I’ll even edit it for you.”

#akaashi smut #akaashi keiji smut #akaashi x reader #akaashi x you #haikyuu smut #keiji smut #keiji x reader #haikyuu x reader

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plasticflowersinahistorycemetery · 11 days ago

Text

unfaithful

one-shot

Pairing: Demon!Dean x Sam's Girlfriend!Reader

Summary: It's been the same almost every night since Dean left. You wander the halls of the bunker, feet always carrying you to his closed door. Only tonight? It's open.

Warnings: 18+!, language, angst, cheating, mocking, guilt, pining, smut (dirty talk, clitoral stimulation, fingering, p in v, ass-play kinda, gagging), I think that's all.

Word Count: 4,410

It starts with silence. The kind that swells in old, haunted places—thick with ghosts, thicker still with the things left unsaid.

The bunker was never quiet when Dean was alive. Even asleep, he filled the space—snoring down the hall, boots echoing off stone, laughter ricocheting off walls like a warm, familiar gunshot. But now? Now it's just Sam.

Sam and the weight of all that's missing.

He sleeps restlessly beside you, long limbs tangled in the sheets, one arm slung over your stomach like it's instinct. You've been his anchor for years, since before Lucifer, before Ruby, before the bunker was even carved into your lives. His grief is a living thing now—tucked into his spine, sewn into the dark crescents under his eyes. He doesn't cry. Sam doesn't do that. He burns. Quietly. Patiently. Like a fuse with nowhere to go.

And you love him. God, you do.

You love the way he softens when you brush his hair back. The way his voice cracks when he says your name like it still means safety. The way his fingers find yours in the dark, like maybe you can hold each other together.

But you haven't been sleeping. Not since Dean. Not really.

Because love isn't always enough to quiet the hum beneath your skin. The one that started when the bunker went still. When Dean's door slammed shut. When Sam stopped saying his name with any emotion because the syllable hurt too much on his tongue.

It's been a couple months, maybe more, since Dean disappeared. Since the Mark swallowed him whole and left Sam behind to dig through the wreckage.

He won't call it that. Disappeared. He says gone, like he's coming back. Like he's late, not lost.

But every time Sam leaves to follow another lead—a demon sighting here, a body drained dry there—he comes back heavier. Shoulders hunched. Jaw clenched. A little more wrecked than the time before.

The last time, he came through the war room doors with his arm in a sling and blood crusted in his hair. He wouldn't look at you when you pressed your hands to his chest and asked what happened. Just muttered something about a crossroads deal gone sideways and that he "got what he needed."

You didn't ask what that meant. Not because you didn't want to know. Because you weren't sure you could carry it.

So you kissed his temple and made him tea and sat beside him in bed, letting his weight lean into yours until the tension bled out of his body. He was asleep in minutes.

He always sleeps when he's home now. And you? You stay awake.

Because when he's gone, the bunker is all stone and silence and the sound of your own spiralling thoughts. And when he's here, it's somehow worse. Because you can feel how far away he is—even with his arm around you, even with his head on your chest.

He used to laugh more. God, he used to laugh.

Now, he only talks about Dean. His voice tight. Raw. Like the name alone is a wound.

And you love him. You love him with everything you are. But love doesn't keep the walls from closing in. It doesn't stop your skin from prickling every time you pass Dean's room. It doesn't erase the way your heart beat different when Dean was still here—messy and loud and impossible.

It just makes you feel worse for noticing.

You don't mean to get up. You try, god, you try to just lie there, listening to the slow, steady rhythm of Sam's breathing beside you—soft and even, his body warm under the blankets, pressed into your side like he knows the second you leave, he'll feel it.

But still, you slide out from under his arm like a ghost. Still, you pull his flannel off the back of the chair and slip it over your bare shoulders. Still, you pad barefoot across the bunker floor, silent and aching, like something inside you is pacing the walls of your ribcage.

It's not that you're not tired. It's that you can't rest. Not with all this noise inside your head.

You make your rounds like you always do—through the library, past the war room. Everything's dim, quiet, lit only by the soft golden wash of overhead lamps left on low. Books you've already read sit open-faced on the table. A mug of tea long gone cold. Nothing helps.

Your feet move on their own. They always do. And you know where they're taking you. You always know.

Past the weapons room. Past the corridor where the lights flicker just a little when you breathe too hard. And then—

There it is.

Dean's door. Always shut, still sealed like a tomb. Except tonight, it's not. It's cracked open, just barely. Just enough.

You stop in your tracks, throat going tight. Your heart pounds like it's got something to say—but you don't want to hear it. You should go back to bed. You should lie down with Sam and pretend you didn't notice. Pretend you don't always end up here, standing in front of the last place Dean touched.

But the truth is...

You were always going to stop.

Even when he was alive, there was something about Dean that pulled you off course. Something gravitational. It wasn't like it was with Sam—steady, soft, true. Dean was a fire you kept your hands from, even when your skin ached for the burn.

You never said it out loud. Not even to yourself. Because to name it would've been to shatter everything you'd built. And you loved Sam. You still do. That's the worst part.

But Dean... Dean was something else entirely.

Something dark and sharp-edged and dangerous. Something you only let yourself want in your dreams—the kind that leave you waking up gasping, thighs clenched, shame curling in your gut like smoke.

You thought the ache would die with him. You thought grief would overwrite the hunger. But here you are, standing in front of his door again.

And tonight, it's open.

Your hand moves before your mind can catch up. Fingertips against wood. A breath held in your throat. The door groans quietly as it opens wider beneath your touch.

And he's there. Standing in the middle of the room like he never left.

Dean.

But not.

His hair is perfect, of course��flawless in that infuriating, tousled way like he rolled out of bed smug. His skin is golden under the low light, his jaw shadowed with stubble. A tight red shirt clings to him like a second skin, sleeves rolled to his elbows, forearms flexed like he's waiting for something.

But it's the look on his face that stops your heart dead in your chest. That grin. That slow, smug, shit-eating grin. It's Dean, and it isn't. His eyes are darker. Not black, but close—gleaming with something feral. Something cruel.

And he's leering at you. At your bare legs. At the way you're clutching Sam's flannel closed around your body like it's armour. Like it's going to protect you from him.

"Lookin' for me, sweetheart?"

His voice is a low drawl, thicker than you remember, honey poured over poison.

You can't move. Can't speak. You just... gawk at him.

Because what the fuck?

Sam has been tearing the earth apart looking for him. Nearly died chasing after scraps and whispers and demon tracks. He's got a sling on his arm and bruises he doesn't talk about and a look in his eyes like something inside him is breaking, and—

And Dean's just here. Standing in his room like it's a Tuesday. Looking you over like you're dinner. Like he's already decided how this ends.

"Cat got your tongue?" He murmurs, cocking his head, eyes dragging slowly down your body. "That mine?" He adds, chin-jerking toward the flannel you've pulled tight over your chest. "Or Sam's?"

You swallow hard, voice lost somewhere between your ribs and your gut.

He steps forward. One slow stride. Then another. And the closer he gets, the clearer it becomes—this isn't the Dean you remember.

This Dean doesn't carry guilt like a second skin. He's not breaking apart under the weight of his choices. No—this Dean is whole. Whole and dark and dangerous. And from the way he's looking at you now? He's starving.

Your voice slips out of you like it's been trapped behind your teeth for weeks.

"...Dean?"

He exhales like you just gave him life. His eyes flutter closed for a second, jaw flexing, that awful, beautiful grin widening.

"Fuck," he whispers, almost to himself. "There's that voice I missed."

When he opens his eyes again, they're molten. A furnace. Locked on you.

"You have any idea how many times I imagined you saying my name just like that?" He says, low and lazy, taking another step closer. "'Cept maybe you're on your knees. Maybe you're spread over Baby's hood. Or—fuck, maybe you're sittin' right in Sam's lap while I'm—"

"Dean."

It comes out more like a warning than anything else, but your grip on the flannel tightens. Your knuckles are white.

"What the hell is going on?" You whisper, pulse pounding in your throat. "You're alive? Where the—how are you here? Sam's been—he's been looking for you, he's been—"

"Oh, I know," Dean cuts in, eyes glittering. "Sammy's been very busy. Playing hero, getting himself all bruised up just for little old me." He steps close enough now that you can smell him—soap, leather, whiskey, and something wrong. Something deep and sulphurous beneath the surface. "And where's his sweet little girlfriend while he's out savin' the world?"

You don't answer. Can't.

Dean's gaze drops to your mouth. Lingers there. Then drags slowly back up.

"Home alone. Wrapped up in his flannel. Lookin' like a fuckin' gift."

"Dean, stop—"

"Why?" He murmurs, cocking his head. "You're standing in my doorway, baby. Wearing his shirt but lookin' at me like you wanna drop it and let me ruin you right here."

You stumble back a step, but he follows, slow, stalking. A predator playing with his food.

"I mean, shit," he drawls. "You don't think I noticed how you looked at me back then? All those years? You were so good, weren't you? Loyal little thing. Always kept your legs crossed, always trying to keep your eyes on Sam."

He steps close enough to touch you, but he doesn't. Not yet.

"But I bet you wondered," he whispers, voice like smoke curling around your ears. "Bet you laid awake more than once, wondering what it'd be like to get a taste of the bad brother."

Your breath catches, and Dean smirks.

"Lemme guess. You'd ride Sam's cock like a good girl, but you were thinkin' about me. About how I'd make you beg for it. About how I'd tear you apart and leave you a mess on the sheets. Don't lie. I can see it all over your fuckin' face."

"Dean, stop," you say again, but your voice is thinner this time. Weak. You don't sound convincing, and he knows it.

"Oh, you want me to stop?" He purrs, finally reaching up, brushing your jaw with the backs of his fingers, so gently it makes your knees tremble. "Or you want me to drag you into this room, bend you over that chair, and fuck you like you need it?"

You're shaking. You hate him. You love him. You hate yourself for standing there. And still—

You don't run.

Dean's fingers brush your jaw again, and when you don't flinch—don't recoil, don't run—he grins. That grin. Wicked and slow. Like he knew this would happen eventually.

"Atta girl," he purrs, voice gravel-thick with satisfaction.

Then he grabs you.

Not rough, not yet—but with enough force to make your breath stutter. His hand closes around your wrist, dragging you across the threshold and into the dim, still room that smells like leather and bourbon and the faintest trace of gun oil.

You don't fight him. You should. But your feet move where he leads. Right into the lion's den. And then he glances at the door behind you, fingers tightening ever so slightly on your wrist like he's weighing something. Considering.

Then he looks back at you with a raised brow, lips twitching.

"...Fuck it." He lets the words roll off his tongue like a dare. "The door stays open."

Your heart lurches in your chest.

"What—"

"I wanna see if you can keep that pretty little mouth shut," he says, stepping in close, his breath hot against your cheek. "Wanna know if you can take my cock and not wake Sammy up down the hall. That sound good, sweetheart?"

You shake your head—somewhere between no and I don't know—but he's already walking backward, pulling you with him.

"You really shouldn't be here," he says, faux-regret dripping from his voice. "But fuck me, you look so goddamn good in his shirt. Like you want me to wreck you while you're still wearing it."

He backs up to the desk and spins the chair around behind him.

"C'mon," he murmurs, low and filthy. "Over the chair, baby. Let's get you nice and bent for me."

You hesitate. Just for a second.

But then he tugs the flannel—Sam's flannel—just a little, exposing one shoulder, and hums like he's opening a present.

"Keep it on," he says, voice darker now. Rougher. "I wanna fuck you in his clothes. Wanna ruin you in the last thing he touched."

Your knees hit the chair. His hand is on the back of your neck now, guiding, not forcing—but firm enough you feel your breath stutter.

"Bend over," he whispers. "Hands on the seat. Ass up. That's it."

You're shaking. And he loves it. He kicks your legs apart gently with the side of his boot.

"There we go. Look at that. That's my girl."

You feel the flannel shift as he runs his fingers down your spine. His palm smooths over your ass, slow and proprietary.

"All these years playin' house with Sammy. Being good. Loyal. And all it took was one look at me tonight, and now here you are—wet and desperate and ready to get fucked like the filthy little secret you are."

He leans in, breath at your ear.

"You gonna let me ruin you, baby?"

You break before he even touches you.

Tears spill without warning, hot and fast, sliding down your cheeks as you grip the edge of the chair. Your body's trembling. With shame. With want. With everything you're too afraid to name.

Dean pauses. Then you hear his boots shift behind you. A second later, he's in front of you. Squatting down, one knee bent, his eyes catching yours beneath the curtain of your hair.

"Oh, baby," he coos, voice like silk dragged across a blade. He reaches out, thumb brushing your cheek, swiping away a tear.

Then he brings it to his mouth. Licks it clean.

"Cryin' already?" He murmurs, tilting his head. "That for me, sweetheart? Or for Sammy?"

You sniff, ashamed, eyes closing as another tear rolls free.

"There's no use in cryin'," Dean goes on, softer now. "You're getting what you've wanted for years."

He leans in, kisses the corner of your mouth, feather-light. Then your lips. You melt into it without meaning to. A broken whimper caught in your throat, your whole body pressing forward into the kiss like you need it.

He grins into your mouth. Smug. Knowing. And you hate him for it. But you don't pull away. When he finally draws back, he wipes your other cheek with the pad of his thumb.

"That's my girl," he whispers, and then—he's gone. He circles behind you again, hands dragging slowly down your back. "Flannel still on. Good."

Then you feel it—his fingers sliding beneath your panties, tugging them slowly down your thighs. He catches them just before they fall past your knees, lifts them to his face, inhales.

"Christ," he mutters, voice wrecked for a moment. "You smell like sin."

He folds them up, tucks them into the breast pocket of his red shirt like a souvenir.

"Mine now."

You whimper again, and he hums, pleased. A belt clinks open. Denim rustles a fraction. And then he's back—kneeling behind you this time. His hands spread your thighs wider, and then—

Oh god.

He sniffs you.

Right at the crease of your thigh, slow and obscene. Then his tongue drags a stripe up, hot and deliberate, until he's right at your centre.

He moans.

"Fuck."

Another kiss, soft and maddening, pressed to your clit like worship.

"You have no idea," he breathes against you. "How many nights I used to lie awake in that bed..."

He presses a finger inside. Slow. Deep. You choke on a gasp.

"...jerkin' myself raw, thinking about this pussy. About how sweet you'd sound begging me to ruin you."

The finger curls. You cry out—too loud—and he growls.

"Shhh. You wanna wake him up? Huh?"

You shake your head, clutching the chair like it's the only thing anchoring you to the earth.

"I'd come back from hunts all wound up and pissed off," he continues, voice ragged. "And you'd be there—wearin' your little shorts, leaning over the table with your mouth all smart and your ass lookin' like sin. And I'd be thinking about what you sound like when you come. How tight you'd feel clenching around my cock. What kinda mess you'd make."

He slips a second finger in. You cry out again—quieter this time. More desperate.

He grins against your thigh.

"Bet Sammy's never even made you come like this, huh?"

Dean's fingers pump into you slow and steady—just enough to make your thighs shake, but not enough to push you over. You bite your lip to hold back the sounds, forehead pressed to the seat of the chair, breath fogging the leather.

"You wanna wake him up?" Dean mutters, his voice low and tight as his fingers curl just right. "You wanna hear him walk down that hall and see you spread for me like a fuckin' whore?"

You gasp. Whimper. Shake your head.

"Didn't think so," he huffs. "Then keep your goddamn voice down."

He thrusts his fingers deeper, scissoring them inside you, tongue dragging along your inner thigh again like he's starved.

"Son of a bitch," he groans. "You're tight."

He fucks you with his hand like he means it, wet and obscene, the sound of it echoing off the stone walls of the bunker like a crime.

"Holy crap," he breathes out. "This is even better than I imagined. And trust me, sweetheart—I imagined it a lot."

He grazes your clit with his thumb, just a whisper of contact, and your whole body jolts.

"Shit, look at you," he laughs. "So fucking desperate. So goddamn wet for me. And in his shirt, too. That's real cute."

Your legs are trembling. You can feel it coiling in your belly—that tight, unbearable pressure.

You're gonna come.

"Dean—please—"

"Oh no, sweetheart," he cuts in, voice going sharp as he slows his pace to a crawl. "You don't get to come yet. Not unless you tell me what I wanna hear."

You shake your head, gasping. "What—what do you mean—?"

He leans in, lips brushing your ear, fingers curling inside you with cruel precision.

"You don't come," he says, low and commanding, "until you tell me you love me."

You freeze.

"Go on," he murmurs, breath hot. "Say it. Say you love me. Say it like you mean it."

"I—I can't—"

"Then I stop," he shrugs, withdrawing his fingers with a slick, obscene sound. You cry out, body clenching around nothing, so close you could scream.

"You don't wanna come that bad?" He taunts. "Guess I overestimated you."

"No," you breathe, desperate, eyes stinging again. "Please—please, Dean—"

"You think Sam would make you beg like this?" He growls, grinding his cock against your ass now through his boxers. "You think he'd know how to ruin you right? Like this?"

You moan, the friction almost enough to tip you over again, but not quite.

"Then say it."

He grips your hips hard, hissing under his breath. "Say you love me or I'm leaving you right here dripping and empty."

And you break.

"I love you," you sob. "Dean—I love you."

There's a beat of silence. Then—snap. His belt hits the floor.

"That's my fuckin' girl."

He's kicking his jeans off, tearing his boxers down, and then his cock is pressing against your soaked entrance, thick and hot and so fucking wrong.

He pushes in slow. Deliberate. Every inch feels like a sin you can't take back.

"Holy shit," he groans. "You really are tight."

You bury your face into the seat, choking on a cry, your entire body shaking.

"Take it," Dean hisses, hips rolling as he bottoms out. "Take all of it, baby. Fuckin' feel me."

He starts moving—hard and slow and deep. The chair rocks beneath you with every thrust, the open door behind you reminding you exactly how close this secret is to shattering.

"You feel that?" He pants. "Feel how deep I am? That's where I belong. That's mine. Always has been."

You're moaning now, helpless, face streaked with tears and pleasure.

"You keep clenching like that," he grits out, "I'm not gonna last long."

His hand tangles in your hair, pulling your head back as he thrusts into you harder, meaner.

"Bet you think about this every night now," he snarls. "Bet you go back to his bed with my cum dripping down your thighs and pretend you're still a good girl."

You scream into the leather, your body unraveling under his, fire licking up your spine.

"Come for me," he orders, voice raw. "Do it. Let go. Fuckingsay my name."

"Dean," you gasp. "Oh—god, Dean—"

You shatter.

And he doesn't stop.

You're sobbing into the chair now, blabbering incoherent pleas between the aftershocks, your thighs shaking violently as Dean keeps moving inside you—slower now, deeper, like he's savouring the feel of your body spasming around him.

"Fuck," he breathes, sweat beading at his temple, one hand still tangled in your hair, the other gripping your hip hard enough to bruise. "Look at you. Wrecked. Can't even talk right, can you?"

You let out a broken noise—somewhere between a whine and a sob.

He chuckles darkly. "Didn't think I'd fuck you stupid this fast."

His hand slides up, reaching into the pocket of his shirt—your panties, still warm from being tucked against his skin. He pulls them out, dangles them in front of your tear-soaked face like a prize.

"As much as I love these pretty little sounds," he murmurs, mocking sweetness dripping from every word, "I ain't ready for Sammy to come wanderin' in here asking why his girlfriend's whining like she's never had cock in her life."

He stuffs the panties into your mouth, slow and deliberate, pressing them past your lips with two fingers.

"There we go," he coos. "That's better. Nice and quiet."

You gag around the fabric, drooling, tears still leaking from the corners of your eyes—and Dean groans, hips stuttering at the sight.

"Jesus Christ, you look so good like this. Stuffed full'a me, mouth full of your own shame. Fuckin' perfect."

Then—he slows. Just a beat. Just enough to lean down and really ruin you.

One hand snakes between your cheeks, thumb pressing just under your tailbone, circling—until—

You jerk, whimpering around the fabric, eyes wide.

Dean laughs, low and cruel and utterly delighted.

"Sensitive, huh?" He murmurs, pressing the pad of his thumb just inside your ass, keeping you right where he wants you. "Don't squirm, sweetheart. Gotta keep you nice and still while I fill you up."

His thrusts pick up again—harder now. Meaner. The wet slap of skin on skin fills the room, echoing off the walls like a fucking dirge.

"Been waitin' years for this," he pants, voice going ragged. "Years of watching you play house with my fucking brother—dressed up like his little good girl, never lookin' twice at me."

Another thrust. Your whole body jolts.

"But I knew. I knew what was underneath. Knew you'd fall apart the second I touched you. And now look at you—soaked, stuffed, fucked out, cryin' into a goddamn chair while Sammy dreams down the hall."

He's getting close. You can feel it. His rhythm falters, hips jerking.

"You're mine now," he growls, biting out the words like a vow. "Don't care how many years you've been with him. Don't care what he means to you. You let me in, baby. That's all I needed."

One more thrust. Two. And then—he groans, low and brutal and satisfied, hips grinding as he comes deep inside you.

He holds you there—panting, trembling, pulsing around him—thumb still snug between your cheeks, panties stuffed in your mouth, Sam's flannel hanging off your shoulders like a scarlet fucking letter.

"Goddamn," he breathes, resting his forehead against your spine for a beat, voice low and reverent now. "Better than I ever fucking dreamed."

He presses a kiss to your shoulder.

"You're not walkin' straight tomorrow," he adds, smug. "But don't worry—I'll be right here to remind you why."

He doesn't pull out right away. Just stays there—buried deep, still twitching inside you, one hand splayed across your lower back, the other slipping up under the flannel to palm your breast with lazy ownership.

The silence is thick. The kind that rings. Your heartbeat is all you can hear—fast, frantic, shame-soaked.

Dean breathes deep, then exhales slow. "...Shit." It's almost fond.

He slides out with a wet sound, groaning under his breath, watching the mess drip from between your thighs with open satisfaction.

"Fucking hell, baby," he murmurs, dragging a finger through it, spreading it with no shame at all. "Can't believe you let me do that. In his shirt."

You whimper, still gagged, still shaking. Your knees nearly give as you try to straighten up.

He catches you by the waist, steadying you effortlessly. Then, softly—mockingly:

"You done crying?"

You don't answer. Can't. Not around the panties in your mouth. But your eyes say everything.

Dean leans in, mouth brushing your ear.

"I want you in my bed next time," he murmurs, voice like velvet and poison. "Naked. On your knees. Beggin' me to do it all over again."

You let out a broken sob—quiet, shameful.

He grins. Stands tall. Tucks himself back into his jeans without taking his eyes off you.

Then—

"But if you're just gonna go crawl back into Sammy's bed and cry yourself to sleep..." He shrugs, flicks his belt shut with one hand. "Might as well run along."

His eyes flick to the door.

"It's still open."

You turn—barely able to walk, face flushed and soaked with tears, the flannel falling off one shoulder. Every step away from him is a scar.

And as you reach the threshold, he calls after you—softly, smugly:

"Don't forget what you just gave up, sweetheart."

Your legs are barely working. You're half-naked, wearing Sam's flannel, marked inside and out by his brother's mouth, his cock, his voice.

The silence chokes you now.

Behind you, Dean drops into his desk chair like a king after war—chest rising and falling, a smirk tugging at his lips as he watches you go. He doesn't say anything else. Doesn't call you back. Just... waits. Because he knows what he's done. He knows what you are now.

You stop in the doorway, one hand on the frame. Look down the hall—toward the room that's supposed to be yours. The bed you share. The man you love.

Then you glance back. At Dean's bed. Unmade. Open. Waiting.

You stay there a second longer—undecided. A trembling silhouette caught between sin and salvation. And the door never shuts.

A/N: Okay, I am well aware of how goddamn cruel this was... but I lowkey don't really care (sorry Sammy bby) because how fucking hot? Ew. Gross levels of hot. Let me know what y'alls think pleaseeee. All the love.

Dean taglist: @mostlymarvelgirl @losers-clvb @lunaleah @itshellfire @drakulana @sl33pylilbunny @suckitands33 @nevercameraready @0ccvltism @bittersweetfig @lyarr24 @podiumackles @spxideyver @tinas111 @paristheonewhoreads @winchestersbgirl @blossomingorchids @sacr1ficialang3l @liiiilsss @mj-102009 @kaz-2y5-spn <3

Also tagging @sorryitsmyfirstdayonearth because I need you to see that I wrote it, please don't sue me. <3

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fortunxa · 5 months ago

Text

the sound of her absence

Jinx and Isha

summary: Bravery wasn’t in the noise, the chaos—it was in the silence that stood still against the storm.

cw: pain. nothing act II didn’t already deliver. reader not mentioned.

author’s note: i’m quick with it.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆

Zaun was a furnace, its heart always burning, always devouring. The city had been forged in suffering, a machine that never stopped grinding down the weak. And yet, somehow, in all its fire and ruin, a single spark of warmth had dared to flicker. A warmth impossibly out of place in the cold steel of Jinx's world.

Isha.

Her face came back to her, vivid and bright in her mind's eye. Wide, eager eyes that shined brighter than the neon glow of the city, full of a hope that had no place here, sparkling with questions, with admiration, with trust. The small, knowing smile of hers or the shrug of her shoulders, the one that said, "I'll be fine". And that moment—that moment—when Jinx's gaze locked with hers in the middle of the battle, when the world around them turned to fire and blood.

When the child who didn’t speak answered the world’s violence with bravery.

She had looked so steady. So determined.

So much like Jinx—staring down the chaos as if daring it to break her.

She squeezed her eyes shut, but it didn’t stop the image. Isha, tiny and frail and far too fearless, standing in the firestorm. Her chest puffed up like Jinx's always did, that same reckless grin trying to stretch across her soft, round face. She had called out for her, her voice tearing raw against the chaos, but Isha didn’t hear her.

Or maybe she had. Maybe that was the problem.

She had always listened too closely.

The hideout was too quiet now, smothered beneath the weight of an absence Jinx couldn’t ignore, louder than any explosion she could create.

Her hands curled into fists at her sides, nails biting into her palms and leaving bloody crescent shapes. The smog-heavy air seemed thicker tonight, each breath heavier than the last. She paced back and forth, her boots scuffing the floor, the sound filling the oppressive silence. She couldn't stop replaying it in her mind.

The air still smelled of gunpowder, acrid and sour, like a wound festering. Her fingers, smudged with grease and blood, itched for something to fix, but there was nothing left to save.

Jinx hadn’t been fast enough.

She hadn’t been good enough.

She hadn’t saved her.

She dropped to her knees, her fists slamming against the floor. The sound echoed through the empty space, but it did nothing to drown out the memory of Isha’s final moments. The way she’d thrown herself forward, packing gemstone after gemstone—overloading the power source of the pistol—before firing it at Vander. Or what used to be Vander, at least.

Hot and bitter tears blurred Jinx’s vision, dripping down onto the cold floor beneath her. She pressed her hands to her face, shaking her head as if she could shake away the weight in her chest.

“Why’d you do it?” she whispered, her voice trembling. It cracked beneath the weight of the question, but the silence gave no answers. “You were supposed to stick around. You were supposed to live. Not… not this. Not for me.” Not for anyone.

But there had been no hesitation in Isha’s eyes.

Jinx slammed her fist into the floor again, harder this time, until pain bloomed across her knuckles like some cruel reminder that she was still here, alive, while Isha wasn’t. “You didn’t have to prove anything!” she shouted into the void. “You were already… You were perfect. You didn’t have to—” Her voice broke, the words dying in her throat.

She crumpled in on herself, her knees pulled tight to her chest, as though folding herself small enough could make the world rewind. Make it undo itself.

She opened her eyes to the dim, scattered wreckage of her hideout and glanced up at the walls, where one of Isha’s stick figures still smiled beside a crooked sun.

“Stop haunting me,” she hissed, her voice breaking on the last word. But they stayed, stubborn in their simplicity, a silent declaration of the joy she had tried to bring into Jinx’s chaos.

She crawled to the wall, her fingers brushing over the faint lines. The chalk smudged under her touch, disappearing just like Isha had—too easily, too quickly.

Jinx’s hands trembled as she picked up one of the little girl’s old chalks, the color a soft yellow that barely showed against the grime of the walls. Her fingers shook as she pressed it to the floor instead, sketching the outline of a sun. The lines wavered, uneven and fragile, and she hated how much it looked like Isha’s.

Hated how much it didn’t.

She snapped the chalk in half, the pieces tumbling from her fingers, and rested her head against the wall, her blue hair spilling over her face like a curtain, hiding her tears from the empty room. “I wasn't worth it.” Her voice broke again. “Why'd you try to be like me?”

But hadn’t she wanted this? To be someone worth admiring? To be someone a kid like Isha could look up to? And now that it had happened, all she could feel was the weight of it, heavy and suffocating, like chains around her chest—grief.

Grieve.

“I’m sorry,” she choked out, but the apology fell apart in the still air. "I'm so sorry." The tears come harder now, Jinx’s shoulders shaking with the force of them. She bit down on her lip until she tasted blood.

Her pink eyes darted to the far corner of the room, where Isha’s jacket still hung on a nail. It was too small, patched and frayed, the kind of thing someone would have laughed at in Piltover. But Isha had worn it with pride, like it was armor.

Jinx got up and dragged herself across the room, her footsteps heavy in the silence. She pulled the jacket from the nail and held it close, the fabric rough against her fingers. It still smelled faintly of her—chalk dust and grease and something warm Jinx could never name.

She sank to the floor again, rocking back and forth with the jacket clutched tightly in her arms, as if holding it could somehow hold Isha, too. But the fabric was empty, and her hands came away as hollow as the rest of her.

Be like you.

Jinx shook her head violently, a sob tearing from her throat. “Not like me,” she spat, her voice cracking. “Not like me, Isha. You were supposed to be better. You were supposed to—” Her words disintegrated into ragged breaths, and she buried her face in her hands as the tears came in full force.

She couldn't breathe.

In the dim, flickering light, she felt her world splinter further while the quiet mocked her.

Jinx pressed the jacket to her face, inhaling deeply as if the lingering scent could anchor her to a world that lost its sense once again. But all it did was remind her of how empty everything felt.

She sat there for hours, her breath hitching, hiccuping, her heart racing as her tears soaked into the grime of the floor, her sobs echoing through the empty space. And when she finally looked up, the room was still the same.

Isha was still gone.

All that remained was smoke from that single spark of warmth that had dared to flicker.

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deathbyathousandspiders · 3 months ago

Text

death of a hero. ₂

mcu!peter parker x fem!stark!reader | boy in the bubble part two.

IN WHICH after getting attacked, you find out that your dad & peter have kept spider–man’s identity a secret.

author's note — highly recommend reading part one first!! this cured my writer's block !! part three coming soon!!! :)

WARNINGS (18+ MDNI) — hurt reader [physically/emotionally], swearing, mentions of blood, a flashback to homecoming, lots & lots & lots of angst.

read part one | part three here.

gif found here.

✨masterlist.✨

3.4k.

Never in your life did you think you’d be targeted and attacked, then be smiling by the end of the night. You couldn’t fight the small grin touching your lips, couldn’t stop the butterflies that numbed each wound still scarring your body.

Somehow, despite it all, Peter’s words gave you something to hold onto, something to keep you going—something hopeful. It gave you something to rewrite the painful narrative that your attacker had spat at you just an hour earlier.

“What a weak, pathetic excuse for a Stark.”

“You’ve seen the unthinkable, are still going, and you think you’re weak? Impossible.”

Once you finally got to the stairs to shower, you tried to swing your leg up, immediately met with a harsh reminder of how bad your bruises would be tomorrow.

A wince parted your lips, sparking from the ache in your right hip and the direct strike it sent to the wound on your torso.

Perhaps you needed Peter’s help after all.

Taking a breath, you felt less hesitant than before to ask for help. It wasn’t like you had anything else to hide—you were tattered and torn up, topless and sticky with blood.

Besides, you were used to walking with the weight of the wounds, at this point. You cut the distance to the kitchen in a matter of slow seconds.

“Whoever attacked her tonight planned this.” Peter’s words made you pause just outside the entryway, hidden behind the wall just beyond. You blinked a bit, immediately feeling the weight of their conversation. “It wasn’t by chance, she was targeted–”

“You don’t know that—” Even as he cut Peter off, your dad’s response was cut short.

“And you don’t either!” Both of the boys in the kitchen held something urgent to their words; the same sense of urgency that laced the undertones between them all evening.

Whatever conversation you were overhearing, you knew in your bones that they didn’t want you to hear it.

Sucks for them.

Peter continued: “The way she’s acting.. Something’s off about what happened.” Your blood froze to ice at the sentence. “And I think she deserves to know why I wasn’t there to defend her tonight.”

Thick silence swelled in the room, and you suddenly feared that your racing heartbeat would interrupt it. You had to remind yourself to breathe, and remind yourself to be quiet.

As tempted as you were to step in and ask questions, you knew that whatever they were keeping from you was more likely to be discovered from where you were.

Somehow, this was something they wanted to hide from you. The secret, whatever it was, made the air around you feel slimmer and heavy all at once. It sent your thoughts into a spiral, and an urge to question the two people closest to you.

“Look, kid. I don’t blame you for what happened tonight.” Tony took words from you that you hadn’t even known how to phrase to Peter yet. It sent a twinge to your heart, draped your panic in sympathy for him.

“I know.” You could tell Peter needed to hear the words, even if he didn’t know how to admit it.

“As much as I agree with your conspiracy theories on Y/N’s attacker, I don’t know if coming clean about everything will solve this.”

Something sunk in you, deflated your spirits. It hurt that they’d hid this from you—whatever it was—and had been lying for God knows how long.

You could hear the jab in Peter’s own optimism when he spoke up again. “Then when do you plan to tell her?” At least, he was trying to come clean.

“I don’t know..” Your dad was honest, and sullen about it. It only added to your confusion.

Perhaps, they weren’t going to tell you ever. Maybe if you just revealed yourself and asked your own questions, you’d actually get somewhere.

Peeling yourself off the wall and taking a few steps into frame, both Peter and your dad were completely oblivious to you.

Despite how you stepped into view, they remained focused on the conversation, and your dad continued. “I’ll tell you what: you tell me how you’d suggest telling Y/N you’re Spider–Man, and I’ll consider it–”

The whole world stopped moving.

“Peter’s what?”

You could’ve thrown up at the realization, at how cold and hollow the room suddenly became. The secret was out, and the quick and wide eyes that fell to you told you just how vital this secret was.

Peter was Spider–Man.

Even as you stared at him, eyes as wide as his, you couldn’t shake it. Your best friend was Spider–Man, working alongside your father and found family.

The two of you held eye contact, trying to read the other. You could read the remorse and apology and panic swelling in his wide–eyed stare, but you hoped that some of the anger building in your own was silently translated regardless.

Your dad tried to clear his throat, tried to slice through the rousing tension between the two of you, but you didn’t break from it in the slightest.

“Dinner’s ready.” Tony tried to make a joke. To joke at a time like this, as if he wasn’t an accomplice. As if he wasn’t keeping this from you, arguably more than Peter had been.

It was the last straw you’d been offering, swiped from your hands and dissipating with your patience.

You scoffed, tears finally finding your eyes. The heat of them was boiled by rage, and you didn’t have the decency to hide it. “Fuck off.”

The room was too hard to stand in. You walked away, reminded of why you were even standing in the kitchen in the first place.

Pain itched its way up your priority list, but you didn’t care; finding a way up the stairs was the least of your worries. You were more concerned with how quickly you could get away.

Especially as you could hear Peter calling after you, following the path you were carving between you.

“Y/N!” He spoke your name like a plea, like it would somehow apologize for all the dirt you’d uncovered. The sound of his voice, however, only seemed to drive you further from him.

It split your heart into more pieces than you knew how to count.

You already battled the insecurity of being weak. A weak, pathetic excuse for a Stark. With all the time you spent in the compound, with your friends and family, you were one of the only powerless people among them. This whole time, you thought Peter understood.

You thought the insecurity was shared, reciprocated.

Clearly, you were wrong and an idiot. You were the only one powerless among them.

It made you feel so stupid; to see all the inside jokes tossed over your head, to see every stupid excuse he made thrown back in your face, and he had the audacity to be sorry?

Damn right, he should be.

Peter’s touch felt like sandpaper to your skin as he reached for your hand. You yanked it out, not bothering to turn around.

You tried to be strong and suck up the pain, wanted more than anything to run up the stairs and lock yourself in your room—two quick steps up the stairwell and the adrenaline wore off. You slowed your pace, fighting off the wincing, and wanting anything but to ask for help from Spider–Man.

“Y/N, please.” His voice broke, and you felt sinister to think him deserving of it. “Please, I– I wanted to tell you, I promise–“

He must’ve been surprised when you turned around, at the speed you pivoted, at how intense your expression came across, because he startled.

Your eyes held no response to the hot tears flooding from them, only holding space for the anger and hurt you didn’t have the energy to hide from him.

“Promise?” The word came out whispered, threatening to break just as his words did. “You promise, just like how we promised to tell each other everything?” You saw each stab of each word and exactly where it hit on him, especially as your voice grew in volume. “Just like how you promised I wasn’t weak, when clearly, you know damn well how ironic that is!”

Twin tears slid down the length of his face, and you caught the subtle tremble in his bottom lip that he tried so hard to hide. “Please..” Now he was the one whispering, and you wish it sounded as satisfying as you wanted it to.

“Don’t fucking sit there and act like you’re the hero here, Peter..” You couldn’t help the growl, couldn’t help the distaste inking down your body. Sure, you’d been hit with a knife just an hour prior in the evening, but you didn’t feel stabbed in the gut until now. “Don’t act like you understand shit about how I’m feeling right now!”

From just beyond, Tony started walking over, stepping quickly. “Hang on, Kid.” He cut in, stopping just a few paces behind Peter. “Don’t blame Peter for this.” His words practically turned up the heat on your burning rage. It was an effort to keep from boiling over. “I was the one who told him to keep quiet.”

The shakiest breath you’d taken all night forced its way down your throat. You finally pulled your eyes from Peter, watching your own father flinch at just how hurt you were. “No, you were the one who decided to be selfish!”

The room had never been so quiet, even the walls and the city beyond hushed to listen.

“I don’t care who you thought you were saving here, but it wasn’t me.” Perhaps rage wasn’t the word you should use to describe the venom dripping off your words. You were seething, a mixture of betrayal and downright distraught.

“I am not useless.” You felt the need to emphasize; to you, or the two faulty in front of you, no one could tell. “I may be the only powerless person in the fuck ass Avengers, but at least I’m fucking honest.”

When you met Peter’s eyes again, you almost couldn’t keep your composure. Maybe he was breaking apart just as quickly as you were, but you didn’t put in effort to hold room for an apology for him. You didn’t see the need to give one at all.

“I’m sorry..” He couldn’t bring his voice above a whisper, above the tremble shaking each breath he took. And watching the way your father’s posture craned in sympathy to it finally gave you a cue to leave. You couldn’t take it anymore.

You glanced between both of them, still ignoring the consistent stream of tears dripping off your nose and chin. “You both fucking should be.”

Holding your head high, you made your way up the stairs, pausing three steps up your trek when you heard a singular step in your direction.

“Don’t fucking follow me.”

And you didn’t look back.

The second you shut and locked your bedroom door, unshakable sobs spilled from your throat and choked you dry. You had never felt so isolated, so alone, and so pained.

Truly, you did not know how it would get better from here, and all you wanted was to be held.

You didn’t even know who you'd talk to about this. This betrayal stretched across every person you trusted, further than your eyesight.

It was stupid, and you blamed yourself, but all you wanted to do was talk to Peter.

Maybe not about it or to confront it right then, but you suddenly missed him and his support. You felt like that had been stripped away from you.

You weren't sure how to trust him anymore, let alone anyone else who hid this from you.

It didn’t help that you replayed countless upon countless interactions—with your father, with Ned, and with Peter Parker Spider–Man himself.

It reminded you of the last time you were mad at Peter, three years prior.

At the Washington Monument.

You remember him flaking on the academic decathlon, and flaking the night before. You were upset because he was obviously hiding something and he wouldn’t tell you what.

“You promised we’d hang out tonight.” You remember calling after him, walking half the length of the hotel hallway after him, too. “I feel like I haven’t seen you all week!”

Peter was a pro at walking backwards, then and now, and as you always knew him to be. Even as you knew him as a klutz, even as it led him to keep walking away from you. “I’ll be back soon. I promise!”

It felt unfair to him to get frustrated with him, but you were. You were upset. “What? So your promises mean nothing?”

That got him to stop.

“What? No!” Defense, immediately. His eyes displayed more apology than his lips did, taking steps towards you. “I just.. I have to go, and I can explain it later–”

Your head shook at him. Whatever sparked you to feel upset had been growing for a while. It had been growing since he started ditching you a few months prior. “That’s what you said last time.” There was hurt in your voice, and you know he heard it.

“But I–”

“We promised to tell each other everything.” You recalled your childhood together, your friendship before you started growing up. The two of you had known each other since elementary school, so changes like this was inevitable. It wasn't fair to hold him to the same standards you used to. “But if you want to go, don’t expect me to be buddy-buddy when you get back.”

You remember how it felt to walk away, but you remembered how it felt to hear him leave even more. That was harmful.

He was entitled to grow up, just as you were, but the shifty way he started growing distant from you got you overthinking.

It got you nervous that maybe he was seeing someone, and that hurt more than anything else. Especially that he was hiding it from you.

What sucked the most was that Peter wasn’t back soon, or even that night.

In fact, he wasn’t even at the academic decathlon.

Part of you was relieved to get space from him, seeing how difficult all these feelings were to process; another part worried about him, but every time your anxiety would fester, something would serve a reminder of why you were upset in the first place.

You won the decathlon without him. As you should.

After that, your team went to the Washington Monument, and Ned swore that Peter would meet you all there.

“Look!” Ned tried to convince you, tried to break your unamused expression. “His location says he’s almost here.” And the phone screen he flashed at you proved honesty. Peter was minutes away.

Before you could muster a response, Ned’s screen changed, and Peter was calling him.

There was an awkward exchange of glances between the two of you before Ned answered the call and you walked through the metal detectors.

“Peter, are you okay?” You couldn’t help but eavesdrop. You missed a phrase or two while security patted down your blazer. All you caught was Ned muttering a subtle “I covered for you,” and then Liz Allen taking the phone from his hands.

