#arguing against leather is just arguing for waste

[blueberrykefir]

Save a Horse, Ride a...

Joel Miller x f!reader 18+

Summary: You need to learn to ride a horse. Joel Miller is your grumpy instructor. Joel teaches you more than just the basics... One lesson you'll never forget.

Content Warning: Smut, MDI! Joel Miller basically talks you through it. No horses were harmed OR involved in the making of this. Vaginal Fingering. Teasing. Dirty talk. Praising, lots of it. Use of nickname, Cowgirl. Rough manhandling. Post outbreak.

Word Count: 5k

You were finally settling into Jackson. Earning your keep, proving yourself useful. Short patrols. Food runs. Assisting on the perimeter. It wasn’t glamorous, but it was something.

But lately it hadn’t felt like enough. You could do more. Longer patrols, further routes, the kind of assignments that actually made a difference.

There was just one problem. In order to do that, you had to learn to ride a horse.

Which brought you here, grumbling under your breath as you headed for the stables to meet some guy named Jonathan who was supposed to show you the ropes. 

What you weren’t expecting was him.

Joel Miller stood at the front end of the barn, leaning against the wooden fence with sleeves rolled, forearms dusted with dirt, and a glare like he’d rather be anywhere else. Your footsteps faltered.

At a community event, you tried to introduce yourself once. All polite smiles and an outstretched hand. He looked at you head to toe like you were nothing more than a bug under his boot, muttered something gruff and walked off.

The memory still made your jaw clench. 

You didn’t mean to gasp, but you did. Just a little. You hoped he didn’t hear.

He did.

He looked up. Slowly. Dark eyes sharp, like he was weighing how much patience he had to spare today—and the answer was definitely none. “Somethin’ wrong?”

You shook your head, too fast. “No, I just—thought I was meeting Jonathan.”

His stormy eyes flicked up, pinning you in place like you were an inconvenience. “Yeah, well. Johnny dislocated his shoulder.” He said with a tone dry as dust. “Guess that makes me your lucky replacement.”

Nerves prickled beneath your skin. You shoved your hands into your back pockets, feigning nonchalance. 

You swallowed hard, pulse doing way too much for this early in the morning. “Great,” you said, voice a little too chipper to be sincere. “Looking forward to it.”

He gave you a once-over, unimpressed. “Don’t get all excited at once.”

You could barely hold yourself back from rolling your eyes. So much for hoping he was just having a bad day when you met. Nope. This was just him. Rude, gruff, and annoyingly handsome. 

But you didn’t survive all this time, due to your lack of persistence. So you try to make conversation.

“So… I didn't know you taught lessons.” You rocked back n’ forth on your heels.

“I don’t.” He pushed off the fence, walking past you without a glance. “Let's go.” 

Well. That was short-lived.

You trailed behind him, glancing around at the empty stalls. Hooks lined the walls, holding faded ropes and well loved saddles. “Where are the horses?”

That's when he stopped and turned his head. Slowly. Like you’d just asked if horses came in blue.

“Horses?” His mouth twitched, just barely. “We’re not doing horses today.”

Your brows furrowed. “Then… What are we doing?”

He nodded towards the far end of the stables, where a beat-up wooden barrel sat with a brown leather saddle strapped to it. You blinked at it, then back at him.

“Really?” 

“You’re gonna learn how to stay on before I waste a real animal's time.” His answer was flat, final.

You glared at him, “I wouldn’t be a waste of time.”

He raised a brow, not even trying to hide the way his gaze dragged over you, cool and assessing. “Then go on, Cowgirl. Let’s see what we're workin’ with.”

You opened your mouth to argue, but he was already walking off towards the barrel, not bothering to check if you were following.

Clenching your fists, you rolled your eyes and muttered a curse. You trailed after him, boots crunching on the packed dirt and hay.

The air inside the barn was warm and smelled of leather and horses and something faintly masculine. Sun, sweat, and sawdust. 

Golden rays spilled through the slats of the barn walls, bathing everything in a warm light, dust in the air catching it like glitter. For a moment, it almost felt peaceful. 

Until Joel slapped the top of the saddle with a sharp thwack. “Alright. Hop on.”

You scoffed, then shot him an exaggerated smile, “Are you always this charming, or just with me?” 

"Only you." He leaned one arm on a post, that mouth twitching again, "Now stop stalling.”

“I'm not stalling,” You mumbled under your breath, clearly stalling. You eyed the saddle just now realizing how high the barrel sat. “You put this together?”

Joel crossed his arms, the material of his shirt pulling tight across his chest. “Been sittin’ like that for months.”

You squinted at it. “You realize horses are taller than this, right?” 

He shrugged, lazy. “Then consider this a warm up.”

You stepped closer to the barrel with more confidence than you actually felt. “I’ve climbed fences taller than this.” 

“Then this should be easy.” Joel tilted his head, just enough to unnerve you. His eyes taking you in from boots to brow, like he was waiting to see you fail.  

It should have been easy. But when you reached for the saddle horn and tried to hoist yourself up, your boot slipped against some loose hay, and you stumbled back with a muttered curse.

Behind you, Joel didn’t laugh. He didn’t need to. His silence said everything.

“Don’t” You warned, pointing a finger at him without looking back. 

“Didn’t say a word, Cowgirl.”

“You were thinking it.”

That damn nickname again. It made your cheeks burn hotter than the sun outside.

It was discouraging to say the least. There was not much you couldn't do. So having a wooden barrel be your demise was frustrating.

You squared your shoulders, let out a sharp breath and tried again, this time determined to prove him wrong. This time you braced your foot against the barrel’s edge, gripping the saddle horn with both hands.

With a grunt that was more pride than grace, you hauled yourself up, swinging a leg over with questionable coordination.

The barrel wobbled beneath you as you stuck your landing. Sort of.

You exhaled through your nose, victorious. “See? Told you I could do it.” You looked over your shoulder at Joel.

Stepping away from the post, he gave you a slow look, annoyingly unreadable, “Well, let's hope any horse you ride doesn't mind someone climbin’ all over ‘em like that.” 

Irritation flared up in your chest, “I'm up. That's all that matters.”

“Sure.” He stepped closer, boots crunching dirt and scattered hay. “Now let's see if you can stay up.”

And then, without warning, his hands were on you. One at the small of your back, the other nudging your shoulder blade with practiced pressure. You inhaled sharply, a gasp slipped out before you could stop it.

“Back straight.” His rough hands adjusted your posture, burning through your shirt like he’d branded you, “Good, just like that.”

His hands stayed exactly where they were, firm. Steady. Hot. You were too aware of every inch of contact, your heart thudding like it wanted to climb right into his palms. 

“Shoulders back. Don’t slouch.” 

You swallowed hard, feeling stubborn, “I wasn’t slouching.”

“You were.” He said simply, breath ghosting close to your ear. “But that's alright. We’ll break the habit.”

Your cheeks flushed, heat curling in your stomach. You tighten every muscle to keep your spine straight, unwilling to give him the satisfaction of correcting you again. But then he shoved, just enough to tilt your balance.

You gasped, grabbing the saddle horn to steady yourself.

Joel clicked his tongue. “Keep your balance, Cowgirl. If you fall, I ain’t catchin’ you.”

Then his hands moved to yours, guiding your grip on the reins. Rough hands against softer skin. Calloused, capable fingers curling around yours. 

You shouldn’t have wondered how those hands might feel somewhere else. But you did. 

“Now grab the pommel tighter–Jesus, not that tight.” He gritted out. “I feel bad for whatever poor fella your seein’.”

You loosened your grip, cheeks blushed from the insult. “No ones complained, yet.”

That made something flicker in his eyes. His gaze dropped to where your hands wrapped around the horn of the saddle. His next breath came slow. Measured. Like he was biting down on whatever response nearly escaped.

“Sit straighter.” He said at last, voice rougher now. “You’re leanin’ like you're about to fall asleep up there.”

You blinked, “Well maybe if–”

“Leg’s snug,” He cut in, voice rough, “Right now you’d bounce clean off the second that horse moved.”

Then you felt him behind you again. His breath tickled your neck just before his hands slid down, fingers settling at the tops of your thighs.“Keep ‘em like this–”  He pulled your knees inward, guiding them against the barrel. “Yeah, just like that. Feel the pressure of the saddle?”

You nodded, barely breathing, feeling more than just the saddle. You felt him. Felt the way his voice, gravel thick with heat, settled beneath your skin.

“I asked you a question.” His tone was dark and impatient.

“Yes.” You nodded, throat dry, “I feel it.”

He adjusted your legs a little further, pressing them in just enough, thumbs brushing the inside of your knees, “Good, right there.”

You turned to face him. The height of the barrel leveled your gaze with his. Up close you could see it all. The silver dusting his beard, the rough lines of his face, and the tightness in his jaw. Like he was holding back more than just words.

Joel stepped in front of you now, closer than necessary. You tensed when his hands settled on your hips. His fingers pressed into the curve of your body, firm and unbothered by boundaries.

“You’re leanin’ too far forward.” He said, like it was a fact. 

No warning. No gentleness. He pushed, not hard, but unyielding. His strong grip coaxed your torso into place. The rough handling, controlled and confident, sparked heat low in your belly. 

You bit the inside of your cheek to keep from making a sound.

“Atta girl,” he said, voice low and approving. “Right there. You feel that?” 

“Yes,” You whispered, barely trusting yourself to speak. With Joel this close, there was nowhere to look but at him. You noticed the small things, like the soft dip at the center of his lip. Or the way his lower lip is just a little fuller. 

“Good.” He murmured, eyes locked on yours. “Now stop starin’ at me like that.”

“I’m not.” You shot back, too quick, too breathy. 

“Yeah?” He stared at you like he could read every thought you didn’t want to have. A smirk tugged at his lips, “Could’ve fooled me.” 

Heat climbed up your neck like a guilty confession. “What’s next?” You asked, desperate for a subject that wasn’t him. 

Then he stepped back, arms crossed like nothing happened. Like you weren't threatening to melt, from a single touch. He sized you up like a piece of wood. His eyebrows furrowed as he analyzed your form. 

You stiffened under the scrutiny, spine already straight, legs tight around the barrel. His brow furrowed like something still wasn’t right. 

Noticing his scowl you said, “Alright, Cowboy.” You tacked on the nickname with just enough venom to cover the nerves. “What's wrong with my form now?”

“You’re tense." He said, flatly, "That’s not gonna work for ridin’... or much else.”

You scoffed, trying to ignore the way ‘much else’ stuck to your chest like a splinter. “Of course I am.” 

Slowly, Joel approached, like a predator closing in on its prey. His hands returned to your hips like they belonged there. There was nothing hesitant about the way he touched you. Those hands knew what they were doing. 

Rough and confident, his calloused fingers dug into the softness of your sides, molding your body the way he wanted. Every touch seemed to have a purpose, but it also felt like he was pushing you further, into something much more than a simple lesson.

“Right here.” He guided your hips into the saddle, fingers burning through your denim. “Gotta move with the horse, not against it.” 

Your body trembled slightly, as his palms pushed you into the seat, each press of his hands like a command, a reminder that he was in control.

“Kinda hard to move with the horse when this one doesn’t move at all.” Your breathless voice betrayed you.

“Wanna get thrown on your ass? ‘Cause if you can’t sit on a barrel, don't expect to survive a buckin’ saddle.”

The words come out, fast and sharp, before you can stop them. “Maybe I don’t mind getting thrown around a little.”

That made him stop. A flicker of something unreadable crossed his face.

“Yeah?” His voice dropped dangerously, “You say that like you know what it means.”