Something hollow carved into your stomach at the sight, and you began to speculate whether Liz was the girl he was sneaking off with or not.

You didn’t wait to find out. You walked right into the elevator, joining the rest of your decathlon group.

You didn’t remember much about the trip up the elevator, all you remember was light emitting out of Ned’s backpack and something radioactive blasting right into the roof of the cart.

Suddenly, with trembling limbs and a newfound panic, your squabble with Peter Parker seemed more than minuscule. Regret was quick to fill that hollowing pit in your gut.

You’d blacked out a lot of those scarce moments in the elevator. But you remembered when it was safe enough to move, the security guard began to open the hatch at the top of the elevator cart, and one by one help your classmates out.

It wasn’t until there were four of you left in the elevator that it finally fell down the shaft towards your demise. There, in that Monument, you would die with Ned, Liz, and your teacher, Mister Harrington, you were sure of it.

You’d never forget the relief you’d felt at the sight of red and blue rushing toward you, plummeting quicker than you were, and webbing your way to safety.

It felt odd to look back on, knowing now that it was Peter who pulled that elevator up to your safety. How you were only concerned then with apologizing to Peter Parker, who glanced at you there from beneath that mask, completely unbeknownst to you.

Once he’d gotten you up to the top of the Monument, Ned was the first to leap out to safety, then Mister Harrington. The two of them helped Liz get out, and to your luck, just as you took a step forward, the webs above you snapped.

You and Spider–Man fell with a blood curdling scream breaking through you.

“NO!!” He called after you, and quickly shot a web up to the roof again. His other arm reached out toward you, webbing your wrist rather quickly, keeping you from falling any further.

“It’s okay. You’re okay– I got you. You're okay..” He told you, his tone as gentle and soft as you knew it to be; yet, not a single thought crossed your mind that it was Peter Parker.

You shakily dangled beneath him as he tugged you up from that web. You fought to look up at him, to keep yourself from looking down; you fought to keep the tears at bay as the shock flooded from your system.

The second your hands touched, he pulled you up and into him. You wasted no time before wrapping your arms around him, hugging him for dear life. And it made sense, now, why he felt so familiar—why his warmth was so comforting, and why his arm around your waist felt like it belonged there.

He held you securely, lulling those reassurances to you, pulling the two of you up to safety at the top of that Monument.

Just before he set you down, you held him tighter. “Pe–Peter!” You gasped, and felt every muscle beneath your hold tense.

Now, you knew why.

You pulled back from his arms, “Peter Parker, my– my best friend! He was on his way over here.” Your voice shook as you explained, but watching him carefully set you on the ground helped to steady yourself a little. “Can you make sure– Could you make sure that he’s okay?”

Looking back, the reason why Spider–Man gaped at you so long must’ve been Peter contemplating whether or not to tell you who he was right then and there. He stared at you, beneath that mask, for what felt like minutes.

He gave a singular, upside down, nod. “I can do that, ma’am.” And his thick, Bronx, accent threw you off more than you wanted to admit.

Then he fell down the empty shaft of the elevator.

You’d never forget the moment he found you after that.

You had just gotten out of the Monument. With a shaky hand, you went through your phone to track Peter’s location. It said he was a matter of meters from you, but you couldn’t spot him in the crowd.

Just as you went to ask Ned, Peter’s voice hollered out, calling your name.

Both of you turned in his direction, the crowd of people parting for him as he ran over to you, catching you in a bone–crushing hug. One of his hands cradled your head into his chest, and the other kept itself snug around your waist, just like Spider–Man had earlier. "I'm so glad you're okay.." He whispered it into your hairline, just for you to keep.

The world washed away in the arms of Peter Parker. You couldn’t help but wrap your arms around him, too, hugging him effortlessly closer. Apologies from your argument the night before fell from your lips, and he also followed suit.

You recalled that memory as something that defined how you and Peter operated—no matter what, you couldn’t stay mad at him.

You would always find a way to forgive him.

Now, remembering the incident was a bit more haunting. There was no telling how you and Peter would come back from this, nor just how long you’d go without each other.

And you didn't think Spider–Man would get you out of it, this time.

tag–list: @yourfavoritefangirl @inkedeye2345 @wxnterwidow333 @generalmoonpolice @elianamarie-blog

comment for the part three tag list;)

read part three here.

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nylqnder · 2 months ago

Text

BEGIN AGAIN SETH JARVIS

pairing: seth jarvis x fem!reader

summary: still scarred from your last relationship, you agree to go on a blind date and find yourself drawn to seth who reminds you that love doesn’t have to be painful.

warnings: mentions of a controlling/manipulative ex, reader being kinda insecure because of that

wc: 2.28k

notes: based on 'begin again' by taylor swift. so i wrote half of this last year and then gave up and then found it again! i don’t know

Looking at your reflection in the mirror of the sun visor of your car, you couldn’t help but let out a deep sigh. Despite the passed time, the wounds still felt fresh, the echoes of your past relationship lingering like smoke that refused to clear. You'd ended things eight months ago, walking away from fights that never resolved, from endless suspicions, and from a love that had twisted into something suffocating. Yet here you were, still carrying the weight of it all, the shadows of manipulation casting doubt over your future.

It was strange, almost cruel, how perfect he had seemed when you first met. Charming, attentive, and endlessly kind, he made you feel like you were the center of his universe. Those early days were painted with laughter and thoughtful gestures—flowers just because, long conversations where he seemed genuinely captivated by every word you spoke, and an uncanny ability to make you feel safe. You'd thought you’d found it — the elusive, storybook love.

But as time passed, the cracks began to show. Subtle at first, like a chill creeping into a warm room. His concern for your whereabouts turned into relentless questioning. His compliments, once sweet and affirming, grew barbed with hidden expectations. "You should wear this," he’d say, the suggestion laced with quiet judgment. He began isolating you, painting your friends as distractions and your ambitions as threats to your relationship. And somehow, little by little, you found yourself shrinking, folding yourself into the shape he demanded, just to keep the peace.

Even now, the memory of it made your chest tighten. You hated that his voice still lingered in your mind, sowing doubt just as you were meeting someone new. What if every man was like him beneath the surface? What if you were destined to be trapped in that same cycle, no matter how hard you tried to escape? The thought was enough to keep you rooted in this lonely limbo, terrified to step forward.

You closed the sun visor with a snap, forcing yourself back into the present. Not tonight. You weren’t going to let his memory ruin tonight.

Tonight was supposed to be a step forward, however small. Your friends had practically dragged you into this date, swearing up and down that the guy was different — kind, funny, and refreshingly normal. They'd given you the classic pep talk: You deserve to be happy. Not every guy is going to be like him. You have to let someone in eventually. You had rolled your eyes at their clichés, but a small part of you clung to the hope that maybe, just maybe, they were right.

You took a steadying breath, resting your hands on the steering wheel. The truth was, you didn't need this guy to be perfect. You didn't even need sparks or butterflies or some grand romantic epiphany tonight. You just needed him not to be him. That was the bare minimum you were willing to hope for right now.

And if he was kind, if he was genuine, if he listened without judgment — that would be a bonus. Maybe you wouldn’t fall in love tonight. Maybe this would end in polite smiles and a handshake at the end of the night. But wasn't that better than sitting in your car, haunted by the past?

“You’re not the same person anymore,” you whispered to your reflection, your voice soft but resolute. “You know what love isn't. And you won't let anyone make you feel small again.”

It was a promise. Not to the date, not even to your friends, but to yourself.

You pushed open the door of your car, the cool evening air spreading across your exposed legs allowing your heartbeat to slow to a normal rhythm. You approached the entrance of the restaurant, pausing as you gripped the door handle, heart thudding like a hesitant drumbeat.

The voice in your head whispered once more: What if this goes wrong too?

But tonight, you weren’t going to listen.

You pushed open the door, the soft chime announcing your arrival. Warmth enveloped you immediately, a stark contrast to the chill outside. The hostess greeted you with a polite smile, but you barely registered her as your eyes scanned the room. For a moment, fear gripped you — what if Seth wasn’t here? What if this was all just another disappointment waiting to unfold?

But then you spotted him.

Seth was sat at a table by the windows, his face illuminated by the soft glow of the candlelight. He was leaning slightly forward, fingers absently tracing the edge of his water glass as he glanced around the room. His dark hair was tousled in a way that suggested a hurried hand through it rather than meticulous grooming. There was something inherently relaxed about him, a stark contrast to the rigid expectations you'd grown accustomed to.

Relief mingled with surprise. He was on time.

You hadn’t realized how much that simple fact mattered until now. Your ex had always been late, offering flimsy excuses that eventually unraveled into truths you hadn’t wanted to see. Lateness had become a symbol of disregard, a subtle reminder that you were never quite enough to command his full attention.

But Seth was here, waiting for you.

You inhaled deeply, straightening your shoulders. This wasn’t the past. This was now.

“Welcome,” the hostess said, pulling you back to the present. “Are you meeting someone?”

“Yes,” you managed, your voice steadier than you expected. “By the windows.”

She nodded and led you through the softly lit dining room. As you approached, Seth glanced up, and a smile broke across his face — easy, genuine, and warm. He stood up, smoothing down the front of his shirt, raising his hand and offering a small wave, his eyes never leaving yours.

“Hey,” he said. He had a slight nervous energy, as if he’d been wondering if you’d show. That vulnerability made something inside you loosen, the tight knot of apprehension unraveling just a bit.

“Hi,” you replied, your lips curving into a tentative smile.

He pulled out your chair, a simple but thoughtful gesture that caught you off guard. You’d forgotten what it felt like to be treated with care rather than obligation. As you sat down, he returned to his seat, his gaze never wavering from you.

“You look beautiful,” he said softly, almost like it was a thought that slipped out before he could catch it.

A warmth crept up your neck. Compliments had always felt like weapons in the past, loaded with expectations or barbed with ulterior motives. But Seth’s words carried none of that weight. They felt simple and sincere, like a genuine observation rather than a demand for your approval.

“Thanks,” you said, tucking a stray lock of hair behind your ear. “You clean up pretty well yourself.”

He chuckled, his shoulders relaxing as though you’d cracked the ice that had been lingering between you. The tension in the air softened, giving way to an easy, tentative curiosity. This wasn’t a battlefield; it was just two people sharing a meal, and that realization was a relief.

The waitress arrived, handing you menus and reciting the specials before retreating, leaving the two of you enveloped in the soft hum of the restaurant. The candle flickered between you, its warm light casting shadows across the table.

“So,” Seth began, leaning forward with a smile, “do you want to start with the big questions or ease in with something light?”

You laughed, the sound surprising even yourself. “What’s a big question?”

“Favorite dinosaur. It’s a make-or-break topic, really.”

“Stegosaurus,” you answered without hesitation.

“Solid choice,” he nodded approvingly. “But I’m gonna have to go with Triceratops. It’s got the perfect balance of cool factor and functionality.”

“I respect that.” You grinned. “We can stay friends.”

He tapped his glass with mock relief. “Thank God. I was worried this was going to be a disaster.”

The conversation flowed from there, naturally and without pretense. You talked about work, favorite childhood memories, and shared pet peeves. There was an ease to it all, as though you’d known each other longer than just tonight.

At one point, the topic shifted to music. Seth’s eyes lit up as he described his favorite records, and you found yourself matching his enthusiasm.

“I have a bit of a vinyl addiction,” you admitted, sipping your drink. “I probably have way too many James Taylor records.”

“Wait,” he said, setting down his fork. “How many is ‘way too many’?”

You shrugged. “Like… fifteen?”

His jaw dropped in playful disbelief. “Fifteen? That’s wild. I don’t think I’ve ever met another person with that many James Taylor records. I have ten, and I thought that was obsessive.”

“Well, it’s nice to finally meet someone who gets it,” you teased.

The waitress returned with your meals, and as you began eating, Seth launched into stories from his childhood. He spoke with vivid detail about growing up with his brother, recounting wild adventures that had you laughing until tears pricked the corners of your eyes. You told him about work and your hobbies, Seth listened with genuine attentiveness and interest in your stories. Slowly, the layers of doubt that had been cast by your ex began to peel away. Every little chuckle he gave out after a joke drowned out the memories of your ex’s cynical laugh.

Suddenly the night had flown by, Seth kindly paying for dinner, and now he was insisting on walking you to your car as you had to park a couple blocks down. His genuine concern was a stark difference from your ex's callous indifference.

As you strolled beneath the city lights, admiring the trees lining the street with Christmas lights woven between branches, Seth brought up the Christmas movies he and his family would watch every year. You found your mind once again comparing the toxicity of your ex to Seth, who had just about changed your opinion about men. Before you nearly brought him up, Seth pulled you back to the moment.

“Every year on Christmas Eve we watch the original How The Grinch Stole Christmas. Like the animated one.” He tells you, a pure and childlike smile tugging on his lips.

You smiled back, a warmth in your heart you had forgotten was something you could experience. The night had been a stark departure from the toxic patterns of your past. As the pair of you approached your car, you finally felt the tightness in your chest subsiding, any feelings of what once was gone now.

Seth paused by your car, his breath visible in the crisp night air. The city hummed softly around you, the distant sound of car horns mingling with laughter from nearby restaurants. He shifted on his feet, the faint glow of the streetlights catching the warmth in his eyes.

“I had a really great time tonight,” he said, his voice low but sincere.

“So did I,” you admitted, the honesty rolling off your tongue without hesitation. “I wasn’t sure I was ready for this, but… tonight was good. Really good.”

His smile widened, his relief evident. "That makes me happy to hear." He hesitated, brushing a hand through his messy hair. "And, hey, no pressure or anything, but I'd love to see you again.”

The vulnerability in his voice hung between you, delicate yet inviting. For a moment, you were silent, the weight of your past teetering on the edge of your thoughts. But tonight had been different—a beginning rather than a replay of old wounds.

You glanced up at Seth, his hopeful expression etched with authenticity, and your heart made the choice your mind had been too cautious to consider.

"I'd like that too," you said softly, a smile forming without resistance.

His face lit up, and the sight stirred something gentle and warm inside you, like sunlight filtering through cracks in a wall you'd thought impenetrable. The breeze tugged at your hair, crisp and sharp, but you barely felt it with the warmth spreading through your chest.

He took a step closer, close enough that you could catch the faint scent of cedar and fresh soap lingering on him. "I’ll text you then. And I promise I’m not one of those ‘wait three days’ guys." His tone was playful, but there was a thread of earnestness beneath it.

You laughed, the sound unguarded. "Good. Because that rule is ridiculous."

He grinned, the kind that was contagious and disarming. "Agreed."

There was a beat of silence, the world around you quieting into something hushed and intimate. For the first time in a long time, the echoes of your past didn't press against your ribs, demanding to be heard. They had no place here, not in this moment, not with this man who stood in front of you without expectation or pretense.

"Drive safe," he said, stepping back but lingering as though reluctant to let the night end.

“Thank you, Seth.” you say softly.

Seth gave you a small wave before turning to walk back down the street, his figure illuminated by the golden glow of the streetlights. For a long moment, you stood there, the world hushed and still. Your breath clouded in the frigid air, heart thrumming with a strange mix of peace and disbelief.

This wasn’t where you thought you'd end up eight months ago when everything had shattered. Back then, love had felt like a cruel joke — something that only broke, burned, and eventually ended. You’d sworn off the idea entirely, resigned to believe that its weight was always suffocating, its promises empty.

But tonight was proof that you’d been wrong.

Standing beneath the winter sky, you realized you'd just watched love begin again.

#˚₊۶ৎ˙⋆ nylqnder #seth jarvis #seth jarvis imagine #seth jarvis x reader #nhl #nhl imagine #hockey #hockey imagine #carolina hurricanes

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icarusignite · 17 days ago

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My Boy Only Breaks His Favorite Toys (p.1)

Pairing: Jason Todd x Civilian! GN! Reader

Summary: In a city where kindness is fleeting and warmth feels like a myth, a reclusive vigilante crosses paths with another ghost orbiting the same darkness. What begins as cautious companionship spirals into something tender, fragile, and terrifying. But when fear drives him away, and violence drags you to the edge of death, Jason Todd is forced to confront the one truth he’s always run from: some things, once lost, can’t be stitched back together. And some things are worth bleeding for.

Warnings: Stabbing, mentions of blood and injuries, Jason is kind of a jerk in the beginning, but forgive him for it, he's got attachment issues lol. Hurt/comfort, angst. slowburn. YEARNING, lots of yearning, my boy is a yearner

Word Count: 8.5k

A/N: I am not a medical professional lol so I can't say how accurate this is lol, but just go with it for the angst vibes. This is super self-indulgent lol, I wanted the kind of fic that causes you physical pain so here we are. This was getting a bit too long so I'll post the second part later, lemme know if yall wanna be tagged.

This is my first time writing for DC or the batboys, but the brainrot is real. This is technically a part of a bigger Jason long fic I'm working on but I just really needed to get this scene out lol

Part 1 | Part 2 | AO3

You were friends, weren't you?

You'd like to think so. It made it easier to explain away the ache in your chest every time he left without a word. Or the warmth that bloomed beneath your ribs when he showed up, battered and brooding, yet somehow still seeking you out.

But then again, did vigilantes even have friends?

Arms folded loosely across your chest, you leaned against the doorframe of your cramped kitchen, watching him from across the dimly lit room. Your apartment was small, embarrassingly so, and the light above flickered in that way you kept meaning to fix. The air smelled faintly of antiseptic and cheap chamomile tea, curling around your ankles like smoke.

He sat at your wobbly kitchen table with his boots carelessly propped on the worn wood, the laces still muddy from whatever hell he'd clawed his way out of tonight. His brow was furrowed, teeth worrying at his bottom lip as he wound a fresh bandage around the gash on his arm. A grimace tugged at his mouth as he worked, the muscles in his jaw twitching.

His mask lay discarded beside the pile of bloodied tissues, a splash of crimson on your table that felt far too symbolic. You hated how used to the sight you'd become. It no longer made your stomach turn the way it once did. Now, it just sat there, like a guest you hadn't invited but didn't dare ask to leave.

You wanted to help. You always did, but in the careful months since he'd tumbled, quite literally, into your life, you'd learned not to offer unless he asked. Red Hood—or Red as you had fondly dubbed him because you still didn't know his actual name—was a man built of walls and wreckage, of hairline fractures hidden behind sardonic grins and barbed quips.

He didn't like prying. So neither did you.

You still remembered the first time you'd met him. Your life had been steady, if not dull, up until then. A slow existence filled with microwaved meals, cracked book spines, and long, lingering silences. Then, as if fate had grown bored with your monotony, he had crashed into it. One minute, you were walking home from work. The next, you were the sole witness to something that had no business existing in your version of reality. Guns, masks, blood. Gotham in all its gritty glory.

You were stubborn enough to get involved. He was—well you didn't quite know why he let you get involved.

You told yourself it was just curiosity. Maybe it was. But even now, as he sat there in your kitchen like he belonged, you weren't sure what tethered him to you. The case you'd helped him with had ended days ago. Loose ends tied. Threats neutralized. And yet he hadn't stopped coming.

That first time he'd stumbled through your bedroom window with a bullet wound, all adrenaline and snarled curses, you'd expected him to leave as quickly as he came. But he hadn't. He'd let you stitch him up. Said nothing when you offered him a drink, or when you laid out an old quilt on the couch. You hadn't known his name then, and still didn't. But you knew his face. You knew his eyes. You knew the way his shoulders stiffened before a storm of emotion, and the subtle quirk of his mouth when he found something amusing but didn't want to admit it.

He reminded you of a stray cat, too proud to ask for affection, but too lonely to stay away from the warmth you offered. So you gave it.

Quietly. Patiently. Repeatedly.

You'd begun to anticipate him in all the little ways you shouldn't have. Setting out a second mug when you brewed tea in the middle of the night, because somehow, without fail, he would appear just as the steam began to curl from your chipped porcelain cup. Leaving the bathroom light on, knowing he preferred patching himself up under its dim, humming glow. Folding the throw blanket on the couch just the way he liked—creased at the corners, but not tucked in. He hated feeling confined.

You kept extra ramen in your pantry. Started buying that brand of granola bars he always grumbled about but never left untouched. And now, here he was again in your space, holding his pain in the same way you held your thoughts.

Tight, hidden, private.

You watched him from the doorway and wondered if he saw you the way you saw him. If he noticed the weight of his presence, or how your world tilted subtly every time he stepped into it. If maybe, just maybe, he was coming back not because he had nowhere else to go, but because you were here.

No, that was stupid. You were a lot of things, but you weren't stupid. The city had no room for the foolishly naive.

But were you friends?

You wanted to ask him, but you didn't. You were afraid of what the answer might be. Hope was a delicate thing, and in a city like Gotham, it never lasted long.

You chewed on the inside of your cheek. Sometimes, when the silence stretched long and unbothered between you, you found yourself playing a strange little game in your mind. You tried to guess his name.

It had started as a harmless, idle curiosity, but it had grown into something you clung to when his presence lingered long after he'd gone. The guessing had become a comfort of sorts, as though naming him might make him more real. Less myth. Less mystery.

He didn't look like a Robert. You imagined a Robert might wear boat shoes and a pressed polo, maybe even a handlebar mustache if he was particularly insufferable. A Simon would have round glasses perched on the bridge of his nose and a fondness for spreadsheets. Anthony? No, far too smug. He'd be the kind of man who winked at waitresses and thought himself charming. Luke maybe, if he had more of a boyish softness to his features, but Red? No, he had an edge carved into him, all angles and tribulations.

Occasionally, when he sat slouched like this, the flickering bulb overhead casting harsh shadows over his jawline, you'd swear you had seen him before.

Not like this, with blood seeping slowly through bandages and a half-gloved hand trembling ever so slightly from the adrenaline still wearing off. But somewhere, in the back of your mind, there was an echo. A fading image of a photograph you might've once seen in a crumpled newspaper. Something about a billionaire's dead son. An obituary that featured a smiling young boy with bright eyes and a future that might have been written in gold leaf and marble.

You'd dismissed it as fast as it came. You never paid attention to socialite tragedies. The world of gala dresses and legacies was so far removed from yours that it barely felt real. Besides, that boy was dead, buried in some manicured graveyard you'd never be allowed into. And this boy was sitting in your kitchen bleeding all over your table.

Alive.

Though, perhaps not for long, if he kept living like this. He had the same regard for his own life that you had for the cracked mugs in your sink. Tolerated, but barely.

You watched him fumble again with the blood-slick bandages, the crimson staining through like watercolours blooming on canvas. He was trying to wrap his shoulder one-handed, which clearly wasn't working. The angle was wrong, and the effort was shaky.

You bit your lip and told yourself not to interfere.

He never asked nor expected your help, and that unspoken boundary hovered between you like a landmine, one you dared not disturb. And yet, eventually, you couldn't take it anymore.

You crossed the kitchen with slow, deliberate steps, like approaching a wild thing that might flee at the first sudden movement. He stiffened, the line of his back going rigid as you rounded the table, but he didn't look up. Didn't flinch. Didn't utter something sharp and dismissive, like you half expected him to.

You took it as a good sign.

Without a word, you pulled out the chair opposite him and sat. For a heartbeat, the room felt breathless. He tracked your movement with the wary precision of a soldier, but he didn't stop you. When your fingers reached for his arm, he tensed beneath your touch, muscles coiled like a drawn bowstring, but he didn't pull away.

That was enough.

You worked in silence, your touch careful and clinical. You unwound the soaked bandages and tossed them aside, grabbing the rubbing alcohol and clean gauze. You murmured apologies when he hissed at the sting, but you didn't stop. If he could live through getting stabbed and shot at, you figured he could endure a little antiseptic.

His skin was warm beneath your fingertips—fever-warm, maybe—but sturdy. He was littered with half-healed wounds and fading bruises, scattered across the landscape of him like constellations only he could decipher. There was a story written in each of them, and you hated that you wanted to read them. To know the ugly details. To understand.

You tamped the impulse down. This wasn't about curiosity. It was about care.

Your gaze lingered longer than it should have. At the sharp ridge of his collarbone. The sinew of muscle taut beneath tattered fabric. The way his calloused hands tightened into fists when the pain surged, but never once tried to stop you.

You should probably get him some lotion for Christmas. The thought rose unbidden, absurd, but somehow entirely fitting. "For your dry, murdery hands," the label might read.

If this... whatever this was... even lasted until then.

When you were done, you gave his arm a light pat. It was gentle, like punctuation at the end of a sentence you didn't know how to finish. Then you stood, discarding the bloodied tissues, and scrubbing your hands clean. You moved on autopilot, draining the tea that had long gone cold and replacing it with a fresh cup—extra honey, just the way you'd learned he liked it, even if he never said it aloud.

Then, because you were helpless against the urge to say something, you leaned one hip against the table and smirked faintly.

"Careful, Red," you drawled, "if you keep getting hurt like this, I might start to think you have a thing for my first aid skills."

He didn't answer right away, but his lip twitched. It was a breath of a reaction, but it was there, and for someone like him, that was practically a sonnet.

You sipped your tea, letting the warmth sit on your tongue before you spoke again. He hadn't touched his yet, staring down at the swirling amber surface like it held answers he hadn't figured out how to ask for.

"You're less chatty than usual," you remarked casually. "And I say that knowing full well you're already a man of, like, four words max."

Nothing. Not even a smirk this time.

"If I didn't know any better, I'd think you were brooding. Which, y'know... shocker."

Still nothing. No anger, just quiet. It was oddly unlike him.

"You don't have to tell me, of course," you amended quickly, not wanting to come off as nosy. "Whatever it is. I just—you're carrying it like it's made of concrete."

You pressed your lips together for a moment, then tried to fill the space again, your tone lightening, the way you knew he preferred it when things got too close to raw.

"I mean, if this is about the tea, I can make it again. Stronger. Less... 'grandma's house' and more 'man on the run.' I just figured you liked honey, seeing as you keep finishing the jar and pretending it was like that when you found it."

That earned you a tiny huff, maybe a laugh, maybe a scoff. You were not sure which, but it was something.

Emboldened, you tilted your head and gave him a crooked smile. "Or maybe you're just disappointed I haven't guessed your name yet. I'm running out of options, you know. I've gone through the entire cast of Friends at this point."

He lifted an eyebrow.

"No, really," you continue, warming to your own ramble. "Ross? Too whiny. Chandler? Too annoying. Joey? ...Well, I could see it, but you'd have to say 'how you doin' at least once to convince me."

When he didn't respond, you wondered if you'd made a mistake with the reference. Did vigilantes have time to watch sitcoms? Maybe you could convince him to partake in a marathon with you.

You let the inevitable silence stretch for a beat, then wrinkled your nose and glanced at him over the rim of your mug.

"So, just for my own peace of mind, you are housebroken, right?"

Your guest didn't look up, but his head tilted curiously. One eyebrow quirked the tiniest bit, the closest thing to a response you were likely to get when he was in one of his moods.

You gestured broadly toward the red helmet on the table, the scuff of his boot across the wood grain, and the faint trail of dried blood from the kitchen. "I mean, it's starting to feel like you live here, Red. And if that's the case, I should start charging you rent. Or at the very least, make you take out the trash once in a while."

No response.

"Because I don't just let any emotionally constipated vigilante bleed all over my apartment. I have standards too."

A twist. Barely there, but his mouth moved, almost betraying a smile. You held onto that like it was gold.

"I'm just saying," you went on, folding your arms dramatically, "if you're gonna keep showing up here at three a.m. looking like you got in a fight with a deli slicer, you could at least pretend to be a little more domesticated. I don't know, maybe wipe your feet at the entrance? Use the actual door? Bring flowers?"

His voice, when it finally came, was roughened by fatigue. "You want flowers?"

You blinked at him, caught off guard. "Okay, well now it's weird because you asked. If you actually show up with flowers, I'm going to assume there's a bomb in them."

He let out a quiet huff. Not quite a laugh, but close enough.

"And don't even think about roses," you added, waving a finger. "Too cliché. You're more of a—I don't know—carnivorous plant guy. Like a spooky Venus flytrap. 'Cause nothing says housewarming present like a plant that eats things."

His eyes finally lifted to meet yours. They were unreadable, but the heaviness behind them seemed to ease, just a little.

"You done?" he demanded, gruff but not annoyed. More like he was indulging you.

You were not, and the next words spilled out in an involuntary confession.

"Sometimes I think about how strange this all is. You. Me. This. Whatever this is." You gesture loosely between you. "You're out there dancing with death on a nightly basis, and I'm here pretending tea can fix bullet wounds."

You don't mean for the smile that followed to be so sad, but it was.

"I guess I'm just glad you come back. That's all."

For a moment, he was utterly still, the kind of stillness that lived in the eye of a storm. His response came frayed like it was coming through a static radio.

"Why?"

It knocked the air from your lungs. It wasn't quite an invitation. Not quite a wall. A wound, maybe.

You wanted to ask what was bothering him. Wanted to reach across the table and touch his hand, just for a second, to tell him without words that he was not alone. That he didn't have to be.

Jason hadn't meant for the question to sound like an accusation.

"Why?"

It slipped out sharper than he intended, but it had tumbled off his tongue before he could stop it. And now he sat there, watching you across the table, your hands wrapped around that chipped mug like it was the most natural thing in the world to sit across from someone like him and say:

"I guess I'm just glad you come back. That's all."

Something in his chest tightened. An ache, deep and reflexive, like a muscle spasming around an old injury. You had said it so simply, like it was obvious, like it wasn't a concept that felt foreign when he tried to believe it.

Glad? To see him?

It couldn't be real. No one was glad to see him. Not really. Not anymore. And the way you'd looked at him when you said it made his defences flare up like an allergic reaction.

He had to ask. Why.

Why would you be glad to see someone like him? Someone who showed up at your window uninvited. Someone who never told you his real name. Someone who brought death on his heels and stayed too long.

Your lack of response only made it worse. You looked at him like he was the one not making sense.

Of course, you were glad he came back.

He hated how fast the words came after that, how he couldn't stop himself from lashing out.

"You shouldn't be."

He said it like a truth he needed you to believe, even if he didn't. Said it hard, like if he drove the words deep enough, they'd take root and push you away before he got used to the idea of you staying. Because he was growing too attached. That much was certain.

It had started creeping in quietly, like a burglar. He hadn't even realized how bad it had gotten until he caught himself during a patrol, slipping off to some rooftop, hand digging into the inner pocket of his jacket for the burner phone you had the number for.

For emergencies. That was all it was meant for. That was the excuse he told himself when he'd scrawled the number down and pressed it into your hand.

You never used it. You never called or even texted. You let him keep his secrets, and that should have made it easier to let go. It didn't. And he'd found himself checking that phone anyway, half in agony, half in hope.

He still had it. Weeks past the point when he should've tossed it and gotten a new number, like he always did. But he kept this one. Maybe one day, you'd need him. Maybe one day, you'd use it. Part of him hated how much he wanted you to.

He stared at your tea across from him now. You never asked if he wanted any. You just knew.

And that wasn't all.

The second mug you always left out on the counter after midnight. The way you started keeping extra bandages under the sink. That one faded hoodie you folded up and left on the back of the couch after he complained—once—about the cold. The cabinet with the snacks you didn't like but kept stocked anyway.

You made space for him without asking anything in return, without ever pushing.

It made his skin itch. It felt like walking into a dream that would crumble the second he touched it. Too temporary. Too good. Too false. Like one of those illusions, fate gave people like him, just long enough to feel warm before it was ripped away again.

Because nothing good stayed. Not for someone like him. Not in Gotham.

But somehow, impossibly, you kept leaving the light on, and he kept coming back.

You tilted your head slightly now, watching him from across the table, your lips pressed into a gentle smile. There was no fear in your eyes. No judgment. Just the quiet patience of someone waiting for a wounded animal to decide whether it wanted to be held or bite.

Jason Todd only knew how to bite, even when he didn't mean it. Especially when he didn't mean it.

Before either of you could speak again, he stood, the legs of his chair scraping sharply against the floor. The untouched tea on the table wobbled in its cup but didn't spill. Not yet. It waited, just like you did.

"Don't," he snapped suddenly, dangerous in the way a wounded beast growled before it struck. "Don't look at me like that."

You blinked, startled, rising instinctively from your chair like you could fix it before the moment broke entirely.

"Like what?"

"Like I matter." The words were bitten off. "Like this means something."

He didn't mean to say it, but it was already happening, and he couldn't stop himself. The vulnerability curled in his gut like something shameful. Something that had to be punished before it grew too loud.

"I'm not some stray you can keep feeding and expect it not to bite your hand." He stepped back from the table like your kindness was something venomous. "You think leaving out tea and wrapping up my arm makes this normal? Makes me safe?"

You flinched imperceptibly, but Jason saw it. You always wore your heart on your sleeve, letting your emotions bloom too brightly across your face. It made you easy to read, and he knew when his words hit home, when the warmth drained from your expression, replaced by sheer hurt. He felt it, sharp and sudden in his chest like a splinter lodging deep into scar tissue.

But he kept going. He had to.

"I don't need your pity. I don't want to be your goddamn charity case. This—whatever the hell this is—you don't owe me shit."

"Red—" you started, but he cut you off.

"You think this makes you a good person? Taking in the stray? Letting me bleed on your damn floor so you can feel better about yourself?" He laughed bitterly, shaking his head. "I'm not your project. I'm not here so you can collect your brownie points for being the kind one. You're not getting anything out of this, so why the hell do you keep doing it?"

Your breath caught, but you didn't move. You didn't yell back. You didn't tell him he was wrong. You just stood there, with that same stubborn gentleness in your eyes, and it drove him mad.

"Jesus," he muttered, raking a hand through his hair, pacing now. "You need to stop. Stop caring. Just stop."

"I never did it for something in return," you whispered.

"Well, maybe you should have."

The silence after that was suffocating, and Jason stilled. His chest heaved. He couldn't look at you. If he did, he might stay. If he did, he might say something tender, something real. And then he'd ruin you.

You inhaled shakily. "You think I'm doing this for points? That I'm keeping score?"

"You should be," he hissed. "Because all I've done is take. All I do is take. You keep giving and I keep showing up like some parasite, and for what?"

"Because I care," you said finally, too tired to hide the yearning in your voice.

"You shouldn't. I'm not one of the good ones. You think you're doing something noble, letting me in, playing Florence Nightingale. But I'm not who you think I am, and the sooner you stop pretending otherwise, the better."

He stared at you, waiting for you to yell. To scream. To say anything that would prove him right, would make walking away easier.

But you didn't.

You just stood there, hands limp at your sides, lips parted like you wanted to say something but couldn't find the words. And God, your eyes looked so betrayed, like you were trying to understand where everything had gone wrong. Like you had failed some test you didn't know you were taking.

Jason hated the sight of your heart breaking in real-time and knowing he had done it.

You swallowed thickly. "I didn't ask for any of this. I just... I just wanted you to be okay."

Jason's breath hitched.

You weren't crying, but your voice shook like it might come to that if he pushed one word further.

"I've been careful," you added, quieter now as if the room itself might judge you for the confession. "I never ask you to stay. Never asked for anything at all. You're the one who keeps coming back. How am I to blame for that?"

Jason looked away. The guilt hit like a bullet, right where it could do the most damage.

"You should've," he returned flatly. "You should've asked for more. That way you'd see exactly how little I have to give."

He wanted to say he was sorry. He wanted to tell you that you were the only good thing in his life that hadn't asked anything of him.

Instead, he said, "You should've slammed the door on me the first time I showed up. That was your mistake."

You didn't have the heart to point out that he hadn't used the door. You didn't follow him either. Didn't plead, didn't reach for his hand or beg him to stay. That hurt worse than anything else.

He was right.

You were too kind. Too kind to call him out on his bullshit. Too kind to tell him to go to hell. Too kind to stop him when he stepped toward the window and opened it, cold air spilling in like water from a broken pipe.

And in your generosity, Jason realized the worst part.

You still would've left the light on for him.

Even now.

You wrapped your arms around yourself as the window slid shut, sealing in silence and sealing out the sound of his retreating steps.

A sinkhole opened in the pit of your stomach, swallowing the remnants of warmth that had once lived in the corners of the space, and it left you hollow, like a house with the doors blown off. His departure felt too much like a goodbye. Too much like a half-finished letter, the ink smudged, the signature missing. The last page of a story ripped clean from the spine.

You stood there for a while as if the air might stitch him back into the room if you stayed motionless enough. As if the chair he’d occupied might creak under phantom weight. But nothing moved. Nothing stirred.

You doubted he’d ever show himself in front of you again, and even if he did—somewhere, out there beneath Gotham’s godless sky—you wouldn’t know where to look. Not that you would, of course. You weren’t foolish enough to chase after someone who didn’t want to be found. If he didn’t want to see you anymore, you would not burden him with your presence. You would not be a nuisance.

When the tears finally came, they gouged hot trails down your cheeks. You bit your lip to keep from making a sound, unwilling to fill the void he’d left behind with your grief. At least you had your answer now. You and him were not friends. Maybe vigilantes didn’t have friends. Or maybe he just didn’t want to be yours.

And oh, how that simple truth ached more than any goodbye ever could.

It had been three weeks since the boy you had grown attached to cleaved himself from your life, not that you were counting, of course. You would never be so pitiful as to tally the days in his absence, to chart the sunrises without him like some widow mourning a love that had never been named.

And yet…

The calendar pages turned with a slow, dragging inevitability. The hollow ache in your chest had become something familiar. Manageable. You were slowly adjusting to the shape your life had taken before he’d ever crashed into your world.

Still, there were nights when the wind howled a little too loud and the tea kettle hissed just before three a.m., and you found yourself setting out an extra mug. You never filled it—not always. But sometimes, on the worst nights, you did. You'd place it gently beside your own, the steam rising between them like the ghost of a conversation.

Come morning, it would sit there untouched. Cold. Filmed over. Forgotten by everyone except you. You couldn’t blame yourself for hoping.

Tonight was another late shift at work. The kind that stretched you thin until your bones ached with exhaustion and your thoughts blurred into fog. The headache had bloomed sometime after midnight and now throbbed relentlessly behind your temples. You pulled your cardigan around yourself as you stepped out into the Gotham streets, rain slanting in bitter sheets from a sky as grey as mourning.

Of course tonight, of all nights, you’d forgotten your umbrella.

Your shoes squelched with every step, the water soaking through the soles and into your socks. Streetlights flickered overhead, some sputtering, others long since dead. You kept your eyes down, focused on the familiar path home, on putting one foot in front of the other, but even so, you felt that prickle on the back of your neck, the kind you couldn’t shake off, no matter how tightly you wrapped your arms around yourself. The streets were too empty.

You tightened your grip on your keys, slotting them between your fingers like jagged little weapons. You were half a block from safety. Just a little farther.

And then hands. Cold, foreign, and wrong. Fingers like iron gripped your arm and yanked you sideways into the yawning dark of a nearby alley.

A gasp tore from your throat, but you didn’t scream. Instinct moved faster than thought. You lashed out with your keys, catching your attacker across the face—or somewhere, you weren’t sure, but the sharp hiss of pain told you it had landed. You tried to twist away, but the alley wall met your back, and your heart hammered like a trapped bird in your ribcage.

It wasn’t a mugging. He didn’t reach for your bag. He didn’t demand anything. He just came at you with precision, with intention.

And then… he was gone, like a shadow pulled back into the deeper dark, vanishing as swiftly as he’d come. You stood there stunned, breath ragged, mind catching up with what had just happened. It wasn’t until the adrenaline began to fade that you felt it.

The pain.

Hot, sharp, deep. A burning throb in your side, just beneath your ribs. You reached down with trembling fingers and they came away slick and red. It was difficult to see the exact shade of carmine that marred your hands in the dark, but the heat of it told you all you needed to know. It clung between your fingers in syrupy ropes, and beneath it all, the pain bloomed sharp and insistent, flaring like a cruel reminder every time you breathed.

You’d been stabbed.

A hollow, almost hysterical laugh escaped your lips, grating the back of your throat. You’d been fucking stabbed. Of course, you had. Tonight was already a monument to misery. Why not crown it with something poetic?

You weren’t sure what the weapon had been—a knife, a shard of metal, something small and quick—but whatever it was, your attacker had taken it with him. You weren't a medic, but even you knew that you weren’t supposed to take the weapon out of the wound. Not if you wanted to avoid bleeding out like a gutted street urchin.

There was nothing left in you now. Only the blood, warm and gushing, and the panic rising in your throat as your body betrayed you with a wave of nausea so fierce it made your vision blur. The heat in your side was unbearable. Blinding until even that faded, replaced by a strange, iciness that spread from the wound outward, curling beneath your skin, settling into your bones.

So very cold.

Your knees buckled beneath you, and you collapsed sideways against the grime-caked alley wall, cheek scraping brick as you slid down into a crumpled heap. Your breath came in shallow gasps, as though your lungs were filling with broken glass. You pressed your hands harder against the wound, but it was futile. The blood seeped past your fingers, indifferent to your desperation.

Time lost meaning. Minutes blurred into hours, or maybe hours into seconds. You couldn’t tell. You sat slumped over yourself, trying to remember how to breathe properly, how to think, how to gather even an ounce of strength to get back up.

Eventually, with twitching fingers, slick with your own blood, you fumbled in your pocket for your phone. The screen flickered to life, glowing too bright against the dark. You’d smeared the glass red, ruined it, probably.

You didn’t care.

Your thumb hovered over your contacts. And then… faltered. Another laugh bubbled out of you, fraying at the edges.

Who were you going to call?

Your coworkers? You only ever spoke to them in clipped pleasantries, trading shift schedules and dead smiles. Your manager? God, she’d be annoyed more than anything. You could already hear her, full of barely-veiled condescension.

How dare you get yourself stabbed when we’re at our busiest? Do you know how difficult it will be to find someone to replace you on such short notice? Honestly, it’s selfish. You clearly don’t care about the team’s success.

Your laughter splintered, turning into a strangled sob, and your shoulders shook violently from the effort of it.

It’s not like you had any friends.

And even if you did, what could they do now? Friends were for sunny mornings and warm café booths, for midday walks and shared sandwiches in the park. What sort of friend could help you now?

No one was coming.

You sank deeper into the concrete, the phone slipping from your fingers, the bloodied screen flickering like a dying star.

The cold crept in intimately, then. Not just the cold of the night, but the one that nestled in your marrow.

This was it. This was how you'd go. Alone, and irrelevant. In that moment, all you wanted—more than comfort or help—was for someone to notice you were gone.

Your fingers quivered as you scrolled through your contacts again, the names blurring before your eyes, all of them meaningless, until one, in particular, made your thumb falter.

His.

You stared at the entry. The number he’d given you with all the solemnity of a last resort. For emergencies only. The implication had been clear. You had never used it.

Yet here you were. Bleeding out alone. Surely this counted. What constituted a greater emergency than your slow descent into death? You should call him. He owed you that much, after the countless nights you’d nursed his wounds, brewed tea for his unravelling nerves, offered wordless comfort when he couldn't meet your eyes.

You hesitated.

He was the one who had left. He’d made it clear that your concern was unwanted, that your presence was a burden, a kindness too foreign for him to accept. Who were you to claw back into his life now, demanding something from a man who had nothing to give?

Besides, he had probably thrown the phone away already. Changed numbers. Burned the whole thing and permanently severed all connection to you.

Your throat tightened, and you swallowed down the lump forming there.

You had helped him expecting nothing in return, and if your care had ever truly been selfless, then you couldn’t call him now. You wouldn’t dishonour whatever shred of dignity remained by asking for something he never offered.

He told you not to rely on him, and you were nothing if not obedient. Even in death.

But would he even know that you'd died?

Would he hear about the nameless person found lifeless in some forgotten alleyway? Or would you be just another unclaimed cadaver, swiftly removed with nothing but a toe tag to mark your end?

The thought struck harder than the pain in your ribs.

No. That wasn’t fair. That wasn’t right.

You were no one—yes. An inconsequential creature tucked into the shadows of a city that never slept, but you were not nothing. You had existed. You had loved. You had helped. And whatever little sliver of self-worth burned in your chest would not let you die like this, like some discarded scrap on the edge of the world. You wanted to at least have the dignity of dying in your own home.

With a choked cry, you forced your blood-slicked palm against the wall, fingers scrambling for purchase. Your legs screamed in protest, and your vision went white with pain, but you pushed, staggering to your feet like a marionette with half its strings cut. Your body bent nearly double, every breath a dagger in your ribs, but you moved. You moved because you had to. Because you refused to die here in this piss-stained alley, where the rats would be your only mourners and your story would end in tragic comedy.

Step by agonizing step, you dragged yourself toward your apartment building, each footfall a prayer, each gasp a rebellion.

You were not going to die out here. You refused to.

By the time you reached the entrance to your building, your body was little more than a shuddering husk, hollowed out by blood loss and sheer willpower. The stairs loomed before you like a joke, an unscalable mountain for someone with no air left in their lungs. You cursed the building for not having a damned elevator, cursed yourself for choosing this place, this street, this life. But then you remembered, with no small measure of desperation, that your apartment was on the first floor. Just one flight. Just a few steps.

You could do this.

Each stair was its own Everest. Your hands gripped the banister like it was the only thing tethering you to this world, your knees buckling with every upward shuffle. By the time you reached your door, your vision had gone obsidian around the edges, the hallway swimming before your eyes like you were underwater.

Your fingers fumbled at the keyring, sticky with blood. You dropped it once. Then again. The keys jangled to the floor in a wet scatter, and you nearly screamed in frustration. It took everything in you to bend down and retrieve them, the movement setting off a white-hot flare in your side. When at last you managed to force the key into the lock and shove the door open, it felt like winning some futile, cruel battle.

The moment you crossed the threshold, your legs gave out. You caught yourself clumsily on the edge of the doorway, panting. There was a trail of red already soaking into your welcome mat, smearing across the floor where your shoes dragged in rainwater and the city’s muck.

You thought of what a mess it would be in the morning. Not your pain. Not your fear. The mess.

Of course. Always worried about the inconvenience.

Your bed beckoned, soft and warm in memory, but you knew better. The thought of dying there, of ruining the sheets, staining the mattress, and leaving some poor cleanup crew to find you sprawled like a ghost in a coffin of cotton, made your stomach turn.

No, you couldn't do that to them. You couldn't be a burden, even in death.

So you turned instead toward the bathroom, dragging your feet unsteadily. The mirror reflected something ghastly as you passed, but you didn’t look long enough to register it. The bathtub was where you would go. Easy to clean. Contained. Not that you had plans to die, not really. Just a precaution.

You collapsed inside it, the porcelain biting cold against your rain-soaked clothes. You had meant to only sit on the edge, to open the cabinet, maybe fish out the old first-aid kit, the one you’d used on him more times than you could count. But that thought was as distant now as the stars. You couldn’t move anymore. Couldn’t lift your arm, couldn’t reach the faucet, couldn’t even curl properly into yourself.

The chill was everywhere, gnawing its way into your bones. Your side throbbed, your hands were numb, and your clothes clung to you like a second, sopping skin. The bathroom ceiling blurred above you, a dull white light flickering in and out of focus.

Maybe if you could just turn the shower on, and run the hot water, it'd warm you. Even that was beyond you, and your eyes slid shut.

Just five minutes, you told yourself.

You’d rest for five minutes and then you’d wake up. You’d patch yourself up, and you’d clean up the mess.

Jason Todd stood outside your apartment door, a greasy pizza box balanced in one hand, the old burner phone cradled in the other. He hated how long he stood there, staring at your door like some coward at confession, trying to summon the nerve to knock. The light overhead flickered erratically, buzzing like it, too, was mocking him for coming back with his tail between his legs.

He didn’t do apologies. Not well. Not in words. Nonetheless, this was the closest thing he could offer. A peace offering. Your favourite pizza and an irrational hope tucked in his chest that maybe you hadn’t stopped waiting for him.

He told himself it was just a coincidence when his patrols started curving past your building more often than necessary. Gotham was dangerous, after all. Plenty of reasons to keep an eye on your neighbourhood.

That didn’t explain why he always ended up outside your window. Why he paused there, hidden in the shadows with his helmet in hand, unable to resist the pull of light spilling through your curtains. Why he’d squint through the fogged-up glass, watching the shape of you as you went about your night, a ghost in your own home.

Sometimes you’d sit at the little table by the kitchen window, two mugs set down instead of one. One of them always remained untouched, placed directly in front of the empty seat he used to occupy like muscle memory. And god, those were the worst nights, the ones where he caught you staring at that vacant spot, eyes glazed with thought, fingers wrapped around your own mug for warmth that never quite reached your face.

It gutted him in ways he didn’t want to examine. Routine was memory. Memory was grief.

You’d left the light on most nights, like you always did. Once he’d seen you crack open the window just a sliver, as if you were expecting someone to come climbing through. He hadn’t moved from the fire escape that time, just sat there like a coward in the dark, watching you wait.

You hadn’t closed it again until dawn.

Here he was now, standing at your door like a man with something to offer, when all he’d ever done was take.

It had been three weeks, not that he was counting. Three weeks since he’d stormed out, spitting venom at the only person who'd offered him a lifeline. He’d told himself he was doing you a favour by leaving. Sparing you. Protecting you. But all it had done was leave him bitter, clawing at the emptiness where your laughter used to sit.

So he’d come back. He was even doing it your way this time. No rooftop skulking, no slipping through your window like a thief in the night. He’d wiped his boots on the doormat like you always nagged him to, grumbling under his breath about manners even as he indulged your rituals.

It was then that he saw it.

The mat was wet, and not just from rain. It was stained with something thicker than water. His brows furrowed. He crouched down, pressed his fingers against it, and brought them up to the light.

Blood.

A chill knifed down his spine. The pizza box slid forgotten to the floor, and the burner was shoved back into his pocket with numb fingers as he stepped forward. He reached for the door and froze. It was ajar, just enough to be wrong.

Jason’s jaw clenched as he pushed it open, inch by inch, his muscles tense. The air inside was still, but not in the comforting, quiet way. It was stale, coated in something metallic.

The hallway beyond the threshold told him everything he needed to know, and nothing he wanted to. There were smears. Streaks of blood that dragged in uneven trails across the walls and floor like someone had been pulling themselves, struggling to crawl. It didn’t take a detective to know it hadn’t happened more than a few hours ago. It was still wet in places.

“No,” he muttered under his breath.

He followed the trail, dread festering like rot in his gut, stifling in its certainty. The apartment bore the signs of someone trying—and failing—to get to safety. A chair half-toppled in the living room. A phone on the floor with bloodied fingerprints on the cracked screen. The bathroom door half-open, swinging slightly on its hinges.

Inside, Jason’s boots crunched over scattered pill bottles, cotton pads, and disinfectants. The cabinet had been ransacked, the sink stained, and the floor a battlefield of debris. However, it was the bathtub that rooted him in place.

The shower curtain had been torn from its hooks on one side, hanging askew like a shroud, and there at the edge was a hand.

Unmoving, and painted the same devastating hue as his discarded helmet.

“No, no, no—”

Jason surged forward. His fingers trembled as he grabbed the edge of the curtain and yanked it back. His heart stopped.

There you were, curled up like a broken doll. Blood had seeped through your clothes, and pooled beneath you in a slick that had long gone cold. Your face was too pale. Your lips were tinged with blue. You looked like you'd been dying alone.

And he hadn’t been here. He’d left you.

“Shit—” The curse ripped out of him as he dropped to his knees beside the tub. “Shit. No, no, no. Stay with me. Don’t you dare fucking do this.”

His eyes raked over your body in a frenzied scan, finally landing on the crimson bloom beneath your ribs, still seeping sluggishly into the sodden fabric of your shirt.

“I’ve got you,” he rasped, yanking his jacket off and pressing it hard against your side. “Just—fuck—open your damn eyes. Please. I can’t—just stay with me.”

You didn’t flinch. You didn’t cry out. You didn’t even stir.

“C’mon, c’mon,” he pleaded again, trying to keep pressure on the wound while reaching up to cradle your face. His fingers brushed over your cold cheek, the dampness of it jarring. “Shit, you’re freezing.”

Your skin had the waxy hue of someone far too close to death.

“Don’t do this.” His voice cracked around your name. “Don’t you fucking do this to me.”

He ran his thumb across your temple, trying to coax warmth back into your skin. “You’re not allowed to go out like this.”

He wanted to rage, to tear apart every alley in Gotham until he'd found the bastard who’d done this to you and buried him in pieces, but he couldn’t leave you. Not again.

“I shouldn’t have left,” he whispered, forehead pressed against yours. “I was trying to keep you safe, you stupid, stupid—all I did was get you hurt.”

The blood kept leaking through the fabric under his hand. He tried not to look at it. Tried to focus on the flutter of your breath instead, shallow and shaky as it was.

“You stayed up for me. Every night,” he continued hoarsely. “Kept the light on like a goddamn lighthouse. You set out mugs for a ghost, and I—I let you.”

He swallowed hard, jaw tight. “I thought if I stayed away, you’d move on. Forget me. Be safe.”

He brushed back the damp strands of hair plastered to your forehead and nearly flinched at the chill of your skin. “But you didn’t forget. And now look at you.”

Another shallow breath rattled from you. Not enough. Never enough.

Jason let out a bitter laugh. Half relief, half devastation.

“You always patched me up without question. Let me bleed on your couch like it was normal. Told me to stop tracking blood in like it was mud, like I was just some dumb, messy roommate. You made me think I could be something other than this.”

He gripped your jaw gently, coaxing your face toward his, needing even your closed eyes on him. He had seen worse wounds. He’d inflicted worse wounds. But never before had his hands shaken like this, not even when pulling bullets out of his own flesh. Not even when bleeding in the dark with only adrenaline and resentment keeping him alive.

You weren’t moving, and that terrified him more than anything else.

He hadn’t wanted to look. Had clung to the jacket pressed against your side like it might reverse the damage, like he could will the blood to retreat into your body, but the pressure wasn’t enough. He had to see it, to know what he was dealing with.

"Sorry...I’m gonna lift your shirt now. I need to—I need to fix this.”

As if you could hear him. As if that mattered.

Nevertheless, his entire demeanour softened when speaking to you, even now.

Almost reverently, Jason tugged the fabric of your shirt upward. It clung to your skin, soaked through with blood and rain, and he had to tear it gently around the wound to reveal what lay beneath.

It was sickeningly deep. Ragged. A puncture wound, just below your ribs, the edges dark with drying blood, the center still weeping. It hadn’t clotted. It wasn’t going to.

“Shit,” he grunted, clenching his jaw as a fresh wave of helpless fury surged through him. His hands hovered, uncertain. “You weren’t supposed to…”

He wasn’t supposed to let this happen.

His gloves were already off, discarded god knew where when he found you. And now, he reached for the cabinet above your sink, flinging it open and pawing through it until supplies tumbled out. A crude first aid kit: gauze, antiseptic wipes, a needle and thread in a plastic pouch. Nothing close to sterile. Nothing close to what you needed, but it would have to do.

Jason fell to his knees beside the tub again. His fingers were too numb, but he forced them to work. He yanked the antiseptic open with his teeth, nearly choked on the smell, and drenched a clean cloth with it.

“This is gonna hurt,” he uttered another apology as he dabbed around the wound. You didn’t flinch. That silence hit harder than a scream.

He took a deep breath and threaded the needle.

“I’m not good at this,” he told you. “You usually do the patching. I just sit there like a jackass and make fun of your tea.”

A breathless huff escaped him. Not quite a laugh. Not quite a sob.

“But I’m gonna try, okay? You just—you stay with me. Just for a little while longer.”

The first stitch was agony. Not for you, but for him. The needle pushed through skin with resistance, your blood sticking to his fingers. He cursed under his breath, eyes burning as he worked. He tried to be careful, gentle even, but he didn’t have time for grace. He just needed to stop the bleeding.

One stitch. Two. Three. The jagged edges of the opening puckered beneath his efforts, but slowly the worst of it began to close. He wrapped it after, thick layers of gauze and the remains of your shirt to press against it.

Then his hands fell still.

“Okay,” he consoled, brushing hair away from your brow. “Okay. That’s… that’s the worst of it.”

You didn’t stir.

“You’re not dying,” he repeated as if he could manifest it into truth. “I didn’t just fix you up so you could fucking die on me anyway.”

He leaned down and brushed his lips against your forehead, tasting rust.

“I’m not losing you.”

He had come here thinking it would be the beginning of an apology, but now it might as well have been a eulogy.

#jason todd x reader #jason todd headcanon #jason todd #red hood #red hood x reader #dc comics #dc universe #batfamily #jason todd fanfiction #red hood fanfiction #batfam #jason todd imagine

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puffins-muffins · 11 days ago

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Sanctified

Pairing: Jax Teller x F!Reader Word Count: 500 Summary: Jax never thought he could be whole again after Tara left, until you. Warnings: 18+ only please, hurt/comfort, emotional healing, Soft!Jax, slow burn vibes A/N: I'm just really deep in my Jax feels 🥺 tonight so here's this. ✨All feedback (reblogs, comments, likes) is much appreciated and encouraged!!✨ Enjoy babes! 🩷

Jax used to think that there were parts of him that would stay broken forever.

Some nights, he’d sit on the old rooftop outside the clubhouse, a cigarette burning slowly between his fingers, convinced there wasn’t enough left in him to give to anyone.

Not the good parts, at least - and certainly not the soft ones. Tara had taken those with her when she left him, walking away with all the pieces of the man he was trying to be. What she left behind was the outlaw, the fury, and all the wreckage that came with him.

But then you happened. And somehow, without even trying, you began to gather all those broken edges he thought no one would ever want to touch - all the parts he thought were too sharp to hold.

You didn’t come into his life loudly. You didn’t demand his attention or try to fix him with some kind of silly optimism. You just… existed. Showing up on his worst days without asking for more than what he could give - steady, stubborn, forgiving.

And even when, especially when, he gave you nothing - you stayed anyway.

Jax didn’t know what to do with that at first. Didn’t know what to do with the way your laughter threaded through the cracks in him, or how the soft graze of your fingers across his skin made him feel like flesh and blood again, instead of something hollow and irreparable - stitched together by guilt and regret. You only looked at him like maybe it didn’t scare you.

You brought color into a world he’d resigned to being nothing but grey and desolate.

Now he watches you sometimes when you don’t know he’s looking. Watches the way you move through a room, the way you talk with your hands - animated and unapologetic, the way your eyes shine when you’re passionate about something. You’ve got this calm inside you, but it’s not soft, it’s wild in its own right.

And fuck if that didn’t break him wide open.

He swore he’d never fall again, swore the club was the only thing left in his life worth bleeding for.

But then you curled into his bed one night, wrapped in one of his favorite flannels - your cheeks tinted pink and warm to the touch from the whiskey you’d both been sipping. You looked at him like he wasn’t something broken, like he was a man who could be loved, still. And for the first time in years, he believed it.

So yeah. Loving you isn’t something Jax chose, it’s just something he does.

And he’ll never say it out loud, not the full weight of it, not yet, but he thinks that maybe you already know. Because when you reach for him - when you brush over old wounds like they’re nothing to be ashamed of, like he’s still something whole despite it all, he swears it feels like maybe there’s still something in him worth saving.

#jax teller #jax teller x reader #jax teller x you #jax teller fic #jax teller fanfiction #jax teller one shot #jax teller imagine #jax teller x fem!reader #jax teller x female reader #charlie hunnam #charlie hunnam characters #soa

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msnmnt · 15 days ago

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Say Her Name Again

Notes: this is shamelessly inspired by yesterday’s appearance of angry Mason 🫣

Summary: When Mason hears Y/N’s cheating ex disrespecting her at a club, he can’t help his protective instincts from taking over. When she finds out how he stood up for her in a way no one ever has before, old wounds can finally begin to heal…

Y/N had always liked Manchester in the spring. The rain felt softer somehow, and the air carried that crisp, in-between scent of new beginnings. The sun lingered a little longer in the evenings, casting warm light over the buildings, and the city slowly began to feel less grey, less heavy. It felt like a new chapter when she moved here six months ago - alone, fresh out of a brutal breakup and desperate for something that didn’t remind her of him.

Calum.

The name still made her stomach twist, though less now than it used to. He'd cheated, lied and broke her down piece by piece until there wasn’t much left of the confident, light-hearted girl she used to be. But Manchester had given her a new start - and, unexpectedly, a new circle of friends who had become like home.

Lucie had been her first friend here. They met at a PR networking event, bonded over cocktails and bad bosses, and never really looked back. Lucie had introduced her to Rasmus, her boyfriend, and the rest of his footballer friends. That’s how Y/N met Mason.

Golden boy. All charm and sharp jawlines and eyes that had a habit of watching her like he was trying to figure her out. From the beginning, there had been something electric in the way they spoke - banter too flirtatious to be entirely innocent, lingering glances across crowded rooms. But neither of them had crossed the line. Not yet.

Tonight, the rest of the group had gone to a swanky club to celebrate a sponsorship event for Rasmus. Y/N was supposed to go, but she’d been caught late on a last-minute crisis with one of her clients. By the time she got home, she was too drained to change into heels and pretend to laugh at half-heard jokes. She'd sent a quick text to Lucie - Sorry babe, can’t make it. Work’s been hell. Tell Mase to behave xx - and curled up on the sofa with a blanket and her laptop.

She had no idea how much that night would unravel without her there.

The club pulsed with lights and movement, thick with the scent of expensive perfume and overpriced liquor. Mason leaned against the bar, nursing a coke that he wasn’t really drinking. His eyes kept drifting around the room, as if he was waiting for someone - though he knew she wasn’t coming.

Rasmus clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Mate, stop pouting. She’s not ghosting you, she’s just working.”

“I’m not pouting,” Mason muttered, though he clearly was.

“She literally texted Lucie saying ‘tell Mason to behave’,” Rasmus said with a laugh. “That’s flirting.”

Mason didn’t respond, just shook his head with a wry smile, glancing over the crowd again. And that’s when he saw it.

Lucie. Talking to some guy.

But she wasn’t just talking she was going off on him. Her voice was raised, her hands animated, her entire posture taut like a spring ready to snap. Her perfectly manicured nails pointing and gesturing as she spoke.

Mason recognised the guy instantly.

Mason had never met him, but he’d seen pictures. Heard the stories. The damage he’d done to Y/N had rippled through every moment Mason had shared with her since. The way she flinched slightly when someone raised their voice, how guarded she was, even when she laughed. How she never spoke about her past unless she was tipsy and avoiding eye contact.

Mason’s face tightened.

He handed his glass off to Rasmus without a word and cut across the room, zeroing in on the conversation like a storm cloud.

“Everything alright over here?” he asked, voice low, controlled.

Lucie didn’t look away from Calum. “Just catching up with an old friend.” She bit out.

Calum turned, and recognition flickered in his eyes. “Mason Mount,” he said, that smug grin sliding into place like it lived there. “Didn’t realise Lucie was stepping out on her boyfriend with you.”

Lucie’s mouth dropped open. “You’re disgusting.”

Mason didn’t take the bait. He just tilted his head, eyes scanning Calum with quiet contempt. “You’re Calum.” His stupid slicked back hair only confirming it was definitely him.

“And you’re what, Y/N’s new project?”

Mason ran a hand through his hair, slow and deliberate. “No,” he said coolly. “Just a guy who thinks she was way too good for you.”

That smile vanished for a split second. Calum leaned in, smirking again, meaner this time. “If you're trying to bed her, mate, good luck. She's not as easy as she acts. And trust me - once you get past all the emotional baggage? Not worth it.”

Time slowed and Mason’s jaw clenched. He stepped forward in one sharp movement and shoved Calum hard in the chest, sending him stumbling back into the wall. The sound echoed like a drumbeat, lost beneath the bass of the music.

Lucie gasped. “Mason!”

“You need to shut the fuck up,” Mason said, his voice low and dangerous. “You don’t get to talk about her. Not like that, not ever.”

Calum recovered quickly, straightening himself up, eyes gleaming. “Didn’t know she had a little guard dog now.”

Mason shook his head again, laughing under his breath, cocky and seething. “Say one more word. Go on.”

And Calum, arrogant and oblivious, did.

“She’s not worth fighting for, mate. You’ll learn that the hard way.”

Mason didn’t think. He grabbed Calum by the collar and shoved him back again, this time harder. Lucie stepped between them, palm on Mason’s chest.

“Mason, enough!” People had begun to look, and Lucie knew Mason didn't need this getting out there.

His breath came fast, fists clenched, eyes still locked on Calum. Then, slowly, he backed off. “She is worth it,” said simply. “You’ll never understand that. She was too good for you, and you’re scum for the way you talk about her.”

Calum's smugness faltered for a split second before it flicked back into place. “Touched a nerve, did I?”

“If I ever hear you say her name again,” Mason said, stepping in, voice colder now, “you’ll wish all I did was shove you.”

Security started glancing over and Lucie touched Mason’s arm. “Come on.”

Mason’s blood was boiling, knuckles tingling, but he let Lucie pull him back, Calum still laughing as they walked away.

It was just past midnight when the knock came.

Y/N jumped slightly, startled by the sudden sound. She’d been curled up on the sofa, hoodie sleeves pulled over her hands, the soft hum of her kettle the only noise in the quiet flat. Her hair was still damp from her shower, her makeup from the day long wiped away. She hadn’t expected anyone at this hour - least of all Mason.

When she opened the door, her heart lurched.

“Mason?”

He looked tired, flushed from the cold, his jacket slightly damp from the drizzle outside. His hair was a little messy, like he’d been running his hand through it, and his jaw was tense, eyes flicking across her face like he needed to see her to calm down.

“Hi,” he said quietly. “I… I wasn’t sure if I should come.”

Y/N blinked. “Is everything okay?”

He hesitated, then nodded once. “Yeah. Just… Can I come in?”

She stepped aside immediately, still trying to process his sudden appearance. The door clicked shut behind him, and the silence settled thick between them.

Mason glanced around, taking in the soft light of the living room, the blanket draped across the couch, the mug of half-finished tea on the coffee table. “You were up,” he murmured, more to himself than her.

“I don’t sleep well after working late. Need time to unwind and all that.” She replied softly, watching him. “You okay?”

He ran a hand through his hair, letting out a slow breath. He couldn’t make small talk any longer. “I saw him tonight. Calum.”

The name hit like a stone and her stomach dropped.

She didn’t move, didn’t even blink. “Where?”

“At the club. He came over when he saw Lucie. She was going in on him.”

Y/N’s lips parted, but no words came out. She wanted to ask what on earth he was doing up here. With the groups of people he always hung around with, or rather latched himself onto, it shouldn’t have came as that much of a surprise. But the thought of him and Mason coming face to face made Y/N feel sick.

“He said some things…” Mason continued. “About you. About Lucie. Just… really vile shit.”

She closed her eyes for a second, embarrassment blooming hot across her cheeks. “Wh… what did he say?” She asked sheepishly.

“It doesn’t matter.”

Her eyes opened again. “Mason-”

“I didn’t let him get far. I shoved him.”

Her breath caught. “Wait… what?”

“I lost it,” he admitted, voice raw. “He was running his mouth, and I told him to stop. Told him he didn’t deserve to say your name. And when he didn’t - when he started talking about you like you were just some -“ He cut himself off, jaw tightening as he swallowed hard. “I just… snapped.”

Y/N stood frozen in the middle of her living room, one hand resting on the edge of the sofa for balance. Her heart was pounding so loud it echoed in her ears.

She looked up at him, searching his face. “Why would you do that?”

Mason stepped closer until he was right in front of her. “Because I care about you.” He took a breath. “And hearing that prick talk about you like you were disposable made me want to break something.”

“Did he fight back?” she asked, quietly, almost afraid of the answer.

Mason gave a small, bitter laugh. “He didn’t get the chance.”

She exhaled shakily, cheeks flushed with a hundred different emotions - shock, guilt, warmth, something sharp and aching in her chest.

“You didn’t have to do that,” she whispered.

“Yeah,” Mason said, stepping closer. “I did.”

His voice was softer now, like it cracked a little around the edges. He wasn’t angry anymore - he was just.. there. Solid and steady and looking at her like she mattered. Like he meant every word he was about to say.

“I know I probably crossed a line. I don’t usually get like that. But the second he started talking about you like you were nothing… I couldn’t breathe. I couldn't stand it.”

Y/N’s throat was tight. “Why?”

“Because I care about you. Because I like you, Y/N.” He said, with no hesitation this time. “And hearing someone reduce you like that… it made me feel sick. You don’t deserve to be spoken about like that. Especially not after everything he did to you.”

She turned toward him, slowly, and for the first time since he’d arrived, she really looked at him. She saw the faint red on his knuckles, the worry in his eyes. The heat behind it all.

Her eyes burned so she blinked fast, refusing to let tears fall. “You don’t know everything.”

“I know enough,” he said quietly. “I know he broke something in you, and you’ve been pretending it doesn’t still hurt. I see it when you smile, but your eyes stay guarded. I see it when you pull away just when things start to feel real.”

She didn’t respond. Her fingers were trembling where they clutched the hem of her sleeve.

“I’m not him,” Mason added, stepping even closer, until there was only a breath between them. “I would never let anyone speak about you like that. Not while I’m around.”

Y/N’s tummy swarmed with butterflies at his words, his eyes flickering to his - stormy, serious, searching.

“I don’t know what this is,” she said quietly. “Us.”

Mason’s voice was barely above a whisper. “Neither do I. But I know what it isn’t. It’s not casual. It’s not nothing.”

Her breath hitched.

“Let me prove that to you,” he said. “Not just with words. With time. With patience.”

The silence stretched between them, fragile and full.

And then, without fully deciding to, she stepped forward and kissed him.

It was slow, gentle and latest no more than a few moments - but it fully ignited the spark the pair could no longer ignore. Her fingers curled lightly into the front of his hoodie, and his hands hovered at her waist like he didn’t want to push too far. When they pulled apart, her cheeks were flushed and her heart was pounding, but for the first time in a long while, it felt like it was beating for the right reasons.

Mason rested his forehead lightly against hers.

“I mean it,” he murmured. “I’ve got you. Okay?”

She nodded, just once, truly believing the words he was saying. “Okay.”

#mason mount #mason mount x reader #mason mount x you #mason mount fluff #mason mount blurb #mason mount fanfiction #mason mount fanfic #mason mount imagine #mason mount angst

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wibben · 1 month ago

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Rain Check

When the flu forces a rain check on date night, Higuruma brings "date night" to you.

↳ pairing: hiromi higuruma x fem. reader

↳ wc: 7k

↳ notes: wrote this while laid up with the flu. it was meant to be something else, but i felt sniffly and miserable and desperately wanted to be babied (while also rejecting any and all babying offers, as nature intended).

The bedroom smelled like sickness. Not the clinical kind of sharp antiseptic and bitter pharmaceuticals, but damp and fever-thick, cloying with the sour tang of old sweat and the ghost of citrus cough drops sucked down to their waxy centers. The air was heavy with it, humidity clinging to the walls like condensation on a glass, dense enough to smother. It settled in your sheets, in the tangled nest of blankets wrapped around your limbs like a cocoon – Saharan-hot, unpleasant, and inescapable. Your bed was a battlefield, ground zero of your body’s losing battle against the flu.

Tissues, wadded and tragic, lay strewn like the fallen, a half-empty water bottle lolled somewhere out of reach, and an untouched bowl of instant miso soup perched precariously on the nightstand, abandoned after a single, underwhelming sip. Somewhere in the mess, your phone lay buried, intermittently buzzing beneath the detritus of your decline. You felt disgusting. And this did not lend itself well to what was supposed to be date night. You moaned as a sharp spear of pain lanced from temple to temple, skewering your brain. You barely resisted the urge to cry – and only because you were too dehydrated to conjure the necessary tears.

Somehow, that managed to be the worst part. Not the shivering, not the congestion rattling in your lungs, not the way your skin burned one moment and chilled near-hypothermic the next. No, the worst part was that you were missing the one thing you had actually been looking forward to all week. That you had picked out an outfit, planned your hair, agonized over which earrings best captured the effortless I-woke-up-like-this charm you were still desperately trying to convince Hiromi you naturally possessed. Now you were pale and sallow, hair matted with sweat, buried beneath a mountain of blankets and self-pity. You groaned, three-fourths delirious, and fished for your phone, each movement sluggish, leaden, fingers tingling with that strange, disconnected weight of illness. Squinting against the assault of the screen’s brightness which felt more and more like a lobotomy, you fumbled out a text with hands that felt miles away from your body.

‘I’m so sorry. A bit sick and can’t make it tonight. Rain check?’

You pressed send, then immediately regretted it. There was nothing embarrassing about the words, but still, a wave of dread churned in your gut. Maybe because you and Hiromi were still in that early, precarious stage where everything felt light and bright and thrilling. Where dates were a polished, effortful, meticulously curated portrayal of your best self. And now here you were, stripped raw to the ugly, unromantic truth of human frailty. Or maybe it was the feral kernel of deeply ingrained animal instinct that told you to hide your weakness, a wild whim to bury it and yourself deep in your den and lick your wounds until you were well enough to emerge and rejoin the world without risk of being cast out or eaten.

He responded almost instantly.

‘No worries at all! Do you need anything :(?’

You groaned again, this time in frustration. Why did he have to be nice about it? You couldn’t even wallow properly without the sting of guilt, exacerbated by imagining the furrow of concern in his brow, the way his head would tilt just a little when he read your message, the soft exhale through his nose and sympathetic cluck of his tongue before he typed his reply. The only thing worse than being sick was knowing that your sickness was inconvenient, that you’d disappointed the person you’d been pulling out all the stops to impress. You debated how to respond, but exhaustion was already dragging you under, pressing you back into the sheets. You inhaled through your nose – attempted to, anyway. It came out a congested wheeze. The idea of Hiromi seeing you like this was inconceivable. Animal instinct, you figured, better to die alone.

‘Just need some rest!’ you typed back, trying to imbue the words with a breezy, casual tone, as if you weren’t on the precipice of death.

The truth was, you were dying.

Dramatically. Theatrically. This was, undoubtedly, the end. Your body would be discovered days later, shrouded in blankets, an unsent draft of a final will and testament open on your phone, detailing the precise eulogy you deserved.

But Hiromi didn’t need to know that.

Your phone buzzed again.

‘OK. Let me know if you need me.’

You smiled a little, despite yourself, then groaned and rolled back over. The room spun. The fever tugged at you, deep and relentless, and you let it coax you back to merciful unconsciousness.

Hiromi had been looking forward to tonight.

Not in the nice dinner, casual plans sort of way, but in the way a man who has spent too many years thinking of romance as something for other people looks forward to the one thing that has, recently, rewritten his understanding of the concept entirely.

Because your presence in his life was warm. Feather-filled. It had kind eyes and a pretty laugh, hands that had learned him too quickly, adapted to the sharp angles of his face too well – cradling his jaw in playful moments, tapping his chin with an audacity that should have knocked him off balance, but instead left him floating. You had carved out a space for yourself somewhere he never intended to lease out, and it should have been unsettling, it should have made him hesitate, but instead—

Instead, it felt like relief. When was the last time he’d laughed before you? The last time he’d taken a moment to breathe of his own volition and not when his tired lungs screamed at him to do so?

He hadn’t walked into your first date with any expectations. Not because he wasn’t interested – but because he had long since tempered the part of himself that dared to hope for things. He had let himself want before, and he had been let down before. So he told himself he was prepared for a perfectly fine evening. Maybe a few laughs. Maybe a polite conversation. Maybe he’d even go home and think: That was nice. Instead, he left feeling like a man half-starved and only just realizing how long it’d been since he was full.

You were quick-witted, sharp, you built upon his dry humor instead of letting it evaporate in the air between you. He would say something wry and expect the usual polite chuckle, or god forbid that tight-lipped nod of pity he was so accustomed to, but you fired back without hesitation, tossing the joke back into his lap harder, razor-edged, funnier than when he first laid it out. And that was dangerous, because it made him want more. More conversation, more of your thoughts, more of your laughter – not the socially polite and etiquette dictated pressed-lipped one, but the real one, the one that cracked open your ribs and shook your shoulders, the one that made you lean into him like gravity had given up on its usual rules just between the two of you, blessing him with the opportunity to support you until you straightened.

So he asked for a second date. And then a third.

And then he stopped counting, because by then, it was already too late for him. Somewhere between dinner and drinks, between needle-point banter that led to soft, sleepy whispers beneath the cold sheets of his bed, he had started looking forward to you in a way he never meant to. You had become a rhythm in his week, something as natural as breathing, as necessary as sleep, and the part of him that should have been alarmed had long since been sedated by the part of him that just liked you too much to care.

You had him standing in front of his closet for far longer than any reasonable man should, holding up nearly identical dress shirts in varying shades of white – ivory, eggshell, cream – the back and forth had him squinting at the fabric and failing to tell the difference, he started over. Was the left one cream? No, no that was eggshell… only he thought the eggshell shirt was the one in his right hand, not his left— And he never used to check his phone like this. Never used to anticipate – not dread – the buzz in his pocket that heralded social interaction. Never used to hope for one specific name to light up his screen, nor experience the slack-sailed disappointment whenever it was anyone else. But now he did. Now he caught himself thinking about you between consults and arguments, during the brief stretches of quiet in his long, exhausting days.

Because he needed this tonight. It had been a week. Seven days since he’d seen you, which was not many in the grand scheme of the newness of this engagement, but texts and calls and even the occasional facetime could hardly whet the appetite you’d roused in him. Dry exchanges with his colleagues did nothing for him, nor the trace interaction with cashiers or other passersby, because none of them gripped him quite like you.

By midweek, he was exercising every ounce of self-control not to reach for his phone and ask for more – not to betray the fact that one week already felt like five, and he had to physically stop himself from finding excuses to see you sooner. It’s pathetic.

Hiromi thinks he’s a bad boyfriend – is that what he is? He’d never been much good with posture and pretense, he hopes that’s what he is – because he’s pretty sure he’s supposed to be keeping things casual, but he’s also pretty sure he’s in love with you. He doesn’t let himself think about it too long. He won’t dwell on the weight of it in his chest, or how it tastes on his tongue when he rolls it behind his teeth and cracks it under his molars just to keep from spitting it out. He doesn’t know how you’d take it, if you’d pull back the moment you realized he’s already a good few steps ahead of where he probably should be.

Being needy is unattractive. Hounding at your heels for scraps of attention is a turn off, one he wouldn’t fault you for, and so he resists. Even when his work week was awful, the sort of familiar twitching frustration he wore like a second skin that left his shoulders tense and heavy and patience frayed at its translucent edges, he settled for phone calls, even when he’d much rather go home – to a shared home – and collapse into you. Just to hear your voice and tell you about the sheer absurdity of some of the shit that landed on his desk; to let you make him laugh about it, and forget why he was irritated in the first place. Hiromi felt like a boy again.

Except, even as a boy, nobody ever set his heart affluter or made his stomach flip the way you do. The world was evermore tinted the same shade of rose as the tip of his nose whenever your lips brushed his cheek in thanks for things as simple as opening a door, or helping you in and out of a coat. You made him ridiculous. So when your text came through – short, simple and apologetic – he wilted like a sad houseplant. And of course he understood. You weren’t feeling well.

But understanding and acceptance were two different things.

The thought of you sick, curled up somewhere miserable, missing the same night he had been quietly clinging to all week made his stomach twist. You were probably just as disappointed as he was – missing dinner, missing the late-night movie that he would normally never agree to, that you had insisted was better past midnight in a near empty theater. He had even resigned himself to the fact that he would get home at an indecent hour, that he would be wrecked in the morning, and that you were absolutely worth it anyway. So he did the only thing he could do. He stopped at a store. He picked up tea, a box of overpriced honey-lemon lozenges that you’d never buy for yourself because the storebrand was good enough, a pack of chocolate-covered cookies, and a pre-sliced fruit tray because he wasn’t sure what you’d be able to stomach.

And then, for the first time in his entire adult life, Hiromi lingered in the chilly produce aisle. Not out of obligation. Not because of some nagging reminder from his physician that he should really cook something with nutritional value before his dietary habits caught up to him. But because he was irreparably undone by the simple fact that you weren’t feeling well, and he couldn’t stand the thought of you being unhappy and alone.

There was no recovering from this, this terminal affliction of affection. And he didn’t care to fight it, either. He would deny treatment. It might not be the full course experience he hoped to treat you to tonight, but he’d bring a little bit of it home to you.

The evening air spun itself into gold, stretching long and low across the pavement as Hiromi jumped the familiar steps up to your door, a bag slung from one hand, the other tucked into the pocket of his coat to occupy his fidgeting fingers with jingling keys. The sky above was painted in the hazy black bruise that came before twilight, a slow bleed from orange to indigo, the last gasps of sun swallowing the buildings whole and creeping dark from alleyways and side streets. You’d be sitting down for dinner around now, had the evening gone to plan. He’d probably be pulling out your chair at that very moment. It was a far cry from the night he imagined, and yet he still effused a quiet happiness as he approached your door.

Part of him thrilled at the opportunity to see you anyway – to play the part of something good and steady, and bring you warmth wrapped in plastic packaging and a sloping, dimpled smile. There was something deeply satisfying in the thought of you bundled in blankets, just a little worse for wear and flush with a cold, blinking up at him surprised but pleased and letting him fuss over you like a mother hen. He could prove himself as a provider, a caretaker, a man worth keeping around. All things he never cared to be before, but you made him want.

He knocked on your door, and rocked back and forth on his heels, waiting with a smile already twitching at the corners of his lips that he was trying his best to keep a lid on. He could picture your surprise already, maybe you’d be relieved, maybe you’d even be feeling better and well enough to go out after all. No answer.

The smile on his face was stubborn, but the sediment settled into an expression more subdued when he adjusted the bag onto his hip and knocked again. The only response was the wall-muffled barking of a neighboring dog roused by his presence, but neither of which seemed to draw you out. It does occur to him that you may be asleep – taken something that knocked you out good and proper. But in the chance that he might catch you, he persists. His phone was in his palm before he had time to think, thumb tapping out a quick message. ‘I’m outside, don’t mean to bother you. Let me know if you’re awake.’

A minute passed. Then another. Then he noticed a neighbor across the street peek through her blinds, making direct and awkward eye-contact with him. He hesitated a moment before raising his phone in an awkward, stilted wave. Seeming reassured that your caller was not in fact a burglar, the old woman snapped her blinds closed. His breath curled in the cooling air, ribboning up, up, up into the quiet awning of your darkening porch. His eager fidgeting now served the dual purpose of keeping him warm when he tried calling.

He dialed, head cocked and phone pressed tight to his ear like he might hear you through the static and shrill rings, and finally hung up on the final tone before it would click over to voicemail. Hiromi sighed, pocketing his phone and rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. Did he look crazy? Was this too much? You were just a little sick, you’d said so yourself. He didn’t need to do all of this, and in the face of rejection by silence – however inadvertent – insecurity crept its insidious fingers into his brain. He was absolutely doing too much.

He would just leave the bag at your door and text you that it was there. That would be normal – a simple care package, and probably better received than his unexpected and uninvited visit, now that he finally thought about it a moment longer, many moments too late. With hands a little numb from the cold, and certainly not at all from disappointment, he stepped to wrap the paper handles around your doorknob, affixing it where you wouldn’t even have to stoop over when you finally came to retrieve it—

Only your door knob turned with no resistance, nudged open with the slightest pressure of his palm and the weight of the bag. You were always good about locking your door.

He’d born witness to your many small rituals, always double checking that your stove was off, all unattended candles blown out and snuffed, and he’d watched – more times than he could count – you twisting your door knob once, twice, thrice, testing for any give before stepping away and into him with a pleased smile and chirpy “all set!” A practiced precaution that he always found himself quietly, irrationally proud of. Worry sank razor-sharp claws deep into his marrow, tugging at his bones and drawing him through the doorway.

“Hey—” he called, stepping inside and closing the door softly behind him. The lock slid into place with a dull snick for good measure. “It’s just me! Your door was open!” The apartment was dark with lights untouched. No TV murmuring from the other room, no warmth of any sort of activity. Still, save for the spiraling dust motes that hovered and sunk, floating without purpose with not the slightest ripple of movement to disturb them in the slanting orange beams that sliced through your blinds.

Your shoes were by the door, your coat draped over the back of a chair, a single slipper kicked off in the hallway – its twin wedged haphazardly beneath a bookcase, as if you’d stopped halfway to retrieve it and never did. Little traces of you, proof of your presence, but no you.

Hiromi flicked on the lights, illuminating your kitchen in all of its unoccupied, untouched glory. He set the bag down carefully on the counter, mindful of its contents and the rustling of its paper in the silence, listening, sweeping the space with a wary frown.