“You don’t know a damn thing about me,” You snapped.

He leaned in just enough, like he was whispering a secret. “I know you can’t stop starin’ at my mouth when I talk.”

A breath passed between you. 

His voice was deliberate, like he had you all figured out. “Know you get all flustered when I so much as touch your back. Or adjust your hips." 

“And I hear those sweet little sounds you make," he added, voice dipped in sin, "every time I get close.”

His eyes were dark… dangerous, like he was daring you to deny.

You returned his stare with defiance, even as heat stirred low in your belly, traitorous and slow. “Don’t flatter yourself, Joel.” 

“I don’t have to,” he said, the smirk returning. “You’re doin’ a real good job of that yourself.” 

“Maybe I am,” Your eyes flicked down to his hands still gripping your hips, a little too tightly for a man claiming innocence. His thumbs pressed in just enough to remind you they were still there. “But you’re the one still touching me.”

His thumbs dragged just a little higher, right at the curve where denim met skin. Instruction was long gone. This was something else.

Joel’s voice dropped to a murmur. “Do you want me to stop?”

You tilted your head, heard pounding against your ribcage, “I was just waiting to see what else you could teach me.”

With a low growl, he dragged you forward on the barrel just an inch, just enough to send heat straight to your core. Your breath hitched and you held back a whimper.

“You’re already breathin’ heavy–” His hands tightened on your hips, possessive. “–And I ain’t even touched you proper yet.” 

He stepped closer, the air between you taut like a pulled thread. “Think you’re ready for this lesson?” 

“I learn fast,” You breathed out, voice tight with anticipation.

His gaze dropped to your mouth. Then slow and wicked, a carnal smile curled into place, dangerous like a drawn weapon. He leaned in, close enough that his breath ghosted across your lips. If you moved even an inch, you’d taste him.

Without thinking, you tilted your chin to close the space, but he pulled back just enough, the barest retreat. 

“So impatient,” He tsked, “A good rider learns control.” 

“I'm not a good rider yet though, am I?”

“No, I guess you're not,” His voice was rough with unspent desire. “But we’ll fix that.” 

“How?” The words came out so soft, they were barely audible.

Your hands tighten on the pommel like a lifeline, trembling with the effort not to close the distance yourself.

Then finally, he gave in. 

With a growl, his lips came down on yours. Hot. Sharp. Like a punishment. 

He dominated the kiss, with the same rough authority he used adjusting your posture. It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t polite. It was primal.

You whimpered, arching into him as he deepened it. You open your mouth for his tongue. He licks at your lips, before sliding it into his mouth to meet yours.

His hands gripped your hips again like they were his to guide. “There we go,” His voice growled low against your lips, wrecked and approving. “That’s it. Move with it.”

And you did. You couldn’t help it. You moved with him before you even realized, rolling your hips forward and backward with a slow grind. Your heart begins to beat between your thighs quickly becoming an incessant throbbing, that becomes more and more intense with every movement.

“Good girl.” He whispers against your lips.

The words, thick with praise, felt like heat, poured straight into your veins. 

You shuddered, body rolling under his guidance, shamefully eager to please. Not because you wanted to get the saddle right anymore. No, it was because he was the one telling you how.

“Just like that.” His thumbs dug in, guiding another rough grind against the saddle.  “Now we're gettin’ somewhere.” 

The friction of your denim against the old saddle, sent waves of pleasure low in your belly. Your fingers tighten on the saddle horn, clinging on to something solid as everything else threatened to unravel.

Then his calloused hands left your hips, sliding up your waist, his thumbs barely brushing the underside of your breasts. Your hips struggled to keep moving in their absence. You were too focused on the way he tasted, the sounds he made, the feel of him.

He pulled back, lips swollen, “Did I say stop?” He snapped, “You keep going, till I say so. You understand?”

You nodded your head, frantic. But he wasn’t having that.

“Use your words, Cowgirl,” He warned. “Say it.” 

“Yes,” You breathed out. “I understand.”

You don’t know what you craved more. The need for release or the praise you’d get for earning it. 

Either way, you obeyed, riding harder, hips snapping forward. You were chasing the rhythm he carved into you. You let out a soft moan as friction met the saddle just right. A slow burn sparked low and deep.

“Knew you’d be a fast learner.” He growled, satisfied. "Look at you, movin’ just like I want.”

One palm slid up your spine, igniting every nerve on its path up. His fingers threaded into the back of your hair. He tugged your head back, firm and commanding, exposing your throat. 

“You gonna take what I give you?” His grip tightened.

“Yes.” You cried out, the word somewhere between a plea and a promise.

Joel’s fingers pulled your hair. 

The sharp edge of pain only made the pleasure coil tighter and deeper.

His mouth was hot on your neck now, velvety tongue painting your skin. His teeth scraped just enough to make your hips stutter, movements slowing.

“Keep going,” he demanded against your throat, showing you no sympathy.

You headed his command and ground your hips down. His other hand came up rough and demanding, gripping your jaw forcing you to face him. It was clear who was in control.

Your lips crashed together again, unforgiving. It was all raw hunger and heat.

Desperation spilled into the kiss, mess and unrestrained, like you both had been starving for years and just now found something worth sinking your teeth into.

He pulled your lower lip between his and gave it a little tug. He released your jaw, sliding his hand down your throat, fingers dragging possessively along your skin, claiming every inch.

Joel’s touch didn’t stop.

It drifted lower, over your collarbones, across the line of your chest, fingers grazing over the softest parts of you with just enough pressure to make your breath hitch.

Your nipples ached, hard and sensitive, straining through the material of your shirt.

You arched your back. Chest brushing his, aching for more. The space between you felt unbearable, like your skin was screaming for contact. He could feel it. You knew he could feel it.

He chuckled low against your throat, the sound dark and indulgent. “That desperate, huh Cowgirl?”

There was no room left for shame.

Especially when his thumb grazed over your nipple and your whole body jolted like you’d been struck. He hadn’t even undressed you. Not a single piece of clothing had been removed… yet you were still unraveling for him. 

You became a panting mess, as he thumbed and pinched your nipple, like you were his to toy with. Your thighs tightened around the saddle with every spark of pleasure.

“You want more?” he asked.

You should've said no. Should've reminded him this was supposed to be a riding lesson. Or that you were outside and anyone could walk by. But his thumb was still teasing circles over your nipple, and you couldn't focus on anything other than his hands.

"Yes," You breathed out.

Joel's eyes darkened, pupils swallowing the brown. “Then use your words.”

For someone who barely uttered a word to you before, he sure has a lot to say now. 

“I want more,” It took great effort to speak. The throbbing between your legs was becoming painful. "I want you to touch me like you mean it."

A low sound left his throat, half-grow, half-moan. "You sure?" With tortuous speed, his palm slid down, hot and heavy, landing at the top of your jeans. His fingers slipped just barely under the denim. "'Cause once I start, I ain't gonna stop 'till your beggin'."

Your breath shuddered as your hips rocked slowly. "Then don't stop."

A sound of approval left his throat. Half-growl, half-moan. His mouth was on yours again. The kiss turned messy fast. Teeth clashed. Tongues tangled.

One of his hands slid down between your thighs, pressing against the seam of your jeans, right where the ache had started building. His palm ground slow and hard between your thighs.

You gasped into his mouth, grinding on his hand, hips moving like he showed you.

"That's it." He muttered. "All worked up and we barely started."

A needy whimper left your lips, from the friction. But it wasn’t enough to satisfy the ache he’d built inside of you. You needed more. You needed him.

But Joel… Joel was in no rush.

His hand dragged up and teased the edge of your underwear, warm fingers curling at the edge.

He didn’t move lower. Not yet. He just watched you from under dark lashes, expression wild. Hungry.

“Joel.” You said his name like it hurt. Like just needing him was its own kind of agony. 

“Shhh,” he hushed, almost tender. His fingers slipped past that threshold, dipping into your underwear, slow and steady like he had all the time in the goddamn world. “You’re okay. I got you.”

You were soaked, aching with want. Completely wrecked and he hadn’t even fucked you yet. The sound he made when he realized it was dark, filthy, and far too pleased. The rough noise of approval sent a wave of heat pulsing through your core.

“Christ. So fuckin’ wet.” 

The pads of his fingers circled your clit. Soft at first, coaxing. You shuddered, every nerve sparked under his touch, hips twitching without permission.

You let go of the pommel and tried to muffle your desperate cries, but the hand in your hair was quick to grab your wrist. 

“No.” He growled. “Let me hear how pretty you sound when you ride my fingers.” 

A needy whimper was all you could muster in response.

As if rewarding you, his fingers sank into your slick heat. One, then two. You clenched around him, hips bucking at the sudden stretch. Your whole body bowed forward, forehead dropping to the saddle as a ragged moan slipped from your lips.

“Ngh–” You cried out pathetically, as his fingers thrust deep inside of you. His thumb found your clit with cruel precision, brushing in slow, maddening circles. The only thing you could do was helplessly ride his fingers closer to euphoria. 

“Doin’ so good for me,” He grunted into your ear. His voice went straight to your core. The praise, the authority, the way he said it like it was a fact. "Such a good girl."

You tipped your head back, eyes fluttering shut, shamelessly rubbing against him.

“Let me hear you.” Joel’s teeth nipped at your earlobe.

“Joel.” You moaned, hips rolling with reckless need. “Feels so good–”

You were a sinful sight. Temptation itself, perched on that rusted saddle. Joel’s restraint was hanging by a thread, evident in the way his fingers bit into your waist, like he needed to anchor himself or lose it entirely.

Suddenly, you slumped forward with a gasp, hips stuttering to a halt. Overwhelmed by the way his fingers curled just right, nudging that spot deep inside of you it sent a shiver ripping through you, all the way down to your toes. The only thing keeping you upright was your white-knuckled grip on the horn.

“What, that's all you got, Cowgirl?” 

Your body wasn't listening to you anymore. It only listened to him. Your body rocked fast now, chasing that edge with wild bucking desperation.

But as you got close, too close, your form faltered. Your thighs trembled. Ankles slipped against the rusted stirrups. 

In response, he removed his fingers completely and he halted your movements. You cried as your body clenched on nothing, pleasure dwindling away. “Ah–uh uh.” His tone was firm, unrelenting, “Fix your form.” 

Of course he still wanted you to have proper form, even like this. The bastard was going to drag it out of you, keep you right at the edge, just to make you learn.

You do your best to obey, but oh god, it's so difficult.

You whined, hips twitching, “It's too-” Your head fell forward, “feels too–too good–” You tried to move against his restraint, but his hands were unyielding in letting you chase any friction he didn’t warrant. 

Not until you earned it. 

“What was that?” He chuckled darkly. "Thought you learned fast."

"I-I can't." An exasperated sound came low from your throat.

"You can." His voice was low and coaxing. “Back straight, legs tight.”

The words struck something deep… Need, pride, maybe both. You wanted to give him what he asked for. To hear the way his voice dropped when you got it right.

With frustrated tears hot in your eyes, you forced your trembling thighs to steady, dragging strength from somewhere deep in your core.

Slowly, you realigned your spine, shoulders pulling back hips grinding into position exactly like he taught you.

“There she is.” He murmured, approval slipping into his tone, rich and hot. “Knew you had it in you.”

As if rewarding you, he slipped his two fingers back inside, thrusting in and out, stretching you wide. Your body moved right this time. Controlled and powerful.

There's a hitch in your breath when you shift forwards, your clit hitting his calloused thumb with every thrust. You cried as his fingers hit just right, again and again.