His voice was softer when he called your name again, cautious and questioning in the dead, unanswering air.

No answer or movement, no startled shuffle to investigate the unexpected visitor in your home. Just the blanketing stillness of empty space and the staticky ringing of tinnitus in his ears that strained to hear anything at all.

Hiromi checked the bathroom – it was logical. Maybe you’d gotten up for water, or medicine, maybe you’d fallen asleep with your cheek squished against the cold porcelain of the tub the way he sometimes did after a rough night. Empty. The couch – vacant, a blanket slipping off the edge to pool on the floor, a shallow dent in the cushions where a body had been, once. He rubbed at the tension between his brows, willed them to unknit. Your bedroom was next.

The air was thick there, heavy with the sticky scent of sleep and sickness. The curtains were drawn, the room wrapped in a murky personal twilight a few steps ahead of that outside, and for a moment, he almost didn’t see you at all. Then, in the dark, a raspy gurgle of pinched nostrils struggling for breath and the roaring snore of a sore throat forced to breathe from a gaping mouth. Your hair splayed against the pillow, a just barely visible nest over the duvet pulled up high to your ears, as if you sought to sweat the fever from your bones with stubbornness and layers alone.

Relief softened the chokehold on his lungs, and he felt a smidge guilty for how easy it was to breathe when it was so obvious how you struggled. You were here. Safe. His worry had not been unfounded, but at least it had not been warranted. He took one step closer— Even at that distance, he could feel the heat pour from you like an open convection oven.

Hiromi knelt beside the bed, reaching out to graze your forehead with the backs of his fingers. Heat met him like an open palm laid upon an active cooktop. His jaw ticked and his lips pursed to silence the sigh that gathered in his mouth. This was just a little sick to you? This was something to recover from with just a little rest? He could feel the sweat dampening your hairline, curling the strands of fine baby hairs to your temple. He retracted his hand long enough to scrub his palm over his mouth to loosen the tense bunching of his lips and sighed into his palm.

“Ridiculous woman,” he murmured, softer than the press of his palm against your clammy and fever-flushed skin. He’d known you were proud. Stubborn, too. But not like this – not to a fault and to your own detriment. Not when you had people – had him – all too willing to drop everything and care for you. But he didn’t move away. Didn’t stop the slow sweep of his hand as it continued past your cheek and forehead, over your hair to brush it back and away from your face, gently manipulating the sticky flyaways off of your skin. His touch lingered, long enough to settle his own worry as he stood back up to regard you.

You were here, and now he was too. And, he hoped, that was significantly better off than how you started – he could work with that.

The bed swayed beneath you, a slow, nauseating lurch, like a ship lost in stormy seas. The fever had drawn you into its undertow, dragging you down into a strange, liminal space where time stretched and folded then folded again, where reality slipped through your fingers like fine seabed silt. You dreamed in fever heat, in the suffocating weight of tangled blankets, in the ghosts of voices at the vestige of your consciousness. Then – real noise.

A muffled clatter, a distant sound spit with the venom which could only have been a curse. A shifting presence wandered beyond the walls of your delirium. You drifted, mind syrup-thick with cotton and fog, before another sound – the metallic scrape of something, the thump and ceramic click of things lifted and placed on tile. For a long moment you simply lay there, waiting for the dread to settle heavy as stones in your gut, for fear to bloom in your phlegm-y lungs. But all you felt was exhaustion seeping deep into your bones, rooting you to the mattress like creeping ivy curling to a brick wall. You peeled open your eyes. The room was dark, muddled with shapes shifting as your vision adjusted, but nothing seemed amiss.

If someone had broken in, you could only hope they’d be merciful. Perhaps they’d take pity on you, a tragic creature lost to disease, and put you out of your misery before they ransacked the place. It took a few tries to drag yourself up, the room tilting precariously as you swung your legs over the side of the bed, your feet kicking for slippers you couldn’t find. Your limbs felt detached, boneless, your joints grinding and stuck like rusted machinery as you shuffled forward, blanket still clutched around your shoulders like a burial shroud.

A scent reached you – warm and vaguely edible, tasted more on your exposed mouth-breathing tongue than in your clogged nose. You didn’t remember ordering food. You didn’t remember much at all. A burglar, then. A very considerate burglar, stopping to make you a meal before robbing you blind. You hoped, at the very least, they’d be efficient about it. Leave you to your final meal before taking you out. End your suffering.

The hallway swam in and out of focus as you shuffled down it, one hand bracing the wall as the other clutched at your blanket, pulling it tight around your shoulders like armor, your vision haloed with the sickly glow of streetlights cutting through the blinds. And when you turned the corner, there he was.

Hiromi stood in your kitchen, sleeves pushed up, an old shirt loose on his frame, stirring something over the stove like this was the most natural thing in the world. Like he belonged there. Like he’d always been there. Your breath hitched, horror settling in sluggish as you took him in – the softness of his posture, hip cocked against the counter, the domestic ease with which he handled the wooden spoon, the way the light from the range hood cast a warm yellow glow over his face.

And then you remembered yourself. The sweat-damp face, your nest of unruly hair plastered and flattened every which way, and – your fingers trembled and shook as you swatted at your face – a tissue fluttered down to your bare feet from where it was glued with drool. You wrapped your blanket tighter in a tragic facsimile of dignity. You were a creature dredged up from the depths, a relic of sickness and suffering, a ghoul appeared to haunt the man who’d only ever seen you at your best.

You swayed, your hand slapping for the doorway to hold yourself upright for support, your fever-pickled brain conjuring a single, resounding thought: You were going to have to kill him. Or yourself. Probably both. Hiromi turned at the sound of your clammy fingers against the lacquered wood, bright-eyed and easy-smiled, as if he weren’t standing in the absolute wreckage of you.

“There you are,” he said, as if you had simply been misplaced, like he hadn’t already found you burrowed in your bed hours ago, burning up and tangled in your own sheets and misery. He held up a bowl, cradled carefully in both hands, as though presenting you with something delicate and precious. “I made soup,” he announced proudly. And then, as though remembering the reality of what he’d actually made, he sighed, tilting the bowl to inspect its own dubious contents. “Well, I attempted soup. Chicken, allegedly.” You blinked, slow, molasses-brained.

Hiromi, in your kitchen. Hiromi, in his sweatpants and rolled up sleeves, barefoot in the soft glow of the stove light, holding a bowl of— You squinted.

The soup was a color that nature never intended. A concerning beige-grey hue that no poultry-based dish had any right to be. If there were vegetables in there, they had long since disintegrated into anonymity.

He must've seen the suspicion on your face because his smile turned apologetically lopsided, crooked as the shredded piece of what could’ve been chicken floating near the spoon. “I’m banking on your taste buds being so dead you won’t even notice if it’s awful, to be frank with you,” he admitted, wry but earnest, shifting his grip on the bowl to offer it out to you. It might have been funny if you had the capacity for humor. If your mind wasn’t still trying to claw its way through the mud of mortification and illness, if the sight of him standing there so casually, so unbothered by the absolute state of you, wasn’t making your chest feel unbearably tight.

He took a step closer, and instinctively you shrank back. “How are you here?” you rasped, raw and nasal. Hiromi had the sense to pause in his approach, looking for all the world guilty and contrite. “I wanted to bring you a few things and check in. Your door was unlocked, so I was worried.”

Processing was a monumental effort, slow-moving glaciers melted in the cauldron of your skull. You frowned. “Oh…” you mumbled. “I didn’t realize…” That you’d left the door open. That you had been so out of it, so careless, that he had been able to walk right in without resistance. That you had been vulnerable enough for it. That you were lucky it was just Hiromi. And worse – that he had seen you like this.

You weren’t supposed to let anyone see you like this. Not ever. Not before month six at the very least. Not before you could safely unveil the inevitable truth that you were not always put together, not always effortless, not always charming and composed. That sometimes you were pitiful and weak and driven to your knees with sickness. But here Hiromi was, watching you watch him like a wary animal, looking at you like— Like nothing. Like he hadn’t even noticed. Like you weren’t standing there with your hair a ratty mess, your skin damp and wan, your nose and cheeks red and drippy. Like you were just you, still you, always you.

Something thick lodged itself in your throat. Because this was uncharted. Unfamiliar. You didn’t let people take care of you. You had spent years, an entire lifetime, making sure of it. You prided yourself on it, in fact. You could be independent, self-sufficient, sturdy on your own two feet. You didn’t need this. You had half a mind to bristle, every remaining instinct that hadn’t been boiled to a crisp whined for you to do so. To snap and snarl, to tell him to get the hell out of your house, because you hadn’t invited him.

Except.

Here was a man who had let himself into your home – because your door was unlocked, because he was worried, because he cared – and he had made you soup. Bad soup, terrible soup, soup that might send you to a hospital even if your illness doesn’t, but he had made it for you. That first, awful tug of emotion clawed its way up your throat like a hell beast, thick and swollen, a molten and uncontainable chrysalis spawning inside your ribcage. You swallowed it down, stubborn – but it surged again, hotter and heavier until it filled the hollow of your chest cavity with pressure unbearable, pressing against your lungs, curling around your heart like a fist.

You weren’t someone who cried easily. Not in front of people where it could be seen and turned over in someone else’s hands and inspected like a foreign object. Your face crumpled. “Oh, shit,” Hiromi blurted, panicked.

Your breath hitched, a fractured, watery sound, and before you could steel yourself, the dam cracked. The first sob broke loose in a shuddering quake, splintering through your fragile frame like a fault line giving way, the house of cards of your body collapsing inward.

Hiromi fumbled for somewhere to set the soup down, his head jerking side to side, searching, his movements sharp and uncoordinated in his frantic attempt to find a flat surface. He spun in place before practically hurling the bowl onto your now cluttered countertop.

The moment his hands were free, they were on you. He pulled you in without hesitation, firm but careful, gathering you against him like something breakable. One hand smoothed over the trembling line of your spine, the other curled over the back of your head, tucking you into the dark warmth of his neck.

You tried to hold yourself together. To choke it back and swallow it down, to wriggle out of the arms that were stronger than you even on your best day. But he was warm, and quiet, and steady, the steadfast certainty of his presence— The weight of it all dragged you down, your fingers fisting weakly into the dampening fabric of his collar, your body wracked with those awful, stuttering sniffles that made your breath catch, and your chest feel like it was caving in under something heavier than nausea. It wasn’t dignified, it wasn’t graceful, but he stayed, held you tighter, wrapped himself around you like it didn’t matter.

It wasn’t just the sickness. Not just the fever or exhaustion or embarrassment. It was him. The patient care. The fact that he was here, unasked, unprompted, cradling you in the warm wreath of his arms in the middle of your kitchen like it was the most natural thing in the world. The fact that for once – for the first time – you hadn’t had to ask for help. You hadn’t had to prove that you needed it. And you didn’t know what to do with that.

His chin dipped, the slope of his nose brushing through your hair, like the mess of you didn’t faze him at all – he welcomed it, in fact. His breath was warm against your ear as he murmured something soft and low, something you couldn’t quite catch over the humiliating crack of your own nasally weeping. “Brutal review,” he sighed. “Tears before you’ve even tried it, sweetheart?”

You sniffled, hiccuped, curled further into his chest. Your voice was watery but you managed to choke: “You weren’t supposed to see me like this.” Hiromi scoffed, the sound warm with exasperation, like what you’d said was patently absurd.

“Like what?” His palm smoothed over the tangled wreckage of your hair, fingers threading through the knots, careful in their slow combing – not because it bothered him, but because it clearly bothered you. “Sick? Human?” He was deliberate in the way he nuzzled into your ear and skated his nose over your temple, like he had every intention of reassuring you through sheer stubborn affection alone.

“You’re beautiful, even now,” he said simply. “Actually—” a hum, low and thoughtful, but still coy “—maybe even more now. You might be a little less intimidating like this.” You let out an affronted, congested scoff. “Intimidating?” “Mmh,” he confirmed. He tipped his head back as if in contemplation. “A little.”

“How?” You pulled back just enough to peer up at him, bleary-eyed, tear-streaked, your lips trembling around the words. Hiromi really doesn’t think he’d ever seen anything more beautiful than you, with your lashes weighed down with crystals and your face splotchy and wet. Hiromi smiled. That slow, lazy curve of his mouth, dark eyes crinkling at the corners as if to say, once again: There you are. And then – without ceremony or hesitation – bluntly he said, “You’re obviously out of my league.”

A laugh punched out of you, wet and miserable, but startled into sincerity. “Nuh uh,” you objected. “Am I?” He nodded solemnly, unshaken. “Devastatingly so.” It was ridiculous. He was ridiculous. And yet, somehow, impossibly, you could feel the tight ache in your chest start to ease. You swiped at your face with the wet sleeve of your sweater, groggy and sniffling, weakly you pawed at Hiromi trying to push him back toward the door. “You should go. I don’t want you to catch this.”

Hiromi clicked his tongue, unimpressed.

Before you could blink or protest, his hands framed your face, long enough to cradle you in your entirety. His thumbs smoothed over the heat of your fever-warmed cheeks, swiping away the tear tracks there, and leaned in to press a kiss to your forehead – warm, solid, and deliberately sloppy, he was making a point. “You see,” he whispered gravely, lips still resting against your skin to where you could feel his smile rather than see it, “I’m afraid I’ve already been exposed.” He drew back just enough to look at you, still cupping your face like you might bolt – or shamble – off if he let go. He was smiling that easy, lopsided smile that made your stomach flip, even now and even like this.

“If I catch it, I catch it,” he said it like it was nothing. His thumbs traced one last, final arc beneath your eyes. “Worth it. I can think of worse things than being stuck in bed with you.” And really, what was there left to say to that

You exhaled, unsteady, too exhausted to argue, too wrung out to push him away. Your body had given up fighting long ago, and now, so had you. You let your forehead tip forward until it rested against his collarbone, the steady rise and fall of his breathing a quiet reassurance, the warmth of his hands still cupping your jaw an anchor against the dizzying swirl of sickness and sentiment lodged deep in your chest.

Time unraveled after that, stretching and looping in lazy, meandering circles, dissolving at the edges. Minutes, hours, yesterday, tomorrow – you weren’t sure where one ended and the next began or that it mattered, only that Hiromi was there through all of it. He insisted you try the soup. You did. It was terrible. You grimaced, he laughed – head tipping back, eyes crinkling at the corners, full-bodied delight at his own failure – and still he looked unreasonably pleased with himself for having tried.

Later, when your stomach rebelled, he was there, crouched behind you on the hard bathroom tile, one hand firm between your shoulder blades, the other gathering your hand in gentle sweeps away from your pallid face. He murmured comfortingly into the back of your neck, and pressed a kiss to your temple once the worst had passed.

You barely remembered being guided to the sink, or the cool drag of a washcloth over your face, or the sting of mint in your mouth as he coaxed you through brushing your teeth – only that, by the end of it all, you felt cleaner. And then – finally – you were cleared for couch recovery. You melted against Hiromi, bundled in a nest of blankets, your cheek pressed to the warmth of his chest, slack-jawed and droopy-eyed. And oddly enough, you no longer cared. At this point, he’d seen much worse.

The movie on the screen flickered dimly, sound low, more backdrop than entertainment. Hiromi hadn’t moved except to shift you against him, tucking you tighter into his side. His arm was a steady weight along your shoulders, his fingers tracing absent-minded patterns where they rested against your upper arm. Your head lolled slightly as you peered up at him, bleary-eyed and sluggish, still tucked into the warmth of his chest. “You should go,” you croaked. “I’m wretched.”

Hiromi exhaled through his nose and gave your shoulder a firm, pointed squeeze. “Nope. We’ll be doing none of that.”

His palm skimmed up, tucking a stray curl behind your ear with the same ease he did everything – with the same quiet, unwavering patience he’d shown all night… and well before tonight when you truly thought about it. That empathy had always been there. “I like you. Messy hair, soup critic, flu monster—you.”

A sound bubbled up from your chest, too weak to be called a proper laugh but a close approximation of one. “Flu monster?”

“You should hear yourself,” he teased, gaze soft but amused. “It’s like a death rattle.”

You groaned, burying yourself deeper into the folds of the blanket. But it was hard to stay embarrassed when his arm curled around you again, when he squeezed the heat of you into his side like he would simply graft your hip to his if afforded the choice.

His voice rumbled somewhere above your head. “I’m staying, by the way.”

You slumped, your body had long since given up on full coordination and was far too weak to wage the war you wanted. “Hiromi—”

“Not up for debate,” he said simply, adjusting the blankets around you both to stake his claim – wordlessly declaring: deal with it. “I’ll take the couch. Or the floor. Or the kitchen, if you really want me to suffer. But I’m not leaving.”

You stared at him, groggy, and rheumy-eyed. “Why?”

He huffed, tilting his head back against the couch, eyes slipping shut as though already digging in for the night. “In case you need something, obviously.

Your heart stumbled in your chest, stuttering somewhere between protest and a much softer place. You hadn’t asked him to stay. You hadn’t even thought to. But there was no hesitation in his voice, no question of whether he should – only that he would

Hiromi was a steady presence in your life, in ways you hadn’t noticed until now. His name lit up your phone screen with casual check-ins even when you knew he was too busy for such frivolousness, he lingered at your door a minute extra after dropping you off, making sure to see you inside, and now – now he was here, willing to trade his bed for your couch just because he thought you might need him.

You thought about telling him no. You thought about insisting.

You didn’t… and why would you, when you wanted him to stay, too?

You made a soft sound of agreement, already half-asleep and slipping into the quiet pull of exhaustion – but it was much brighter than before. You thought, dizzily, that you might love him. It was too soon to say it, of course… if seeing you like this hadn’t scared him off, then surely a premature confession would. Maybe one day you’d tell him. Month six, maybe, you quietly plotted.

For now you let that warm bloom soothe you, green roots chasing away the sickly dark planted in your body. Your eyes slipped shut, and your fingers curled into the fabric of his sleeve enough to hold on. Hiromi hummed, wordlessly pleased with your agreement, before his hand fished for yours beneath the blanket. He laced his fingers through yours and gave them a firm squeeze. “Next time,” he murmured, “we’ll do it the regular way. Perfect date and all.” You grunted in response, the last dredges of consciousness slipping from you to the soft orchestral repetition of the movies credits. “But for now,” he continued, dropping his cheek to the crown of your head, “this isn’t so bad, hm?” Your fingers twitched in his hand, barely an acknowledgment. No, you thought. Not bad at all.

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theosang3ls · 2 months ago

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A second chance

part 1 ; part 2

pairing: Theodore Nott x Muggleborn!Reader

summary: after Theo entered your dorm in a drunken state his words left you thinking that maybe he did in fact love you.

warnings: mentions of weed, crying, mentions of alcohol, mentions of cigarettes, heartbreaking angst, swearing.

All characters are over the age of 18!

author’s note: excuse any grammatical errors English isn’t my first language! Part two is here yay! Hope you’ll enjoy reading this!

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“I will always love you.”

The words echoed mercilessly in your mind, drowning out everything else as if, somehow, they could make sense of this madness. But they couldn’t. Nothing could.

Your thoughts waged war against each other—I don’t love you anymore, one side screamed, desperate to drown out the agony. I will always love you, the other whispered, softer but just as deadly. And the worst thing was the fact that you couldn’t tell which one hurt more.

That night, when he spoke those words, he didn’t just pour salt into the raw, gaping wound he had carved into you—he drove the blade even deeper. He made a mockery of your pain, as if your heart was his to break over and over again. And yet, despite it all, you still couldn’t stop thinking about him. Two weeks now the events of that night in your dorm invaded your every thought, it made you sick to your stomach how they repeated over and over again in a taunting matter.

You hadn’t noticed the pain in his eyes that night, too consumed by your own suffering to see it. But as the days passed and you found yourself reliving that moment against your will, you realized—he was hurting, too. And somehow, that made it all even worse.

“This is a bad idea,” your best friend warned, her voice laced with concern. “After everything he did to you? You actually want to talk to him?” Her brows furrowed as she struggled to understand why you would willingly put yourself through this again. “You shouldn’t even want to look at him, let alone give him the chance to explain himself!” Her voice rose slightly, frustration seeping through. It wasn’t just about Theo—she hated seeing you like this, stuck in a cycle of heartbreak you didn’t deserve. She had never liked him, not as your boyfriend. You were worth so much more than the pain he left you with.

“Maybe talking to him will be better than this mess,” you murmured, shaking your head. Doubt clouded your mind, but something deep inside whispered that this was necessary. Maybe it was that foolish, desperate part of you—the part that still clung to the idea that he had loved you, and maybe, just maybe, he still did.

So that was it. Tonight, at the Slytherin common room party, you would finally face him. It had been over a month since you had even tried to put yourself together, to look in the mirror and see something other than the hollow version of yourself he had left behind. But tonight, you made an effort. The makeup, the outfit—it was armor, a fragile illusion of confidence hiding the storm of insecurity raging beneath.

Stepping into the Slytherin common room, the air was thick with laughter, music, and the suffocating press of bodies. It was overwhelming, the sheer number of people blurring together into a faceless crowd. You barely registered the party itself—none of it mattered. All you cared about was finding him. Your heart pounded as your eyes searched frantically, but he was nowhere in sight. Still, you refused to give up. You needed to hear his voice, to look him in the eyes and finally understand what he meant when he said, I will always love you.

You were able to spot Mattheo standing by the fireplace, his usual air of indifference masked beneath the dim glow of flickering flames. He stood there, one hand wrapped loosely around a plastic cup brimming with some cheap liquor, the other idly holding a cigarette between his fingers. He wasn’t alone—his laughter mixed with Enzo’s, their conversation light, effortless.

Determined, you pushed your way through the throng of bodies, each step fueled by a resolve you weren’t entirely sure you possessed. “Mattheo,” you called out, voice raised above the heavy bass thumping through the speakers. His head snapped in your direction, surprise flashing across his face before his usual composed expression returned. He tilted his head, his tongue briefly pressing against the inside of his cheek. “To what do I owe the honor?” he mused, amusement dancing in his eyes.

“I need to talk to Theo,” you said, hoping your voice sounded steadier than you felt.

For a fraction of a second, something flickered across Mattheo’s features—something guarded, hesitant. Of course, he knew. Theo had told him everything. How he had shattered you, how he had drunkenly confessed his love only to leave you stranded in the wreckage of his words. And now, here you were, searching for the same boy who had left you drowning in unanswered questions.

Still, Mattheo smirked, covering whatever concern he might have had. He nodded toward the makeshift bar across the room, where bottles lined the table like forgotten promises. “He’s over there.”

You managed a tight smile before slipping past him, weaving through the crowd with your heart hammering against your ribs. Every step forward felt heavier, weighed down by the chaos in your mind. What if he doesn’t want to see me? What if I regret this?

Then, you saw him.

And your world cracked open.

Theo stood with his hands resting on a girl’s waist, his body pressed against hers as if she belonged to him. And then—before you could even take another breath—his lips met hers.

A kiss. But not just any kiss. A kiss full of hunger, of need, of something devastatingly raw. The kind of kiss he never gave you.

Your entire body went cold.

The air in your lungs disappeared, leaving you hollow, weightless, like the moment before a freefall. You blinked once, twice, but the image remained, burned into your vision, branding itself into your chest. The logical part of you screamed—You’re not together anymore. He owes you nothing. But logic had no place in heartbreak. Because the truth was, no matter how many times you told yourself otherwise, you still loved him. And now, standing there, watching him give away what you had once thought was yours, it felt as if he was taking whatever was left of you and grinding it beneath his heel.

Tears blurred your vision, but you couldn’t look away. You wanted to, needed to, but your body refused to move, frozen in place as if forcing you to witness the final, cruel confirmation that there was no going back.

You were nothing to him now.

Without another thought, you turned and pushed through the crowd, desperate to get out, to breathe, to escape the unbearable sight of him loving someone else.

Mattheo had been watching. From the moment you walked away from him, something in his gut twisted with unease. He knew you and most importantly he knew Theo, he knew the weight of what had happened between the two of you, and he didn’t trust for a second that this conversation would end well. His eyes followed you as you disappeared through the door, and he let out a slow, sharp breath, his jaw tightening.

Then, finally, he spotted Theo.

He wasn’t just standing by the bar—he was pressed up against some girl, his hands gripping her waist like she was the only thing keeping him upright. But what made Mattheo’s blood run cold wasn’t the sight of Theo kissing someone else. No, it was how he was kissing her—desperate, reckless, like he was trying to drown himself in the taste of her.

What the fuck?

Just last week, Theo had been a wreck. He had sat in Mattheo’s room, head in his hands, voice thick with regret as he confessed how badly he had fucked things up with you. He had been sobbing, barely coherent between the hollow sound of his own heartbreak. And yet here he was now, lost in someone else’s lips like none of it had ever mattered.

Mattheo didn’t hesitate. His body moved before his mind could catch up, crossing the room in a few long strides before yanking Theo away from the girl with a force that nearly sent him stumbling.

“What the hell?” the girl shrieked, her voice laced with irritation at the sudden loss of contact, but Mattheo didn’t even spare her a glance.

Theo staggered back, dazed, eyes blinking rapidly as he tried to process what had just happened. “What the fuck, man?” he snapped, his voice defensive, laced with the kind of anger that only came from being caught doing something he wasn’t supposed to.

Mattheo’s gaze narrowed, scanning his best friend’s face. Theo’s pupils were blown wide, his expression sluggish, his movements slightly delayed. His bloodshot eyes were a dead giveaway, practically glowing under the dim lights of the party.

“Dude,” Mattheo’s voice was sharp, cutting through the music. “Are you high?”

Theo wiped at his lips, smearing the remnants of lipstick across the back of his hand before flashing a lazy grin. “Yeah,” he admitted shamelessly. “What? You mad I didn’t tell you to join me?”

The arrogance in his voice made Mattheo’s irritation flare into something dangerously close to anger. He exhaled sharply, shaking his head, struggling to keep himself from grabbing Theo again—this time, to shake some fucking sense into him.

“You officially fucked up, man,” he said, his voice low, edged with disappointment.

Theo scoffed, rolling his eyes. “Oh, please, spare me the lecture—”

“She came to talk to you.”

The words cut through the haze in Theo’s mind like a knife.

Mattheo watched as his best friend’s entire body went still. Theo’s breath caught in his throat, his eyes searching Mattheo’s face, hoping—praying—that he had misheard.

“She what?”

“She came here looking for you,” Mattheo repeated, his voice quieter now, watching the way realization crashed over Theo like a violent wave. “But you were too busy making out with—” he gestured toward the girl, who had distanced herself from the both of you. “Whatever that was.”

Theo’s chest tightened, his stomach twisting so hard he thought he might be sick.

No.

No, no, no.

Mattheo had to be fucking with him. This had to be a joke. There was no way—no way—you had come back, had come looking for him. “Tell me you’re lying,” Theo whispered, shaking his head. His voice was raw, cracking under the weight of the possibility. “Mattheo, tell me you’re fucking joking.” Mattheo only stared at him, lips pressing into a tight line.

No.

Theo felt his chest cave in.

This wasn’t happening. This wasn’t real. He had already ruined things with you once—he couldn’t have just done it again, couldn’t have shattered even the smallest chance that you might have forgiven him.

His hands went to his hair, fingers threading through the messy strands as he let out a string of frantic curses, his breath coming out in short, uneven gasps. His high was still there, but it was quickly fading—burning away in the face of something stronger.

Panic, regret, grief clawing its way up his throat like he was choking on it.

“Where is she?” he asked, his voice desperate, his head snapping up as his eyes darted wildly around the room, searching for you, needing to see you, to fix this.

“She left,” Mattheo said simply.

And before Mattheo could say anything else, before Theo could think or breathe or do anything but let the horror sink its teeth into him, he was moving—bolting toward the door, shoving past bodies, bursting out of the party and into the night.

Praying he wasn’t too late.

Only a few steps into the dungeons, Theo found you—curled up on the cold stone steps leading to the Great Hall, your arms wrapped tightly around your knees as if holding yourself together was the only thing keeping you from breaking apart completely. The dim torchlight cast long shadows across your face, but it couldn’t hide the devastation written in your features. Your mind was a hurricane of thoughts, each one more unbearable than the last.

You had been right all along.

He never loved you.

The realization was a knife to the gut, twisting deeper with every painful second that passed. It made your stomach churn, your chest constrict so tightly you could barely breathe. You wanted to scream, to sob until your throat was raw, to punch something—preferably Theo himself—until he felt even a fraction of the pain he had inflicted upon you. But instead, you sat there, staring at the ground, your hands shaking as you tried to gather the shattered pieces of yourself that he had left behind.

Theo approached carefully, his steps slow, hesitant. As soon as you noticed his presence, you shot up to your feet, a wave of anger and heartbreak crashing over you all at once.

“No.” The word was sharp, final.

He stilled, his expression unreadable, but his eyes—those damn eyes—betrayed him. They held desperation, longing, the same raw emotion he had when he drunkenly declared his love for you in your dorm. But you couldn’t let that affect you now. Not after what you saw. Not after what he did. “I’m not doing this again,” you choked out, your voice trembling under the weight of everything you refused to feel. The second the image of him kissing that girl resurfaced in your mind, fresh tears burned in your eyes.

“Please, let me explain,” Theo pleaded, stepping forward, but you recoiled, shaking your head violently.

“Why, Theo?” The question fell from your lips before you could stop it, the pain laced in your voice cutting through the silence like a blade. Theo didn’t answer, his jaw clenching, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed thickly. “You get some kind of sick satisfaction from doing this to me?” Your voice cracked, the accusation hitting him like a physical blow. His entire body tensed, as if you had knocked the air right out of his lungs.

“Don’t say that,” he whispered, his brows pulling together, regret etched into every line of his face. “Why not? It’s true, isn’t it?” You let out a bitter, humorless laugh, though nothing about this was remotely funny. “You like seeing me like this. You enjoy watching me suffer.” Your voice rose with every word until you were practically screaming, all the anger, frustration, and heartbreak spilling out in raw, unfiltered waves. Theo took another step toward you, but you stepped back, your breathing ragged.

“Let me talk, please,” he begged. “Oh, I think you’ve done more than enough talking already.” Your lips curled into a twisted mockery of a smile before it faltered, your body betraying you as the first tear slipped down your cheek, mascara smearing along with it.

“What do you want from me?” Your voice wavered, the walls you had tried so hard to build around yourself crumbling as sobs threatened to spill free. “Haven’t you done enough already?” And then, before you could stop him, Theo closed the distance between you and wrapped his arms around you.

You froze.

For a moment, the warmth of him, the familiarity, was enough to make you forget. But then the anger came roaring back, consuming every other emotion, and you started beating your fists against his chest, your sobs finally breaking free.

“I hate you,” you screamed, your voice raw and desperate, your glossy eyes meeting his in utter devastation. His arms only tightened around you, steady, unwavering, as if he was trying to hold you together when he was the one who broke you in the first place. “I know,” he murmured against your hair, his voice thick, strained, barely holding back his own emotions. “Me too.”

His hands traced soothing circles along your back, but it did nothing to calm the storm inside you. “Why?” you demanded again, fists still weakly pressing against his chest. “Why, Theo?” His face twisted with something unreadable, his brows furrowing, lips pressing into a thin line as he fought against the words threatening to spill from his mouth. “I have no choice, cara,” he finally admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. His words shattered something inside you all over again. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” you choked out, your body trembling. “Please, Theo.” You grabbed at his collar, gripping onto him like he was the only thing anchoring you to reality. “For once, let me in. Let me understand. Just tell me what the fuck is going on.” But Theo had made a promise—to himself, to his father. He would never expose you to the darkness that consumed his life.

His silence was your answer.

“I can’t,” he finally whispered, his voice breaking along with the last sliver of hope you had held onto. You saw it in his eyes—the war raging inside him, the agony of wanting you but knowing he had to let you go. “I’m sorry,” he choked out, his voice shaking, his entire body trembling. You watched helplessly as he took a step back, his hands falling away from you, his resolve crumbling before your very eyes.“But I meant what I said.” His voice was hoarse, thick with emotion. “You mean the world to me, amore. I just… I can’t do this.” Your breath hitched. “What do you mean?” Panic clawed at your chest, your hands reaching for him again, but he gently pushed them away. Theo wanted to kiss you. To hold you. To tell you that you were the only thing in his life that ever made sense.

But he knew better.

His father’s voice echoed in his mind, a cruel reminder of the world he was trapped in. You saw the hesitation in his eyes, the way his fingers twitched as if aching to reach for you, the way his entire body screamed stay while his mind forced him to go. “Theo!” Your voice cracked as he took another step back.

You couldn’t breathe.

“Don’t leave me,” you begged, the words barely a whisper, barely holding together the last pieces of yourself.

But he did.

He turned away, his shoulders slouched, his usual confident stride replaced by something broken. Defeated.

He had lost.

To his father. To fate. To himself.

And all you could do was watch.

“I hate you!” you screamed after him, your voice echoing through the empty halls, bouncing off the stone walls like a cruel reminder of everything you had lost.

But the truth was, you didn’t hate him. You couldn’t.

You loved him.

You loved him so much that you knew you would put yourself through this pain over and over again if it meant getting another chance.

And that realization?

That was what truly broke you.

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A/N: I literally cried when a reread this while editing omfg. This was heartbreaking. I honestly sometimes feel as if I’m allergic to happiness lol. There will be no part three, some stories just can’t have happy endings🥲 Hope you liked it!

let me know your thoughts on it 💌

!Reblogs and Likes are highly appreciated¡

masterlist

…until next time lovelies 💋

#theodore nott #slytherin boys #slytherin #hogwarts #mattheo riddle #lorenzo berkshire #theodore x reader #theodore nott x reader #harry potter #angst #written by ria

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thenaughtynorth · 2 months ago

Text

Unscripted (18+) (CM Punk x f!reader)

CM Punk is obsessed, and she knows it. Their tension has been a slow-burning war. Teasing, testing, neither willing to break. But after a brutal match where he bleeds just for her, the game shifts.

CM Punk x female!reader

Warnings: Smut (18+), blood, penetration, oral, dirty talk, masochism, sadism, choking.

Word count: 7,4k

I already KNOW this will get a part 2

———

There was always a certain energy backstage after a live show. Chaos, anticipation, and people moving in all directions. But tonight, it felt different. It was like everything had shifted. And it was because of him.

CM Punk. The one man who had somehow managed to worm his way into my mind, even though I should’ve kept my distance.

It was ridiculous. I was just a producer—an essential part of the team, sure, but I was behind the scenes. No one ever looked at the producers, not like they looked at the Superstars. But Punk? Everyone looked at him. People talked about him, praised him, envied him. He was the rebel, the star, the one who broke the mold and didn’t care what anyone thought.

But there was something about him. Something that drew me in.

Maybe it was the way that he walked into a a room like he owned it, the unshakable confidence that radiated off of him. Or maybe it was his eyes? The way they seemed to study everything, always searching, always hungry for something more. Something real.

I never thought much about it until he started finding ways to speak to me, ways that weren’t about work. At first, it was innocent enough—just casual conversation, little jokes shared during the chaos of a show. But over time, I started to notice the way he lingered when he talked to me, the way his eyes didn’t leave mine for just a fraction too long.

I told myself it was nothing. I told myself I was imagining things. But deep down, I knew the truth.

It was terrifying. I had worked so hard to build a career, to prove myself in this business, and all of it could be ruined in an instant if I let myself get caught up in whatever this was with him.

But then there was the way he looked at me sometimes.. like I was the only thing in the room, like he couldn’t imagine being anywhere else. The way his voice softened when he spoke to me, like he was letting his guard down just for a moment.

It was enough to make me question everything.

The show had ended, the crowd still echoing in my ears as I packed up my notes. The chaos of the post-show routine was in full swing, but my mind was elsewhere. Specifically, it was on him.

I felt him before I saw him.

A presence at the doorway, steady and unyielding, pulling my attention like a force I couldn’t ignore. My hands froze over my notes, pulse kicking up against my will. I didn’t have to look up to know who it was.

Still, I made him wait.

When I finally met his gaze, Punk was leaning against the frame, arms crossed, looking like he had all the time in the world. His face was still a little battered from his match earlier, the dried remnants of blood near his temple, his bottom lip just barely split. He should’ve been exhausted. He should’ve been somewhere icing his wounds, not standing here watching me like I was the thing keeping him awake.

He didn’t say anything at first. Didn’t need to.

I swallowed down the urge to break the silence, turning my attention back to my work. Busy. That was the excuse I was sticking to, even though my focus had been shot the second I felt his eyes on me.

His voice finally cut through the quiet. It was low, rough, with the kind of weights that made my stomach tighten. “You got a second?”

I kept my expression neutral, even as my fingers gripped my pen a little tighter. “The show’s over.” The implication was clear. You should be gone.

“I know.” His tone was too smooth, too easy, but I could feel the edge underneath it. “That’s why I’m here.”

I didn’t look up. “I have work to finish.”

He made a noise, something almost amused. Unbothered. “That’s cute.”

I exhaled sharply through my nose. “I’m serious.”

“So am I.”

He still hadn’t moved from the doorway, but it didn’t matter. He didn’t have to come closer to crowd me. He did it just by being there. By making it impossible to focus on anything other than the heat rolling off him, the way the room felt different just because he was in it.

I shifted in my chair, straightening my shoulders, forcing myself to sound unaffected. “You should be resting. You just got your ass kicked.”

His smirk deepened, and I immediately regretted the choice of words. “That what you think?”

I pressed my lips together, not taking the bait.

Punk finally moved, slow, deliberate steps, and I hated the way my breath caught at how casual he looked about it—like he hadn’t just gone through hell hours ago, like he wasn’t covered in bruises, like he wasn’t completely and utterly unshaken.

Like I hadn’t gotten under his skin at all.

He stopped just short of my desk, close enough that I could see the way his knuckles were still raw, the faint twitch of a muscle in his jaw. Not as calm as he looked, then.

Good.

The silence stretched between us, heavy, expectant.

I knew what this was. What it had always been.

A game. A battle.

A slow, drawn-out war where neither of us wanted to be the first one to cave.

He leaned forward, planting his hands on the desk, and I hated how my pulse jumped at the shift in proximity. How my eyes instinctively dropped to his mouth before I caught myself.

Punk noticed. Of course he did.

The corner of his lip curled, and his voice dropped lower. “You’re really gonna sit there and pretend?”

I arched a brow. “Pretend what?”

He huffed out a laugh, shaking his head, like I was trying his patience. I liked that. Wanted that.

He studied me for a moment, like he was deciding whether or not to push, but I already knew the answer before he did. He was always going to push.

His hand lifted, fingers brushing my wrist. Light, barely-there, but enough to send heat curling through my stomach. Enough to remind me how easy it would be to give in.

I refused to move.

He tilted his head, waiting for a reaction, waiting for anything.

I gave him nothing.

Finally, he sighed, feigning disappointment, but there was something darkly amused in his expression, something that told me this wasn’t over. Not even close.

His fingers trailed one last, slow line against my skin before pulling away.

“You don’t have to keep fighting it,” he said, his voice low, just above a whisper. “You know what I want. You know what we both want. You just have to admit it.”

I didn’t move a muscle.

“Alright,” he murmured, stepping back. “Keep playing.”

“But you’re not the only one who can play games,” he said, his voice lowering, the heat in his tone unmistakable. He stepped toward me again, closing the gap between us with slow, deliberate steps. His presence was overwhelming, and I couldn’t seem to stop my heart from pounding harder. I hesitantly stood from my chair.

I wanted to step back. I wanted to keep my cool, to remind myself that this was dangerous, that I couldn’t afford to let my guard down. But every word he said was like a spark, setting off a wildfire that I couldn’t control.

But there was something in his eyes, as he grabbed my wrist. Something dangerous, something hungry that made my breath catch in my throat. He wasn’t just playing anymore. He was in it, completely and fully, and I wasn’t sure I was ready for what that meant.

“You’re gonna regret it,” I warned, though I wasn’t sure if I was warning him or myself.

His grin turned predatory, his grip on my wrist tightening just enough to send a jolt through me. “No, sweetheart,” he whispered, his voice like velvet and steel, “you’re gonna regret not giving me what I want.”

The heat between us was suffocating, and every inch of me screamed to give in. To stop pretending like I wasn’t affected. Like I didn’t want him just as badly as he wanted me. But I wasn’t ready to lose myself to him yet.

His eyes flashed, but there was something new in his gaze now. It was something raw, something that told me he wasn’t done. Not by a long shot.

He turned, leaving me standing there, my body still humming with the electricity of everything that had just happened. My heart raced, my head swirled, but my pride wouldn’t let me acknowledge what was really happening between us.

At the door, he hesitated, just for a second, then turned his head slightly—just enough for me to see the ghost of a smirk on his lips.

“Don’t work too hard.” His voice was quiet, teasing, laced with something that curled low in my stomach.

I watched him go, my breath steady even though my pulse was anything but.

He knew what he was doing. That deliberate, unhurried exit. The way he rolled his shoulders, stretching out the ache from his match, making sure I saw the way his shirt clung to his still-warm skin. He knew I was watching, and he was making damn sure I had something to look at.

I should have been annoyed. Should have been unaffected. But my fingers twitched against the desk, itching to reach for the place where his touch still lingered.

I exhaled, forcing myself to look away from the empty space where he had just been, my skin still buzzing with the aftermath of his presence.

He wasn’t pressing. Not yet. But the warning had been clear.

This game we were playing?

It wasn’t over.

—

The arena was packed, the crowd’s roar echoing through the halls. The Premium Live Event was in full swing, and backstage, it was a chaotic buzz of activity. But for me? Everything felt frozen. The only thing I could think about was what was about to happen out there.

CM Punk. Drew McIntyre. In the ring.

The matchtype was a brutal one. A Dog Collar match. No rules. No mercy. Just pure violence. It was personal, something real between them. But even as I watched the crew setting up backstage, adjusting cameras, preparing for the madness, I couldn’t shake the way my mind kept circling back to him.

It had been a month since our little moment backstage. The teasing, the tension, the unspoken words that still hung in the air between us. And despite the walls we’d built, despite the games we played, there was no denying the fact that something had shifted.

The bell rang. And like a switch flipping, the crowd’s energy reached a fever pitch. Drew McIntyre entered first, his massive frame dominating the entrance ramp as he made his way to the ring. Punk was next.

It was as if the entire arena held its breath when his music hit.

He was the rebel, the one who refused to play by the rules. His eyes were cold, determined, but I could see the flicker of something else in them. something almost… dangerous. Something that was meant for me. I knew it. I felt it. And I couldn’t ignore it.

Punk stepped into the ring, the dog collar chain hanging from his neck like a reminder of what was to come. He looked straight ahead at McIntyre, but the second his eyes flickered toward the camera, I felt the heat of his gaze on me. There was no mistaking it.

And then, the bell rang again and the fight started.

The match was brutal, violent, and raw. Every punch, every slam, every chain wrapped around bodies seemed to echo through the arena. The camera angles were all over the place, showing the carnage, the blood, the destruction. But all I could focus on was him.

Punk was taking hits—hard hits—but he was giving them right back. I knew that under all that blood, under all the violence, there was something more. Something deeper. He wasn’t just fighting for victory; he was fighting for something else. And in the chaos of the match, I found myself completely, utterly drawn to him.

At one point, Punk and McIntyre clashed in the center of the ring. They were both bleeding, their bodies covered in bruises, but Punk… Punk was different. There was a primal hunger in his eyes as he locked the chain around Drew’s neck, pulling him down to the mat.

The crowd was on their feet, roaring, but I barely heard them. The world had narrowed. It was just me, the man in the ring, and the tension that was thick as the blood staining their bodies.

Then, everything shifted. Punk pulled away from the chaos for just a moment. He was crouched over, panting heavily, his bloodied hands wiping the sweat and blood from his brow. He looked into the camera, but not just any camera, as he found the one nearest the production area.

His lips curled into a knowing smirk as he mouthed something. It wasn’t for the audience. It wasn’t for the match. It was for me.

Still playing games?

He spelled it out with the blood on his hands, wiping it across the mat in the shape of those words. Each letter dripped with the reality of the situation. A challenge. A dare. And the heat that spread through my body, the way my chest tightened, told me that he knew exactly what he was doing.

I swallowed hard, my heart thundering in my chest. Every cell in my body was screaming to look away, but I couldn’t. Not when it felt like he was right there with me, in the room, taunting me, teasing me with the dark promises in his eyes. The rawness, the violence, the blood—it was all just a backdrop to the unspoken game we were playing.

The match raged on, but I could barely focus on the violence anymore. Punk was teasing me. The subtle smirks. The way he moved in the ring, like he was aware of every camera, every angle, every single person watching. But most importantly, he was aware of me. Every time he glanced toward the cameras, every time he wiped blood from his brow, every subtle movement he made sent a new wave of tension running through me.

My body was on fire. Every time his eyes flickered toward the screen, I could feel the burn. Every time he grunted in pain, I could feel myself reacting. I was dying for him, and he somehow knew it.

Punk had McIntyre on the ropes, literally, using the chain to choke him, to drag him across the mat. The blood was pouring from both men, and the intensity was palpable. But Punk, in that moment, seemed to come alive.

And then, without warning, he turned his attention to the crowd for just a second before he sent a slow, deliberate wink in my direction.

It wasn’t subtle. It wasn’t even close to being normal. Punk was making sure I knew that this—everything—was for me.

The game we were playing was only getting more intense, and as I watched him land a vicious kick to Drew’s chest, I could feel the heat pooling low in my belly, a fire igniting between my legs.

Finally, the end came. Punk landed his finishing blow, sending McIntyre crashing to the mat with a brutal twist of the chain. The referee counted, and the bell rang.

Punk was victorious. But he wasn’t celebrating in the traditional sense. No, instead, he dropped to his knees, bloodied, bruised, but still grinning like a man who’d just won the war.

And then, as the crowd roared, he turned his gaze to the camera one last time. It was as if his eyes never left mine, and in that moment, the meaning was clear. There was no escaping this. Not anymore.

We were in this together—whether I liked it or not. And there was no turning back. It was as if our souls had been intertwined and I was drawn to him like a moth to a flame. And after his grueling match, his teasingly brutal performance, and the blood message he’d sent, I was no longer uncertain if he was drawn to me too.

Backstage, I was an absolute fucking mess. My body was on fire, my thoughts a tangled mess. What had happened out there? What was happening between us? Every part of me wanted to pull away, but the rest of me was hungry for more.

Punk had made his mark on me tonight. Not just in the ring, but in my mind, in my body. And I was starting to wonder if I’d ever escape the game he was so expertly playing.

But I couldn’t stop thinking about it. I couldn’t stop wanting him.

And that was the most dangerous game of all. I couldn’t keep myself away from him, even if I tried.

After the show, I’d hidden myself to the best of my ability, keeping myself unnecessarily busy, so I wouldn’t run into him backstage.

The adrenaline was still coursing through me as I walked through the hallways of the hotel. My heart pounded against my ribs, every step heavy with the weight of what was about to happen.

The entire night had been an inferno of tension, a war both physical and emotional, and the aftermath had left me breathless. Even though the match was over, there was no denying what was still simmering beneath the surface between us.

I hadn’t been able to stop thinking about him. Punk. His smirk. His eyes. The way he made everything feel like it was just for me, no one else. There had been so many moments in that ring when he’d looked at me through the camera, teased me with the kind of raw intensity that made my pulse race and my thoughts scatter. I couldn’t ignore it. I wouldn’t.

Now, I was headed to his hotel room, and I knew exactly what I was walking into.

The moment I knocked on the door, a pulse of heat shot through me. I could hear movement from inside—Punk’s voice, low and gravelly, talking to someone on the phone, but then the sound stopped abruptly.

Seconds later, the door swung open, and there he was.

Punk.

Bruises and cuts framed his face, his body battered and bruised. His eyes—dark and almost feral—locked onto mine, and for a moment, neither of us moved. The silence stretched out between us, thick and taut with unspoken promises.

He didn’t say a word.

I didn’t either.

But as the door opened wider, I could see the way he was watching me. like I was the only thing he could focus on in that moment. His chest rose and fell with each breath, the adrenaline still lingering in his veins, his muscles still tender from the fight.

It was like a pull, a magnetism that neither of us could fight.

“Come in,” he said, his voice rough, but there was a playful edge to it. A challenge. An invitation.

I stepped over the threshold without hesitation.

The room was dimly lit, a faint glow coming from the small lamp by the bed, and the scent of sweat, blood, and his signature cologne filled my nostrils. He had already showered though, his hair semi-dry and dangling loosely around his face. A part of me wished he hadn’t, feeling drawn to the rawness of the combination of his blood and sweat.

There was something raw and intoxicating about the way he still carried himself after the war he’d just been through.

Punk shut the door behind me with a soft click, but he didn’t take his eyes off me. The tension between us was thick enough to choke on.

His gaze drifted slowly over me, taking in the way I was standing, the way I was breathing, almost like he could feel the heat rising between us.

I fought the urge to squirm. My pulse hammered in my ears.

“You gonna stand there all night?” he asked, his voice low and rough.

I swallowed. “What do you want, Punk?”

He chuckled, a dark, knowing sound. “You know what I want. You wouldn’t be here if you didn’t.”

His eyes narrowed, and in that moment, I knew we were no longer playing games. The space between us evaporated as he took a step forward. Slowly. Calculated.

“You also wouldn’t be here if you didn’t want the same damn thing. You sure you’re ready for this?” His words were a whisper, but they carried a weight.

I didn’t answer. My body already had a mind of its own, the heat pooling between my legs undeniable.

Punk’s lips quirked up into that familiar cocky smirk, and then he closed the distance between us, his hand coming up to trail down the side of my face. His touch was rough, but the way he cupped my chin sent an electric shock through my body.

“You’re not gonna walk away from this now. Not after what we’ve been through,” he murmured, his voice thick with the taste of challenge.

I leaned into his touch. “I’m not walking away, Punk,” I whispered, the words tasting like a promise I was too scared to break.

He didn’t let me finish the thought. His lips were on mine in an instant, hot and insistent, the kiss searing as though he was trying to brand me. The world outside of this room disappeared, leaving only the two of us, tangled in the raw, primal energy of what had been building between us for months.

His hands were on me, rough and demanding, as though he couldn’t stand the space between us any longer. He pulled me closer, so close I could feel the heat of his body against mine, his bruised chest pressing into me.

I gasped when I felt the hard line of his body against mine, the way the roughness of his skin made me feel like I was losing control. But he didn’t give me a chance to gather my bearings. He kissed me harder, his tongue sliding into my mouth with a hunger I couldn’t even begin to understand.

And just like that, I was lost in him.

The heat in the room was unbearable. My chest rose and fell with every frantic breath, every kiss he gave me deepening the need between us.

His hands moved lower, one of them sliding under the hem of my shirt, his rough fingers tracing the curve of my waist. Every touch was a shock, a jolt of sensation, and I couldn’t stop the quiet moan that slipped from my lips.

Punk pulled away for just a second, his chest heaving as he took in the sight of me beneath him, his eyes dark with desire.

“You want this. You want me,” he whispered. His voice was rough, almost a growl. “And now, you’re gonna get it.”

Before I could respond, his hands were on my hips, pushing me back toward the bed with an intensity that made my heart race. His lips were on my throat, kissing, biting, his breath hot against my skin.

I gasped, my fingers threading through his hair as he continued to mark me, making sure I knew exactly what this was.

“You’re not walking away from me. Not now,” he said again, his voice strained with need.

Every word, every touch, every second spent in that room with him was a challenge I didn’t know if I was ready for.

But I was beyond caring. Because when it came to him, there was no turning back.

Punk’s hands gripped me with a possessive force, and I couldn’t help but respond, my body a mix of anticipation and fire. The heat in the room was suffocating, the air thick with the raw, untamed chemistry between us. His lips left trails of heat against my skin as his hands pulled me closer, guiding me backward until I was pressed against the edge of the bed. I could feel the undeniable weight of his presence, his gaze heavy with hunger and something deeper, something that spoke of a craving for more than just physical proximity.

“You feel that?” he whispered, his breath hot against my ear, his voice low, almost like a growl. “You feel how much I want you?”

Oh. My. God.

I nodded without hesitation, my body betraying me as the tension between us built higher, tighter. There was no holding back now. We were in this together, lost in the pull of something primal and unspoken. I had no control.

His hands slid to my hips, tugging me closer as he gave me a look that made my stomach tighten, a glint of something darker flickering in his eyes. He didn’t speak at first. He didn’t have to. Every part of him screamed want, and it was almost like he was daring me to break.

“You’re so fucking irresistible,” he muttered under his breath, his lips grazing the curve of my neck. “Everything about you drives me wild.”

I shivered under his touch, feeling the heat building between us, the air thick with unspoken promises. But instead of following through, he held me there, just on the edge, taking his time. I tried desperately to touch him, but he firmly slapped my hands away, leaving a stinging sensation on my delicate skin.

“You don’t get to decide what happens next,” he said, his voice dangerous, a warning masked by desire. “I do.”

He stepped back, briefly releasing me, and the sudden loss of contact was almost unbearable. My body craved him in a way that was raw, untamed, and completely out of my control. I met his gaze, defiant but wanting, knowing the power he had over me.

Without saying another word, he took a step toward the dresser and grabbed a bottle of water, his movements deliberate. His eyes never left mine as he opened it and took a long swig, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed. My gaze followed the movement, and I realized just how badly I wanted to be that close, wanted to feel that heat against my skin.

“You’ve got me right where you want me, huh?” I said, trying to hide the tremor in my voice, but he saw right through it. His eyes flickered with amusement and something more dangerous.

“Not yet, sweetheart,” he replied, his smirk making my pulse spike. “But we’re getting there.”

The words hung in the air, thick with implication, and then, without warning, he was right back in front of me, his hand gripping my chin as he tilted my head up, forcing me to meet his eyes. His touch was possessive, demanding, and my body instinctively responded, leaning into him despite myself.

With a firm hold on my jaw, he poured water into my mouth. I swallowed obediently, still locking eyes with him.

“You need to be hydrated for all the things I have planned for you.” He chuckled darkly, wiping water off of the corner of my mouth with a calloused thumb. I sent him an open-mouthed, puppy-eyed look.

“I like the way you look at me,” he said, his voice a dark rasp. “Like you’re both scared and desperate for more. But that’s not how this works. Not tonight.”

I barely had time to process what he was saying before he kissed me again, but this time it was different. There was a hunger, a desperate need, and I knew then that we were no longer playing games. The passion between us was almost suffocating, a heady mix of control and chaos.

The taste of iron caught me by surprise. The cut he’d suffered on his lip had busted open again.

He broke the kiss, his breath coming in quick bursts. His hand traced the line of my jaw, going through the small pool of blood, he’d transferred to my face. He was literally marking me. His touch was rough, almost punishing, but there was something about it that made me crave it more. It was a touch that was both reverent and possessive, as if he was memorizing the way I felt beneath him, as if he was still trying to decide just how much of me he was going to take.

“You’ll be good for me, won’t you?” he murmured, his voice thick with need. “You’ll let me take care of this… all of this.”

I nodded before I could stop myself, the words slipping out as if they were the only thing that mattered. “Yes. I’ll be good for you.”

The bloody smirk that spread across his face told me everything I needed to know: Punk was in control, and I was caught in his web, more tangled than I had ever been before.

He leaned in again, his lips brushing against my ear. “Good,” he whispered, the single word carrying so much weight. “Because if you want to keep playing this game, you better be ready for what comes next.”

“I need you,” I whimpered, wishing I had sounded more in control.

The silence that followed was thick, heavy, stretched taut between us like a wire about to snap. Punk hovered over me, his breath uneven, his chest rising and falling against mine in a rhythm that felt anything but steady.

I could feel the shift, the way something deeper was threatening to break through. The tension between us had always been sharp, electric, but now? Now it was unbearable.

He was still watching me, his dark eyes flickering over my face like he was looking for something. Maybe some last thread of resistance, some unspoken hesitation that he could rip apart. But there was none. I wasn’t fighting this anymore. I wasn’t sure I ever had been.

Punk exhaled sharply, his fingers tightening around my jaw for just a second before he leaned in, his lips hovering just over mine. “Say it again,” he murmured.

My heart slammed against my ribs. I swallowed, heat spreading through my body like wildfire. He wanted me to admit it. To surrender.

I should have been scared of how easy it was.

“I need you.”

The second the words left my lips, something in him snapped.

Punk kissed me like he wanted to consume me, like he wanted to own me. His hands gripped my waist, pulling me flush against him, the warmth of his skin searing through the thin barrier of clothing still between us. He wasn’t careful—he wasn’t gentle—and I loved it.

“I knew you’d come to me,” he muttered against my lips, his breath hot, his voice thick with something dangerous. His hands slid up my sides, slow and deliberate, teasing, testing. “Knew you couldn’t keep pretending forever.”

I let out a shaky breath, my fingers digging into his shoulders, feeling the bruises he carried from his match just hours ago. But if the pain bothered him, he didn’t show it. If anything, it seemed to fuel him, pushing him further, making him rougher.

“You should’ve come to me sooner,” he continued, his mouth moving against my skin, leaving a trail of heat down my throat. “We’ve wasted so much time.”

I gasped when his teeth grazed my pulse point, my body arching instinctively into his. The satisfaction in his low chuckle sent a shiver through me.

“Is this what you wanted?” he taunted, his hands gripping my hips, his bruised knuckles pressing into my skin. “You’ve been watching me. I know you have. Sitting backstage, pretending you don’t see me.”

I bit my lip, refusing to give him the satisfaction of an answer, but he knew.

Punk pulled back just enough to look at me, his smirk dark and knowing. He tilted his head, studying me, dragging out the moment just to make me squirm.

“You like seeing me bleed, don’t you?” he murmured, his voice like gravel, rough and edged with something almost cruel. “I saw the way you looked at me out there. Remember? There are cameras everywhere. You liked watching me take that beating. Liked seeing me suffer.”

His words sent a fresh wave of heat through me. I opened my mouth to protest, but he cut me off with another bruising kiss, swallowing whatever lie I was about to tell.

“Don’t bother denying it.” His hand slid into my hair, gripping just enough to make me feel it. “You liked watching me hurt.”

I let out a shaky breath, my pulse hammering in my ears. The worst part? He was right.

I had liked it. I had sat backstage, watching his match, feeling every second of it like it was happening to me. Every hit he took, every moment he suffered, had sent a pulse of something dark and hot through my veins.

And the worst part?

He had known.

“You’re a sick little thing,” Punk murmured, his lips brushing my ear, sending a shiver down my spine. “But that’s okay. Lucky for you, so am I.”

I clenched my fists, my nails digging into his skin, determined not to let him have the upper hand so easily. “You’re so damn sure of yourself,” I whispered, forcing my voice to stay steady, refusing to let him see how wrecked I already was.

His grin widened. “Because I know you.” His hand trailed down my side, slow, deliberate, teasing. “I know what you need.”

I swallowed hard, trying to keep my composure, but it was slipping fast.

Punk pulled back slightly, just enough to look at me again, his eyes dark and unreadable. He exhaled, his thumb tracing the edge of my jaw.

“You can still leave,” he said, voice lower now, rougher, like the thought of it pained him. “If you walk out that door, we forget this ever happened.”

He let the words settle between us, heavy, suffocating. A way out. A chance to stop this before it consumed us both.

I stared at him, my body still burning from his touch, my pulse still racing. But there was no hesitation. No second-guessing.

I reached up, threading my fingers into his hair, pulling him closer until our lips were nearly touching.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

His breath hitched.

In one fluid motion, he pulled my top up and over my arms, smudging the blood on my jaw and cheek even further. His own shirt soon followed.

He was bruised, battered, and pieces of his skin had been torn, only for it to have been stitched back together again. There was something insanely hot and passionate about the nonsensical act of violence he’d been a part of. The fact that it was all for entertainment—and all for me.

Punk was rough with his touch, not missing a single ounce of skin as his hands roamed over my stomach, waste and chest. His eyes grew big, when he removed my bra, and came face-to-face with the solid metal bars piercing both of my rock-hard nipples.

He rutted his hips feverishly into mine, sending me a clear message; he sure as shit liked what he saw.

Ecstasy and a loud moan rushed over me, as he took a bejeweled nipple into his mouth, and chewed and bit on it, like a starved dog with its bone. It was oddly fitting, had he only still been wearing the dog-collar.

Hours passed, or maybe minutes, or maybe it was just one long, drawn-out moment where time didn’t exist.

Punk was relentless. He was teasing and rough and careful all at once, like he was savoring every second, like he wanted to make sure I felt this long after the night was over. He didn’t let me get away with anything—every sound, every reaction, every sharp inhale, he noticed.

“You always act so tough,” he murmured at one point, his fingers tracing my jaw, his thumb brushing over my swollen lips. “But look at you now.”

I wanted to snap back at him, wanted to bite out something sharp and smug, but I couldn’t. He’d taken all of that control, pulled it right out of my hands and owned it.

And I let him.

I wanted him to.

My pants were practically ripped off of me, as he—with one goal in mind—attached himself to my hips.

“You’re being such a good fucking girl for me, you know that?” He mumbled, voice smooth like velvet, but slightly muffled by the fabric of my panties. His face was planted between my thighs as he breathed me in.

When I didn’t immediately answer, he roughly took a hold of my jaw, pushing two fingers between my swollen lips.

“Use that pretty mouth of yours,” he demanded, “do you know how good of a girl you’re being?”

My thighs twitched and I was unsure if I had died and gone to heaven.

“Y-yes, Punk, yes I know”

That was the confirmation he needed, before he discarded my panties, and dove nose first into me, devouring me like he hadn’t eaten in weeks.

It was sensory overload. The soft licks of his tongue connecting with my sensitive and eager core. His salt-and-pepper beard rubbing and scratching my upper thighs. And the sounds of my own very clear arousal mixed with his saliva? Pheeeew.. it was nearly too much to handle.

I had been fantasizing about him putting his mouth on me forever, but nothing could’ve ever prepared me for the real thing. Punk had a skillful mouth, which was both clear whenever he dropped a pipebomb on an opponent, as well as when he drove me towards an intense release.

With a firm hold and a fast move, he flipped us over, mouth never leaving my pussy.

Punk’s fingers dove into my hips and thighs, as he quickened his pace on me, clearly picking up on the way my body was twitching for an orgasm. He guided my hips, making me ride his face with passion and without a single care in the world.

The grip he had on me was rough, hard, possessive and 100% guaranteed to leave marks come morning.

The sounds leaving my mouth were pornographic and uncontrolled, collecting a throaty groan from Punk underneath me.

It was as if I had been struck by thunder and lit on fire, when my entire body shook as he sent my over the edge and into a mind blowing orgasm.

He guided me through my high, as if he knew every inch of my body and as if we’d done this dance a million times.

A large toothy grin was plastered on his bearded face, that was coated and shiny with my arousal. I couldn’t help but to match his smile. He had, after all, rocked my world.

He gently flipped us over again, hand finding my jaw and mouth for the hundredth time.

“If that’s my last meal, I’m dying a happy man,” he mumbled, maybe more to himself than to me, as he undid his belt.

Minutes had turned into hours, before he finally had my legs wrapped around his waist, pushing slowly, but surely, into me.

It wasn’t just about the way he touched me—it was the way he looked at me. Like he saw right through every single wall I had put up. Like he had known, this whole time, that I would end up here, under him, his.

Some fucked up version of destiny.

A string of dirty curse words left both of our mouths, as our bodies intertwined. It was a feeling unlike no other. Like holstering a gun. Adding the last piece to a puzzle. A feeling better than any high in the entire world.

I felt a tightness around my neck, as Punk just couldn’t help himself. He squeezed expertly—making sure not to miss even a single second of eye contact, even whilst cutting off most of my air. But two could play that game.

I raked my fingers over his chest, circling the skull-tattoo, before pressing a sharp nail into the flesh near one of the cuts he’d suffered during his match with McIntyre.

“F-fucking hell, baby,” Punk moaned his breath hitching, eyes flashing down to the cut I had now reopened slightly.

A wicked smile was on full display on my lips. He likes the fucking pain.

The grip on my throat was replaced by an even harder grip on my hair, as he pulled and pulled whilst punishing me even harder with his relentless pace.

A small drop of Punk’s blood landed on my chest.

“You never answered me before,” he grunted in between his deep thrusts, “do you like seeing me in pain?”

A rush of courage came over me as I forcefully nodded, yanking his hair back.

“I love seeing you in pain, Punk”

He growled, eyes dark and hungry.

“Matter of fact, I live for it. I get paid to see you hurt, bleed, and be in excruciating pain, Punk,” my words were teasing, yet forceful and confident. I was enjoying the game we were playing.

My words only made Punk even wilder and hotter; It was an impressive pace he was setting. Every single dirty word, possessive grab, or even a moment of nasty, shared looks, spurred him on, making my legs feel like jelly.

“You might be one sick fuck, but so am I,” I raise my voice, grabbing a hold of the flesh on his back with my sharp nails.

A sloppiness overtook his thrusts, indicating how close he was to losing control and finishing.

Another pull on his hair, and the most sinful look I could’ve ever sent him, was what sent him crashing into his orgasm.

“Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.” He repeated like a mantra, as he pulled out, jerking himself and coming all over my stomach and chest, as if he’d just autographed his own name to mark me his.

When both of our highs were over, the only sound in the room was our breathing—deep, uneven, wrecked.

I was sure this was the closest two non-believers would ever get to heaven.

Punk was still hovering over me, his arms braced on either side of my head, his face inches from mine. His breath was warm against my lips, but he didn’t kiss me again. Not yet.

His eyes searched mine, still dark, still intense, but there was something else there, something softer. Something he didn’t say.

I reached up, my fingers tracing the bruises along his ribs, my touch barely there. “You’re gonna be sore tomorrow.”

He smirked, but it was slower this time, lazier. “Worth it.”

I rolled my eyes, but the smile that tugged at my lips betrayed me. I couldn’t help it.

For a moment, we just existed like that. No words. No games. Just breathing the same air, feeling the same fire.

Then, finally, Punk let out a breath and shifted off of me, collapsing onto the mattress beside me.

I turned my head to look at him, and he was already staring at the ceiling, his hands resting over his stomach, fingers twitching like he was thinking too hard.

The silence stretched, but it wasn’t uncomfortable.

It was just… us.

And then, just as I was about to say something, Punk spoke first, his voice lower, rougher.

“You know this changes everything, right?”

I swallowed, my heart kicking up again. I didn’t answer right away, because I did know. I had known before I ever walked into this room.

But hearing him say it out loud made it real.

I turned on my side, propping my head up with my hand as I studied him. His face was softer now, the sharp edges dulled just a little by exhaustion.

He glanced over at me, and there was something unreadable in his gaze—something I wasn’t sure I was ready to face just yet.

So I did what I always did. I deflected.

I smirked, reaching over to brush my fingers along his bruised ribs again, light, teasing. “You’re really not gonna make it through training tomorrow.”

Punk let out a short laugh, shaking his head. “You’re such a pain in the ass.”

I grinned. “You like it.”

He didn’t answer right away. He just stared at me, his expression unreadable. Then, finally, he exhaled and ran a hand through his messy hair, smirking just a little.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “I really do.”

And even though we weren’t saying the big things—the real things—somewhere deep down, I knew.

This wasn’t over. It was just the beginning.

#cm punk masterlist #cm punk x reader #cm punk #cm punk smut #cm punk x fem reader #wwe smut #wwe masterlist

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cuckoo-on-a-string · 4 months ago

Text

Paper Pirates (Conclusion)

MDNI

Shanks x f!reader

Summary: An unconventional member of an unconventional crew, you finally solve your captain's equation.

Warnings: Smut, fingering, piv, swearing, smoking, allusions to power imbalance

A/N: Merry Christmas and happy holidays! - Ya filthy animals. Thanks for all the support! I have another Shanks piece brewing (a genuine one-shot, even!) that will hopefully see the light of day in the coming week. Til then: stay tuned, drink water, kiss someone you like, and survive the holidays!

Shanks is, as ever, a bonfire on a winter night. Blazing bright and beautiful. A human beacon with a smile so bright it made his hair dull by comparison. He should be ridiculous, maybe even an object of pity with his scarred face and missing arm, but he’s confidence given legs – legs in ridiculous printed trousers, even.

He holds court in the bar closest to the docks. He’d swaggered ahead with all your worldly possessions under his arm, chatting up passing locals. You’d followed, drowning in his wake. The storm inside you didn’t touch him.

You followed him here, met up with the crew after picking open you scabs so he could see how deep the infection ran, and now you’re once again ducking under too many waving hands and wondering how the hell these killers and thieves smile so readily. As he guzzles sake and laughs with Lucky Roux, he feels farther away than ever. Memories are easier to hold close. Now you can only calculate the gulf between your understanding and his plans.

The sea between your feelings and his easy charm.

This must be what a cuckoo chick feels when it realizes it has the wrong feathers.

Cheering voices shake the tavern walls, and you sit among the merry-makers, pretending to enjoy yourself. But you know your voice would come out wrong if you joined in. There’s a reason you never fit the atmosphere aboard the Red Force. Even when they were trying to be kind, your comrades must’ve sensed something strange had hatched in their midst. An intruder in the crow’s nest, so to speak.

You sit, stewing in your own self-pity, taking the barest sips from your glass. You can’t afford to be drunk. Not tonight. Not after your conversation with Shanks.

Maybe things have never been easy between you and the Red Hair Pirates, but everything spiraled after you revealed yourself on a tide of rum and fatigue. Drinking is a solitary activity now. No way in hell will you make things worse. You still hope, a little desperately, for an amicable separation.

You spill your drink twice, fetching refills to keep up appearances.

That game ends when Beck joins you. He lands across the table, filling the corner where you settled with the excuse of eating away from flying elbows and table dancing. The stew smelled so appetizing every other time you passed the place, but you’re struggling to do it justice. Doesn’t help that it gets colder with every bite.

Still makes a marvelous diversion from Beckman, though.

Until he opens his big, stupid mouth.

“Hongo seen the wound yet?”

Which wound? The time you shot yourself with your own big, stupid mouth in his company or the bullet you caught during your year or isolation?

“No wound.” You shovel a spoonful in your mouth, buying a moment of peace. “Just a scar. And he’s threatened me with a thorough exam tomorrow.”

“Shame. Earned your first major scar of on your own.”

He makes it sound like your fault somehow, and that grates. Your tolerance is growing thin, and you haven’t spent more than ten minutes in each other’s company tonight.

It isn’t your fault they left you behind. As always.

It wasn’t your fault the Marines fucked up a good thing. As always.

It sure as hell wasn’t your fault that you got shot in one of the most chaotic battles you’d ever seen.

The world turned and you clung on where you could.

You wonder if Beckman even remembers what it’s like to have no one at his back, no ship to rely on.

He taps out a fresh cigarette. “Would’ve been an opportunity to celebrate.”

You laugh as he lights up, almost genuinely. “Like you’ve ever needed one.”

If the crew celebrated every first scar acquired on the sea, they’d never stop drinking. But maybe they do. It would explain some things.

“Hn. It will be good to have you back on the ship. Never enough good crew.”

“Oh please, we both know I’m average at best.”

“Do we?” Beckman didn’t take his eyes off his match. “Captain talk to you about his plan yet?”

Your spoon circles the bowl’s rim. The vibration shakes into your fingers as metal drags over rough crockery, but the men are too loud for you to hear the chime.

“We talked about a plan. Wasn’t really his.”

One more bite. Just to soak up the drip of booze you’ve choked down. Nothing’s ever as good as you hope these days, and you’re starting to wonder if it’s your own fault.

You push the meal away, hoping no one asks why there’s so much left. The folks behind the counter work hard, and you’d hate to insult a family recipe.

Beckman shakes out his match, and his cool eyes fix on you. For all the bodies in the room, his attention carves out a private space. You might as well be back on deck, drinking in the dark after they party’s over.

You lean back. Cross your arms.

“I do sometimes look up from the books, you know.”

If the Captain agrees to your plan, it will impact Benn’s role most. And you’re comfortable with him. He doesn’t ask for much. So long as you meet his expectations, he doesn’t demand a sunny smile and a performance. You’re grumpy bastards both, the eyes in the back, assessing and measuring. You don’t know what answers he’s looking for at your table in the corner, but you can guess a few questions.

“Shanks only brings aboard people who’ve already… become what they’re gonna be, I guess.” Just saying his name pushes your gaze to find him across the room.

It’s no wonder you fell in love. Doesn’t make you any less of a fool. “It’s why he doesn’t take on apprentices, I think. He knows he’d protect them. They’d get hurt. They’d have to, at some point, or they’d never push themselves. So, he always turns the young ones down.”

Benn doesn’t interrupt. Doesn’t twitch. He blinks, slowly, like a cat, and a ribbon of smoke fades into the rafters. You look him in the eye.

“That’s how I know. I am what I am. Good at numbers. Entirely average in every other respect.”

“Tsk.” He looks away. Uses his boot to grind out an old cigarette that’s been cold on the floor since before you arrived. “You see the numbers, but you’ve put ‘em in the wrong places. A transcription error. Get out of your own way.”

Your arms cinch tighter around your chest, and the eye contact slips up and away. The rafters offer an escape. You study graffiti carved by a thousand daggers over endless decades by happy drunkards. Maybe they’re a map to sanity. A star chart of curses, confessions, and promises.

Are you even having the same conversation? It feels like everyone is pushing you to the brink of madness.

Nothing adds up anymore.

“You’re smart,” Beckman says. “And you’re strong.”

He kicks you under the table to reclaim your attention from the ceiling, and you jump, yelping. You regard him with a hint of shock. It’s minor violence, yeah, but it’s friendly violence. It’s a new level of engagement. The routine mandates sitting and snarking over more booze than you want to drink. Beckman isn’t the touchy sort.

The cigarette dips as he grins.

“Let yourself believe in something, girl.”

“I – I don’t – what?” Your tongue is too big for your mouth, and your teeth keep getting in the way.

Beckman glances away, and you follow his line of sight through the shouting, and the drinking, and the rowdy delight to your captain.

Shanks.

He’s in the middle of a story, slapping the bar for emphasis. Part of you wishes you could sneak closer. Hear his tall tales and measure them against his usual bullshit. Bask in his presence. But your overwhelming common sense tells you it would burn to sit beside him. Bonfires can catch.

Seas. He really is beautiful.

You remember who you are sitting beside.

The first mate chuckles, and your face burns.

Flailing to your seat, less graceful than most of the drunks, you cough up an excuse.

“I’m going for some air.”

Cigarette smoke chases you out the door, and you march away from the windows, turning the corner into an alley where you can breathe.

Fuck’s sake.

You press cold palms to your cheeks, horrified by the heat. Did your feelings show? Beckman clearly spied something to amuse himself with in your expression. Who else? How many witnesses to your shame would cackle at your expense in the morning? Maybe they’d just assume you stepped out to throw up. Because you had good manners, unlike the rest of them.

Not a bad thought, actually. You feel like hurling.

Night has settled over the town, and the locals are giving the pirates their space. Normal people have normal work to do in the morning, and even Shanks can’t chat the stars still. A breeze carries whispers of the sea into your hideaway, and you ache for the clean smell of deep water far from shore.

Your resolve cracks like an egg.

Slumping against the brick wall at your back, you accept your truth. It doesn’t even take half a bottle of rum this time.

You love Shanks. You crave life aboard the Red Force. The captain shared a taste of his world and instead of thanking him for the experience, you’ve gotten addicted. Demanding. It will never be enough. Given the chance, you’d die happy at sea, listening to the ship groan creaking lullabies.

You might die if they agree to your proposal.

If Shanks leaves you forever.

Even though that would be safest. That would be reasonable.

That would be good for the crew. For him.

“There you are.”

Think of the devil.

Shanks, framed in moonlight, invades your sanctuary. “Thought you might be sneaking off.”

You freeze. Your mind goes blank with the fear of being caught and the contrary urge to impress. Something spews out of your mouth, but you have no control over it.

“Just breathing.”

What a fucking stupid answer. Might as well tell him there was no air in the tavern when you noticed how his eyes sparkle when he laughs.

“Well.” He picks a spot on the wall across from you, mimicking your position. “Can’t have you stopping that, can we?”

An obligatory smile. You’ll give him whatever he commands, but there’s no joy here.

Believe in something.

Sure. Just like that. Drop all your defenses as you waited for the executioners’ spears.

Shanks smiles at nothing and glances towards the sky.

“Your thoughts aren’t too far from mine,” he says. “The old system needs adjustments. Can’t have you catching any more bullets with just your skin.” His eyes flick back to you, fixing you in place. You aren’t sure whether it’s your nerves or his haki.

“But we have very different ideas about your future with the crew.” His captain’s voice rings between the broken crates and empty barrels surrounding you. He’s found something he doesn’t like and he’s working out a solution, gearing up to state orders and fix his will on the future.

It’s a challenge. You rise to it.

“And what’s your great idea, then?” If he thinks he’s solved the equation better than you can, let him prove it.

“No more layovers. You stay on the Red Force like every other crewmate. The Den Den Mushi aren’t a bad idea, and I agree we’ll need new eyes and ears on shore, but your place onboard is essential.”

If people keep telling you things like that, you’ll start to believe it. You shake your head, knocking the warm fuzzies away before they rot your perspective like mold.

“I kind of doubt that. No offense.”

His eyebrows rise. “You think I’d have brought you on if I didn’t think you could cut it?”

“I mean,” you gesture broadly at the crew that isn’t there, “anyone can do the numbers with a little time and training.”

“Sorry to ruin your rosy view of the world, but they really can’t.” That captain voice is gone. He’s all smiles again. Teasing almost. Like he knows a secret and is watching you walk into a trap. “Not like you. Mathematics are strategy in your hands, and we need more of that. You have no idea how many times Building Snake complains when you aren’t around, or how often Lucky Roux moans about larder management. Your work touches everything.”

He leans forward, eyes glinting in the distant streetlights, and props his arm against the wall just over your head. Heat radiates from him and that stupid unbuttoned shirt he always wears. Can he feel the warmth curling out in answer from your own skin?

“And I agree with Lucky, by the way,” he croons. “You’re very scary.”

Your breath physically stutters. It’s entirely involuntary, and you bite your tongue, eyes wide as you struggle to read him. He still wants you on the crew. Alright. But what else?

Logic strains under the pressure of his regard.

You force yourself to breathe. Hopefully that will help you think. Unlikely, though, with the way Shank’s scent fills your head. It’s dizzying.

“It would still be a problem.” This isn’t reasoning. This is pleading.

His smile flicks to life, and like the helpless little moth you are, you prepare for it to scorch you.

“I don’t have a problem with it.”

One of his feet slides forward, not quite invading your space, but close. His toes linger in the gap between your feet, suggesting a path of navigation you know will take you past whirlpools and monsters.

He doesn’t get it. A quick pity fuck won’t fix this.

“It’s easy to ignore feelings you don’t have, Captain, but it would be a problem for me.” There’s nowhere to look but his eyes or his pecs, so you swallow your jagged anxiety and focus on his face. A strong twitch would bring you together, you’re that close. He deserves a punch. But that might just be an excuse to touch him. And you’d rather do that softly. Fuck.

“If we’re going to talk about it, then let’s get to the point.” There isn’t much space to draw yourself up, but you try, and you don’t miss the way his lips twitch. You want it to make you angry, but the rage just won’t kindle. “I caught feelings. That’s my fault, and you’ve been more than gracious about it, but I meant what I said, and if the best thing for the crew – for you – is to peel off, that’s what I’m going to do.”

That’s it. You’ve said your piece. Now he can make his move as captain. Chide you. Dismiss you. Laugh. Your eyes shut, and you brace for words you don’t want to hear. If he’d just cooperated with your plan and let you distance yourself, maybe you could’ve –

Hair whispers over your face, and Shanks’ temple presses to yours.

Your eyes pop open. He’s right there. Right here. He wasn’t supposed to come closer.

He chuffs, and his breath rolls down your collar.

“So stupid.”

He kisses your forehead as you stand dumb and amazed.

The…fuck?

What?

His little chortle cracks into a hearty laugh, but it isn’t mockery or a mere diversion from your shame. He laughs all the time, for all kinds of reasons. But this one’s real. His shoulders shake with it.

“So smart. But so stupid.”

There must be a proper response to this. But it feels like your first meeting all over again. Your decisions have been upended, and it’s all his fault.

But it’s a good thing. Isn’t it? Wasn’t it even back then, when he arguably ruined your life and turned you into a pirate?

It isn’t bad.

But it can’t be real.

Even though he’s filling your senses, and you’d never dare hope for something like this, let alone imagine it.

But –

Cigarette smoke wafts down the alley with Beckman’s shadow as he turns the corner. “You both are. Makes you well suited.”

The glowing tip of his cigarette is shockingly grounding. The bright red is familiar. It isn’t the romantic, pale moonlight or the dim yellow streetlights that cast everything in chiaroscuro. That’s really Beckman. This is really happening.

Your soul and mind slam back into your body with the violence of a shipwreck. Your defenses splinter, and it feels like your whole chest cracks open to put your heart on display, leave it pulsing and naked for a careless pirate’s strike.

Oh, holy shit.

You have absolutely no idea what your expression is doing at the moment, but Shanks leans even further in, letting his cloak block you from his first mate’s view. His lips hover by your ear.

“Do you trust me?”

“Of course, Captain.”

“Do you trust me?”

Trust. Beyond his role as captain. Shanks the man. Shanks the man who said he doesn’t have a problem with your feelings. Shanks the man who doesn’t have a problem with your feelings and dropped a kiss on your head while crowding you against the wall in a dark alley.

Simple answer, really.

“I guess I do.”

He pulls back and grins like a gods damned shark.

“All I needed to hear.”

For the second time that night, he rips the ground from under your feet and flips your world on its head.

Fairly literally, this time.

Between one fluttering heartbeat and the next, he’s ducked, thrown you over his right shoulder and launched out of the alley. Straight into the air. Wind rips tears from your eyes, and your hair stings where it lashes against your skin.

Backman and the tavern shrink below, and gravity yanks on your stomach.

“Shanks!”

His laughter rumbles through his shoulder into your belly. He must’ve been expecting to sacrifice an eardrum to your shriek, and whatever he’s getting from this must be worth it. To him at least.

You’ve only seen him sky walk once or twice, one of many abilities he stores under good humor in case of bad weather. Since the Red Force practically demands fair weather by its very presence, you haven’t seen him break out the weatherproofing often.

Nails sinking into his cloak, your mind blanks on adrenaline. There are no equations in freefall.

Just as you begin to lose altitude, he steps again, and you howl, trying to sink into the man’s flesh. You’re like a cat frantically trying to cling to a human raft.

He touches down on the deck of his command ship, and you can’t unlock your knuckles from where they’ve knotted into his clothes. Just as well, because he doesn’t take his arm from around your knees. A few steps bring him to the captain’s quarters. A kick opens the door. A second kick closes it. And then – finally – he helps you slide down from his shoulder.

Your legs are boneless. You refuse to let go. Your dignity hangs by the thread count of his clothing.

“I thought you trusted me?”

Looking up, you meet his shit-eating grin, and you pant in lingering terror and growing rage. “Fuck you, Shanks.”

He’s practically glowing, he’s so happy. Cackling in glee, he falls back into a wide chair, pulling you to sit across his lap, your back supported by his remaining arm.

Shaking the hair from his eyes, he beams at you. Like you’re finally in on the joke.

“I think I need to keep you closer. Hard to take care of me from so far away, isn’t it?”

“Yeah.” He isn’t wrong. The distance between you swelled like an ulcer, a terrible little fear you couldn’t help worrying as you scanned the newspapers and bounty posters for an update. For proof he was alright. Safe. Well.

But as the ringing fades from your ears and you take stock of where you’re sitting, you’re afraid to add up the final sum.

“Captain – Shanks.” You catch yourself. His hand rests on your knee, and because you have no idea where to put yours, you clutch one fist to your chest and let the other settle over his wrist.

What is happening? A black and white answer is all you want. You can set a course if you can just find the difference between north and south.

“What is this?”

His nose traces your jaw, and you turn into the contact as eager butterflies cannibalize the anxious moths banging around in your gut.

“What do you think?” He’s lured you close enough, and he steals a kiss. A satin brush of desire that conjures a sigh from his chest. Warm eyes find yours as they blink open, like sunset at sea. “It was never your problem. It’s my fucking problem, too.”

Whether or not he’s lying, there’s only one good response to that.

You know what to do with your hands now.