“Look at you, so pretty riding my fingers.” He let the praise land heavy, voice warm like the Wyoming sun.

Your head was thrown back, mouth parted in a silent moan, shamelessly riding his fingers. He watched you, full of hunger you know he is fighting. 

“Oh god,” You whisper, lashes fluttering. His fingers are the finest torture you’ve ever experienced. Mercilessly working to get you higher and higher with every deliberate curl.

“You gonna come for me?” His fingers move furiously, forearm brushing against your breasts at this angle. It was all happening too fast. 

“Yes. Yes, Joel–” A string of broken, desperate sounds spilled from your lips. Words lost. You were teetering right on the edge, trembling with it.

“Go ahead,” His words went directly to your core and your body headed his command before your mind could catch up.

Joels name left your lips, over and over, like a chant as your orgasm slammed into you, stealing every bit of oxygen from your lungs. Every inch of you shook as you unraveled. There was no way your form was holding. Not anymore. 

“That’s it, squeezin’ my fingers so tight–” He cooed in your ear. “Fuck, look at you...”

Your body locked up for a beat and your vision blurred. You were helpless against the wave of pleasure he’d drawn from you with nothing but his touch.

But Joel doesn’t let up. He’s relentless. His fingers move faster, intensifying the feeling. 

It's too much. Too overwhelming.Your chest heaved up and down in a frantic rhythm, lungs barely keeping pace with the fire burning through your body. You buck in the seat, trying to ease off his fingers. 

“Just like that,” His lips brushed the shell of your ear, chest heaving as much as yours. “That's how you ride.” 

Your body shook with aftershocks, thighs quivering. You were stunned, reeling at just how hard you came for him.

"Did so good for me."

You didn’t even realize it was his arm keeping you from collapsing entirely. Strong and steady, wrapped around your waist. Your fingers clutched at his forearm, nails digging into the sun-kissed skin, marking the moment. 

Neither of you moved. The barn fell quiet, save for your uneven breaths mingling together. Birdsong drifted lazily through the dusty slats of the old barn. Nature's calm, a cruel contrast to the wildfire that just tore through you.

Every muscle in your body buzzed. Your legs were jelly, trembling and utterly useless.

The saddle suddenly felt miles too high. The thought of climbing down made your stomach dip. But you couldn’t sit atop the rusted saddle forever.

You released his arm to get off, and he went to help but you shook your head. Pride was a stubborn thing.

“I-I got it.” You muttered, trying to swing one leg over.

Joel didn't move, at first. Just watched with one eyebrow raised. Arms folded.

Balance wavered. Your legs felt like water, and your foot slipped.

And in the space between one breath and the next, his hands caught your waist.

“Easy now,” he murmured, “I got you.”

Before you could argue, he lifted you off the saddle, like you were nothing. Your boneless limbs curled instinctively towards him. 

Your boots met the hay covered ground and you were hauled fully into him, one arm bracing behind your back. You gasped and planted your hands against his chest, realizing this was the first time you intentionally put your hands on him, the whole lesson.

“I said I got it.”  You protested weakly. 

“Can’t have my best student fallin’ off the horse.” 

“I’m your only student.” You tried to scoff, but your voice was sleep-soft. “And it's a barrel.”

Meaning to push away, you shifted. But then you felt him. Hard and hot pressed up against your stomach through the rough denim of his jeans. Your breath hitched. He’d been holding himself back this whole time.

Instinct had your hand moving before you could stop it. But Joel caught your wrist in a tight burning grip. 

“We'll save that for that next lesson."

You pulled your lip between your teeth. "You think I'm ready for the horse now?"

Joel's eyes raked down your body and his lips curled slow and dangerous. "I think your ready for a hell of a lot more than that, Cowgirl."

God help you. You could not wait for the next lesson.

[thef1diary]

it’s me again with biker!carlos…..

sooooo im thinking there’s got to be a leather kink of some sort, either from him or reader 🙄

could be something simple, like carlos taking reader shopping for a leather jacket so she can ride with him, but the way it pushes her breasts up when she zips it up?? yup he’s gone, getting handsy in the fitting room 😔😔

or maybe reader asking carlos to keep the jacket on when they go home from a lil trip… idk…. my mind is everywhere…

-🐱

— I said it once and I’ll say it again, Carlos is a boob guy! Had too much fun w this one hehe 18+ content below

Carlos insists on getting you a proper leather jacket before you ever get on the back of his bike. “Safety first, nena,” he had told you in a firm tone, but there was something undeniably fond in his voice.

You didn’t argue. You couldn’t, not with him holding a hint of concern in his big brown eyes as he spoke about it. Plus, the idea of riding with him—arms around his waist, pressed up against his back—thrills you, and if a jacket is all it takes to make him feel better about it, you’re more than happy to purchase one…with his card, of course.

So, true to your word, you’re standing in front of a mirror outside the fitting rooms, pulling the leather jacket into place. The fit is perfect—snug around your waist, comfortable across your shoulders, the sleeves are the perfect length. It’s exactly the kind of protection Carlos insisted on, built for safety rather than style.

But as you grab the zipper and start pulling it up, you feel the resistance.

It’s fine at first, gliding smoothly over your stomach, up to your ribs—but the second it reaches your chest, the leather tightens, resisting as you try to tug it higher. You bit your lip, pulling a little harder, shifting your shoulders to help the fabric stretch. It doesn’t.

Carlos, who’s standing behind you, notices everything.

Through the reflection, his dark eyes track every movement. He watches as you struggle, as the jacket pushes your boobs up, compressing just enough to make your low-cut top underneath look even more sinful. The tension in the zipper only emphasizes the way the leather cuts your shape, lifting and framing in all the right ways.

After a few more seconds of fighting it, you finally give up, leaving the zipper not fully done up. It’s more comfortable like this, but somehow that only makes it worse. The open neckline leaves more of you exposed, emphasizing the push-up effect, the smooth skin barely covered beneath.

You turn around to ask Carlos what he thinks—and maybe comment on how you probably need the next size up—but the words die on your tongue the second you see his expression.

He isn’t just watching you.

He’s staring. Jaw tight, fingers twitching at his sides, his breathing heavier than it should be for someone who’s done nothing but just stand there.

His gaze flicks up, locking with yours directly, and he doesn’t even pretend that his eyes weren’t stuck to your boobs.

He just exhales, slow and sharp, then mutters, “fitting room. Now.”

Before you can say anything, he’s already grabbing your wrist, pulling you inside, the door shutting behind you with a quiet but final click.

Carlos crowds you into the narrow space, his body heat sinking into you, his presence all-consuming. He doesn’t waste a second—his mouth is on your neck, trailing slow, deliberate kisses along the sensitive skin. The first few are soft, teasing. But then he starts sucking, biting, leaving marks he knows will be visible to others later.

Then, his mouth moves to the opening of the jacket, where the zipper had struggled.

He kisses there, right where the leather pushes your tits up, pressing his lips into the soft curves spilling from the unzipped space. A slow, hot breath fans across your skin before he sucks lightly, his teeth barely scraping.

You shiver, fingers digging into his arms as he cups your boobs, squeezing just enough to make you gasp. His thumb drags over the curve, pressing against the firm leather, feeling the way it pushes against you.

“Too tight here,” he murmurs, voice low and rough, testing the fit, squeezing just a little harder.

His fingers slide lower, tracing the unzipped edge, teasing over the exposed skin where the jacket parts. He dips a fingertip beneath the leather, tugging just slightly, like he’s thinking about unzipping it completely—but he doesn’t.

“And here…” His voice drops even lower, lips brushing against your collarbone. “The opening lets me see whatever I want.”

Your breathing stutters as his thumb circles over the edge of your boob, teasing the sensitive skin, his touch firm but unhurried. He’s watching you, watching your body, his eyes dark with something almost possessive.

Then his hands drop to your hips.

In one smooth motion, he grabs you, lifting you up like you weigh nothing. Your back hits the wall, legs wrapping instinctively around his waist. He doesn’t even look up—his gaze is still locked onto your tits, on the way the jacket squeezes and frames you perfectly.

Carlos groans, fingers digging into your hips as he presses you further against the wall. His breathing is uneven, jaw tight as he drags his gaze back up to yours.

“You’re gonna be a fucking distraction on the bike,” he mutters, voice thick with frustration. His fingers slip beneath the hem of the jacket, brushing against your bare back. “Sitting behind me, pressing against my back…”

His hands slide down, gripping your ass through your jeans, pulling you flush against him so you feel everything—how much he wants you, how much this jacket is ruining him.

He leans in, lips ghosting over yours, teasing but not kissing you yet. His voice is a growl when he speaks again. “You want to distract me on the road?”

You shake your head, barely able to breathe.

Carlos tilts his head, eyes narrowing slightly like he doesn’t quite believe you. His hands tighten on your hips, pressing you harder against him.

“Then what are you gonna do about it, nena?”

Instead of answering him verbally, you crash your lips onto his. It’s claiming, devouring, all heat and frustration as his mouth instantly moves against yours with desperate hunger. His hands roam your body, lingering on your hips.

You gasp against his lips when he grinds against you, the friction sending sparks up your spine. Carlos takes the opportunity to deepen the kiss, tongue sliding against yours, a low groan rumbling from his chest as he drinks you in.

He kisses you like he needs it to breathe, like he’d lose his goddamn mind if he had to stop. His hands never stop moving, never stop touching, and when he pulls at your hips again, forcing you to rub against him, you moan into his mouth.

Carlos growls in response, low and rough, breaking the kiss only to trail his lips down, kissing, biting, sucking at your neck. His teeth graze the sensitive skin above your collarbone, and you shudder, your fingers digging into his shoulders.

And then—

Knock. Knock.

Your entire body stiffens, the sound breaking through the haze of lust clouding your mind just in time to hear an associate on the other side, asking if everything is alright.

Your heart pounds, panic spiking, but before you can even open your mouth to respond, Carlos is already moving.

His hands fly to the zipper of the jacket, yanking it down with a single, swift motion, exposing your low-cut top. Before you can even react, he tugs it down, baring you to him, and seals his mouth around your nipple.

A sharp, strangled gasp escapes you, one that you barely manage to swallow down before it turns into something louder.

Your fingers tangle in his hair, pulling tight as his hot mouth works over your sensitive nipple, sucking, teasing, his tongue flicking just enough to have your legs shaking around him.

Carlos groans, deep and needy, the vibrations shooting straight to your cunt, making it impossible to think, impossible to do anything but hold on.

The associate waits. You can hear them shuffling outside, expecting an answer.

You press your hand over your mouth, desperately trying to compose yourself, trying to think of anything else besides how wet you are, how close you are to falling apart—

“I— I’m fine,” you somehow manage when you move your hand away, voice breathless, unsteady. “Don’t need help—”

And just as quickly as he started, Carlos pulls back, his lips leaving your overly sensitive skin, a thin line of spit connecting you before he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

Your chest heaves, pulse racing, as you watch him step back, eyes dark, amused, taking in the way you’re struggling to fix yourself, your fingers shaky, your breaths coming too fast.

The associate hums, seemingly satisfied with your answer, and you hear their footsteps retreating.

But Carlos?

Carlos doesn’t move back toward you. He doesn’t return to what you were doing moments ago.

Instead, he crosses his arms, leans back against the fitting room wall, and smirks. “You’ll need to buy this jacket,” he murmurs, voice low, teasing, “if you want something from me.”

You blink at him, stunned, your brain short-circuiting for a moment before you manage to yank your top back into place.

But even with everything covered again, there’s no hiding it—

Your nipples are still hard, clearly visible through the thin fabric, evidence of what he just did to you.