Taking his jaw, you pull him into another kiss. A proper one that delivers on all the restrained promise of the first. His grip rises to your waist, pulling you into his chest as his lips tattoo his feelings over yours. You’re far from a blank page, but you doubt you’ll ever be able to read old notes under the bold script he prints.

He pulls back to breathe, and he smiles under the little pecks you pepper over his face. Skilled fingers explore everything he can reach, and you know you’ve gotten too close to the bonfire. You’re starting to melt.

“I didn’t mean to leave you for so long,” he murmurs.

When his hand wanders over your chest, firm enough to spark every nerve to life, your head falls back, and he takes advantage. He mouths along your neck, around your ear as he continues.

“At first, I wanted to prove to myself that I could be good, that I wouldn’t take advantage of you. Be a responsible captain.”

He squeezes a breast, and the jolt rushes down your spine, trapping itself between your legs. Red hair twists between your fingers as you desperately explore him in return. He’s too busy talking and tasting to kiss.

“Wanted to give you room to breathe. To come to your senses.”

The wandering hand drifts. Smoothing over your sternum and down your belly, spreading over your trousers’ fastening.

“But then one thing led to another, and Beck handed me your bounty poster.”

It shouldn’t surprise you that Shanks has a motormouth, even as a lover. His words touch as skillfully as his hand, though, and you’re drunker than you’ve ever been on rum. He doesn’t have to be good. Whatever he wants, he can have. You’ve been a cold pile of kindling for an age. He’s set you blazing to match his heat.

His touch lingers on the buttons, and you kiss whatever parts of him you can reach. The crown of his head. His temple. You map his shoulders with curious fingertips, pushing under the collar of his loose shirt. He listens to your cues.

The first button pops free.

“I have no doubt you could go out on your own.”

The second button.

He slips his hand under your knee, pulling your leg to straddle him, your back to his chest.

“Make a name for yourself as a pirate. Terrify the world with your numbers and your revolver. But I couldn’t bring myself to be happy for you if you did.”

Back up your thigh, over your hip. He lets you simmer, anticipating his next move. Even as he finally moves under your clothes, he pauses short of the goal, and you whimper. Your head rests against his shoulder, allowing him every piece of you he desires, and he nips your earlobe.

Drunk off him as you are, he wants you to hear every word that comes next.

“I want you to be my pirate.”

Calloused fingertips creep between your folds, and you immediately roll your hips, chasing him the way you’ve wanted to for so long.

He grazes your clit in passing, and your back arches. “I am. I’ve always been yours, you idiot. Please, Shanks!”

Boyish giggles trail over your flesh as he finally touches you, strokes you, finds the proof of your unquenchable infatuation. He hums, beyond happy with himself and the task in hand.

“Poor thing. Have you been aching for me like this all year?”

You gather enough breath to pant, “Longer.”

He croons and licks the first dew of sweat blooming along your throat.

“Poor little pirate.”

Quick circles over your most sensitive spot push you staggering towards the precipice in record time. You’ve never gotten yourself off so fast. No partner has ever managed it, that’s for fucking sure.

But it’s him.

And he’s holding you, and all but purring as you flutter and jerk against him, and you want to…

One finger pushes in, and you buck, crying out. You’re still riding the cliff’s edge, and you aren’t sure if this is better or if you’re going to give him another scar for abandoning your clit. You whine, and the finger pulls back. It returns with a friend at a fresh angle that grinds his palm exactly where it belongs.

“Fuck.”

“Exactly.”

He searches, stretching you as he goes. When he finds what he’s looking for, your eyes all but roll back into your head. The both of you groan as you clench. He shoves you over the border, and you lose yourself. The orgasm rips your mind away, and you float, convinced you’d drift to the ceiling if he wasn’t holding you. Wasn’t still knuckle-deep, drawing out the fall.

By the time you settle back into your own skin, your toes and the tips of your fingers are tingling. He removes his hand and it only makes you want to cry a little.

Until he brings it to his lips. Sucks his fingers clean. Winks as you stare.

“To the bed?” He isn’t even trying to hide how excited he is. You can feel him, long and hard under your thigh, but the roguish glee in his eyes reveals more.

Once you’re in that bed, he won’t be letting you up for the rest of the night.

“Just a minute.” You pet his face, almost slurring as you explain. “I need to catch my breath.”

“Mn. Take your time then.” He nuzzles into your neck, and without the distraction of his fingers curling inside you, it tickles. A lot. His stubbly little beard rubs into your flesh, and you realize he’s doing it on purpose when you flinch and the hand resting over your belly squeezes. He draws his cheek over the sensitive spot behind your ear.

“Hmm? Something wrong?”

“N-no.” Fuck that. You can win this game. Even though you’re already biting your lip to keep the giggles locked in.

His whiskers move down your neck as he aggressively cuddles into the tender skin, hunting for the spot that will break your resolve. He finds it in the gap between shoulder and neck. Laughter tears out of you, and the hand on your belly dances to your side, setting you writhing on Shanks’ lap.

“Alright! Alright!” You go to stand, but his arm keeps you pinned.

“Thought you needed to catch your breath?” He doesn’t move away from your neck as he speaks, using his lips and breath to continue your torment.

“I yield,” you gasp. Tears gather in your eyes as you wriggle, trying to push your way free. “Let me go.”

The tickling fingers smooth flat again, and he stops attacking your neck. Only to place a chaste kiss there. “Never.”

But he does, letting you rise, sliding his grip down to hold your hand. He looks up at you, his heart in his eyes, and everything inside goes still.

It’s like sailing through a Calm Belt after passing through a storm. It’s the same ocean, but everything looks different.

Right.

This is it.

Safely at anchor, the ship barely moves, but there’s always that subtle sway that keeps the light moving. Your sea legs find it a thousand times firmer than shore. A dance that lulls and leaps. Home and heart.

His thumb rolls over your fingers.

Here’s the solution to the equations that never quite fit.

The solution brings your knuckles to his lips for a kiss, holding your gaze until you blink back to yourself.

“Take off some of those layers for me.” He’s all suggestion, in every sense, and nodding, you step back, letting your fingertips slide free of his hold.

You have no idea how to perform a striptease without making yourself ridiculous, so you stay practical. His attention keeps you safe, and you don’t look away as you shed your jacket, pull off your boots, tug away your socks. When your hands drift to your trousers, still unbuttoned from Shanks’ good work, his eyes dip to follow. The fabric falls, and his tongue runs over his lower lip, almost like he’s caught in thought. But his eyes are dark, pupils blown wide when he meets your eyes again, and you doubt there’s anything left in his head besides visions of what he’s about to do to you.

You begin working on your shirt buttons, and he stands. His shirt pulls smoothly over his head, a feat he performs gracefully even with a single arm, and your fingers shake, stumbling in their task as you appreciate the view. Golden skin and a warrior’s build. It isn’t even the first time you’ve seen him shirtless. Damn.

He basks under your appraisal, shaking back his hair and leaning his hips forward so there’s no mistaking his interest as he unbuckles his belt.

It dawns on you, as you struggle with your buttons, eyes lingering over inappropriate places, that it has been a very long time since you got this far. Romantically. With a man who’s clearly well endowed.

Math can be a cruel mistress. Even if physics isn’t your specialty, you understand some things about pegs and holes. Laws of volume and stretch. That sort of thing.

“Stop calculating.” He’s caught you. As usual. And he’s laughing you both past any anxiety. Easy as a strong wind under blue skies. “I can feel those damn numbers stealing your attention from me, and I’m a greedy, greedy pirate. I need it all.”

Your own grin catches, spreads.

A greedy pirate you can trust. Do trust.

Equations be damned. Shanks has always found a way to get what he wants, and you know he wants your pleasure as much as you want his.

He kicks off his sandals as he swaggers up to you and pulls you tight, banishing your calculations and concerns with a kiss. When his tongue begs entrance, you oblige, hurrying to meet him, eager to feel and touch and play in thrilling new ways.

You find the bed together. Or it finds you. Maybe, like Beckman, it has some secret understanding with the captain. A conspiracy to place you somewhere soft and vulnerable. Regardless, you fall back, never leaving your lover’s embrace.

Shanks is more than happy to finish with your shirt, making a show of slipping each loop free with his one hand. Everything else comes off in a rush. The man’s an octopus, groping, squeezing, and surrounding you like he has twice as many limbs as most men.

He has you on your back, bare, one leg hoisted over his shoulder. As he takes his time coating himself in your slick, a moment of clarity breaks through the crush of sensation.

“I really do want to take care of you.”

There’s no pause. He lets your words soak in, rumbling in satisfaction as he slowly breaches your entrance. He falls forward to rest on his forearm, covering you as he rocks in and out, creeping deeper like an incoming tide.

“Oh, you are. You’re taking such good care of me.”

He seals any further complaints away with a kiss, moaning and lapping into your mouth. There’s too much to parse into individual feelings. You’re so full, and he’s so warm. Pleasure thrums through you, and everything tangles into the press of bodies, the unspeakable intimacy of the act.

Some unknown time later, when you sneak a breath and a thought, you gasp, “Not fair.”

Wicked laughter answers, and he pushes deep, grinding up against your clit to chase away any idea of the world beyond how good he feels.

“I’m your captain. Nothing about this is fair.” He bites your lip and moves faster, gleefully driving you to the brink of insanity once again.

Your body delights in his, and it fights to keep him as resolutely as your mind tried to escape. Every time you flutter and clench around him, his eyelashes flutter over his cheeks. The muscles over his back roll under your grip.

It’s strange and wonderful. A day ago, you expected him to abandon you to your sensible plans. Now, well, it’s a whole new world, isn’t it?

Whispers of his name pick loose strings from his control.

When you crash through your orgasm, burying your scream in his shoulder, he pounds you through it. His mouth moves, full of words he’s beyond articulating, and a groan from the depths of his soul shakes through the both of you as finds his own release.

He falls beside you, hair damp with sweat, meeting your pleasure-numbed eyes with a lazy smile.

“C’mere.”

His arm loops around you, pulls you back to his chest, and the afterglow hums over you like music.

Distant voices remind you of the crew outside Shanks’ quarters.

“I hope you know,” he mumbles, “you don’t have to worry about finding a spare hammock below decks ever again.”

He snuggles into your neck, and you stroke the arm anchoring you.

This dickhead.

How many crewmates saw the captain’s little show? How many put the pieces together after you both disappeared? How many heard you chanting his name?

Gods. You’ll have to find some energy to worry about that tomorrow.

Might be a good reason to get drunk, actually.

#fic: paper pirates #red haired shanks x reader #shanks x reader #shanks x you #benn beckman ships it #one piece x reader

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solsticehymns · 1 month ago

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green light: drabble

james potter x f!reader / ANGST / post-breakup / muggle + modern au

But honey, I'll be seeing you 'ever I go / But honey, I'll be seeing you down every road / I'm waiting for it, that green light, I want it

summary: Breakups are messy. James is handling his the usual way—too many drinks, meaningless flirting, pretending he’s fine. But no matter how hard he tries, he can’t outrun the ghost of you.

a/n: WHEWWWW this hurt to write!!! i love making myself cry it's so fun!!! i rly rly love this song too 10/10 no notes breakup song. perfectly captures the emotion, that was the driving factor for me writing this story and. yeah i think i did that. lol i hope you like it! sunny ☀️🌻

wc: 881

“Look at him. He’s completely full of it.”

“Mm,” Remus hums, swirling his drink, watching James over the rim of his glass. “Acting like he’s moved on, but let’s be honest—he’s barely holding it together.”

“You do realize I can hear you, yeah?” James cuts in, raising a brow.

“Oh, we know.” Sirius smirks. “But are you really listening?”

James exhales sharply, tipping his drink back in one go. “Honestly, I’m doing great,” He gestures around with a too-easy grin. “Night out with the lads, no worries, no heartbreak, just good, old-fashioned fun.”

“Right,” Remus deadpans. “That’s why you’re on your fourth drink and eyeing the exit.”

James places a hand over his chest, mock-wounded. “Moony, you cut me deep. I am simply embracing life, taking full advantage of my single era—”

“Spiraling,” Sirius corrects, taking a lazy sip of his drink.

“Thriving,” James counters, flashing a grin before spinning on his heel and disappearing into the crowd.

They watch him go, exchanging a glance that says they’ve seen this before.

James throws himself into the night, into everything. The flirtations, the drinks, the movement, the easy, messy, meaningless fun. He catches a girl wearing a too-short red dress on the dance floor when she stumbles into him, laughing like he’s got nothing but time and charm to waste.

At the bar, he leans in, voice a deliberate murmur: "You look way too good to be standing here without a drink in your hand—what are we having?"

This girl isn’t the first tonight, and she won’t be the last. He’s lost track of the faces, the fleeting conversations, the way he keeps chasing something easy, something temporary, something that doesn’t necessitate anything real.

She barely humors him. Rolls her eyes, mutters something about trying harder than that, and turns away before he even has the chance to smirk.

James just grins, tossing back the rest of his drink. It’s fine. It’s all a game anyway. It’s easy. It’s working.

Until it isn’t.

A tap on his shoulder.

For a moment—a single, breathless moment—he doesn’t prepare for disappointment. He lets himself believe. Lets himself imagine that if he turns, it will be you. That you will be standing there, looking at him like you used to, as if nothing ever broke, as if he is still yours and you are still his.

He turns.

It isn’t you.

The illusion shatters, and the weight of it crushes him in an instant. The music swells, too loud, pressing against his skull, and suddenly, you are everywhere.

Someone’s perfume lingers in the air, close enough to yours that his breath catches, but wrong enough to leave his chest hollow. The way a girl tosses her hair reminds him of you at a café, head tilted, laughing at something he said, light catching in your eyes. A song hums through the speakers in the pub—he doesn’t know the name, but he remembers you humming it, curled up on his couch, absentminded, effortless. His glass is slick with condensation, and somehow, it takes him back to you pressing a bottle of water into his palm on a sweltering afternoon, your fingers brushing his like it was nothing, like you had all the time in the world.

But time ran out. And now, everywhere he looks, you’re there, except you aren’t.

Instead, there is only this girl with bright eyes and an overeager smile, beguiled by him in a way that should be flattering.

But she is wrong. The way she looks at him is wrong. The way she says, “Hey,” is wrong.

James blinks, swallowing hard. Her words blur beneath the realization—this is what moving on is supposed to look like.

This is the part where he’s meant to forget you, replace you, smile and flirt and give someone new the pieces of himself that you’d left behind.

But nothing about this fits. The music is too loud. The air is too thick. His drink is suddenly too warm in his hand, the ice already melted.

“James,” he says, an automated response, but it doesn’t sound like his own name.

She asks him something—where he’s from, what he does, an inconsequential question—but he barely hears her, far too caught up in the realization that it will never be you again. That he will turn and find her instead of you every time. And there is no getting used to that.

His jaw tightens. He exhales, forced and uneven. “Sorry—I should get back to my friends.”

He doesn’t wait for her response. He’s afraid to turn again, terrified of seeing another phantom you standing there.

At the bar, Remus and Sirius watch his return, the tension in his shoulders, the way his hands shove into his pockets as if he’s holding himself together by force.

“Not interested?” Remus asks, though they already know the answer.

James snorts, grabbing another drink. “Nah,” he mutters.

He doesn’t say it, but he doesn’t have to.

He stares down at his drink, turning the glass between his fingers, and considers it—just for a second. Pulling out his phone, typing something short, something he might regret in the morning. Something like, I miss you. Come get your things. Tell me this isn’t really over.

But it’s no use. He can already see the future.

Hope, turn, break.

☀️🌻 masterlist

#james potter #marauders fanfiction #marauders #marauders era #james potter x reader #james potter x you #james potter imagine #james potter fic #james potter fanfiction #james potter angst #james potter fanfic #james potter headcanon #james potter oneshot #james potter x y/n #the marauders #dead wizards from the 70s #james potter x fem!reader #james potter au #Spotify

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joelscruff · 2 years ago

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feelings on fire (joel miller x f!reader) 18+ PART NINE

previous chapters | welp. hey everybody, it's been a little while since this updated, huh? those who follow me will know i haven't been having the best time lately and had to put this fic on hold for a little bit. but finally an update is here, and i'm so excited to share it with you. thank you so much for being so patient and lovely. i also wanna give a huge shoutout to han @swiftispunk who's been there for me relentlessly throughout this rough period and who kept encouraging me whenever i thought this would never get written. i couldn't ask for a better writing buddy & friend, ilysm. i hope you guys like this chapter and here's my kofi if you'd like to leave a tip 💕 chapter summary: joel is taking you away for the weekend, which only means one thing: your v card is going bye-bye. rating: 18+ explicit warnings for this chapter: age difference (joel is in his 50s, reader is in her early 20s), innocent/inexperienced reader, loss of virginity, unprotected p in v sex, creampie, dirty talk, praise kink, size kink, tummy bulge, oral (f receiving), catholic guilt, panic attacks, phone sex, mutual masturbation, lap sitting, lingerie, fingering, there is so much goin on pls lmk if i forgot smth word count: 25k (what the fuck) ao3

It's crazy how one weekend can change everything.

After days of feeling like shit and wanting - or forcing yourself to want - absolutely nothing to do with Joel anymore, you'd wound up naked in bed together. An ironic twist to the men ain't shit mantra you and Tasha had been trying to live by for the past forty eight hours. You'd laid with your head on his chest, exhausted and sated, listening to his and your own equally haggard breathing slow to a quiet thrum of background noise. You'd kissed the spot above his nipple, soft and warm against your lips as he carded his fingers through your hair and peppered kisses all along the crown of your head.

"So you're taking me away, huh?" you'd asked him in the heavenly afterglow of your orgasms, still tangled together under the sheets.

He'd smiled sleepily, squeezed you tighter in his arms and pulled you in as close as he could, "I'm takin' you away," he'd promised quietly, "Just you n' me. Gonna make this right."

Unbeknownst to him, everything had already become right again the moment he'd walked through the bedroom door.

Tasha had come back about an hour after you'd finished, roused you both from a quick nap by knocking quietly at the door and saying, "Hate to bother you guys but we gotta be out of here by four and the place is a disaster." Looking down at the mascara stained pillowcase beneath your head, you'd known she was right.

A few hours later you'd stood at the airport once again, arms wrapped tightly around Tasha as you buried your face in her shoulder and thanked her over and over again for everything; for being there, for listening, for understanding, for texting Joel, everything.

"You're gonna make me cry," she'd mumbled in your ear, hugging you back just as tightly, "Please, I just did what a good friend does."

You'd hoped she knew that she's the first good friend you've ever had.

Just before she'd headed to her gate, she'd pulled something out of her purse and handed it to you discreetly, palm down. You'd glanced downward to see a little blue package, thin and rectangular.

"Start taking these tonight," she'd said softly, "Take one every day at the same time. Promise me."

"What is it?"

She'd rolled her eyes, "Oh, you sweet summer child."

You know what birth control is. You're not that clueless. You just.... haven't really seen it before.

Now, having a pack of it in your possession, in your bedroom of all places, hidden in one of your dresser drawers beneath socks and underwear... it somehow feels more scandalous than the bikini. More scandalous than Joel's flannel beneath your mattress. More scandalous than those short little dresses folded in a bag in the back of your closet.

Birth control means sex. If your parents found your clothing purchases or Joel's flannel you could probably get away with some kind of lie, an excuse. But if they found this.... you don't even want to think about what would happen.

Take one every day at the same time. Promise me.

You pop out a pill quickly before shoving the package back into your dresser, then hurry to the bathroom with it tucked in your palm, clasped tightly between your fingers. You take it quickly with a handful of water and then stare at your reflection in the mirror for a moment, eyes bright. You're expecting to feel an ounce of shame, some guilt creeping in - but you don't. Instead, you find yourself smiling, face going hot when you think about the reason why you're taking these in the first place.

"Dinner's ready!" you hear your mom call from downstairs, and you yank yourself away from the bathroom mirror before your thoughts can get any more X rated.

She hadn't said anything to you when you got home, but then again you hadn't really given her a chance to. Now you shuffle into the kitchen and take a seat at the table, eyeing her quietly and wondering if the silent treatment is over. Your father comes in from the living room before you can find out, taking his usual seat and giving you a stern look.

"I heard you spent the weekend with one of your college friends," he states.

You stare at him for a second, unsure what to really say. You settle for a shrug, "Uh, yeah. Just had a girls' weekend at an Airbnb."

"I'm just curious why you're making time for friends you'll be seeing again in September when there are people here you've barely even said hello to," he raises an eyebrow, squaring his shoulders, "You said the other week you'd be volunteering again, didn't you? Doing more things to better yourself?"

"Well, I helped out at Sunday School," you offer with a grimace, but you already know it's not enough.

"I'm not talking about helping out here and there every now and then," he shakes his head and eyes your mother as she walks over with two plates of dinner, places them in front of the both of you without making eye contact, "You need a weekly activity, something steady, right dear?"

Your mother's gaze flits to yours quickly as he says this and you know exactly what she's thinking without her having to say it: do not mention the guitar lessons. But what the fuck are you supposed to say? You get that she doesn't want your father knowing until your little "plan" has bore a little more fruit, but it isn't fair that he still thinks you need some kind of weekly activity to attend when you already have one. Or, at least, a cover for one.

Maybe your mother can solve this problem for you.

"Well, actually-" you begin, only bluffing, but she bangs the water jug on the table before you can continue.

"I'll work on it with her, don't worry," she says quickly, shaking her head at you as discreetly as she can, "We'll figure something out together."

As usual, your father is oblivious to anything amiss. He just nods and extends his hands to start the prayer, "Sounds good."

Dinner is the usual boring affair, barely any conversation to be had as your father scarfs it down and heads to his office, leaving you and your mother sitting at the table in silence. You poke absentmindedly at your broccoli, thinking about Joel - he wants to see you again tonight, maybe talk about some stuff, and you're not really sure how to feel about it yet; you want to know more about his ex wife, his daughter, want to understand him and his life a little better, but it also scares you a bit. Hearing about his relationship with another woman - a woman who clearly still has a prominent position in his life - it's gonna be a lot to take in.

He also wants to talk about taking you away - a much less scary thought.

"So, you had a good weekend?" your mom asks quietly, and you look up in surprise - you'd thought the silent treatment was still ongoing.

"Yeah, it was nice," you reply - simplistic and not a very true answer, but it's not like you can tell her about anything that happened.

"What did you do?"

You shrug again, "Just watched movies and hung out, talked about how our summers have been going," you take a bite of broccoli and hope she won't press it any further.

"Did you go to your lesson on Saturday?"

You nod quickly, swallowing and doing your best to keep eye contact, "Yep, I learned some new chords." Bullshit. "Mr. Miller is a really good teacher." Less bullshit.

She doesn't say anything else right away and you manage to completely finish your meal before she drops her fork and turns to you with a sigh. "I know what you're thinking and no, I still haven't told your father about it. I already explained why-"

"Because you don't want him getting involved before I've made progress, I know."

"So have you? Been making progress?"

Oh, the things you could say in response to that question. "I think I have. He's, um... he's been very interested in the hymns."

"Which ones are you learning?"

Oh fuck.

"It's a surprise," you say quickly, flashing her a fake smile, "Don't wanna jinx it, ya know?"

Her brows furrow but she doesn't question it, nodding slowly and taking a deep breath as she grabs both your plates and walks to the sink. You sit there for a moment, not wanting to get up until you know for sure the conversation is over.

"So it's working, you think?" she finally asks, turning on the tap and rinsing the dishes, "You're helpin' him?"

You swallow, thankful she's not looking at you as your hands ball into fists against the wood of the table, "Yes," you lie quietly, "Definitely."

"You need to teach me a hymn," is the first thing you say to Joel that night as you walk through his front door, passing right by him without so much as a hug, "Or two. Two hymns, maybe three, I don't know."

"Hello to you too," he says with a chuckle, shutting the door and walking over to you to wrap his arms around you from behind, "S'wrong? You alright?"

You have to admit, being wrapped in his arms certainly does make the anxiety ebb away. You close your eyes and lean back into his grasp, sighing deeply and trying to ground yourself as best you can. Ever since that conversation with your mother you feel like your brain has been working on overdrive, reminding you over and over that you're so fucking behind on what you're meant to be doing to keep this façade intact.

"I'm just stressed," you mutter, "My mom asked about the lessons and I didn't know what to say and now I'm all up in my own head again as usual."

You feel him tuck his head against your shoulder, squeeze you tighter, "Hey, it's okay," he murmurs, breath so warm against your ear it makes you shiver, "We'll find a couple easy ones and I'll teach you. You can borrow my guitar too, practice at home."

"My dad still doesn't know," you sigh, "She's waiting for me to have some sort of breakthrough with you to tell him."

He snorts, "And what exactly does this 'breakthrough' look like?"

"I don't know, a pool of golden light? Heavenly angels singing praise?"

He chuckles against your skin, pressing a kiss there, "Well, that'll be easy. That happens every time I make you come."

You feel your cheeks bloom with heat, lips tightening into a bashful smile as he pulls you in closer and noses your ear once again, scruff tickling the skin there. You hum contentedly, pretending for a moment that your parents aren't involved on the sidelines of this relationship, that their opinions don't matter and there doesn't need to be any sort of ulterior reason for your being here - then you remember that you're going to have a whole weekend to pretend that's the case, and you smile wider.

You turn in his arms, wrapping your own around his torso and peering up at him. He's so handsome as usual, hair messy, eyes brown and deep. It's impossible not to lean up and press a soft kiss to his lips, so of course you do, eyes closing as you melt against his mouth. He kisses you back just as soft, rubs your back gently as he holds you close.

"I'm so sorry, angel," he murmurs quietly against your lips, and you find yourself pulling away to look at him in confusion.

"For what?"

He shakes his head, eyes sad, "For everythin' I put you through this weekend, all that added stress," you go to interrupt but he brings one of his hands up to gently press his finger to your lips, stopping you, "Don't tell me not to apologize. I did wrong by you. I wanna fix it."

You swallow, remembering the woman at the bar - his ex wife, remembering the way he'd smiled before he kissed her, the way those soft brown eyes looking at you right now had looked directly into hers as well...

Your stomach twists uncomfortably.

"I meant what I said, about tellin' you everything," he murmurs, "I want... I want you to know me, ya know? I..." he breathes deeply, closing his eyes and resting his forehead against yours, "God, I'm not good at this."

"Good at what?" you whisper, and you feel him shrug in your embrace.

"Just.... bein' open."

You pull back a bit to peer at him again, feeling your stomach unclench when you see that unsure look on his face, the worry lines prominent on his forehead and those plump lips downturned into a frown. He's still afraid he's lost you, you can tell.

"Well, I wanna hear what you have to say," you murmur, "I do wanna learn more about you. But it's okay, Joel. I'm not heartbroken, not anymore."

He winces at your words, "But you were," he closes his eyes again, "You were heartbroken, baby. I hurt you. We... she -" he cuts himself off to sigh, "She didn't know about you when she kissed me, alright? I hadn't told her, and that's on me."

Oh. You didn't know that.

"Why... why didn't you tell her?"

"Because I was a coward," he says immediately, "I didn't... I wasn't..." he takes another deep breath and pulls away from you, unlocking himself from your embrace to grip your arms in both his hands, "Okay," he breathes, "I'm really bad at this, darlin', forgive me if it comes out weird."

You're not sure what he's about to say but you can feel your heart beginning to beat faster in your chest as he stands there looking at you, brow furrowed as if he's completely out of his element, and you suppose he is.

"I haven't... god, I don't wanna scare you but..." he chews his lip for a moment, lost in thought, "I just... I meant it, when I said that I think about you all the time. I really, really meant it."

You stare at him for a moment, processing his words. What is he saying? That he didn't tell his ex wife about you because of how much he thinks about you? How does that make sense? You silently curse yourself for your naivety, your inexperience with relationships. You're sure if Tasha was here she'd be able to tell you exactly what he means.

You're about to ask him to elaborate when you suddenly catch a glimpse of something on the mantel of the fireplace, something that you can't recall ever seeing before. Your eyes go slightly wide and he notices immediately, following your gaze.

"Oh," he says quietly, "Um, yeah, I... I put up some pictures."

His grip on your arms releases when he realizes you want to get a closer look. You make your way over to the fireplace with careful steps, eyeing the framed photograph in front of you as it slowly comes more into focus.

It's Joel - a much younger Joel. You're not sure how young, but there are no signs of age on his face, skin smooth and bare and hair trimmed neatly beneath a baseball cap. He's standing behind a swing, pushing an adorable little toddler in front of him, a big smile on her face as she kicks her chubby legs high into the air.

You stare at it for a long time without saying anything, warmth bursting through your chest the longer your gaze flicks from him to the baby, the baby to him. There's something in her brown eyes, something recognizable, and you realize it's because they're his eyes.

You're looking at his daughter.

"What's her name?" you finally ask, voice soft.

"Sarah," he replies - he sounds close behind you but he doesn't touch you, doesn't make any move to embrace you again, just lets you absorb the information in your own time.

"Sarah," you repeat quietly, thoughtfully, "How old is she there?"

"Few days before her second birthday," he says, and you swear you can hear the hint of a smile in his voice, "Installed that swing set in the backyard for her as a present, but I couldn't wait 'til her birthday to show her - I was too excited."

You smile at his words, feeling fondness flood your thoughts as your gaze falls back to the much younger Joel. He looks a little like the boys you've seen at college, extremely handsome but inexperienced, naïve, maybe even a little lost... kind of like you. You squint your eyes a bit, as if staring at him will help you figure out exactly how old he is.

"I'm twenty in that one," he answers for you.

Your eyebrows shoot up and you finally turn around to look at him, a look of shock prominent on your face. "But... that would mean you had her -"

"When I was eighteen, yeah," he gives you a wistful half smile, "Remember that 'trouble' I told you I got in right outta high school? The mysterious thing I did that got me disowned?" he gestures toward the photo with a light chuckle, "Well, there she is. Little Miss Trouble, Sarah Miller."

Your brow furrows. You remember what he'd said on his back deck that day, the way he'd stopped himself from revealing too much. He'd been so close to telling you, and yet...

"Why didn't you just tell me then?" you ask softly, "That day in your backyard, you... you coulda told me about her."

His smile fades into a frown, eyes going downcast, "I was afraid," he admits softly, "I didn't... I didn't want this to end so soon. I didn't wanna scare you off."

You feel a pang in your heart, a sensation of sadness that bubbles up within you as you peer at his melancholic expression, the shame in his eyes. He really thinks you're five seconds away from running out the door, leaving his life for good and forgetting this whole thing between the two of you even happened. You can see it in his expression, the way he's standing like he's small, the same way he'd looked last night when Tasha had tugged you out of his house and into a cab.

You make your way toward him, palm outstretched as you reach up and press it to the side of his face. His gaze comes up to meet yours, watery and sad and - god, he's beautiful. So, so beautiful.

"I'm not going anywhere," you whisper honestly, shaking your head and smiling softly, "Not before you teach me at least two hymns."

His frown breaks into a grin and he rolls his eyes, the tears spilling over a little bit as he sniffs and tries to pull himself together. You just bring your other hand up to fully cup his face, turning his head so he's looking directly into your eyes.

"I mean it, Joel," you breathe, and you think you're starting to understand what he meant, "You say you think about me all the time, but... I think about you all the time. I can't stop thinking about you," your voice quivers a bit and you feel tears begin to sting in your own eyes, "Even when I was trying to force myself not to think about you, I couldn't do it."

You thumb his cheeks lightly, feeling them tighten under your palms as he smiles again. You can't help but lean forward to brush your nose against his, closing your eyes.

"I think... I don't know, I just feel like-"

"I know," he interjects softly, "I feel it too, angel. Scares the hell outta me, doesn't even seem possible to feel it after such a short length of time, but I do."

You open your eyes to peer at him again, "Is that why you didn't tell her? 'Cause you were scared of how you feel?"

"Yes," he murmurs, "I knew if I told her... if I let myself really feel what I've been feelin'... I'd have to face the fact that I'd been dishonest with you, that I hadn't been showin' you my true self, ya know? And that's... that's always been hard for me." He takes a breath, "She was real sad that night. She... she was comin' on strong, cause she really needed somebody. And I almost gave myself to her, you should know that. I don't wanna lie to you."

It hurts to hear it, but at the same time you're glad he's telling you, glad he feels safe to express himself the same way you do with him.

"We weren't... we weren't official or anything," you mumble, eyes casting downward.

"No, we weren't," he agrees softly, "But it still wouldn't've been right, angel, not for you and not for me. I didn't want it, I just... I just felt for her, ya know? We've been doin' this thing so long, it can be hard to say no, especially when it's someone you care about."

"But you did."

He nods, "I did. And then I told her about you and she understood."

You peer up at him again, unsure, "She understood? Really?"

He smiles, "She understood, sweetheart. She's a good person, I promise. But I also promise that I don't feel things for her the way I used to, not anymore. And our arrangement is over." He blinks away a few tears, locking his eyes with yours again, "Do you believe me?"

You nod slowly, taking in his words. You find that you do believe him, don't even question a word of what he's saying to you. It should probably scare you to trust him this much, to wholeheartedly sense nothing but earnestness from his demeanor and words, but it doesn't. It feels good to hear him say these things and to know that he means it, that he's finally being himself.

"So who are you then, really?" you ask softly, "Who's this whole other Joel Miller I've been missing out on?"

He laughs lightly, bumping his nose against yours, "Well, darlin'... he's old and he's boring, keeps to himself, works too much..." he takes a breath, then meets your gaze again, eyes soft and tender, "And he's fuckin' crazy about you."

His words embed themselves into your brain almost immediately, sending tingles up and down your spine as your arms come up to wrap around him and pull him into a kiss. He seems surprised by your response but only for a moment, then wraps his own arms around you and pulls you in as close as he can, cradles you as he kisses you back with that familiar warmth and safety you've always felt with him.

He's fuckin' crazy about you.

You find yourself moving the two of you toward the couch and he lets you, your legs tangling together as you shuffle over to it. You slowly settle onto it together, him sitting pretty beneath you while you situate yourself in his lap, a leg on either side of his thighs. You don't stop kissing him, whimpering softly into his mouth when his hand stills firmly on your back, holding you close.

"What're you doin', babygirl?" he breathes against your lips, voice dark and husky - he already knows the answer.

You don't reply, just deepen the kiss and grind yourself down into his crotch, feeling his already half hard cock press against you through your shorts. You whimper again, pulling back to look at him through lidded eyes.

"Huh?" he asks softly, his own eyes already dark and unfocused, "What're you doin', sweetheart? What d'you need?" He bucks his hips up with his words and you gasp, clinging to him tightly and resting your head on his shoulder. "Need my cock, don't you, baby?"

You nod even though he can't see you, close your eyes and whisper, "I need it so bad."

"Need it deep inside, huh?"

You swallow and shiver, grinding down against him again in response. He holds you firm in his lap and brings his lips to your ear, trails his fingers up and down your back.

"I'm gonna give it to you, baby, I promise," he murmurs, voice gravelly and low, "Gonna fill you up so good, have you cryin' on it."

You whimper again, squeezing your eyes tighter and imagining how it'll feel to have his enormous size spreading your insides, pushing into the deepest parts of you. It's almost too much to bear, too much to imagine as you whine into his shoulder. You want it now, but you also know that now isn't the right time.

"I- I started taking birth control," you whisper, clinging to him tighter.

He seems to freeze beneath you for a moment, and then his hands move down to squeeze your ass, drag you slowly down the length of him - now fully hard - as you whine again.

"Good girl," he whispers, pinning you to his cock through his jeans, "That's- fuck, you're such a good girl."

You keen at his praise, whimpering into his shoulder as he drags you back and forth along his cock, the denim rough against your bare thighs. You think about what you'd both done together earlier today, the way it felt to have his entire length thrusting through your folds, the head catching on your hole every so often. The way it felt to have the wide tip pressed just enough inside of you, warm and pulsing.

"Take it out, please," you moan softly, pulling back to look at him again, "Wanna feel it. Please, Joel."

He groans at your words, nods quickly and adjusts you carefully in his lap so he can tug down his zipper. You watch as he reaches inside and pulls himself out, and your mouth immediately begins to water as soon as you catch sight of the dark tip, already wet and leaking. Without any hesitation at all your hand moves downward to wrap around his shaft, holding it in your palm.

"This was inside me," you whisper, the words sounding wonderfully filthy in your mouth as your thumb traces his throbbing tip, remembering how it had felt pushing against you.

"Yeah, it was," he murmurs. He's watching you closely, looking up at you with a lustful expression as you touch him, "Felt so good inside you, baby. Wanted to push all the way in so bad, fill you up."

You shiver, "Why didn't you?"

"'Cause I wanna take my time with you, angel. Wanna fuck you slow, get you used to it," he groans when you start to slowly stroke him up and down, eyes not leaving where you're touching him, "Gonna have you beggin' for it."

Without much thought you reach down and start to tug pathetically at your shorts, wanting them off. The angle is awkward and you can't move them properly, something which he notices right away, eyebrows going up.

"You wanna rub on it again, sweetheart?" he asks, his hands going immediately to your waistband.

You nod furiously, desperate whimpers escaping your lips as he eases you up a bit to pull them down. You bend your legs to accommodate his movements, lifting from his lap for just a moment as he tugs down both your shorts and panties, leaving you bare. He wastes no time in pulling you back down again, both of you letting out simultaneous gasps as his cock slips perfectly against your center, wet and waiting.

"Joel," you whine, burying your face in his shoulder and letting him begin to drag you back and forth on his cock again without any clothes in the way. It feels so fucking good, both of your most intimate parts touching and rubbing in sweet and filthy harmony while you cry into his shirt. One of his hands snakes up your back, holds you firm again as he helps you move.

"That's my perfect angel," he murmurs in your ear, voice shaky, "Thaaaat's my pretty girl, so wet for me. Always so fuckin' wet."

"Can't help it," you sob into his shoulder, feeling your stomach tighten every time his warm cock rubs up against your clit, "Can't help it, Joel, feels so good. You make me feel so good."

"I know," he moans in your ear, "I know I do, baby, I know."

It doesn't take long at all for your orgasm to hit you, a high pitched whine clawing its way out of your throat as you frantically grind against his cock and then still as the waves of pleasure wash over you. He rubs your back, holds you close, lets you feel all of it before pressing a finger to your chin and gently turning your face to look at him.

"Yep," he breathes, assessing your expression, "there's that pool of golden light. Heavenly angels singin' praise. You hear 'em?"

You laugh shakily, still overwhelmed at the feeling of his cock continuing to pulse against your pussy. He keeps holding you there without moving, letting you come down from your high, allowing the moment to stay soft and peaceful as he watches your face. Your eyes are tired - you're still not fully recovered from your busy weekend and he can tell.

"You look sleepy, babygirl," he murmurs softly, "Want me to carry you up?"

You shake your head quickly, "No, I still gotta make you come. Just gimme a minute."

He chuckles, "You don't gotta do anything, honey. You know that right? Need you to know that you don't owe me anythin', not ever."

He really is too considerate for his own good, but there's absolutely no way you're gonna leave him hanging like that. With a sly smile you shake your head again and lift your hips up a bit, bringing your hand down to wrap around his cock again. His jaw goes slack, eyes still staring into yours as you start to stroke him again.

"I wanna make you come," you correct yourself, leaning forward to press a tiny kiss to the corner of his mouth, "I want..." you drop your gaze bashfully, trying to let the dirty talk flow naturally like his does as you play with his cock, "I want you to make a mess on me."

"On you?" he asks, clearly surprised by your sudden boldness, "Where, baby? Where d'you want me to make a mess?"

With your other hand - slightly trembling - you pull your shirt up and palm the swell of your belly, just above your mound. He groans, low and lustful.

"On your tummy, baby?" he murmurs, "You want me to get your tummy all messy with my cum?"

You nod, biting down on your lip and pumping his cock faster, eyes coming back up to meet his gaze again as you get him off.

"Want it to drip down onto your pussy, huh?" he continues, brows drawing together in pleasure, "'Cause that's where it belongs, doesn't it?"

You nod again, "It does, Joel," you whisper, "It belongs there."

"You want me to come inside you this weekend, babygirl?" his voice is strained, so close to edge and you moan at his words, eyes still locked onto his, "Yeah, you do, don't you?"

"I do," you whimper, the truth stumbling from your lips before you can even really process it, "I want it so bad, Joel. Want you to fill me up."

With one last groan his eyes roll back and he starts to come all over your stomach, exactly where you'd wanted him to. Holding him in your hand while he comes is a brand new experience - his cock pulses and twitches within your grasp as he makes a strangled noise and brings his hand up to cover his face, overwhelmed by the sensation. You bite down on your lip and watch as his cum paints your skin in thick spurts, warm and thick.

"Fuck," he finally mutters after a moment of heavy breathing, bringing his hand down from his face to look at you again with a sated expression, "You're filthy, baby."

You feel your cheeks warm, eyes going down to where his cum drips down your belly. His gaze follows yours and he smirks, reaching forward to carefully thumb a bit that's trailing dangerously close to your pussy and pushing it up and away from where it shouldn't go - yet, anyway.

"In more ways than one," he murmurs softly, then meets your gaze again. Despite the depraved circumstances you still can't help but feel shy, head tilting away from him as you smile sheepishly and slip out of his lap, pretending not to hear the embarrassingly loud squelch of wet skin against wet skin. You see him grin in the corner of your eye, clearly still fond of your bashfulness.

"I'm gonna need a shower," you say shyly, eyeing your discarded shorts on the floor.

"Go shower, darlin'," he says, still seated on the couch with his legs open and his softening cock peeking through the open zipper of his jeans, "I'll get my bed all comfy for you."

At the mention of his bed you find a little bit of the anxiety from earlier return in the pit of your stomach, twisting uncomfortably. He notices your reaction immediately, a frown settling into his features as he assesses your expression.

"What is it?"

You avoid eye contact, biting your lip and awkwardly tugging your shirt down over your thighs so you're less exposed, "Um, I know nothing happened, I know you didn't... but um, did..." you grimace, "Did she..."

He stands up immediately, tugging his zipper as he goes and reaching you in a single stride, arms coming up to touch your shoulders. You look up and see him shaking his head, brown eyes softly searching yours.

"She wasn't in my bed, honey," he murmurs quietly, "I promise."

The anxiety settles, and you believe him.