Carlos notices immediately.

His smirk deepens as he steps closer again, his fingers find your nipple, rolling it between his fingertips through your shirt. The sensation is too much, another strangled sound catching in your throat as you sway toward him.

Carlos chuckles, dark and pleased, leaning in close until his lips brush against your ear.

“Use your words, nena,” he murmurs, pinching again, this time just a little harder, making you shudder.

want more biker!carlos? send me an ask with your thoughts—filthy or not—and I’d love to write you a little drabble <3

[lokisgoodgirl]

The Spare [Loki x Reader]

A link to my Masterlist is HERE Summary: Alternate perspective of Two Gods One Heart from Loki No.3 live from the 'Cuck Chair'. Absolute nonsense. Although if we're splitting hairs, read that one first. (w/c 1.5k) Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI. Smut. Who the eff knows. Threesome. Cucking. Loki being a bitch to himself. Jealousy. Masturbation. Silliness. MMF. Fanfic of my own fanfic. A/N: I literally wrote this in like an hour and a half so please adjust your expectations accordingly😂 Just a bit of fun.

How the hel did it come to this?

Loki watched from the shadows as two identical versions of himself stripped their shirts and threw them down, grinning. Their leather trousers vanished in a garish flash of green from the hand of the ‘true’ him. Show off.

His own leathers still clung to the long lines of his thighs. Mocking him. Bastards, all, he thought bitterly, and not for the first time. The laughing, handsy Lokis’ had turned to fixing each other’s hair in a manner which could only be described as conspiratorial. How I hate them.

“You don’t need to be so bloody smug about it,” he said sourly, and folded his arms. The two men smirked in his direction and went back to faffing around.

“Must you infiltrate this haven of sensuality with your frigidity?” Loki’s Alpha form cracked his neck to the side, and in the chair, he felt a dull release echo in his muscles. “You drew the short straw.” He widened his arms, “You knew the rules.”

“You cheated.”

His Alpha smiled cruelly. Loki had never understood what you saw in that smile. Why you loved it. “Of course,” he said, eyes narrowing. “You would do the same.”

“I do, do the same, you twit,” Loki snapped, feeling his cheeks heat and grateful for the shroud of half-light in his corner of exile. There was nothing more exasperating than arguing with himself. He was always right, and it made it very difficult to get the upper hand.

To that, Alpha Loki said nothing, only turned to the other victor in their pathetic straw-related contest and ushered him onto the bed.

I shall not forget this. Loki straightened against the high-backed chair he had arranged here earlier for this very purpose.

She had specifically requested an audience, naughty minx that she was. And yet, the fact that he would be inside his own, frustrated, mind while the fun unfolded in front of him had somehow escaped his logic until this moment. He pinched the bridge of his nose, ignoring the inconvenient swell of lust between his thighs.

“Cuck-Loki?” the other duplicate of himself postured sweetly. He looked up, stunned at the flagrant audacity. “Blow out the candle to your side, will you? Too obvious you’re there.” He winked.

Cuck…Loki.

If those words had passed anyone’s lips other than his own, he’d have wrenched the offender’s arsehole through their throat with nary a second thought.

His molars pressed together and a sharp twinge raced up his cheeks as Alpha Loki sighed, and slid a long, pale leg over the side of the bed. “Save the menacing eroticism for our darling woman…” He folded his hands behind his head. “It’s wasted on us.”

The second Loki slid a hand down the other’s chest and gripped his cock. “I don’t know about that. You have to admit…no one does menacing eroticism like we do.”

They started kissing.

Cuck-Loki rolled his eyes, so busy trying to remain unaroused at the soft moans rolling from Alpha’s throat that he barely registered the gentle click of the door closing.

“Come to bed,” his true form growled towards the door, and Cuck-Loki’s eyes slid to the side, barely breathing, catching the outline of your silhouette drift across the floor.

Norns, you looked incredible.

The lingerie he’d bought last week for no reason other than he worshipped you, the set which had prompted your request for this very act, this very night. ‘Two of you fucking me, and one watching,’ you’d said with a virginal blush and a wicked grin that made his loins ache. ‘Don’t tell me which is which.’

An inexplicable jealousy clawed up his throat as the other duplicate said, “Keeping us waiting…” in his most honed, cunt-drenching voice, and he saw your thighs clench.

He wanted to launch himself from the dark corner and bury himself between your legs, making your knees buckle beneath his tongue, usurp the plans of those other two who might think they could pleasure you, but…

He squeezed his eyes shut, holding his breath. Control yourself. This is what she wants. She wants to know you’re coming undone. But fuck, it was torture.

His cock was throbbing lead, pinching painfully against the seams of his leathers. Damned Minx, he thought again. Sent to test me at every turn. But that was what he loved about you, and so, Loki opened one eye, and then the other.

The other two of himself were bickering.

Loki smirked.

Ah, hubris, thy name is Laufeyson. An inevitable series of events unfolded in his mind. The two rubes on the bed would get into a predictably competitive fracas, leaving he, the knight in straining armour, to save the day and fuck the damsel to within an inch of her sanity while they watched.

He rolled his shoulders back at the exact moment you reclined and one of himself manoeuvred between your legs.

Cuck-Loki frowned.

“Good girl,” Alpha cooed, and his eyes flickered upward, meeting his own. Loki wanted to punch him. Punch his own, flawless face into a bloody, formless pulp. His name gasped from your throat; ragged, before being claimed by a kiss.

He could taste you: the sweetness of your saliva, the heat of your need, and the unmistakable, earthy ambrosia of your arousal in the back of his mouth.

His hands flew to the armrests, neat fingernails punching through the embroidered upholstery. He punched the heave of his breath down his throat, swallowing it as abruptly as you were swallowing Alpha’s cock on the bed.

Jealousy melted to something new, something wild. He could sense the ghost of your lips wrapped around his manhood, the light scratch of nails at his lower back, the silky slip of your cunt against his lips. A cloud swelled between his ribs like mist; a climax, like smoke under glass. Dulled. But there.

Gritting his teeth, Loki’s fingers flew to the fastening of his trousers. He’d been determined to remain here: forgotten, stoic. Fulfilling his purpose as the spare, as the observer there only to witness pleasure; to enhance it by his omniscient impotence.

To hel with that, he thought as his cock sprung into his hand: hot, desperate, and he gripped it with a grateful, staggered sigh.

“I’m giving her what she wants,” he heard one of himself say to the other with conviction.

I’m giving her what she wants.

Loki’s lips pressed together as he watched two of himself surround you, and your perfect body slotted between them. You’d hooked a leg over the other duplicate, kissing him wildly as his cock pushed inside your sweet cunt and his eyes rolled back.

Loki’s grip tightened, the swipe of his palm over his flesh quickening. With every drag, the unsated desperation heightened.

Alpha Loki snapped his fingers and a phial of Asgardian oil, the good stuff, appeared in his fist. He shot Cuck-Loki a wink as it dripped over his fingers and he lowered the hand between your asscheeks.

You moaned softly, oblivious, as Alpha mouthed ‘catch’ and tossed the half-empty phial through the air.

Loki caught it.

He emptied it over his cock like an animal, never taking his eyes off your squirming body as he took you from the front and from behind; your body ratcheting between sources of pleasure and sounds he’d never known you could make twisted through the air. His mouth was open now, just like his counterparts, unable to stifle the panting, primal need searing his throat and overwhelming his senses.

He could feel all of it: the tightness of your ass, the grip of your cunt, the heat of your breath and the thump of your heart. Harder. Stronger. Pressing down on him like stones.

Gods, it was torture. Gods, it was perfect.

“Come inside me,” you sobbed, far louder than you’d ever have intended.

Something inside Loki shattered.

It was too much—everything—a series of explosions snapping the synapses of his brain like Asgardian fireworks on the darkest winter night. He loved you. He loved you. More than anything—everything—and as all other thoughts vanished, he clung on to that.

Hot, white seed erupted over his fist. He bit back a scream. But he needn’t have bothered. The Lokis on the bed were ripping through their own orgasms, drowning him out, and as Cuck-Loki’s brain scrambled, breath evaporating in his lungs and muscles spasming, he felt the force of all three.

Seconds slipped into each other like the brush of your lips, and Loki’s senses returned. Hair was plastered against his forehead, cum dripping between his fingers as he slumped in the chair. Undone, he reminded himself. As she wanted. He smiled, closing his eyes.

A familiar tingle began at his feet and worked up his legs, his hips, his heart.

And then, your shoulder-blades were nestled against his chest: naked, hot, real. He slid his hands up your breasts, pulling you close.

He was as near to you as it was possible to be—still sheathed inside you, cradling your trembling, wrung out body warmed with happiness. A happiness he had created. A happiness that was everything: trust.

Loki kissed the curve of your shoulder, and his heart fluttered as you made an embarrassed chipmunk noise against the pillow. You’d chosen wrong, but he didn’t mind. As long as you always chose him.

“I love you,” he murmured tenderly against the damp sweetness of your skin. “And that’s something I’ll never share.”

🤷‍♀️🤷‍♀️Tags in comments. x

[hanasnx]

honestly, every time you write for dc characters, it gives me life cause it feels like a dying art form on this site now 😭 anyways, i saw your new event so what about wally x wayne!reader, like “enemies to lovers-esque” they’ve been bickering since they were kids but now that they’re older somethings had to give after a particularly intense mission?

MINORS DNI 18+

NOTES: DC is for December Event! — request DC characters.

“Ugh! I don’t get why you don’t just listen! If you’d just trusted me—“ you begin, gesturing wildly with your hands despite no one being around. The comm in your ear sputters to life as your opponent is quick to rebuttal.

WALLY WEST doesn’t ever see your side of things, or refuses to just to get on your nerves. “Oh, I’m sorry. Last I checked, Major Bossy hadn’t been promoted to Team Leader.” You could hear the roll of his eyes in his voice as you pull the frame off the vent.

Instead of wasting your energy with clever response, you revert to immature tactics—the only strategy he lowers himself to. “If I’m Major Bossy, you’re definitely not Lieutenant Ass-Kisser.” you argue, ending the comment with a grunt as you slide your body weight into the narrow hall of the vent.

“Oh-ho-ho, didn’t know the weather report called for sarcasm—“ Predictably, Wally meets you where you’re at but now you can’t leave it alone. Your fingers press into the piece in your ear to make sure he hears you transparently.

“‘Weather report?’” you parrot incredulously, spitting your words, “you- are such- a cornball—!”

“Keep the comms clear!” the warning voice of the actual Team Leader, Nightwing, silences you both. Until you hear Wally’s stuttering protests, intent to keep bickering with you. “We don’t have Miss Martian, and you two idiots are wasting air time with this bullshit. Cut the chatter. Nightwing out.”

You press your lips together. As you dissolve into a snicker, you hear Wally mirror you on the other line.

“Do you ever shut up?” Wally speaks against your mouth, bare sweaty bodies sticking together.

“Do something to render me speechless, then.” you challenge, a curl teasing the corner of your lips as your arms wrap loosely around his neck. He lifts himself to hover above you, the leather band around his neck dangling a silver pendant over your chest. Your two heads bow to meet the sight between you, his dick slicked with pre-cum and spit settled nicely in your slit. The thick shaft makes a home in your folds, while the lip of his bulbous mushroom-shaped tip catches on your clit every time he ebbs and flows his hips. Lazily, he demonstrates it, the mix of fluids lubing up the rod to stroke up and down your sore sex. He’s hefty, a lot more than you gave him credit for, a heavy cock sprouting from wild dark red curls.