You cuddle together in bed for a while after your shower, not really talking but just basking in the feeling of being together again after such a shitshow of a weekend. You're warm and comfy in one of Joel's band t-shirts while he lays beside you, spooning you from behind and pressing soft kisses to the exposed part of your neck every so often, his bare legs tangled with yours beneath the sheets.

Part of you still wants answers, wants to learn more about his relationship with his ex, but another part of you doesn't feel ready yet, doesn't want to ask those questions or face those truths. Your mind is running a mile a minute as you lay there without saying anything, brow furrowed as you weigh the pros and cons in your head.

"D'you wanna talk about it, angel?" Joel finally asks, almost like he can sense exactly what you're feeling, his arms tightening around you. Your eyes close and you sigh deeply, squishing the side of your face into his pillow.

"Talk about what?" you mumble, but he's not buying it.

"I know you have questions," he murmurs, kissing the back of your neck again - grounding you, reminding you that it's okay to be yourself here, "There must be a thousand flyin' around that beautiful head o'yours. And I want you to ask 'em."

You sigh again, quieter this time. He squeezes you and reaches up to pull some of your hair back from your cheek and push it behind your ear, stroking it gently. He presses a small kiss there and noses the space beneath.

"You still feel safe with me, right?" he whispers.

At his words you immediately turn in his embrace, a look of shock forming on your face, "Of course I do," you breathe, "Joel, I've never felt safer with anyone than I do with you."

"Okay, okay, just checkin'," he smiles at you, eyes soft and sleepy, "You just seem... somewhere else. And I know why," his smile turns sad again, "And I hate that you're feelin' this way, darlin'. What can I do?"

You shake your head and reach your hand up to palm the side of his face, thumb stroking his cheek tenderly, "You... you can tell me where it is you're taking me this weekend." It's a cop-out and you both know it, but as usual he doesn't push it - you'll talk about your feelings in your own time.

He turns his head and kisses the palm of your hand gently, "Dallas," he murmurs, "Hotel room's booked."

Your eyebrows shoot up, "Dallas? But that's hours away, isn't it?"

"About three or so," he shrugs, "You ever been?"

"Couple times when I was a kid. Why Dallas?"

His arms tighten around you and he leans forward to lightly brush his nose against yours, "I told you, I wanna take you away. Not just twenty minutes or an hour; I want you to forget about all the shit you're dealin' with here for a little while," he kisses the tip of your nose gently, "What better place to do that than another city?"

The thought makes you smile. He's right; getting as far away from your parents as possible definitely sounds like a more than appealing opportunity. You've been to Dallas before but not since you were a kid, experiences that have pretty much clouded over at this point, what with all the restrictive rules you'd had to face.

"I feel bad..." you suddenly whisper.

His expression falters, "Why, baby?"

"'Cause what if I don't wanna leave the hotel room?" You smile slyly and his grin comes back in full force as he pulls you closer, presses loud kisses along the side of your face as you giggle.

"Who said anything about leavin' the hotel room?" he chuckles, then reaches over you to grab his phone from the night stand, "Plus..." he scrolls through it for a few seconds then turns it to face you, "There may be a more specific reason I chose Dallas."

You peer at his phone, see the image of a poster staring back at you: DALLAS GOSPEL MUSIC FESTIVAL. The dates correlate to this upcoming weekend. Your jaw drops, eyes going wide as you turn back to his suddenly cocky expression - he's beyond proud of himself.

"Joel Miller," you gasp with a grin, slapping his arm playfully, "you're worse than me."

"So the whole thing just sounds really cool," you lie to your mother the following day, showing her the poster for the festival you'd printed out, "They're also doing group worship in the mornings and there's some other events happening between the shows, like bible trivia." Kill me now.

She raises an eyebrow, assessing it further, "It's an awfully long drive to Dallas on your own..."

"I like driving, it's peaceful."

"And aren't festivals known to have drugs?"

You resist the urge to roll your eyes, "It's gospel, Mom. I don't think anyone'll be handing out drugs. Plus," you point to the little anti-drug symbol in the corner of the poster, "it's not allowed, see?"

She still looks skeptical, bringing her gaze from the poster to your face, "But you've never wanted to go to something like this before. Why now?"

"I'm just-" you smile as earnestly as you can, "I'm really enjoying my lessons with Mr. Miller. I'd like to go see some professionals perform, get inspired, that kinda thing. I think it'll help me with my technique." Technique, sure. Not as if you've played his guitar more than once at this point.

She grimaces, "It seems an awfully big thing to keep from your father..."

And whose fault is that? "You could tell him I'm visiting another one of my friends?"

She nods slowly, thoughtfully, turning her head to look down at the poster again.

You hate this. You hate how much you're lying. You hate how much she's lying. But more than anything, you hate that you have to lie in the first place. You hate that you have to ask permission, as if you're not a grown adult woman with her own agency. None of this sneaking around and coming up with covers and excuses would even be necessary if your parents just allowed you to be yourself under their roof. The whole thing is so fucked.

"Promise you'll let me know when you get there, and text me every morning and night," she finally says, eyes meeting yours again, "And promise that you'll drive safely."

Relief floods through you, along with that all too familiar guilt, "I promise."

The rest of the week passes smoothly, albeit a little slow. Your mother gives your father some kind of excuse about this weekend that seems to appease him, something about a bible study group. You try not to think about how many stories you're weaving together at this point, all of them piling on top of each other and twisting and turning into even bigger and badder lies. It's truly becoming a giant mess, but all of that doesn't seem to matter whenever you think of Joel, of this weekend...

Communication with him is so different now - in the best way. No more short and brief responses, no more wondering what he's thinking or worrying he's no longer interested. You text every single day and talk on the phone in hushed whispers almost every night. You've noticed that he's able to call you earlier now, has stopped going to the bar after work with his crew, but you don't mention it to him. He hasn't been back since last weekend, something that makes you admittedly feel a bit of relief.

You text him on Wednesday afternoon from the parking lot of the grocery store - you've been helping your parents out a bit more now wherever you can, spending your days cleaning the house, doing chores, fulfilling to-do lists, etc. It's the least you can do for essentially stringing them along through the worst web of lies imaginable. This trip, however, you'd caught a glimpse of Bethany in the baking aisle and almost had a heart attack, rushing to the self checkout and scanning all your items before she'd gotten a chance to see you. You haven't spoken to her since the incident in the church bathroom and you don't intend to ever again if you can help it.

almost ran into bethany at the grocery store ahhh!!!! i hate this so much. just wanna leave already and forget about all these people :( miss you. hope your day's going better than mine 💕

You sigh to yourself as you pull out of the parking lot, but your sad demeanor is quickly replaced with a grin when you feel your phone vibrate in your lap. At a red light you look down at it, warmth flooding your cheeks.

Soon, angel. Two more days and it'll just be you and me. Can't wait to treat you the way you deserve. I know just the thing to make your day better, call me tonight x

That night he whispers filthy things in your ear while you finger yourself, face buried in your pillow, thumb rubbing furiously against your clit. Your face is hot and your lower half is bare against the sheets, sticky and soft. You're imagining how his cock will feel inside you, buried to the hilt, pulsing deep and wet and warm. The thought is almost too much to bear - you've been physically incapable of thinking of anything else lately.

"Wanna feel it in my stomach, Joel, just like you said," you whine into the pillow, tears stinging your eyes as your pleasure nears its peak. "Please, please."

"You will, babygirl," he gasps, voice low and shaky as he tugs at his cock and groans on the other line, "God you're such a good girl beggin' for it like that. Ask me again, honey, ask for my cock."

"Please, Joel," you try to keep your voice quiet but it's so hard, your fingers plunging in and out of yourself at the exact speed you wish he was fucking you, "Please, Mr. Miller. Please give me your cock."

He lets out another groan, "Oh god, baby, I'm so fuckin' close. Ask me for my cum, angel. Ask for it real pretty and polite."

His words send you over the edge as your hand stutters against your pussy and halts, your whole body trembling as you fall face forward onto the bed. Your skin ignites with even more heat as you shut your eyes tight and whisper, "Please gimme your cum, Joel. Want your cum."

You hear him inhale sharply and then exhale even louder, can almost see the white of his cum behind your lids, dripping all over his bare stomach. You can feel your own slick dripping down your inner thigh, staining your sheets. You wonder if your mom has noticed how often you've been changing your bedding lately, but part of you can't really bring yourself to care.

You try to imagine what it would be like for him to pump you full, for his release to leak out of you, what it would look like, feel like... The thought makes goosebumps rise all over your flesh, especially when you remember that he'd already asked if that's what you wanted. In the heat of the moment you'd said yes, and even now you find that you still do. You have been taking your little pill every day at the same time after all, a fact he's very much aware of.

You turn over in bed and snap a quick picture of your bare pussy, wet and used. It's the second time you've done it this week. You send it without saying anything and smile when you hear him groan again on the other line.

"Perfect little pussy," he whispers, and you can hear the pout in his expression.

"It's yours," you murmur sleepily, feeling yourself begin to drift as you bury your face in your pillow again, "It's all yours, Joel."

The only issue that inevitably pops up is the driving arrangement. To your parents knowledge you're traveling to Dallas alone, so leaving in your own car is a vital detail. You want to ride in Joel's truck though, but you're not sure it's feasible with the amount of eyes on you, the questions your parents will ask if your car stays in the driveway.

"That's easy to figure out, darlin'," Joel reassures you over the phone the next morning, "Lemme make a call to my brother, I'm pretty sure he's got a spot in a garage he ain't usin' right now."

You grimace at the thought of someone you don't know doing you a favor, "He won't mind?"

Joel snorts, "Tommy? Not at all, angel. Don't you worry."

You've only heard him talk about Tommy once, that day on his back deck when he'd told you about his upbringing. You'd been under the impression that they didn't have a very good relationship, what with being compared to each other their whole lives. Maybe you'd been wrong about it. You've certainly been wrong about a lot of things. You file it away as another question to ask once you finally work up the courage.

You have to admit, it feels really good to have someone take care of things like this, telling you not to worry, handling everything that's difficult. You've been carrying such a load of bullshit for your entire life and knowing that Joel's in charge this weekend just makes you feel safe. Protected. Cared for. You feel like you could ask him for anything and he'd somehow make it happen for you, something you've never really experienced before. Your parents have always been hesitant to spoil you despite their wealth, had rarely ever taken you on vacations that weren't undercut with the promise of learning or preaching. Your desires and needs have always taken a backseat to appearances, standards, bigger goals. You've never really felt you could ever relax with them, ask for things, be yourself.

It feels so fucking good to have Joel Miller.

Your parents have already left for the day when you climb into your car on Friday morning, tossing your travel bag in the backseat and switching on the ignition with a smile on your face. You and Joel have it all figured out - he'd talked to his brother and there's indeed a space for you to park your car in for the weekend. Joel surprised you even more by taking the day off, so you're meeting him at the garage in about an hour's time. Before then, though... you think another shopping trip is in order - for one specific item in particular.

The lingerie store doesn't seem as scary this time around. Last time you hadn't even been able to step foot inside, but this time you're more prepared, ready for the skimpy mannequins and uniquely shaped underwear. You're still not really exactly sure what you're looking for, but you don't panic this time when a salesclerk walks over to you with a smile and asks if she can help you. She's probably around your mom's age, something you're not sure makes you uncomfortable or not.

"Um, yeah," you say awkwardly, unable to make direct eye contact, "I was wondering if you have anything...um... like..." you try to find the words, heart beating a bit quicker in your chest, "Something cute? But sexy too, but, um, not too sexy, if that makes sense," you feel your cheeks warm as you babble, thinking of the spiked bras and crotchless panties you'd seen last time, "Just something not too crazy, something pretty but still... still sexy." God, how many times did you just say the word sexy?

The woman just smiles and nods without any ounce of judgement whatsoever, "I know just the thing, sweetie, follow me." Well, despite being around the same age, your mother would certainly never call you sweetie. She'd also never go lingerie shopping with you either; the very thought is laughable.

She leads you to a section full of floral themed sets, brightly colored and soft, lacy and delicate. Your eyes widen a bit at the selection, the options in shapes and sizes, colors and transparency, boy shorts and g strings. You have to admit that you could see yourself wearing pretty much anything here - it's right up your alley, and you're pretty sure it's Joel's preference as well.

"As you can see, we have a big range," the salesclerk says with another smile, "Some of them are more simple than others if that's what you're looking for," she picks up one of the sets, blue and frilly with little forget-me-nots embroidered over the nipples, "This one is very popular, and comfortable too, speaking from experience."

You nod, analyzing it carefully and trying your best not to picture the salesclerk wearing it, "Thanks, but I'll, uh, just have a look myself, if that's okay?"

"Of course!" she puts the set back down and tosses you one last smile, "Take your time, sweetie. Let me know if you need anything."

Being around your parents so much this summer has really messed with your psyche. You find it odd to encounter people like this, people your parents age, Joel's age, who clearly have no qualms about dressing sexually. It's almost the way you'd felt when you first got to college, the culture shock of taking ownership of your own body and doing what you want with it, not constantly wondering if you're going to go to hell for showing too much skin. It reminds you yet again of your own naivety, everything you've been missing up to this point.

But also... everything you're going to experience this weekend. That is why you're here, after all.

You end up picking out what you believe to be the prettiest set. It's white and transparent in certain places, edged in pink and covered in little embroidered flowers, purple and yellow and green. The bra has buttons in the center that you're not sure actually work or are just for show... though regardless, you imagine Joel slowly fingering them while you peer up from below on the hotel bed, a thought that makes your cheeks burn. The panties are cute and look easy to slip on and off but there's an odd third component, just as pretty with straps that lead to nothing. You furrow your brow, staring at it.

You could ask the salesclerk what it is but you really don't want to embarrass yourself. Instead you take a picture and send it in your group chat:

buying lingerie, what is this?? help!!

Of course, Tasha is the first to reply:

IT'S A GARTER BELT, BABE. HOLDS UP STOCKINGS IN A FUN SEXY WAY. SO BUY STOCKINGS. also that's cute as fuuuuck. ur gonna give the old man a heart attack

You stifle a laugh and shove your phone back in your pocket, picking up the entire set and walking to the cash. You grab a pair of sheer white stockings in your size and slip everything onto the counter, still avoiding eye contact as the salesclerk from before walks behind and starts ringing everything up.

"Find everything you were looking for, sweetie? Did you want to try any of this on before you purchase?"

You shake your head immediately, "No, that's okay." The thought of trying any of this stuff on in a public place is definitely still a little too much outside your comfort zone.

The clerk nods and turns the card reader to you with a smile, "That'll be a hundred and fifty eight dollars."

You're pretty sure you've never looked more shocked in your life.

why is being sexy so awkward and expensive?

welcome to my life sister

158 DOLLARS FOR 3 SCRAPS OF MATERIAL

that's it, let it all out

The garage Joel gave you the address for isn't too far from the mall, hidden down a few side streets where you feel confident your parents will never accidentally come across it. With a significantly emptier wallet, you pull into the parking lot and spot Joel's truck, smiling when you see him get out to wave you over. He's wearing one of your favorite flannels - green and black, similar to the one you keep under your mattress - and another band t-shirt underneath; you've lost track of how many he has at this point.

"There's my girl," he says as you pull up beside him with the window rolled down. He leans against your car, tips his head in to kiss you gently, "Find it okay? Directions were clear?"

You can't help but roll your eyes with a giggle, "I just typed it into the Maps app, Joel. Didn't need all the rights and lefts."

He chuckles, "Follow me, I'll show you where to park it."

You inch along behind him as he leads you into the relatively small parking garage and gestures to the right. There's an open spot between an RV trailer and a pick-up truck.

"Those are both Tommy's," he says with a sly smile, "So feel free to scratch 'em up if you want."

You roll your eyes again and carefully pull into the space, being sure to avoid any of the encouraged scratching. It's a comfortable fit and you grab your things from the backseat before climbing out to meet Joel behind your car.

"Hi," you say quietly, peering up at him with a soft smile, not caring that you already had your introduction a few minutes ago. All you can think about now is the time that stretches out in front of you, an entire weekend of just you and him.

"Hi, angel," he murmurs, and you feel his hands come up to squeeze your arms, pull you in close, "Ready to get outta here?" You nod excitedly and he gestures toward the garage entrance, "Then let's hit the road."

Three hours on the road passes much quicker than you thought it would. You remember road trips with your parents as a kid, traveling miles in random directions to witness supposed "miracles" or visit religious sites. Before he'd joined the police force your father had been a pretty prominent presence in church groups all throughout the southern states, and by proxy you and your mother had too. You can't really remember much of the experience other than having to constantly be on your best behavior, put on a perfect front no matter what. It was exhausting. Not to mention the only music you could listen to had to be pre-approved by your parents. You'd sit in the back seat with perfect posture, mouthing along to songs about God while you stared longingly at the kids in cars passing by, screaming songs that were forbidden to you at the top of their lungs.

You tell Joel about it. The first twenty minutes or so of the drive is spent unloading your past road trip experiences, something you genuinely hadn't planned on doing. But talking to him is just so easy. The words fall from your lips without any hesitance whatsoever, no fear that he'll ask why you put up with it, why you didn't stand up for yourself, those questions you'd been asked by people at college whenever you mentioned your upbringing. He listens attentively, reaches over and picks up your hand to place it on his thigh, squeezes it reassuringly.

"I'm just rambling now," you finally say with a shake of your head, "The point is, this is my first road trip without all those rules, you know? So it's just... I'm just really excited."

"I get it, honey. And I'm glad I can give you this experience," he turns to look at you with a crooked smile, "Among others." Your cheeks warm.

As usual, he commands the space he's in. He's so big and broad in the front seat, one large hand on the wheel while the other caresses your fingers, thumbs your palm. His forearms are thick and freckled, lined with veins and little nicks and cuts here and there from work. The grey in his scruff reflects light in the sun, sending little twinkles and glimmers into your periphery every so often. He's so perfect, sitting there beside you. So handsome. Yours.

"Which band is that?" you ask him, genuinely curious as your eyes trail down to his t-shirt. You can't help but assume that it's some kind of metal band, what with all the skulls.

"This?" he tugs at it, eyes falling to where you're looking, "Grateful Dead."

"Oh, cool."

He smiles sympathetically, "You have no idea who they are, do you?"

"Is it that obvious?"

He laughs and squeezes your hand again, then lets go to reach into the center console for his phone. You watch him unlock it and pull his face back to squint at it, eyes flicking back and forth between the screen and the road while he tries to access something.

"I can do it," you offer, and without any qualms he slips his phone into your hand with a smile.

"I- uh- I made a playlist," he says, turning his attention to the road again, "For the trip. There's some Grateful Dead on there, if you wanna hear it. You can add your own stuff to it too, don't want you thinkin' you can only listen to my shit."

You don't know why the concept of Joel making a playlist specifically for your trip is so fucking adorable, but it is. You can't help but smile as you open Spotify and spot it immediately - simply called Dallas. You scroll through it and pick the first Grateful Dead song you spot.

"Wait," you say, scrunching your eyebrows as soft guitar fills the truck, gentle and smooth, "This is Grateful Dead?"

He chuckles, "What were you expectin'?"

"Somebody screaming, maybe? Especially for a song called Friend of The Devil," you turn to him with a shake of your head, "God, you're telling me this is the kinda shit my parents forbid me from listening to? It's literally just some guy."

He laughs again, deep and genuine, "Half the shit parents forbid their kids from listenin' to ain't even that bad. I remember a couple years before my momma died, she told me she'd heard this new singer called Bruce Springsteen, absolutely loved him," he grins at the memory, "Meanwhile she'd thrown out all my Springsteen records when I was sixteen, said they were filth."

"Did you remind her?"

He shakes his head, "Nah, I let her believe he really was some new singer she'd discovered. Wouldn't have done any good to rub it in her face. We'd already made peace."

You think about that concept - peace. The very thought of ever having a peaceful relationship with your own parents feels foreign and downright impossible, a feeling that makes you ridiculously sad if you think about it too long. You don't want to entertain the idea of having to say goodbye to them completely at any point, for them to be out of your life entirely because they don't want you anymore. You're glad Joel was able to make peace with his mother, but after years? After his father had passed away? The thought is frightening.

"Now, Backstreet Boys," Joel continues with a wry smile, "that's a band you gotta watch out for. I had to stare at those faces every time I went in Sarah's room for years. Talk about trauma."

The discomfort fades almost immediately, a natural giggle bubbling past your lips at his words. You like hearing him mention his daughter so casually - you're finally in the loop, finally getting to see the real him, hear his unfiltered thoughts.

"Can I... can I ask you something about Sarah?"

His expression changes then, not into one of anger or guilt, but surprise. He nods immediately, reaches back over to take your hand in his, "Of course you can, angel. Anythin' you want."

"Um, how old is she?" You've already done the math in your head, but you want to be sure, want to hear it from him.

"She's thirty eight," he gives you a look, "Does that make you feel weird?"

You shake your head, "No, it doesn't." You mean it. You'd probably find it weirder if she was closer to your age, but thirty eight... a full grown woman, out of the house and living her own life for years. There's something different about that, something that doesn't bring you any discomfort.

"I just wanna say... I've... I've never been with anyone your age," he looks away again, like he's worried about seeing your face as he says it, "You're the youngest person I've been with, save for when I was that age myself." He grimaces, "I don't... I don't go around preyin' on young girls or anything, if you were worried about that. I know the first day we met might've made you think otherwise, but-"

You smile softly as he babbles, "I believe you, Joel. I mean... I can't say the thought didn't cross my mind. I was a bit worried about that this weekend, when I saw you and Sarah. I thought she was my age."

He laughs a little breathlessly, shaking his head, "Oh, she'd be very pleased to hear that, lemme tell you." He makes a face. "The thinkin' she's your age part, not the part about you thinkin' we were together. She probably wouldn't like that so much."

You giggle, "Yeah, probably not."

"But I do mean it, honey. I'm not that kinda man, or at least I never thought I was," he bites his lip, "You kinda turned my whole world upside down that day, if I'm bein' honest."

You don't really know what to say in response, but you feel pride swell in your chest at his words. You reach your other hand over and place it on top of where you're already entwined, peering up at him fondly, hoping he can sense what you're feeling. The song switches over to something else then, another guitar heavy tune. You recognize the melody immediately, your eyes going wide.

"Speaking of the first day we met," you say softly, hoping he'll recognize the significance - and he does. He peers at you with that beautifully tender expression he reserves only for you, grip tightening beneath your other hand.

"Tangled Up in Blue, Bob Dylan."

"I knew it was Bob Dylan."

"Good ear. You play?"

"Um, not really."

The memory sends tingles down your spine. How was that only a few weeks ago? How have you gone from being the shy and bashful girl at the end of Joel Miller's walkway to the girl sitting in his truck holding his hand on a three hour road trip to another city? Talking about your life, his life, the things that matter? The girl with lingerie and birth control packed neatly in your travel bag?

"I'm still plannin' on teachin' you how to play this," he finally says, smirking, "Don't think you can get off easy just 'cause we're focusin' on the hymns."

You roll your eyes with a grin, "When you actually teach me a hymn, we'll talk."

It doesn't take long to realize that driving with Joel is very distracting. Not only is he so large and broad in the seat beside you, looking gorgeous and charming as he always does, but he also smells fucking delicious. Being in such close proximity to him in a small space, being able to smell his cologne mixed with the sheer scent of him, raw and masculine and sexy. It just reminds you of how it feels to be underneath him, overwhelmed by him entirely, feeling the rough edges of his body against yours.

You've had the windows rolled up since the first hour, turned on the AC once you'd gotten on the highway and let the cool air fill the truck. But now it's just circulating that fucking smell, thick and heady as you watch little droplets of sweat form on Joel's forehead, trickle down his temples. You feel a throb in your panties, a surge of release, and you clench your thighs together.

"You okay, babygirl?" he asks you softly, reaching over to place his big hand on your bare thigh - of course he'd noticed your change in demeanor immediately, "Need to stop somewhere and use the bathroom?"

His hand on your thigh just makes you clench tighter, makes you lean back lazily in your seat and let out a quiet whimper. You turn and look at him the exact moment his gaze reaches your face, reads it, tries to make sense of what you need.

"What is it?" he murmurs, hand slowly rubbing your skin, "What's got you makin' sounds like that, huh?"

You whimper again, already fully decided on what you want. Your hand goes down to grip his, move it upwards to the crotch of your shorts. His jaw slackens, eyes going dark.

"Need your pussy touched, baby?"

You nod, feeling heat flood your cheeks at his words. You watch as he assesses the road in front of him, the lane beside him. He chews the inside of his cheek and seems to settle on something internally. He keeps his eyes trained ahead while his hand fiddles with the zipper on your shorts.

"Unbutton those for me, pretty girl," he says, voice suddenly low, and you don't need telling twice. You practically tear your shorts open and allow him to reach his hand inside - it's so big and warm, hairy knuckles and callused fingertips slipping past the band of your underwear. Another pitiful sound falls from your lips as his index drops to your entrance and immediately slips inside.

"Joel," you whisper, tilting your head back and closing your eyes as he pushes knuckle deep inside you, filling you quickly and easily.

He doesn't say anything, just prods a second finger against your hole and slowly pushes it alongside the first. You take him so easy now; it doesn't burn the way it did those first few times, and it certainly helps that you're also soaking wet, practically dripping through your shorts.

"That's it," he murmurs softly beside you, other hand still on the wheel while he monitors the traffic around him, "That feel better, baby?"

"Y-yes," you breathe, looking down again to watch the lewd actions happening in your lap, watch the way his hand moves back and forth in your shorts as he pulls his fingers in and out of you.

"Just close your eyes and relax, angel," he tells you gently, "I'll take care of it."

You do as he says, letting yourself relax as best you can while he continues to slowly fuck you with his fingers. Another song starts playing, something low with a steady beat that he suddenly sets the pace to, speeding up as you open your legs a bit wider and moan softly. His thumb finds your clit and circles it, making you whine.

"Shhh, it's okay," your hear him say beside you, working his fingers, "It's alright, babygirl. Gonna give you what you need."

You moan again at the images that flood your brain, the thought of being underneath him in only a couple hours time, the feeling of his cock pushing inside, filling you up in just the way you've been aching for. You imagine his heavy breaths, hot and sticky against your skin. The smell of his cologne, his sweat. The coarseness of his pubic hair against your bare pussy. You writhe in the seat and tighten your thighs together, another whine slipping from your mouth.

"I got you," he murmurs, and he does. It doesn't take much else at all for you to climax, and he gets you there quickly with a few more circles of his thumb, the stiffness of his fingers, his name slipping past your lips as you come.

You lay loose and pliant in your seat for a moment, eyes still closed. He goes to remove his hand from your shorts but you stop him, reaching down to hold his wrist and keep his warm hand inside. He cups your pussy gently and just holds it, the palm of his hand sitting firmly atop your throbbing hole, rhythmically pulsing against his skin.

"Just keep it there," you whisper, chest heaving, "Please."

"Christ," he grunts under his breath, and you open your eyes to look at him, see the flush of his skin as he looks at you with desire in his eyes, "You were right, babygirl. I don't think we'll be leavin' that hotel room."

You like Joel's playlist a lot. After stopping into a gas station to clean up a bit, you sit in the passenger seat while he loads up on gas and scroll through it on your own phone, liking certain tracks that have stood out to you. His musical range is very broad; there's a lot of artists on it that you've never heard of, but you're not sure if that's just because of how sheltered you've been or because he's so much older than you. You choose to believe it's the latter - you hate thinking about how much you've missed out on. He'd said you could add some of your own songs but the thought makes you feel embarrassed; you haven't really had much time to form your own music taste, have spent your college experience so far just listening to whatever's popular since you couldn't when you were younger. You wouldn't even know what to add.

You scroll back up to the top of the playlist and tap Joel's profile out of curiosity, wondering if he has any other public playlists. You smile to yourself when you see titles like BBQ, 80s Tunes, Good Solos, Acoustic, Oldies, Angel.

Hold on...

Angel

You stare at it for a moment, thumb hovering over the icon but making no move to actually press it. You suddenly feel like you're invading his privacy somehow, like this isn't something he'd want you to see, not unless he said you could. With all the strength you can muster you hit the back button and return to the Dallas playlist, tapping a random song and locking your phone.

Joel gets back in the truck, oblivious to your discovery. "Gettin' closer, darlin'. You excited?"

You smile, warmth bursting in your chest, "Can't wait."

The conversation drifts here and there throughout the rest of the drive, both of you asking and answering questions back and forth about your lives, your pasts, your interests, your dislikes. You learn that Joel really likes music. You've known this, of course - it's not like it's some huge surprise - but hearing him talk about the artists he likes, the instruments, the melodies, the lyrics... you can hear the passion in his voice, the adoration for his favorites, the infatuation with certain lines and words. He loves music.

"Why aren't you a musician?" you ask him, genuinely curious, "Like, this really seems like something you should be doing professionally."

He chuckles at that, shakes his head, "Knowin' a lot about somethin' doesn't necessarily constitute a career in it," he shrugs, "I mean... I can't say I never thought about it. To be honest, when I was a teenager I did dream about performin' live, recordin' an album, all that jazz."

"So... why didn't you?"

He tilts his head with a half smile, "I think you're forgettin' the part where I became a dad right outta high school."

You wince, "Oh. Right."

He laughs, "S'okay. I mean, I still probably coulda done it. But there was a period there in those early years where I stopped playin' altogether, so it kinda just... slipped my mind."

You frown, "What happened? If you don't mind me asking."

He takes a breath, thoughtful for a moment as he tightens his grip on the wheel and squeezes your hand at the same time, like he's preparing himself - or preparing you.

"Well, uh... Sarah's mom, she left." Your lips part in surprise but you don't say anything, giving him a few seconds to collect his thoughts again before continuing, "She, uh, she had really bad post-partum depression, lasted a really long time. Of course, at the time, that kinda thing wasn't really talked about very much. And on top o' that we were both living with her parents since I'd been kicked out and we couldn't afford to go anywhere else. Even when we finally managed to move out they stayed in our business."

"And her parents... were they...?"

"They were strict, yeah," his jaw tenses, "They were... they were very hard on her, which made it worse. And she never wanted to be a mom, ya know? She was only seventeen when it happened and it completely uprooted all her plans. She'd wanted to get outta Texas, go to California or New York, get away from her parents and all the bullshit." He sighs, shaking his head slightly at the memory, "But livin' where we did, abortion was outta the question and her parents were our only option."

He's not looking at you but you can see the pain in his expression, the regret. A wave of sadness washes over you as you watch him talk about this particularly difficult part of his past, a part you'd been curious about ever since last weekend but had been too afraid to ask about. You're not really sure what to say.

"They made us get married," he makes a face, "And I mean, it's not like we weren't in love at that point, 'cause we were. She was my high school sweetheart and I loved her so much, I wanted it to work. But she was so unhappy. So distant. And when Sarah was born it was like she was gone. The Mish I knew just completely disappeared." He finally looks at you, expression apologetic, "That's her name - Mish. Well, Michelle, but she hates Michelle. God," he sighs exasperatedly, "I'm sorry, darlin', I shouldn't be ramblin' on about this."

You shake your head quickly, pulling your hand from his grip to lay it on top of his and squeeze, a comforting gesture, "No, Joel, don't apologize. Tell me. I wanna know."

He peers at you, hesitant, "You're sure?"

"Yes. I... I wanna know you, if you'll let me." You squeeze his hand again, reassuring him quietly.

So he tells you. He tells you about getting his first real job in construction, working the latest hours possible to earn as much as he could to get the three of them out of Mish's parents house and into their own. He tells you about Sarah being born, how he'd never felt as happy in his entire life as he did when he first held her in his arms, how she was a light in the darkness for him, lit up the room with her killer smile and big brown eyes. He tells you how he'd woken up one morning to a note from Mish, telling him that she couldn't do it anymore, that she had to get out before the situation swallowed her whole. He tells you about how his little brother Tommy, the one you'd thought he disliked, the golden boy, started skipping school to take care of Sarah when Joel couldn't - not because Joel asked him, but because he'd wanted to help.

"They say it takes a village," he says with a soft smile, "But for me, I had my brother and that was enough. It was like the past however many years of that godforsaken rivalry our parents pushed on us hadn't even happened."

"This coming from the person who asked me to scratch his truck an hour ago," you tease, and he just laughs, peering over at you with a genuine smile and tears shining in his eyes. There he is, the real him.

"Mish, she uh-" he clears his throat, "She came back, when Sarah was a little older, but then she disappeared again, same story. We found out later that she was dealin' with a whole lot more than post partum. I won't go into the details but once she got on the right meds, started therapy, she came back to us. Took a little while for things to settle - we tried on our relationship again, but we realized we just didn't fit, it was never gonna work." You squeeze his hand again. "She stayed in our lives though, became a good mom to Sarah, that's what mattered most."

"And you were just... you were just alone, through all of that?" you ask quietly, "I mean, I know you had Tommy, but... that must've been so hard." You can't even imagine dealing with all of that, find it difficult to comprehend the fact that Joel had become a father when he was younger than you, had to drop all his dreams and desires and start living entirely for someone else. "Didn't your parents ever try to reach out at all? Didn't they want to know Sarah?"

He sighs, eyes on the road, "My momma did, I know she did. But my father wouldn't let her, and she did as he said, no questions asked."

You can't help but picture your own parents, the way your mother bends over backwards to police herself around your father, the way she's taught you your entire life to do the same. The way she can't even talk to him about what's really going on - or at least what she thinks is going on - for fear of him winding up in control of the situation, making the decisions for her.

"I wonder if my mom would still wanna see me if she knew what I've been doing," you say aloud, unable to keep the thought to yourself. "Or if my dad would force her to shut me out."

Once again your hands swap places, Joel wrapping his fingers around your palm and gripping it tightly. But he doesn't say anything, doesn't give you any words of reassurance, and you know it's because he can't.

A soft kiss to your right cheek, then your left. Whiskered and warm. Your eyes flutter open and you see Joel leaning over the center console with a tender smile on his face, brown eyes peering down at you fondly.

"We're here, baby," he murmurs.

You blink a few times, confused. Only moments ago you'd been listening to music, chatting about your degree and answering Joel's questions about your other life, the one where your parents aren't in charge. He'd been so attentive, so interested in learning more about you. You vaguely remember a song coming on, slow and melodic, and then...

"I fell asleep?" you ask blearily, sitting up a bit.

"Out like a light," he says with a smile, "Had to skip all my heavy metal."

You roll your eyes and peer out the window, confused by the darkness beyond.

"We're in the parking garage at the hotel," he clarifies quickly, leaning back into his own seat, "Ready to check in?"

You nod and yawn, opening the passenger side door and stepping out to stretch your arms above your head. It feels good to be out of the small confines of Joel's truck, even though it was nice while it lasted. He follows suit and walks around the side to grab the luggage from the back.

"You brought your guitar?" you ask, watching as he picks up the long black carrying case and slips it over his shoulder.

"That I did," he replies with a wink, "Gotta get that lesson in, right?"

You feel heat bloom in your cheeks and avoid his flirtatious gaze, moving toward the truck bed to grab your bag. He gets to it first, picks up both his bag and yours and carries them easily in both hands, walking over to meet you on the other side of the truck.

"I can take mine," you offer, "That's a lot to carry."

He just chuckles and shakes his head, walking in front of you, "You ain't liftin' one single finger on this trip, sweetheart."

Walking from the darkness of the parking garage to the suddenly blaringly bright sun of Dallas is disconcerting at first, but certainly not unwelcome. Your eyes squint against the sunlight, focus on Joel's broad back as he walks in front of you with all the bags, guitar case swinging from his shoulder. God, he looks good carrying all that, big hands gripping the handles of the bags as he saunters ahead. That's yours, you remind yourself yet again, he's yours.

You're so distracted by how good he looks that you barely really take notice of the hotel until you're pushing past the doors into the main lobby, and that's when you freeze in place with your jaw practically on the floor.

What the fuck?

When Joel told you he'd booked a hotel, the only thing you'd really pictured in your mind was the room itself. You'd imagined a pretty sizeable room with a big bed, an ensuite bathroom and maybe a balcony if you were lucky. You've never really spent much time in a hotel before, especially nothing fancy or expensive. When you'd traveled with your parents you usually stayed with family friends or other parishioners; they hadn't wanted to expose you to too much luxury or wealth. It's hypocritical now when you think back on it, considering the large house your parents live in, the pool, the cars, the boat your father wants to buy. They'd had money to throw away on those things but couldn't splurge on a hotel room every once in a while? Couldn't treat you to something you really wanted?

Now you stand in an absolutely gorgeous main lobby, all marble floors and bright greenery, glints of gold and crystal and diamonds everywhere you turn. You suddenly feel like you've walked into a European country - how the fuck did you drive three hours from Austin and end up in a place like this?

Joel is stalling a few feet in front of you, that cocky smile in full view as he watches your reaction, "Ain't too shabby, huh?"

You're still staring with wide eyes at the sleek floors, the glittering fountains, the fucking bell-hops wearing those silly little outfits. You turn back to Joel with a shake of your head, mouth open.

You barely register the checking-in process, too mesmerized by your surroundings to pay attention. A bell-hop loads up your bags onto a luggage cart, the clerk hands Joel a key card, and you're still in complete awe of what you've just walked into as you follow Joel almost robotically to the elevator without speaking.

This is too much, you want to say.

How much did you spend? you want to ask.

The room itself is fucking beautiful, overlooking the hustle and bustle of the city below, a sight you already know will look gorgeous when the sun goes down and the buildings are lit up. The bed is huge, much bigger than you'd anticipated, with a giant flatscreen TV on the wall overtop a confusingly high-tech looking fireplace. There's a comfy looking couch and an ensuite to your right, and a fucking balcony, just like you'd hoped for. You stand in complete silence in the doorway for a solid minute until the bell-hop is gone and Joel has to nudge you forward a little to shut the door.

"Say somethin'," he murmurs, wrapping his arms around you from behind and nuzzling his face in your neck.

You shake your head again, eyes still wide, "I- I don't even know what to say."

"D'you like it?" his voice is muffled in the warmth of your neck, lips pressing a soft kiss there as his arms squeeze you gently, "Tell me what you're thinkin'."

You swallow around the lump in your throat, close your eyes through freshly stinging tears and lean back into his embrace. "I'm thinking that.... that I can't believe you did all this for me."

He kisses your neck again, slow and sweet, "Of course I did, angel. S'what you deserve."

You open your eyes and look down to see his big arms holding you tightly, feel the firm warmth of him at your back, smell that heady and delicious scent of his cologne. This isn't some dream you're having, some weird and sinful idea you came up with in your head; this is real. You're really here, standing in a beautiful hotel room with the most beautiful man you could ever imagine. You feel so safe.

And now you have an entire weekend to show him how much that means to you, a thought that sends a chill up your spine when your gaze rises back up to the bed. There it is. That's where it's going to happen.

"So... what's the plan?" you ask quietly.

He chuckles, pressing a quick kiss to your ear before pulling back and spinning you around in his embrace, peering down at you with a soft expression. "Anythin' you want," he says with a smile, "You're in charge."

You can't help but feel yourself pout a bit, "What if I don't wanna be in charge?"

He leans down and brushes his nose against yours softly, "Well, then I'd say..." he's cut off by a sudden gurgling sound, and your eyes widen when you realize it's your stomach - you haven't eaten since this morning. He laughs lightly, pulling back to assess you fondly, "I'd say we better head down to the dining room and get some food in you."

You grimace, even though you know he's right. "Spoke too soon."

While you enjoyed the thrill of the hotel surprise, part of you wishes Joel had told you what kind of place this was so you could have packed accordingly. You definitely didn't pack anything super elegant or fancy, although you had packed all the dresses you'd bought a little while ago, the ones you'd tried on in his kitchen and haven't had an opportunity to wear since. You assess your options now, bag open on the couch, fingers trailing through the different fabrics. The little pink bag with your new lingerie still sits tucked into the side, and you wonder if you should wear it underneath whatever you choose to wear for dinner. As usual, you're not really sure how this kind of thing is supposed to work.

You settle on the pink one; you know from past experience that Joel's certainly a fan of that color on you. You take it into the bathroom along with the lingerie while he rummages through his own clothes, oblivious.

"Okay," you whisper to yourself as you stand in front of the mirror and tug off your t-shirt, then shorts. You stare at yourself in your underwear and bra for a few seconds, then carefully peel them from your body and reach inside the little pink bag. You'd already cut the tags off - no going back now.

The set fits perfectly, hugging your soft curves and the swells of your breasts, shaping your tummy and accentuating your thighs. You look good, as much as you feel odd admitting that to yourself. It's still been hard to look in the mirror lately and see what Joel sees, to not feel guilty for simply having a body. It gives you a similar feeling to how you'd felt in your bikini, though the lingerie leaves a lot less to the imagination with its transparent material and plunging panty line.

You tug on the dress and then the sheer white stockings, loving the way they stop at your thighs just under the dress and show off a small sliver of bare skin beneath the hem. You decide to leave the garter belt in the bathroom until later, tucking it into one of the cupboards underneath some towels. You peer at yourself in the mirror again, assessing yourself up and down and hoping Joel will like what he sees.

He does.

The second you come out of the bathroom you see him pause, looking up from where he's buttoning up a nice black dress shirt to gaze at you hungrily. His lips part, eyes going hooded as he walks over to you and firmly palms your lower back, pulls you close and trails his other hand up the side of your body.

"Christ," he breathes, almost a growl, "You're so fuckin' pretty."

Without any other words one of his hands suddenly reaches up your dress, grips tight to one of your thighs. You gasp, eyes widening as he thumbs the bare skin just beneath your panties, pulling back to peer down at you with a lustful expression.

"God, I could fuck you right now," he mutters, and the words send a squeak past your lips, a gush of wetness into your brand new panties, "Yeah, you want me to bend you over and fill you up? 'Cause you look positively sinful right now."

You whimper, tempted immediately by his words, at the thought of being bent over the edge of the bed and taken right there without any preparation. But you know that's not how you want this to go; if it was, you'd have already been fucked by him ages ago. And you know that he knows it too, that he wants the same things you want - to take it slow, to take your time, feel everything the way you want to feel it.

It doesn't mean you can't tease him, though. "Would you actually?" you ask softly, voice shaking a little bit in anticipation.

"God, yes, I would," he murmurs, "Just say the word and I will."

You bite your lip, almost genuinely considering it for a moment before your stomach suddenly growls again and you sigh exasperatedly.