“You didn’t even shave.” you comment, hiding your obvious interest with a thin veil. He can still hear the waver in your voice, can see how you roll your puffy bottom lip through your teeth.

“You think I planned this?” He meets your eyes with his brow pricked. “Thought you hated my guts.”

You peer to the side innocently with the minutest of shrugs. “Or maybe I just wanted you to fuck them.”

[lazy-ahh]

HOME IS WHERE YOU ARE

pairing jason todd x gender neutral reader

the blood on his gloves isn't yours. the ache in his chest is. it's been there since the first time you kissed him - this relentless, terrifying need that claws at his ribs whenever he's away from you.

the city sprawled beneath him like a living thing—glistening with rain-slick streets and fractured neon reflections, breathing in the way only gotham could. the air smelled like exhaust and distant rain, the kind of chill that seeped into bones no matter how many layers you wore. jason perched on the edge of a rooftop, one knee drawn up, his helmet resting beside him like a discarded thought. the wind tugged at his hair, sharp and insistent, but he barely felt it.

his fingers flexed against the concrete ledge, rough beneath his gloves. he should be moving. should be working. but his mind was elsewhere, tangled up in the warmth of your sheets, the quiet hum of your voice, the way your breath hitched when he kissed that spot just below your ear—

god.

all he could think about was you.

the way your voice softened when you said his name, syllables curling around it like a secret. the way your hands always found his, fingers slotting together like they were made to fit, like you were afraid he’d vanish if you didn’t keep him anchored. the way you smiled at him—soft, fond, like he was something good, something whole, even when he knew the truth of what he was.

he exhaled, slow, watching his breath fog in the cold air.

he missed you.

it was stupid. ridiculous. he’d seen you barely a handful of hours ago, before he’d dragged himself out into the gotham night. you’d kissed him slow, lazy, like time itself had unraveled just for the two of you—like he was something worth savoring. (and you, stubborn as ever, would argue that time spent on him wasn’t wasted, not ever. "time with you," you’d say, voice all soft and sure, "is the only time that matters.") your hands had lingered on his chest, thumbs tracing the edge of his kevlar like you were memorizing the shape of him, and for one reckless, dizzying moment, he’d almost said fuck it and stayed. almost let the city burn if it meant another hour tangled in your sheets, in your warmth, in you.

and now here he was, heart aching like some lovesick idiot, like he hadn’t spent half his life pretending he didn’t need anything at all.

a shout echoed from the alley below, sharp and panicked. the sound snapped him back into his body, into the night, into the work waiting for him.

right.

work to do.

(´▽`ʃ♡ƪ)

blood bloomed across his knuckles, dark and slick, painting the cracked leather of his gloves. the sharp snap of bone beneath his fists echoed in his ears, followed by a choked-off scream that dissolved into whimpers. the air was thick with it—the copper sting of blood, the acrid sweat of fear, the gunpowder clinging to his jacket like a second skin. this was easy. this was simple. this was the language he spoke fluently, the only one that ever made sense in the jagged edges of his world.

but then—

silence.

just for a breath. just long enough for his mind to turn traitor.

how could you love him? how could you look at him—really look—and not flinch away? he was a patchwork of scars and fury, all sharp edges and half-healed wounds, a weapon honed by pain and rage. he knew what he was. knew the weight of the blood on his hands, the ghosts that clung to his shadow.

and yet—

you touched him like he was something precious. like he wasn’t already ruined. your fingers traced the scars on his skin like they were something to cherish, your voice soft and steady even when he was anything but. you held him like he was fragile, like he’d break if you held him too tight, and that was the cruelest joke of all—because he was already broken, and you were the only thing holding him together.

he didn’t deserve you.

he didn’t deserve the way your laughter warmed him from the inside out, didn’t deserve the way you sighed his name like it was a prayer, didn’t deserve the way you looked at him like he was something good.

but christ, he wanted to.

(´▽`ʃ♡ƪ)

the bike roared beneath him as he carved through gotham's veins, tires eating up asphalt as streetlights bled into golden streaks in his periphery. his body ached with the familiar symphony of bruises and cracked ribs, his mind weighed down by the night's violence, but none of it mattered because all he could think was you, you, you—the phantom memory of your hands in his hair, your laughter ringing in his ears, the way your breath hitched when he kissed you like he was starving for it.

the apartment was dark when he finally stumbled through the door, save for the flickering blue glow of some late-night infomercial playing to an empty room. there you were, sprawled across the couch like some domestic daydream, tangled in that godawful batman blanket alfred had gifted you as a joke (the one jason pretended to despise but secretly adored because it meant you were warm, because it meant you were here).

he leaned against the doorframe, just watching. memorizing the way your chest rose and fell in steady rhythm, the way your lashes fluttered with some dream he'd never know, the way your fingers twitched like they were searching for him even in sleep.

then you stirred, blinking up at him with sleep-heavy eyes, and your lips curled into that soft, drowsy smile that never failed to unravel him stitch by stitch.

"hey, red hood," you murmured, voice rough with sleep but laced with amusement. "save any kittens from trees tonight?"

he huffed a laugh, already shrugging off his jacket. "nah, just a few assholes from getting their teeth kicked in. you know, the usual community service."

you grinned, shifting to make room for him. "gotham's lucky to have you."

"gotham's a pain in my ass," he grumbled, but he was already sinking onto the couch beside you, his body gravitating toward yours like it was the only thing that made sense.

his chest tightened when you reached for him, fingers brushing the fresh cut on his cheekbone with a tenderness that threatened to undo him completely.

"missed you," you whispered, like it was a secret.

he leaned into your touch, pressing his forehead to yours, breathing you in—laundry detergent and that stupidly expensive shampoo you loved and something so inherently you it made his ribs ache. "missed you more."

you laughed, quiet and warm and his, pulling him close until there was no space left between you.

home wasn't four walls or a roof or a city that never slept.

home was you.

always you.

1.1k words, short and sweet, all just about how jason misses you every time he's away from you for longer than five minutes. like. chronically. pathetically. scrap that, three minutes. okay, scrap that too, he'd miss you if you weren't in his sight after five heartbeats- (this man is a 6'2" weapon of mass destruction who folds like a lawn chair the second you smile at him. i respect it and i NEED IT.)

[karikarasuno]

part six | part seven | part eight

you cannot for the life of you find the bag full of clothes for donation anywhere in your garage. you packed it a few months ago and you swore you set it between a stack of boxes by your washer and dryer. you really need to reorganize this place, it's not funny anymore.

you had just put the trash and recycle containers at the end of your driveway for pick up in the morning and with your garage door still open you searched and searched and searched for that damn bag of clothes. but it's a pointless endeavor. you're officially a mess.

"hey," law's voice makes you jump about a thousand feet into the air, a sharp yelp leaving you as you turn to face him. your heart hammers in your chest from the scare and your hand flies to your chest to settle your breathing.

"oh jesus, law, you scared me!" law doesn't laugh like you expect him to. he's not the least bit amused. instead he looks tense. you'd argue even maybe angry. his presence is larger than usual. it's unexpected, so much so that your spine straightens and you shift awkwardly in place.

"is everything okay?" you ask, trepidation settling into your voice. law's shoulders immediately sag. his head falls forward slightly. but he doesn't seem exhausted like he usually does after work. something else is wrong.

"yeah, long day," he answers, taking a single step towards you. his stride is long. he cuts the distance between you almost in half. you involuntarily take a step back. the door to enter the house digs into the space between your shoulder blades since you never closed it earlier. you feel the cool air of your home against the back of your neck.

"did you wanna talk about it?" your question rings a bit hollow. if he wanted to talk you absolutely would, but law doesn't seem like he wants to come in for a cup of tea and some chatting.

"no, not really." the distance divides itself again when one of his steps turns into another. you're frozen when his eyes meet yours. his gaze is intense, hungry. you feel like cornered prey about to be devoured.

"that's okay," you swallow. "i made curry for dinner if you wanted to come in and eat. you're probably hungry."

law is so close now. your head is angling to stare up at him. his expression is stern. determined. his breaths are even, but the rise and fall of his chest is noticeable. heavy.

"thanks, but i don't really have an appetite right now."

"ok," you nod, unable to look away from him. "did you still wanna come in?"

his arm extends over your shoulder and his chest is nearly touching you, but not quite. he smells like freshly cleaned laundry and leather. his cologne is stronger tonight. intoxicating. he presses the button to close the garage door and it starts to shut with it's usual grating noise.

"you need new tracks," he says simply, leaning over so that his nose brushes your temple.

"i know," you whisper meekly. this is so different. the air is thick. so thick that every time you swallow you fear you might choke. the tension is palpable. like two magnets waiting to snap together, but being held back by an unimaginable force.

you straighten again where you're pressed against the door, but this time when you shift your face towards him your nose touches his cheek. you hear his inhale. it's a short, sharp sound. like the contact shocked him. he's just so tense. his shoulders are tight and his breathing seems forced. and when your eyes track over his face, you can see how pinched his eyebrows are.

"law?" your hand rises to rest tenderly on his chest, just your fingertips touch the soft fabric of his black t-shirt.

"yeah?" you try not to shiver at the roughness of his voice.

"are you sure you're okay?"

"i..." his free hand finds your waist and his fingers waste no time gripping you. "i've been thinking about you a lot today."

"oh?" you tilt your head, your palm flattening against his chest. "what about me?"

"just you," he says. his forehead drops to yours. his exhale mingles with your inhale and greedily you swallow it. "and about how much i've come to need you."

"need me?" you doubt law needed anyone. so this confession surprises you.

"yes you," he finally releases a laugh and it feels like you took a shot. an alcohol-like warmth bursting in your gut and blossoming deep in your belly. you know what this is. desire. primal and raw. "i missed you."

this confession is softer. but just as heavy as it sits on your shoulders and just about buckles your knees. law missed you.

"it's only been a few days," you tease, but it's empty. there's no joke hidden beneath your words.

"what? i can't miss you?" his head drops to your shoulder and his nose drags across your collarbone. you fight the urge to drape your body around him. to succumb to the carnal energy that's pulsating off of him in steady waves.

dear god, he's hardly even touched you and you feel your pulse start to race and something flutter expectantly between your legs.

"law." you can't help but whisper his name. it's full of disbelief and need. you don't want to get your hopes up, but this feels like the moment. the moment that months worth of tension and anticipation has built up to.

and strangely, you can't fight your nerves. every lick of confidence you've gathered over the years disappears. every fantasy of you romancing and seducing law into your bed vanishes. you were a vixen, a temptress, a siren in your dreams of him.

but now you just feel painfully human. wracked with nerves and trembling desire. you had no idea what to do. or where to start.

"you say my name a lot." his words are damp against your skin. a flurry of goosebumps travel up your neck when his lips graze the sensitive skin there.

"what?" your fingers curl slightly in his shirt. your eyes are shut. you don't even remember closing them.

"i like the way you say it," he explains, pressing a brief kiss to the base of your throat. you're being seduced in this reality. a victim of his lust.

"you always say it differently. sometimes it's a gasp or a sigh." he pauses to kiss you again. his lips travel up the column of your neck.

"my favorite, though, is when you're annoyed." his chuckle is dark and humorless. and you sigh out something pathetic. "your voice drops and it gets all firm. and you look up at me like you're about to roll your eyes but you never do." three more kisses follow until his lips sit just below your ear. he's liquifying you and you have a hard time understanding how you even got here.

"you always bite your lip too." his face comes into view. his eyes are half-lidded. his gaze is dangerous. starving. he brings his hand up to cradle your cheek his thumb caressing your bottom lip and pulling them apart. "i don't even think you realize it."

"are you-" your voice is unrecognizable to your own ears. it's just air that your words barely ride on. you swallow again, eyes stuck on law's lips. "are you trying to kill me?"

he laughs again. truly this time. the sound comes from his gut and punches out his throat with mirth. even that glides down your spine sensually. you honestly don't know how you're still standing. maybe its the grip he has on your waist. or just sheer willpower.

"no, but you," his hand wraps around the back of your neck, pulling you towards him so that your lips are mere millimeters apart, "you've been torturing me."

"no," you shake your head. "that's where you're wrong." you rise onto your toes, both of your hands latching onto his shoulders. "you're the problem. you're the reason i can't sleep anymore without the thought of you in my bed. you don't understand how badly i need you."

his kiss is bruising. it clatters through you, pain blossoming on your bottom lip. but it's not enough. the dam has been broken. if you don't undress him this instant you might not live to see tomorrow. it's not an exaggeration. its fate.

your hands are immediately in his hair and his arms are enclosing around your waist to pull you flush against him. your feet are barely on the ground with how securely law is clutching on to you.

the doorframe shakes when law swings the door shut behind your tangled bodies. it makes chopper bark, but neither of you have the patience to pay him any mind. you're too focused on not tripping over each other.

your legs hit the back of the couch and his large hands find your hips. he pins you in place, most of your body propped on the edge as he towers over you. as he kisses you with a ferocity that has your toes curling. he moves to your neck again. this time any tenderness he was displaying before is gone. he bites you. your body jolts from the brief instance of pain, but he licks it right away. melting the pain into pleasure. melting your mind into a goopy marshmallowed mess.

you whimper and he groans. your legs try to hook around his hips and your arms try to tug him to lay down on the sofa. you're almost successful. he nearly follows you down and a spark of excitement lights low in your belly.

"no," he pulls away.

"but-" your petulance dies in your throat when his hand comes to rest at the base of your neck. there's no pressure in his placement, just the weight of his heavy hand makes your head spin.

"not here." his breathing is ragged. animalistic in a way. "i need more space."

one second your body is teetering precariously over the edge of your couch and the other you're floating. law scoops you off balance. your feet are on the ground but he's moving so fast you don't comprehend the cold tile rubbing across the balls of your feet.

another singular second passes, and your back is on your bed and law is tearing off his shirt over his head. you're reeling. this has to be another dream. definitely wet given the state of your poor panties right now.

next he's undoing the drawstring of your sweatpants. he pulls until the elastic waistband is loose enough to tug over your hips. you wiggle in an attempt to help him but you're kind of useless. law is half-naked in front of you and the sight of his muscles working to take your clothes off has your mouthwatering and your mind glazing over in awe.

what is he doing to you? you've never felt anything quite like this. it feels as if the world could end if you didn't have him as close to you as possible in the next five seconds.

once your pants are gone, law's hands are smoothing up your calves and over your thighs. his inked fingers are a particular interest of yours. they're just so solid and stable and sexy.

your fingers fist your comforter when his find the elastic band of your underwear. you hiss as his nails scrape sensitive flesh when they hook beneath the thin fabric.

his head snaps up at the sound. his eyes are wild and unfocused. you blink at him doe-eyed and helpless. your lips part to say something but you don't have the brain to formulate anything worth saying. you watch acutely as his face softens. as his expression finds the fondness you're used to.

"you can tell me to stop if i'm being too rough with you," he says apologetically. but there's nothing to be sorry for.

"don't do that," you breathe. "stop second guessing this. stop hesitating. please i just-"

you reach to unbuckle his belt and with shaky albeit determined fingers you undo his jeans. " i need you to please, for the love of god, just fuck me."

you can tell law has always lived a life of skepticism and questioning. of necessary control. you couldn't blame him really after knowing his past. but there is no use for it here. now. and you can see the moment that clicks into place in his mind. the epiphany writes itself like constellations in his eyes.

he shakes his head before he straightens. he’s looking down at you like you’ve done something incredulous. unbelievable. he removes his belt. the buckle clangs on the ground when he drops it. his thumbs loop into his open jeans. you cannot take your eyes off of him as he drags them over his hips until they fall to his feet. breathing is now a foreign concept. you don’t remember the last time you inhaled.

he’s hard in his boxer briefs. and he’s leaking through the cotton. you don’t know what to do. it’s like you’ve never had sex before. it feels new. tempting. as if you’re about to do something bad. sinful.

if law is the reason your ass ends up in hell then so be it. you would make this exact decision again and again in every lifetime. you rip off your shirt and toss it on the ground. law is still standing at the foot of your bed watching you.

“i would’ve put on something nicer if i knew you’d be coming over,” you joke, scooting backwards on your bed until you reach your pillows. you aren’t exactly self conscious, but again you’ve been fantasizing about this for forever. and a sports bra and boy shorts were never part of that fantasy.

“it doesn’t matter what you’re wearing.” law finally crawls towards you. his weight sinking into your mattress. your bed isn’t as big as his. he makes it look absurdly small actually.

his hand wraps around your calf, the heat from his palm radiating up your body, and he yanks you down until you’re flat on your back again.

“you’re perfect just like this.” you’re certain you’re delirious now. he doesn’t necessarily say the words to you. his eyes are locked on his wandering hand. a hand that’s currently drifting over your inner thigh. your hips twitch.

he drops a kiss to each of your cheeks. then he peppers wet kisses down your jaw. his lips find your ear the moment his hand cups your pussy. “it’s not like you’ll be wearing anything for long, anyway.”

his teeth nip at your earlobe and his fingers find the wet patch on your underwear and he presses against it. the moan that falls from your lips is borderline pitiful. he seems to relish in it though. it spurs him on as he continues his onslaught of kisses to your neck again. after so many times of almost sleeping together, you’ve figured out that law really enjoys your neck. not that you can complain. because every time his lips suck right at the spot behind your ear you turn into putty. it’s a special button only he has access to. a button that has even more slick pooling in your panties.

he must feel the way you soak through them because his fingers start rubbing against you. and shamelessly every time he makes contact with your clit you can’t stop the way you rut against his fingertips. his lips descend down over your collarbone and he mouthes at your cleavage. he groans when your hips jump as he swipes his tongue beneath the constricting fabric of your bra.

“this is fun.” he’s referring to your sports bra, his breath a small chuckle when he notices that it’s the kind that zips in the front. law decides to unzip it with his teeth. meanwhile, you decide he has to be a demon. something sent to both please and punish you. for what you aren’t sure yet.

when your bra falls away and your tits are exposed to him, his mouth is enclosing around your nipple in seconds. it’s warm and you gasp. he’s not being rough but he’s not being gentle either. he’s just being a man who ultimately is getting what he’s been wanting for who knows how long.

as his mouth occupies itself with your chest, his fingers go on an entirely different adventure. he manages to shimmy you out of your underwear with positively no help from you because your brain is no longer sending signals to the rest of your body. but when he parts your folds, when he finally feels the absolute mess he’s been making of you, his groan sends a shock through your system. in truth, it’s more like a purr. it’s low and deep and reverberates through his body straight into yours.

you whimper. it’s embarrassing and unexpected. but it doesn’t give him pause, instead two of his fingers are sliding into you. so easily you should be ashamed. he makes it hard to be though.

“sometimes i don’t understand how you’re real,” he murmurs into your chest, his words are slurred around your nipple.

“i swear you’re just so-“ he starts to scissor his fingers inside of you and the sticky wet sounds hit your ears so loudly you nearly cringe. you undulate your hips in the hopes that his fingers will at least graze your g spot, but law is one step ahead of you. always shifting his fingers away just so whenever he comes close to feeling the spongey tissue.

“please,” you really aren’t above begging. and maybe that’s what he wants. except it doesn’t help. he’s toying with you on purpose. “law, please.”

“again,” he demands, but you don’t know what he wants. you only know what you want. what you need. and the answer to both is to come.

“say my name again,” he says when you don’t respond. he lifts his head from your breasts, both covered in his spit. the same spit that moistens his lips. “come on, baby. say it and i’ll give you whatever you want.”

to sweeten the deal he presses his thumb to your clit. you jolt beneath him from the dual sensation. if he keeps this up he’ll force an orgasm from you and he barely has to do anything. his fingers aren’t even moving inside of you anymore yet you feel like an exposed wire. sparking and twitching under his attention.

“la-aw,” he hooks his fingers inside of you, effectively slicing his name in half. your eyes nearly roll back but they don’t because looking at him is so much better. his broad shoulders and handsome face are the only things taking up your view. he starts rubbing his thumb in insistent circles on your clit and his fingers push against your g spot in a carefully coordinated attack to unravel you. you knew law was good with his mouth but his fingers. he must have known you in another life. that’s the only explanation for how quickly and easily he’s hurdling you to your finish.

“that’s it.” you squirm at how harsh his voice has gotten. it’s dropped an octave and it forces a shiver to rattle down your spine. “fuck, look at you. such a pretty girl.”

his gaze lights fires across your skin. the flames lick at you, fierce and brutal. you can’t stand it. it’s too much. just as your orgasm hits you turn your face away from him, your back arching and you inhale so abruptly it dries out your throat. you muffle your cries into your comforter. your vision flaring with spots before it goes completely black. his fingers still wiggle inside of you even as you come down. he wants to wring every last drop of pleasure from your body. and it’s working.

your back meets the mattress again. your cries whimper off into choked breaths. your vision slowly, but surely returns to you. but he’s still moving. you grab his wrist with weak fingers, barely mustering the energy to push him away.

“i can’t,” you whine, sighing when his fingers slip from inside you. “holy shit.”

you peek up at him through wet lashes and heavy eye lids. his breathing is ragged, and you follow his gaze down to his hand. he’s spreading his fingers to see how your cum strings between them. he’s mesmerized. he brings his hand to his mouth. his eyes fall shut when he licks you clean off of him.

he’s a liar. he absolutely is trying to kill you.

without another word he’s slinking off the bed. you don’t have it in you yet to question what he’s up to. instead you watch as he gathers his jeans from the ground and pulls his wallet from one of the pockets.

“shit,” he swears, eyes screwing shut as he shakes his head. you’re confused. “i forgot to grab a condom.”

“oh.” and you giggle, your heart settling down and the endorphins give you that fuzzy feeling again. you lean over off of your bed and reach for the cabinet on your nightstand.

“that’s okay. i have some.” you toss him the unopened box. he spins it in his hands, reading it over with the most amused expression on his face.

“when did you get these?”

“last week,” you admit. “after you left for work.”

“right,” he nods, “of course you did.”

“don’t give me that, you’re lucky i’m prepared. if not i would make your ass go to the nearest pharmacy and pick some up tonight.”

he laughs again as he tears open the box, throwing it onto the foot of your bed after he pulls out a condom. he kicks off his underwear while he’s there too. and a sudden surge of giddy excitement courses through you. out of nowhere a flurry of energy starts drumming within you.

law is actually about to fuck you. it’s hard to believe. after so many close calls you don’t want to jinx it but you know this is it. you throw your bra off the bed having forgotten it was still on from earlier and you wrestle your comforter out from beneath you to situate your body under the flat sheet.

law is looking at you peculiarly.

“what?” you deadpan.

“why are you laughing?” you hadn’t realized you were.