He smiles, leans down to press his lips to your ear, "We have all weekend, remember?"

You shiver at the thought.

Dinner is beyond lovely, delicious dishes served on sparkling silver platters in a grand dining room, bottomless champagne which you surprise yourself by indulging in - about a glass and a half - and a live band performing some soft jazzy numbers on a stage nearby. It's so romantic, so dazzling and classy and like nothing you've ever experienced before. Your eyes flicker back and forth between everything periodically, like you can't really believe you're sitting here - but you are.

It feels so nice to sit in a public place with Joel, be surrounded by people who have no idea who you are and no concept of the secret nature of your relationship. It's just normal, easy, no need to be guarded or quiet or pretend you're something you're not. He smiles at you from across the table and you smile back easily without any pretenses, without that nagging voice in the back of your mind telling you to be on your best behavior. You can just be yourself.

He's so handsome, dressed mostly in black with his greying curls gelled back a bit, deep chocolate eyes almost never leaving yours. He looks at you like you're the only person in the room, the only one he can see while you trade more stories about your lives, your favorite things, your dreams. You tell him you'd like to write a book one day, not exactly sure what about yet but how you're not sure you'd even have the confidence to actually publish it - he tells you with warmth and tenderness that he'd read anything you wrote, be the first one to buy a copy. He tells you how he's written songs but never played them to anybody before, but he'd play them for you if you wanted to hear them - you do.

Despite the pretty music, the twinkling lights, the cozy atmosphere and yummy food... you can't wait to get back to the hotel room. Your skin is buzzing with anticipation of what comes next, what you both know will happen as soon as you're back behind closed doors. The thought has been sitting there in the back of your mind all day, all week - for crying out loud, it's been there since the day you met him. It's nice to sit and eat and chat and pretend for a little bit like you didn't come on this vacation for a very specific reason, but that reason is becoming glaringly more apparent the longer you sit across from each other, stealing glances and soft touches. You need him. You need him right now.

Your eyes must go glassy, a faraway look in your expression, because a few moments after finishing your food Joel extends his arm to you and squeezes your hand, peers at you with darkening eyes.

"I know, babygirl," he murmurs, calloused fingertips caressing your skin, "Let's go."

As soon as the door shuts behind the both of you Joel's arms are immediately around you again, just like they'd been when you first stepped into the room after check-in. This time though, he presses his body firmly to yours, pushes his groin against your ass and reaches up to pull your hair back behind your ear, other hand flat against your stomach.

"I want you so bad," he whispers, and your whole body seems to convulse in his grasp in anticipation, "Been thinkin' about it all day."

"Me too," you whisper back, like it's a secret. "I'm ready, Joel."

He noses your ear, your neck, your shoulder. You feel him pull back the sleeve of your dress and press an open mouthed kiss to the skin there, slow and wet.

"I'm gonna take care of you," he murmurs softly, "I promise."

You lean back into his touch, eyes fluttering closed as he continues to press kisses all over your exposed skin, the rough prickles of his facial hair feeling sinful against your flesh. He grinds himself into you again and you whine.

"You're gonna feel it right here," he reminds you, rubbing your tummy gently and inhaling your perfume, "Right there, babygirl."

You whimper, legs buckling underneath you, "I want it, Joel, Want it now, please." Your thoughts are clouded by the smell of him, the feel of him, and it's only when you feel him start to unzip your dress in the back that you remember what you're wearing underneath.

"Wait," you say quickly, pulling away and turning around to face him, "Wait, just - just gimme one minute," he looks confused and you smile apologetically, "I have a surprise for you first." You reach forward and take his hands in yours, pull him toward the bed and gently nudge him onto the edge, "Just wait there, okay? I'll be right back."

You start backing up to go to the ensuite and can't help but appreciate the way he looks sitting there for a moment, leaning back on his hands while he gazes at you from the bed under his lashes. His legs are so long, belt buckle shining tantalizingly under the overhead light. You watch as he kicks his shoes off, smiling up at you.

"Don't go anywhere," you tell him, still backing up, "Stay right there."

He grins, "Ain't nowhere I'd rather be than right here, baby."

Your skin heats as you turn the doorknob and head into the bathroom, locking it behind you. You try not to think too much about what's about to happen, what you're going to do together the second you open that door again - the thought is so beyond overwhelming that you can already feel goosebumps rising all over your body.

The dress comes off easily and you place it with slightly trembling fingers onto the counter, reaching down to open up the cupboard and grab the garter you'd stowed away. You don't look at yourself in the mirror until it's securely in place, stockings hooked into it symmetrically albeit a little precariously, and when you finally do see yourself - bright eyed and warm, hair a little tousled, anticipation clear as day on your face - you can't help but grin.

You're about to lose your virginity. To Joel.

You take a few steadying breaths in the mirror, closing your eyes and giving yourself a moment to just quietly exist. You press your palms to the counter, inhaling and exhaling slowly, grounding yourself and working up the courage to go back into the room.

And then you hear it - a low buzzing sound, rattling against the solid tile of the bathroom countertop. You open your eyes in slight confusion, looking toward the sound; it's your phone, tucked against the wall, hidden behind the hand towel. Your brow furrows - has it been in here this whole time? You can't remember checking it at dinner, don't think you'd even unlocked it since before Joel woke you up from your nap in the truck.

You reach over and grab it, wondering who could be calling you - and that's when your heart plummets to your stomach.

6 messages. 4 missed calls. All from your mother.

Fuck.

Are you in Dallas yet?

Let me know when you arrive.

What hotel are you staying at?

Text me back now.

Where are you?

Answer the phone.

"Shit," you whisper, "Shit, shit, shit." You scramble to type out a response, erasing typos and re-typing over and over until you wind up with something that you hope makes sense:

sorry!!! i was so tired from the drive and passed out as soon as i got in my room. i'm still half asleep, i'll talk to you more tomorrow.

How the fuck could you forget to text her?! It was the one thing you'd promised her, the one thing you weren't lying about before you left, and it had still managed to completely slip your mind. You stare at the sent message, watching a whole minute go by until her typing bubble appears, slow and steady. Finally, her reply comes in:

I told your father about Mr. Miller. We'll discuss when you get home.

Well, that's definitely not the response you'd been expecting.

Your face scrunches in confusion as you read the message again; you're not sure how it correlates at all to your lack of communication, the breaking of your promise. You suppose she'd been so worried she'd had no choice but to tell your father the "real" reason you're in Dallas - the music festival, and by proxy the lessons with Joel that "inspired" the trip in the first place. That would make sense. It's not like she has any way of knowing that you're actually here with Joel, right? No, that's illogical. You've been careful.

Okay, you know what? Good. This is good. You've wanted him to know all along. One less secret to keep, right? It's a good thing.

So why does your heart suddenly feel like it's on the floor?

You read the message again, and then again.

It's fine. Don't worry about it, it's okay.

You look up from the phone and into the mirror, eyebrows going up when you see yourself. For a moment you'd forgotten where you were, what exactly you're doing in the bathroom of a hotel room in Dallas wearing nothing but lingerie. The stark contrast of the freedom you'd felt a few moments ago and the sudden anxiety you feel now is palpable, eyes going a bit blurry as you assess yourself in the mirror again. You suddenly feel slightly disconnected from the image itself, like the person you're looking at isn't you - it can't be you, can it? Is that you?

Water, you need water. You cup your hand in the sink and turn on the tap, collecting a small pool of liquid there before bringing it to your lips. The action reminds you that you'll need to take your birth control later, a thought that sends another pang of anxiety to your already discombobulated body. Why do you need to take birth control again? Oh yeah, because you're about five minutes away from losing your virginity. To Joel. Your ears begin to ring.

Your hands shake above the sink, water dripping downwards off your hands into the much too fancy basin below. What are you doing here? Who do you think you are? You really think this is okay? You really think everything you're doing, everything you've been doing, isn't going to have major consequences? Your vision blurs.

You shut off the water and shove your trembling hands into a dry towel, tears beginning to stream down your cheeks. You avoid looking at yourself in the mirror, avoid acknowledging the way you look all together. What the fuck is wrong with you? Who are you? What have you become? Lying to your parents, resisting everything they ever taught you, doing filthy things behind their back?

The sins you've acted upon are against God, you can practically hear your father spitting at you, the behavior you've exhibited will surely leave you with nothing but a one way ticket to Hell.

Your heart pounds in your chest, much faster than normal, much faster than you think it's ever beat. So fast that you briefly think you might be having a heart attack. You clutch at your chest and fall to the floor, attempting to catch your breath and utterly failing to do so, eyes wide and panicked as you practically fight for your life on the marble tile. What the fuck is happening? Not even five minutes ago you'd been totally fine, completely ready and willing and excited, and now you want nothing more than for the floor to open up and swallow you whole.

"J-Joel?" you gasp out, voice echoing against the walls; it's like you're calling out for emergency assistance, a last-ditch attempt at survival. He doesn't answer - you hadn't been loud enough. You take another gasping breath and call out a bit louder, "Joel?"

You hear his voice almost immediately on the other side of the door, "I'm here, baby. You okay?"

You shut your eyes tight, head leaning back against the wall as you pull your legs up to hug against your chest. How the fuck do you even answer a question like that? No, I'm not okay. I'm completely the opposite of okay.

"I c-can't breathe," you practically spit the words out, teeth beginning to chatter.

"Hey, hey, what's goin' on? Can I come in?"

You don't answer, can't answer. The knob jiggles and you silently curse yourself for locking it, "What is it, baby? What's wrong? Talk to me." You can hear the worry in his voice.

"I don't kn-know" you hiccup, hands coming up to cover your face, "I just... I just g-got really sc-scared all of a sudden."

"Oh sweetheart, that's okay." His voice is calm, soothing, reassuring. "That's alright, honey. It's okay to be scared, that's normal. That's okay."

"N-no it's not," you gasp out, hands still shaking, "I'm- I'm going to hell."

There's a beat of silence, then -

"I think you're havin' a panic attack, babygirl," you hate how muffled his voice is through the door, like he's ridiculously far away, "That's okay, I have those too. I have those all the time."

Your eyebrows go up in surprise, "Y-you do?"

"I do. And I can help you if you let me in, alright? We can get through it together, I promise."

"Y-you won't be m-mad at me?"

"Babygirl," he breathes, the tone of his voice doused in shock, "I'd never be mad at you for somethin' like that. Not now, not ever." Another knob jiggle, "Open up, sweetheart, lemme hold you."

The thought of being in his arms is the only thing that gets you off the floor, legs shaking like a baby deer as you lean against the wall for support and sidestep over to the bathroom door. With relentlessly shaky fingers you manage to unlock it, tugging it open just a little bit. He does the rest.

You barely get a look at his expression - full of concern and tenderness - before you're suddenly being scooped up into his big, warm arms. He lifts you off the floor like you weigh nothing while you bury your face in his shoulder, close your eyes and try your best to focus on the sound of his breathing, the smell of him, the way he feels. Your legs instinctively wrap around him almost like a koala as he carries you over to the couch, sits down while you cling to him in the safety of his lap.

He doesn't mention the fact that you're practically naked, doesn't ask about the lingerie or point out the little wet spot at the front of your panties where only a few minutes ago you'd started getting wet with anticipation. Instead he simply does exactly what he'd said - he holds you. He pulls you in close and rubs your back and squeezes you tightly while you try to calm your breathing, try to disconnect yourself from the panicked feelings.

"You're okay, angel" he whispers to you softly, and you just cling to him tighter, "You're safe, you're alright. Nothin' bad is gonna happen to you, honey."

Except going to hell, you want to say, but you find that your fear is already starting to ebb, being replaced with the feeling of Joel's wide palm against your back and his soothing words in your ear.

"We have all the time in the world to take this step," he murmurs softly, "I don't want you to feel any pressure, don't want you to think you have to do anything you don't wanna do."

You remember his words from the other day: Need you to know that you don't owe me anythin', not ever. But the frustrating thing is that this isn't something you feel you owe him, it's something you want to do - or at least had wanted to do, before you picked up the stupid fucking phone.

"I'm r-ruining everything," you manage to gasp out, tears still flowing relentlessly down your face, "I'm s-sorry."

"You're not ruinin' anything," he breathes, and you can hear the sincerity in the tone of his voice, "That is not the only reason we came here, sweet girl. We came here to be together, get away from everythin'." You feel him press a gentle kiss to your temple, "Now, tell me what's goin' on. What's got you so scared, baby? Talk to me."

You sniff, face still buried in the warm fabric of his shirt as you tell him about the messages, the response from your mom about telling your father, the way your heart had sunk when you fully registered what it would mean for them to really know what's going on. You realize you're getting tears and snot all over him but he doesn't seem to pay it any mind, continuing to rub your back soothingly.

"It's fine that he knows, or thinks he knows - whatever," you sniffle, "But the whole thing is just- it's just so fucked. If they knew what I was d-doing here, if they knew what I was wearing-"

"Shhh," he trails his fingers through your hair as you babble and you bury your face into his shoulder again, feeling beyond embarrassed. This is not how you'd seen this night going at all. "Shh, sweetheart, it's okay. Hey, look at me. Look at me, sweet girl."

Hesitantly, you pull your face from his shirt to peer at him from under watery lashes, his handsome face blurry through your tears. He reaches down and takes both your hands in his, squeezes them carefully.

"Follow my breathing, okay?" he tells you softly, voice barely a whisper. You watch as he closes his eyes and slowly inhales through his nose. You count about five seconds before he exhales through his mouth again, opening his eyes, "In and out, real slow like this."

It takes a few minutes to get into a good rhythm, to feel the breathing exercise really start to work, but eventually you start feeling calmer again, more yourself. As you breathe Joel continues to hold your hands in his, keeping you present, grounded. You open your eyes a few times, almost like you're making sure he's still there despite knowing you're in his lap, and each time you see his beautiful face - eyes closed over with his lashes fanning his cheeks, plump lips under greying scruff, the lines and wrinkles you want to kiss every single one of - you feel a wave of reassurance wash over you, a reminder that you're safe, you're not alone.

Once your heart has stopped beating a mile a minute, you wrap your arms around him again and nudge your head lazily into the crook of his shoulder, eyes closed as you hum softly in appreciation. He starts rubbing your back again, soft and slow.

"I don't believe in it anymore," you finally whisper quietly, "I don't. I haven't for a long time. But it's hard to remember that sometimes. It can just... it creeps up on me."

"I know," he murmurs, "I dealt with that for a while too, babygirl. It's a lot to reconcile, a lot to put in the past, I get it."

"I get scared when I think about them finding out about us," you admit softly, "Not because it'll change what we have, but because it'll change what I have with them." You bite your lip "You... you know that better than anybody."

He suddenly grimaces at your words, eyes going up to the ceiling for a few seconds before falling back to you, "I knew it," he grumbles, and your brows furrow in confusion, "I knew I shouldn't've talked about that shit with my parents today."

You shake your head immediately, "No, no, Joel, it has nothing to do with that. I wanted to know that stuff, I wanna know you."

"But it -"

"This is my own thing," you tell him softly, gaze meeting his, "This isn't because of you. You've been..." you smile through your tears, "You've been so amazing, Joel. You've helped me so much."

He brushes his nose against yours again, and with a soft sigh he murmurs, "You've helped me too, sweetheart. More than you realize."

"What d'you mean?"

You watch as he reaches beneath him to pull something out from his back pocket, adjusting you a little in his lap as he does so. He pulls out his wallet, small and brown, weathered around the edges - he's definitely had it for a while. Puzzled, your eyes fall to the tattered inside as he opens it, and you immediately spot something sitting in the compartment reserved for cash - something that catches the light, sparkles under your gaze.

"Is that my crucifix?" you ask quietly.

He nods, slipping his finger inside and pulling out the chain, the cross hanging from his fingertip. "This," he tells you, "has gotten me through two panic attacks of my own this week."

What?

He can tell you're at a bit of a loss for words, confused and surprised. With a small smile he wraps his hand around the crucifix, presses the cross into his palm, then brings it to his lips and presses a small kiss to the metal. The action doesn't make much sense to you, what with Joel being an Atheist and having never shown much interest at all in religion other than how it made you feel.

"But you don't believe in that stuff," you state, suddenly unsure.

He nods, letting his hand fall back down into his lap to touch yours, "I don't," he murmurs, "It's... it's a symbol more than anything." He takes your hand, the cross fitting directly into the center of your palm, "When I hold this, it reminds me of the beautiful girl who trusted me with it, the one sittin' so pretty and perfect in my lap right now."

You can't help but feel a bit embarrassed at his words, painfully aware of the tears drying on your puffy cheeks - you probably look a mess, but he doesn't seem to care.

"Makes me feel less alone," he tells you softly, and you swear you hear his voice hitch on the last word, "Keeps me safe."

You peer at him for a moment, processing his words. You don't really know what to say, beyond touched by the sentiment but still unsure how an object that caused you such pain and frustration could be a light in the darkness for him. How could it have a different meaning than the one it was intended for?

It's like he can sense your hesitance, your questions. He shifts you a bit in his lap, pulling you so close that his nose brushes gently against yours. "You should only believe in somethin' if it feels right," he whispers, "Only if it makes you feel like the luckiest person alive just to experience it, to be in its presence. And angel," he sighs softly, tilting forward so his forehead lightly nudges against yours, "if that ain't me about you."

"Joel," you whisper, fresh tears shining in your eyes. There's nothing else you can really say, nothing that feels right, other than the one thing you've been wanting to say since you arrived, something on the tip of your tongue begging to slip past your lips - but you don't. For now, you just think it, think it with all the warmth and adoration you feel blooming in your chest as you peer at him.

I love you.

You kiss him then, slow. His lips are soft and patient against yours, slightly hesitant, like he's holding himself back - and you suppose he is, considering the situation. He doesn't want to push, doesn't want to assume that what was meant to happen when you got back to the hotel room is still going to happen.

But you already know that it is.

You find that you can now notice the fact that your skin is bare, that he's touching you without anything being in the way, one hand cupped against the soft flesh of your hip while the other still squeezes your hand. It dawns on you that you're wearing the lingerie, the special surprise essentially ruined by your outburst. You frown against his lips.

"What is it?" he murmurs, pulling back to peer at your face, assess your expression.

"I...I bought this for you," you tell him softly, and you watch as his gaze falls to your scantily covered form, "Sorry I ruined the surprise."

His adam's apple bobs in his throat as his eyes trail up and down your body in slow, repetitive movements, like he's only just now fully noticed what you're wearing, taking in absolutely every inch of you - every little embroidered flower, every bare patch of skin. He releases your hand to carefully place both of his palms down on your thighs, the naked part between your panties and the stockings. You watch as he fingers the garter straps, eyes dark.

"Dressed up all pretty for me, huh?" he breathes, thumbs stroking your inner thighs as he brings his gaze back up to meet yours.

"I wanted it to be special," you whisper, "I wanted to wear it when you..." You trail off, mouth going a bit dry all of a sudden.

"Do you still want that, babygirl?" he asks you softly, "Do you still want me to?"

You don't even need to think about it, mull it over in your head or take another breath. You've never been more sure of anything in your life.

"Yes," you whisper, an edge of desperation in your voice, "Please." You kiss him again and he sighs deeply against your mouth, grip tightening on your thighs.

"Say it," he murmurs, teeth nipping lightly at your bottom lip, "Tell me what you want me to do, baby."

You shiver, "Want you to fuck me, Joel," your voice quakes with anticipation, hands balling in his shirt, "Please fuck me."

He doesn't need telling twice; at your words one of his big hands comes up cradle your back again, fingers digging into the soft skin there while his other slips from your thigh and curves around your ass, squeezes. He picks you up again, slips the crucifix into his pocket and stands there without moving as he peers at your face and holds you firmly against his body.

"Please," you whisper again, eyes locked with his as you whimper and buck your hips against him, feel the shape of his half-hard cock rub gently against where you're aching. He looks down without speaking, watches as you pathetically grind your hips, legs tightening around his waist.

"The sweetest girl," he says softly, leaning his face forward to kiss the corner of your mouth, "Already beggin' for my cock, huh?"

You mewl and grind your crotch against him again, already feeling the wetness returning to your panties in slow pulses. He just smiles and finally walks with you to the bed, tilts you downward and lays you out like you're a meal he's about to indulge in, swallow whole. And god, you want him to. Need him to. He pulls back to stand over you, hands going into his pockets as he peers down at you with lust in his eyes.

"Lemme just look at you, babygirl," he says quietly, eyes trailing to your breasts, your bare stomach, your exposed mound and soft thighs. He nudges you over a little bit and then sits on the side of the bed, hand reaching down to stroke one of your arms, slow and gentle, "You look so beautiful."

You lie there, staring up at his face with hooded eyes as you try not to squirm under his gaze. His hand moves from your arm to your shoulder, your shoulder to your collarbone, your collarbone to the space between your breasts. Just like you'd imagined when you'd bought it at the store, he deftly fingers the buttons there a few times, tracing them up and down.

"Pretty," he murmurs, and without warning he slowly slips his hand inside your bra, fingertips brushing your nipple. You whimper again, another surge of arousal dripping into your underwear.

"My sensitive girl," he whispers, brushing it again and smiling when your hips buck, "Are you wet, baby?"

You nod quickly, expression hazy, "Yes."

"How wet?"

Your thighs rub together almost unconsciously, another pathetic sound slipping past your lips, "Really wet, Joel."

He chuckles softly at your impatience, releases your breast and leans down to press a slow and wet kiss to your neck. You moan softly, eyes fluttering closed as his lips trail gently up and down the expanse of your neck, your chest. You feel his hands curve up underneath your back, busying themselves with the latches of your lingerie.

"As much as I could look at you wearin' this for hours," he whispers, "I think theres somethin' under there that deserves my attention." He slips the bra off easily, tugs the straps down your arms and exposes your bare breasts to him, nipples peaked and hard. He immediately captures one in his mouth and starts to suckle gently, hand traveling downward to rest teasingly on your inner thigh.

Fuck, it feels so good. Your eyes roll behind your lids, mouth popping open as you sigh in contentment and just let him play with you. He sucks and licks, nips lightly every so often, travels between both breasts like they were made specifically for him to have in his mouth. Your pussy pulses somewhere below, feeling beyond ignored, and you rub your thighs together again to try to ease some of the pressure. He notices and his hand inches upward to cup you through the material, eliciting a gasp from you.

He pulls off your nipple and you open your eyes to see him peering up at you, eyes almost black, a smirk on his face, "Need your pussy touched again, don't you baby?" You nod, lips turning downwards into a pout, "Okay, sweet girl. I won't tease you too much."

You're very much aware of the fact that Joel is still fully clothed, a fact that you have to admit turns you on a lot more than it probably should. You watch as he crawls on top of you carefully, hooks his legs around you and slowly eases downward, eyes staying locked with yours as he starts kissing his way down your stomach. Your heart rate quickens again, but this time you welcome it.

His fingers play with the straps of your garter as he presses soft kisses to the tops of your thighs, the dips of your waist. You shiver when he presses gentle kisses to your mound, fingers slipping inside the band of your lingerie and carefully tugging it down to expose your pussy to him, wet and aching. He pulls back to look at it, expression one of pure lust as he thumbs one of your lips and pushes it open.

"There she is," he murmurs, "The sweetest little pussy."

"Joel," you moan, closing your eyes and focusing entirely on the way he thumbs your outer lip, caresses it softly like it's something precious and fragile. He dips his thumb further inside and brushes against your folds, sending another thick and syrupy drop of release onto his fingers.

"Look at her pulse, baby," he says, voice husky and dark, "Droolin' for me."

You open your eyes again, watch him lean down and lick a stripe through your dripping folds, collecting the juices on his tongue. You whimper when he swallows and leans in to press a whiskery kiss to your clit, already puffy and twitching.

"She's cryin' for my cock, honey," he breathes, "Been waitin' so long, been so patient."

"Please," you whisper, and his gaze meets yours again, "Please put it in." The words are filthy and full of desperation, your brow furrowing in pleasure as his thumb slowly begins to circle your clit, "I need it."

"I know, sweet girl," he whispers, "But you gotta wait just a little bit longer, gotta let me taste this perfect little cunt first," he presses kisses along your folds, kitten licks past them a bit to slip the tip of his tongue just barely inside your hole. You whine, hand coming down to touch his hair while the other grabs one of your breasts and begins to toy with your nipple, as if on instinct.

He hooks one of your legs over his shoulder, hands coming up to grip your waist and hold you still as he starts to eat you out. Just like the first time, it's beyond overwhelming, your eyes shutting tight and your teeth biting down hard on your bottom lip as his mouth does sinful things to the most intimate part of you. He plunges his tongue inside and buries the curve of his nose in your clit, rubbing it up and down, back and forth, while you whine and whimper above him. Your fingers tangle in his hair and holds his face firm between your legs while he tastes and devours.

"Joel," you keep whimpering, unable to stop from saying his name every chance you get, a reminder to yourself that you're really here with him right now, that he's the one making you feel this way. He barely pulls up for breath, scruff glistening with your release as he pleasures you relentlessly, arm coming up to splay across your belly and push you down into the mattress, holding you firm.

He makes you come easily, but that's no surprise. Just like in the truck earlier, you cry out and toss your head back, body shaking through your orgasm as he sucks on your clit and slips one of his fingers easily inside of you, curves it and makes your body rise up off the bed in pleasure as you shiver and squirm.

"Good girl," he tells you softly when he releases your clit from his mouth, looks up at you with dark lips and messy hair, "That's my good girl."

Only for you Joel, you want to whisper, but you're too blissed out to speak, Only wanna be a good girl for you.

You feel him press soothing kisses around your pussy, finger still slowly pumping in and out as you calm your breathing. He pulls it out and brings it to his lips, sucks it with a deep groan, "God, you taste so good," he murmurs, resting his head for a moment on your thigh and inhaling deeply, "So fuckin' sweet, babygirl."

You remember the first time he'd tasted you, remember how you'd come so hard you'd seen stars, remember how he'd come in his pants. The thought makes you sit up on your hands, look down at him with a raised eyebrow.

"Did you come?" you ask, slightly worried for a moment.

He laughs, pulls his head up and begins to crawl back to you with a smile on his face, "No, not this time. That was a moment of weakness." He cups your face and and looks down at you with a soft expression, "You wanna taste yourself?"

Without any hesitation, you nod. Joel leans down and presses his lips to yours, eases his tongue inside and lets you indulge in your own release, your own special flavor. You've never really tasted anything like it before, unsure how exactly to describe it - you're not sure you'd really call it sweet, but it's not bad by any means, just... different.

"Good?" he asks.

You shrug, "It's... interesting."

He chuckles, pulling his face back, "How're you feelin'? You wanna stop?" You look up at him like he's crazy and he laughs again, putting his hands up, "Okay, okay, just askin'."

"I want-" you cut yourself off, feeling blood rush to your cheeks, and he peers down at you softly.

"What d'you want, babygirl?" he murmurs, "I'll give it to you."

You reach up to tug at the collar of his shirt, finger the buttons there, "I want this off," you breathe, "Want all of it off."

He nods slowly, eyes hooded as his eyes fall to your wet lips, "Okay, what else?"

"Want you to fuck me," you whisper again, as if he doesn't already know. Your hand reaches downward to carefully cup the long shape of him through his pants with trembling fingers, "Want it inside."

He reaches down, covers your hand with his and squeezes softly, "You want what inside, baby? Words."

"Your cock," you whisper, edged with a whine, "Want your cock inside me, Joel. Please. No more teasing."

He smiles softly, "Okay, baby. No more teasin'."

Watching him undress sends tingles all throughout your body, lips parting as he undoes the buttons of his shirt and tosses it to the floor, reaches for his belt buckle and slowly starts to unfurl it. He keeps his eyes on your face, watches your expression as you bite your lip and assess the way his cock juts out underneath his pants, begging to be taken out and touched, played with. The thought makes you sit up on the bed, lean toward the edge and dig a few of your fingers into his waistband, pulling him closer.

He watches as you slowly move forward to mouth his cock through his pants, lips parting and stretching around the big shape. You sigh in contentment at the feeling of it pulsing through the material against your tongue, drag your mouth up and down a few times as a whimper gurgles in your throat.

"Thought you said no more teasin'," he murmurs, and you feel his hand come to rest at the back of your head, helping you move. You moan softly around his length and you can practically hear the smile in his voice when he says, "Just need it so bad, don't you?"

You do. You can't count the number of days you've thought about it now, thought about it against your face, your thighs, your pussy. You want it everywhere - you want him everywhere. You've waited so long and you're tired of being patient, of waiting for the right time, the right moment. It's here, it's now, and you're ready.

"Please," you breathe again, pulling your mouth off his clothed cock and looking up at him with wide, almost tear-filled eyes, "Please fuck me, Mr. Miller."

His eyes go dark and the smile fades from his lips, hands coming down to unzip and unbutton quickly as you lay back on the bed and open your legs. It takes no time at all for him to be completely naked, pants and underwear thrown haphazardly off to the side while he crawls back on top of you and starts kissing your neck again, skin rough and warm. Your hands come up to grip his bare back, eyes closing as you let him silently worship you, kiss every inch of skin he can reach.

You can feel the heavy length of him on your thigh, settled there as it pulses and leaks. It's so big, so thick, and you can't help but reach down and engulf it in your small fist, fingers still unable to go all the way around. He groans into your skin, pulls back to look at you again.

"D'you want me to use a condom, babygirl?" he asks, even though he knows the answer - he wants to hear you say it, which you appreciate.

"No," you whisper, "Please don't."

He groans again at your words, reaches his hand down and easily slips two of his fingers inside of you without any resistance. You're so ready, have never felt more ready for anything in your entire life. You know you should be reveling in the moment, taking time to enjoy and appreciate - but at the same time you just want him inside of you already, want to be connected to him in the rawest of ways, complete. You can't wait anymore, you can't. He starts to add his third finger and you whine, wishing it was something else.

"Gotta open you up a little more, sweetheart," he tells you quietly, filling you with all three fingers and slowly starting to pump them in and out, "Want this to feel good for you, don't wanna hurt you."

"I want your cock, Joel," you mewl, tears welling in your eyes.

"Shhh," he kisses you gently, fucks you slow, "I know, baby, I know. Just a minute now, sweetheart. Be patient for me."

"Don't wanna be patient," you're starting to sound like a bit of a brat but you really don't care, the desperate and touch-starved part of you just aching to be filled up, held close, fucked deep. "Wanna feel you in my stomach, please."

"Jesus Christ," he mutters, almost a groan as he pulls his fingers from you and drags them against his cock, taking it from you carefully and then pumping himself twice with your release, "Okay, babygirl, I hear you, I got you."

Joel eases himself downwards carefully, hovering over you like he had last weekend. He kisses you again, soft and safe, a quiet reminder that what's about to happen means more than what it seems like on paper, means more than either of you could even articulate. He peers into your eyes tenderly, reaches up to push some stray hairs out of your face.

"I'm gonna go real slow," he tells you, "You tell me the second somethin' doesn't feel right, okay? Promise me."

"I promise," you whisper, hands splaying across his back and pulling him down further so your breasts are pushing softly against the hair on his chest, impossibly close. You just wanna feel him, feel all of him.

When he says slow - he means slow.

You'd felt the tip of him last weekend, were already anticipating the burn and stretch, but this time there's not the same desperation, the same time limit or rush. Now you have all the time in the world, the clarity to take it as slowly as you need to in order to really feel everything, make it count. You feel the shape of his wide head carefully nudge the tiniest bit into your throbbing heat, and your eyes immediately go wide.

"You're okay," he reminds you softly, just like he had last time, "You're alright, angel."

Your nails dig into his back and you nod, peering up at him with a look that you hope says, I know, and I trust you, because you do. He kisses you gently and you feel his hand at your thigh, pushing you open a little wider for easier access. The garter strap strains against your legs but neither of you make any move to remove it.

He pushes inside a little further, his whole tip crowding the space at your entrance once again. You make an odd sound, something that comes from the back of your throat, and he freezes.

"Okay?" he asks, and you frantically nod. "That's the tip of me, baby. You got it, you're doin' so good."

"More," you whisper, voice breaking, "More, please."

He reaches his hand back up and locks it into place on the headboard above you, holds himself up as his knees dig into the plush cotton of the duvet. With his other hand he slowly eases more of his cock inside, just a little bit.

"Fuck," you hiss, and you can feel it now - the burn, the stretch. It's not painful by any means, but it's not comfortable either. You make a face and Joel stills, brow furrowing.

"Hurts?" he asks softly.

"N-not really," you breathe, "It's just - it's really thick."

He kisses you again, noses the side of your face and inhales deeply, "You tell me when to move," he murmurs, "You're in control from this point forward, babygirl. What you say goes."

You take a few deep breaths, eyes closed as you hold Joel to you and revel in the way he peppers tiny little kisses all over your face, your nose, your eyelids. Now it's his turn to be patient, and he's certainly much better at it than you are.

"Okay," you breathe after a moment, "Okay, you can move."

He inches in another little bit and your hips stutter, hands trembling against his back. You don't say anything, just grip him tighter and bite down on your lip - more stretch, more burn. But there's something about it, something about the odd sensation of being spread open, that has your pussy suddenly throbbing - and you whine.

"Tell me to pull out and I will," he murmurs in your ear, "We can spend some more time-"

"No," you whimper, shaking your head, "No, Joel. It feels good." You grip tighter to him and tangle your ankles with his, wanting to be even closer than you already are, "Keep going, please."

It goes like that for a while - a continuous push, inch by inch, a whine or whimper, a check-in from Joel, reassurance that you're alright, then the cycle starts again. You quickly grow accustomed to his girth, the stretch getting significantly less and less the longer he stays pressed inside of you. You're painfully aware that this probably isn't the sexiest experience for him, that he'd probably much prefer being able to go deep and stay deep and pound you senseless - and as much as that thought also appeals to you, you know there's no way your body could handle it on the first go.

"M'sorry," you mumble to him quietly during another moment of adjustment, both of you laying still while a little more than half his cock sits patiently inside of you.

"For what?" his eyes scrunch, confusion clear on his face.

"F-for taking forever to get used to it," you admit apologetically, eyes going downcast, "Especially after I begged so many times."

He shakes his head, eyes narrowing, "Do not apologize for somethin' like that, sweetheart. This is about you, not me."

"But I'm-" you take a breath, forcing yourself to be honest, to not keep your worries inside no matter what, especially in such an intimate moment like this, "I'm scared you're not enjoying yourself."

His eyes widen, "Not enjoyin' myself?" He almost laughs, light and soft, "Sweetheart, do you have any idea how fuckin' good you feel?" You shake your head and he leans down to kiss you, moans softly against your lips, "Your pussy's so tight around me, sweet girl" he whispers, "She's pulsin' around my cock, it feels fuckin' incredible."

Your thighs tighten a bit against his waist, center throbbing once again at his words. He groans, and it finally sets in that every throb you feel, every pulsation, every twitch, he can feel it too. Because he's inside of you.

"You're inside me," you whisper, and it sounds like such a dumb revelation but you don't care, lip trembling a little bit as your fingers stroke gently against his back.

"I'm inside you," he echoes, voice soft and reassuring, "M'not goin' anywhere, baby. Gonna take it as slow as you need me to."

He's so gentle, so tender, it makes you want to cry. How did you get so lucky to be having your first time with someone like this? Someone who genuinely wants you to feel good, feel taken care of? Someone who feels beyond amazing? His cock is so big, so perfect; he feeds it to you over the next few minutes, makes you whine and cry out in the dim light of the hotel room, legs trembling and hands coming up to cover your eyes as he finally bottoms out, finally eases himself completely inside of you - and stills.

Full. You're so full. It's the only word that seems to cross your mind, any and all other vocabulary going completely out the window the longer you lay there with his cock buried deep inside. He carefully pulls your hands back from your face and kisses you again and again, murmuring praise.

"You're doin' so good, angel," he whispers, "Takin' it so well, such a good girl."

It's not that filthy of a thing to say, but his words do something to you then that you can't really explain. Odd sounds escape your throat, slip past your lips pathetically as you squirm a bit beneath him. Your eyes shut tight, heart beating fast, not a thought in your brain other than the fact that there's a huge appendage lodged so deep inside of you that you can't even think, can't speak.

"I know," he's whispering, carding his fingers through your hair, "I know, baby. That cock is so big, I know, I know," he kisses your temple, holds you close, "So big inside that little pussy."

"Joel," is all you manage to whimper out, toes curling in pleasure, "Joel."

"I know," he murmurs again, and you swear he pushes his hips forward just a little bit more, the heavy shape of his balls pressing firmly against your ass, "I'm in your tummy, baby, just like you wanted."

At his words your shaky hand travels downward to feel your stomach, press your palm against the skin there, and your eyes snap open when you realize you can feel him there - near the bottom of your tummy, feel the long and thick shape of him bulging out from beneath.

"Fuck," you breathe, and his eyes meet yours, dark and hungry, "Fuck, I f-feel it."

His hand comes down and covers yours, helps you move the garter belt out of the way to shape your fingers around the long shape of him. You can feel the fat head pulsing deep within you, pushing against something you didn't even know was there, every throb sending constant gushes of release around his cock. You must be a mess down there, slick dripping down your thighs as you whine again and reach up to tangle your fingers in his hair.

"Ohmygod," the words are almost slurred, garbled, and you're realizing very quickly that talking with a cock inside of you is very difficult. Your thighs squeeze together again and Joel groans.

"God, you feel so fuckin' incredible," his expression is wrecked, plump lips parted as he inhales and exhales, "You're chokin' my cock, honey."

You can't wrap your mind around the fact that this isn't it, that simply having his cock buried deep inside you isn't the actual sex itself. Because how can just this feel so good? How can you feel so close, so full, so wonderful, all from just this?

Joel leans down and buries his face in the pillow, nudges his nose to your ear and whispers, "D'you want me to move, babygirl?" to which you immediately respond, "Yes."

At your okay he slowly eases himself out of you, the sensation unlike anything you've ever felt before as inch by inch he leaves your body until just the head sits heavy and waiting at your entrance. He looks down at you, thumbs your cheek, and murmurs, "Who's my good girl?"

You shiver, moan softly, eyes closing again, "I am," you whisper.

Just as slow, he pushes himself back inside, and you cry out and bury your face into his neck, legs shaking.

"Who is?" he asks you again, burying himself to the hilt and stroking up and down your naked body gently with one hand, "Who's my good girl? Tell me again, angel."

"I am," you repeat, a bit louder this time and drenched in pleasure as he slowly pulls out again, leaving you almost empty. "Joel," you whisper, and he pulls his face back to look at you, nipping at your bottom lip and pouting at your already fucked-out expression, "Joel, it feels so good."

"I know, baby," he murmurs, then eases himself back in, brings your hands down to your stomach again to feel the way his cock protrudes lewdly against the skin, "You're takin' it so well."

"I-I've-" you whimper, tears overflowing, "I've n-never-"

I've never felt like this before, you want to say. I've never felt so close to another human in my life. I've never wanted to live in a moment more than I want to live in this one.

Instead, he just brings a finger to your lips, eases himself out again and murmurs, "I know," like it's a mantra, "I know."

You feel him thumb your clit and you can't believe that anything could feel this good, that anything could even compare to the way it feels to have Joel everywhere like this, so deep inside and above and all around, his scent lingering in every move he makes, his hair pressing firm to the softest parts of your body. He's so warm, so safe, and more than anything all you can think about is that thought from before, the one you know now to be absolute - I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you.

He keeps the pace slow, doesn't let go of you or pull away even once. You already know you're not gonna last, not with his thumb rubbing you like that and his cock so unrelenting and huge inside of you, filling you up in a way you never thought possible. You're pretty sure that you've only got one more orgasm left in you tonight but you don't feel worried or stressed out by that fact - you have a whole weekend for more of this, to explore and experience and enjoy.

"I'm gonna come, Joel," you breathe, and you can feel tears stinging your eyes as you say the words, "I'm gonna come, I'm gonna come."

"Okay, baby, that's it," he encourages you softly, thumb unrelenting against your clit, "Lemme feel you come, angel. Let it out for me. Give it to me, sweetheart." And you do.

Coming around his cock feels fucking incredible. Your pussy tightens and throbs, releases more slick than you could even imagine, and you feel yourself start to cry, tears flowing down your face as a sob wracks from your throat as you pull him down on top of you. He fucks you through it, groaning in your ear at the way you continue to choke his cock, tight and firm.

"Fuck," he groans, "Fuck, angel, I don't think I can last."

"Then don't," you cry into his ear, eyes shut tight as your body convulses, "Don't wait, Joel. Want you to come inside me, want it so bad."

He makes an unhinged noise, his thrusts becoming a little faster, a little more erratic. Without warning you kick your legs up to wrap around his waist, pulling him impossibly closer and letting out another loud moan when you both hear the sound of his balls slapping against your ass. He's so deep. So, so, so deep. Just like he said he'd be.

"Fuck," he mumbles in your ear, "Fuck, I'm comin', honey, I'm comin'." At his words you feel the massive length of him pulse deep inside, your walls constricting around the intrusive shape as he starts to come. Your eyes go wide, mouth opening in a silent gasp of pleasure as you feel the warm spurts of his come begin to coat your walls, filling you up.

"Joel," you breathe, and you're pretty sure your nails have broken the skin of his back but he doesn't seem to care - if anything it makes him groan even louder, makes him pull back to look at you and make direct eye contact as he empties himself. You stare at each other, eyes wide, lips parted, and he leans forward to press his forehead to yours as his jaw clenches.

The moment he's finished coming he falls on top of you with his entire body weight, something you welcome instantly. Your hands roam up and down his back, feel the crescent moon shapes lining his skin as you close your eyes and let the reality of what's just happened wash over you, settle into your very being. It's only when you shift a little underneath him that Joel finally pulls himself up to look at you. He's so beautiful, hair a mess, lips red and raw, cheeks flushed, and tears shining in his soft brown eyes. He nuzzles his nose against yours and breathes a long sigh, one of satisfaction and contentment.

"Stay inside me," you whisper. You don't know why it's the first thing you say, but somehow it feels like the most important. Because the idea of him separating from you now after what you've just shared, the idea of not being within his embrace or feeling as connected as you feel right now - it sounds like the worst thing in the world.

"Okay, angel," he murmurs, eyes sleepy, "M'not goin' anywhere."

You close your eyes, breathe him in.

I love you.

#joel miller x reader #joel miller smut #fic: feelings on fire #*

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