“just get over here,” you grab his arm and jerk him so hard he practically falls on top of you. you throw the blanket off of your naked body so that law could get beneath it too. “i’m just excited, i guess.”

he’s laying between your parted thighs now. this is the closest you two have ever been and it feels so natural. his weight on top of you. his face a few inches away. his scent mingling with yours in a drunken dance.

law can’t stop the smile that tugs at his lips as he looks down at you. he drops a brief peck to your lips before he begins to line himself up with your entrance.

“wait.” his tip is actively pressing into you when he halts in place. “i’m nervous.”

“are you alright?” his eyes are concerned as he brings his hand back up to push the hair from your face and caress your cheek.

“yes.” weird emotions are building in your chest. feelings that are far scarier to admit out loud. it feels like an end of a chapter, but also like the beginning of a different book entirely. “but why do i feel like this is my first time?”

he actually scoffs, his head drops down and he sighs your name so heavily maybe the exhaustion of the day has finally caught up with him. “do you think before you say things or do you just say them?”

“listen i’m very vulnerable right now and honestly i came so hard a few minutes ago i think you broke me.”

“i didn’t break you. look,” he pokes at your side and you flinch away. his fingers tickle up your waist and you writhe while trying to suppress a laugh. “see you’re not broken.”

“you don’t get it,” you giggle lightly and swat his hand away when it gets way too close to your armpit.

“for what it’s worth,” he drops to his elbows, most of his weight now bearing down on you and he rests his forehead on yours. “i’m a little nervous too. i’m just way too hard right now to focus on anything other than the fact that i’m about to be inside you.”

“so you’re also excited?” his words are worth all the treasure in the world because your nerves evaporate. as if they were never there at all.

“very.” he kisses you. soft and slow. his tongue slides across your bottom lip and you part them immediately. as your tongues glide against each other you sneak a hand between your bodies. your fingers make contact with latex, and your wrap them around his dick as soon as you’re able to reach. he gently thrusts into your palm. his tip slips between your folds in a languid grind.

you rub him against you until his kisses are interrupted by his own stuttered exhales. when you open your eyes you see how his face is scrunched up and how his breath leaves his lips in quiet wheezes. ok, fine he really does look tortured like this. a small thrill shoots down into your stomach when you realize that it's because of you. you do this to him.

you line him up, tilting your hips towards him just as his head catches your entrance and during the next roll of your hips he sinks into you. the stretch has your head falling back and he groans against your cheek.

"fuck, baby, you feel so good," he moans right into your ear and with another roll of your hips he sinks deeper into you. "s'tight, fu-"

your own moan cuts him off. you're still sensitive from your first orgasm, and law's cock is actually made for you. he fills you up perfectly, thick enough to make you drool. his thrusts start out shallow as you adjust to each other. his hand has found your hip, his fingers digging into your fat and you know-- hope-- that marks are left behind when you wake up in the morning.

control is only yours for a few more moments though because law's hips start to find a rhythm of their own. each slap is heavy and deep. each one scoots you further up the bed until your head brushes your headboard.

you hardly feel the dull thuds though. not with the way law hooks your thigh over his elbow and presses your knee towards your chest.

"shit," your nails dig into his bicep as you try to withstand how deeply he's fucking you. the pillow beside your head crumples beneath the weight of his forearm when his hand comes up to rest between your crown and the headboard.

"sorry," he apologizes hurriedly, "for this." his pace quickens, your eyes roll back, and his hand gets tangled in your hair.

"harder," you gasp, your thighs attempting to shut around his waist. his legs bend at the knees and it lifts your hips from the bed. the angle allows him to fulfill your request. and a sob claws its way out of your throat.

"i'm gonna cum," he grunts out between gritted teeth, his face buried in the space between your neck and shoulder.

"inside?" you whine, hopeful, even though deep down you know he's wearing a condom. how unfortunate.

"yes, love," he rasps, his thrusts getting slightly faster as he gets closer to climax. "if that's what you want i'll give it to you."

"yes, yes, please, fuck, ple-" if you're crying that's none of your business. you can't possibly control anything right now. your body is completely his. and you gave it to him willingly. with no intentions of asking for it back if he continues fucking you like this.

you only regret one thing. not being lucid enough to witness law's orgasm with your own eyes. you hear it, feel it, but when your second one quakes through your trembling body, you miss seeing it.

your limbs are numb. your thoughts are murky and disjointed. when he collapses on you, you welcome the weight of him like a security blanket.

"that was..." law can't even finish his sentence. not that he needs to. because you know what that was. it was euphoric. your own sick form of exaltation.

you follow his warmth when he eventually rolls off of you. you paste yourself to his side. and in the quiet moments of bliss that follow, law's hand draws comforting symbols down your arm and across your spine. sleep is somewhere nearby. you feel her whisper at your senses to rest. but you're too greedy to let go of this time with him. not yet. you'll sleep later.

"thank you," he whispers into the top of your head. not really loud enough for you to hear, but it's so silent and you're so attune to him that it would've been impossible for you to miss it.

"the last time you thanked me, you avoided me for days," you complain, burrowing your face into his chest just in time to feel his laugh rumble through him.

"last time was different," he pauses, and you could hear the contemplation in his tone. "last time i was an idiot who should've kissed you good night."

"oh, so this time you made sure to get what you wanted," you teased, your finger gently poking at his side like he did to you earlier.

"this time i realized that after a shitty day all i wanted was you. however you would have me." his hand is tilting your chin so that you're looking up at him. and all you can see in his eyes is an earnest devotion. one that settles over you so intensely you're not sure if alarm bells that you're in too deep are supposed to be going off. "being with you like this is just a bonus."

"well," you sit up so that you're propped up on his chest. "are you gonna tell me why your day was so shitty?"

he sighs, his lips pressing into a thin line as he thinks. "i almost lost a patient today. everything is fine now, but it's moments like that that have me question if holding someone's life in my hands is worth it. feels like i'm gambling. like i'm tempting fate somehow."

“when was the last time you lost a patient?” you ask, your fingers making odd shapes over his heart.

“it’s been a few years,” he sighs. “but that fear never really leaves you.”

“it sounds to me like you’re incredible at what you do and that even with the scare today, you still managed to save a life. tempting fate is what we do as humans, you’re just better at it than anyone else.”

he gives you a small smile. and in his eyes you can see the reflection of something you know you hold in your heart. a type of fondness that transcends simple companionship. he leans forward to kiss you. it has none of the lust or desperation from earlier. but something even more tantalizing. something that you used your fingers to spell out on his chest. just four quick letters that you etch superficially into his skin like a secret.

"i called off tomorrow,” he responds eventually. his hand is propped behind his head as you both relax in each others arms.

"oooh, i'll play hooky with you,” you say, giddiness returning at the prospect of having him all to yourself for an entire day.

"good, because i have big plans for you in the morning,” he twists so that he’s facing you, his arms looping around your waist and pulling you further into his chest.

"care to share?" you ask, already knowing what your plans are for him. all of which include little to no clothing.

"mhmm, you and i..." he leans in really close, his nose nuzzles yours and his lips brush featherlight between your own, "are cleaning out that fucking garage."

you groan. your head falls back and you playfully hit his chest with a loose fist. “i told you it was bad.”

"it’s worse than bad. if i wasn't so distracted i probably would've dropped from a heart attack." and although he’s scolding you, when you try to pull away he chases you.

"ok, drama,” you roll your eyes, turning around so that he’s spooning you. "just don't wake me up too early unless you amend your plans to include rolling around in my sheets again."

"i'll consider it."

part nine

[elryuse]

Press Record

Julie X Male Reader

Tags : Record Sex, Naughty, Romance, Obsession, Cowgirl, Sweaty

Words : 2,813 Words

This Fic Is Dedicated to My Friend @Pizza_anon. Thanks once again For the Commission My Friend. I hope You Guys enjoyed it.

The first time Julie glanced my way, I felt it like a jolt of electricity. Her green eyes, sharp and calculating, locked onto mine across the crowded dining hall. For a split second, her infectious smile flickered, replaced by something darker, more predatory. I should’ve looked away, but I didn’t. I couldn’t. That was my first mistake.

“You’re new, right?” she said, sliding into the seat across from me like she owned it. Her voice was low, teasing, and carried an edge that made my stomach twist. “I’m Julie. You’ve probably heard of me.”

I had. Everyone had. Julie wasn’t just a name; she was a reputation. The girl you didn’t cross, the girl who could turn your life into a minefield with a single smirk. But up close, she was magnetic—her messy dark hair, the way she leaned forward like she was about to share a secret, the faint scent of cherry lip gloss that made my pulse quicken.

“Yeah,” I managed, my voice steady despite the knot in my chest. “I’ve heard.”

Her lips curved into a smirk. “Good. Then you know not to waste my time.”

She stayed for exactly three minutes, just long enough to leave me flustered and confused, before disappearing back into the crowd. But that was just the beginning. Julie had a way of inserting herself into my life, like a storm I didn’t see coming. She’d show up at parties, corner me in hallways, and text me at random hours with messages that ranged from ”You’re cute when you’re nervous” to ”Don’t make me come find you.”

And then there was the night at her friend’s party. The night she pulled me into a bedroom, locked the door, and whispered, “Let’s film it,” like it was the most natural thing in the world. My heart raced, my hands trembled, and I should’ve said no. But I didn’t. I couldn’t. Because when Julie looked at me like that, with those piercing eyes and that devilish smile, I wasn’t just a target—I was something she wanted. And that was all it took.

Now, we’re alone in my dorm room, the air thick with tension. My roommate’s out for the evening, and Julie’s perched on the edge of my bed, her legs crossed, toe tapping idly against the floor. She’s wearing a leather jacket that’s too big for her, making her look smaller, more vulnerable. But I know better. Julie’s always in control.

“Let me film you,” she says, her voice low and steady, devoid of the teasing tone she usually uses. This isn’t a joke anymore. It’s a demand.

I swallow hard, my throat dry. “Julie…”

“Don’t ‘Julie’ me,” she interrupts, leaning forward so her face is inches from mine. Her breath is warm against my skin, and I can smell the faint hint of coffee on her lips. “You know you want to. You always do.”

“It’s not just about what I want,” I try, but she cuts me off with a sharp laugh.

“Bullshit. It’s always about what you want. You just won’t admit it.” Her hand finds my thigh, her fingers digging in just enough to make me wince. “You like it when I push you. You like it when I take control. Don’t act like you don’t.”

I want to argue, to tell her she’s wrong, but the words catch in my throat. Because she’s not wrong. Not even close. There’s something about Julie—the way she challenges me, the way she makes me feel alive in a way no one else ever has—that I can’t resist. It’s dangerous, intoxicating, and I know it’s going to end badly. But right now, I don’t care.

“Fine,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper. “But just this once.”

Her smirk returns, and she pulls her phone from her pocket, setting it up on the dresser with the camera angled perfectly. “That’s what you said last time,” she teases, sliding her jacket off and tossing it to the floor. “And the time before that.”

I don’t respond. Instead, I watch as she climbs onto the bed, straddling my lap with practiced ease. Her hands find my shoulders, her nails digging into my skin as she leans in close, her lips brushing against my ear. “Let’s see how loud I can make you,” she whispers, her breath hot against my skin.

And then she’s kissing me, hard and demanding, her tongue sliding against mine as her hips grind against me. I lose myself in the sensation, my hands gripping her waist as she takes control, her movements confident and relentless. I can feel the heat building between us, the tension coiling tighter and tighter until it’s almost unbearable.

“Julie,” I groan, my hands sliding up her back, pulling her closer. She responds with a low hum, her nails dragging down my chest as she breaks the kiss, her eyes locking onto mine.

“Say it,” she demands, her voice rough with desire. “Tell me you want this.”

“I want this,” I breathe, my heart pounding in my chest. “I want you.”

Her smile is wicked, triumphant, and she leans in to kiss me again, her hands tangling in my hair as she moves against me. The sound of our breathing fills the room, mingling with the soft creak of the bedsprings as she takes what she wants, leaving me helpless to resist.

And then she pulls back, her eyes glittering with mischief as she glances at the camera. “Let’s give them something to talk about,” she says, her voice dripping with satisfaction. Before I can respond, she’s moving again, her hips grinding against mine in a way that makes my breath catch.

“Julie,” I gasp, my hands tightening on her hips as I feel myself getting closer, the tension coiling tighter and tighter until I’m on the edge. She doesn’t slow down, doesn’t give me a moment to catch my breath, and I know she’s not going to stop until she gets what she wants.

“That’s it,” she purrs, her voice low and sultry as she leans in close, her lips brushing against mine. “Let me see you come undone.”

I don’t last much longer after that. The tension snaps, and I’m lost in the sensation, my hands gripping her hips as I spill inside her. She doesn’t stop, her movements slowing but not stopping as she rides out the aftershocks, her eyes locked on mine.

“Good boy,” she whispers, her voice soft and satisfied as she leans in to kiss me. But before I can respond, she’s pulling away, reaching for the camera and turning it off. “Now,” she says, her smirk returning, “let’s see who’s brave enough to ask what happened tonight.”

I watch as she slips her jacket back on, her movements casual and unhurried, like we didn’t just… like this wasn’t… I shake my head, trying to clear the fog in my mind, but Julie’s already at the door, her hand on the knob.

“Same time next week?” she asks, glancing over her shoulder with a smile that’s equal parts sweet and dangerous.

I don’t answer. I don’t need to. Because we both know I’ll be here just waiting for her. And she’d love that more than anything…. “You’re not that hard to figure out,” she smirks, turning the door open and walking out with not a care in the world.

The door slammed shut behind her, leaving me alone in the silence of the dorm room. My heart was still racing, my mind a chaotic swirl of desire, guilt, and something dangerously close to obsession. I didn’t know what to do with myself. I didn’t know how to feel. All I knew was that Julie had left her mark on me—again—and I wasn’t sure I’d ever be able to scrub it away.

The next week passed in a blur. I tried to focus on classes, on friends, on anything other than the promise of her return. But it was no use. Everywhere I looked, I saw her—her smirk, her eyes, her lips. She haunted me, even when she wasn’t there. And then, just like she said, she came.

It was late. The dorm room was dark, the only light coming from the streetlamp outside the window. I was sitting on the edge of my bed, staring at the wall, when the door flew open without warning. Julie stood in the doorway, her hair a mess, her eyes red and puffy. She looked wild, unpredictable, and more dangerous than ever. I froze, unsure of what to say, but before I could even think to ask what was wrong, she was on me.

“He fucking cheated on me,” she spat, her voice shaking with anger as she slammed the door shut behind her. “That piece of shit had the nerve to lie to my face, and I believed him. I actually fucking believed him.” Her hands were trembling, her chest heaving with every breath. She looked broken, but also furious—like a wounded animal ready to lash out.

I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t even have time to process what was happening before she was in my face, her hands gripping the front of my shirt. “Do you know how that feels?” she demanded, her voice rising. “To give someone everything and have them throw it back in your face like it’s nothing?”

“Julie—” I started, but she cut me off.

“No. Don’t talk. Don’t say a fucking word.” Her eyes burned into mine, and for a moment, I thought she was going to hit me. Instead, she kissed me. Hard. Her lips crashed against mine, desperate and angry and raw. I could taste the salt of her tears, the bitter tang of her rage. She wasn’t asking for comfort. She was taking what she needed.

Her hands were everywhere—pulling at my clothes, clawing at my skin. I didn’t resist. I didn’t want to. There was something electric about her in that moment, something that made me forget everything except the feel of her body against mine. She pushed me back onto the bed, climbing on top of me with a ferocity that took my breath away.

“You’re going to make me forget him,” she said, her voice low and trembling. “You’re going to make me forget everything.”

I didn’t argue. I couldn’t. She was a storm, and I was caught in her chaos. Her hands tugged at the waistband of my pants, and within seconds, they were on the floor. She didn’t bother with finesse or foreplay. She was too angry, too desperate. She straddled me, her thighs pressing against my hips, and I could feel how wet she was through the thin fabric of her skirt.

“Julie—” I started again, but she didn’t let me finish.

“Shut up,” she growled, her hands gripping my shoulders so tightly it hurt. “You don’t get to talk. You don’t get to think. You’re just going to take it.”

And then she was on me, sliding down onto me with a gasp that sounded more like a cry of pain than pleasure. She didn’t stop, didn’t pause, didn’t give either of us time to adjust. She just moved, her hips grinding against mine in a rhythm that was as punishing as it was intoxicating. She was fucking me, but it didn’t feel like sex. It felt like revenge.

Her nails dug into my chest, her breath coming in short, ragged gasps. She was crying again, but I couldn’t tell if it was from anger or pain or something else entirely. Her body tightened around me, and I could feel every shudder, every tremor, every flicker of emotion that she was trying to drown out.

“You’re mine,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “You’re fucking mine.”

I didn’t argue. I didn’t even think. I just let her take what she needed, gave her what I could. Her body was slick with sweat, her skin hot against mine. The air in the room was thick, heavy, charged with raw, unspoken emotion. She leaned forward, her lips brushing against my ear, and I could feel her breath, warm and shaky.

“I hate him,” she said, her voice barely more than a whisper. “I hate him so much.”

And then she was coming, her body tightening around me in a way that made my vision blur. I followed her over the edge, unable to hold back any longer. She collapsed on top of me, her breathing ragged, her forehead pressed against my chest. For a moment, neither of us moved. I wasn’t sure if it was over, or if this was just another pause in the storm.

She lifted her head, her eyes meeting mine, and for the first time since she’d walked in, she looked vulnerable. “Don’t ever lie to me,” she said, her voice soft but deadly serious. “Don’t ever fucking lie to me.”

I nodded, unsure of what else to do. She stared at me for a moment longer, her eyes searching mine, and then she leaned in and kissed me. It was softer this time, slower, but there was still an edge to it—a reminder that she was in control, that she always would be.

“Good boy,” she whispered against my lips, and then she was pulling away, her body slipping off mine. She reached for her skirt, pulling it back on with quick, practiced movements. She didn’t look at me as she dressed, her face a mask of determination.

“Julie—” I started, but she cut me off with a sharp look.

“Don’t,” she said, her voice cold. “Just don’t.”

And then she was gone, the door slamming shut behind her, leaving me alone in the silence once again. I lay there, staring at the ceiling, my body still humming with the memory of her. I didn’t know what had just happened, or what it meant. All I knew was that Julie had blown through my life like a hurricane, leaving destruction in her wake, and I was already craving the next storm.

The first time she left, I thought it was over.

The second time, I knew better.

Julie had always been like this-hot, cold, here, gone. She never stuck around long enough to let things settle, never gave me a chance to ask what any of this meant. Maybe that's why I let it happen. Because I knew if I tried to hold onto her, she'd slip right through my fingers.

But she kept coming back.

The first time was a week after that night. My phone lit up at 2 a.m. with a single message.

Unlock your door.

And like an idiot, I did.

She didn't say a word when she slipped inside.

Just pulled me into her, fingers curling in my hair, mouth already on mine like she'd been starving for it. She never let me ask questions, never let me talk about what we were doing. She took what she wanted, and I let her.

It became a pattern.

Julie would vanish for days, sometimes weeks, and just when I started to think maybe I was finally free of her, she'd find her way back. A text. A knock on my door. A hand on my wrist when she caught me in the hallway between classes, her grip just tight enough to let me know she still had a hold on me.

And every time, I let her in.

Every time, I let her ruin me a little more.

But something was different now.

The first time she left, I thought she was running from me. Now, I wasn't so sure.

She started lingering after.

Not much-just a few minutes longer, just long enough to catch her watching me when she thought I wasn't looking. Just long enough to notice the way she hesitated before pulling her clothes back on, like she wanted to say something but didn't know how.

Just long enough for me to start wondering if maybe, just maybe, she was getting addicted, too.

Then one night, everything changed.

I wasn't expecting her. It had been two weeks since I'd last seen her, and I was finally starting to believe she was done with me for good. And then, out of nowhere, she was at my door, pounding so hard it made the walls shake.

When I opened it, she pushed past me without a word, her hair a mess, her hands trembling.

"Julie-"

"Shut up," she muttered, her voice unsteady. "Just -just let me stay."

And for the first time, she didn't touch me.

She didn't rip my clothes off, didn't press her lips to my skin. She just climbed into my bed, curled into herself, and closed her eyes.

And I knew, then and there, that I wasn't the only one craving the next storm.

She was, too.

And maybe-just maybe-this time, she was afraid of it.

[kiyawritesforf1]

RUN FROM THE SPOTLIGHT (PART 1)

Pairing : Lando Norris x Reader

Daniel Ricciardo x Platonic!reader

TW : Sexual Assault (not detailed but engage at your own risk)⚠️

Words - 3k

The rain in Paris was relentless, a silver curtain that blurred the city’s edges and soaked Y/N to the bone as she stood outside Matteo Rossi’s atelier. Her umbrella sagged, dripping onto the uneven cobblestones, her pulse a staccato against her ribs. His text had been a command disguised as an invite: New campaign. Tonight. My suite. Don’t disappoint. She’d hesitated—Matteo’s vibe had soured lately—but the gig was too lucrative, and he’d been her ladder to the top since she was a raw nineteen-year-old with a cheap portfolio and big dreams.

The suite was a cocoon of dim light and luxury, the air heavy with his cologne and the faint musk of leather furniture. Matteo greeted her with a glass of red wine, his silver hair glinting, his grin sharp as a blade. “Cara mia,” he said, pressing the glass into her hand. “You’re late.”

“Rain,” she muttered, setting the drink aside. “Can we start?”

He smirked, gesturing to a rack of gowns—bold, shimmering things that screamed his name. She stepped into the first, a deep sapphire piece that clung like water, and he circled her, his gaze a physical weight. She’d weathered his flirtations before—“You’re my muse, Y/N”—but tonight, his eyes stripped her bare in a way that churned her stomach.

“Exquisite,” he said, too close, his fingers grazing her collarbone. “Though I’d argue you’re wasted in clothes.”

She flinched, masking it with a tight smile. “Let’s keep this professional, Matteo.”

His laugh was low, predatory. “Oh, cara, we’re past that.” He stepped in, his hand sliding to her hip, then lower, and the room tilted. She pushed him back, firm but civil—“Stop it”—but he didn’t budge. The click of the lock registered too late; he’d bolted the door when she wasn’t looking. Panic surged as he shoved her against the sofa, his bulk pinning her, his breath sour with wine.

“Get off!” she yelled, clawing at his face, nails drawing blood. He cursed, recoiling just enough for her to twist free, her blouse tearing as she lunged for the door. She fumbled the lock open, his voice slicing through her escape.

“Run all you like,” he said, holding up his phone. The screen glowed—a shaky video of her struggling, half-undressed, his shadow looming. “Talk, and this buries you. Your pretty racer boy, your little F1 brother? Gone.”

She stumbled into the storm, the rain washing away tears she didn’t let fall, the video a shackle she couldn’t break.

Milan’s charity gala was a fever dream of light and sound, the runway a polished stage where Y/N moved like a phantom. Matteo’s emerald gown hugged her frame, its fabric a silent taunt of that night. The crowd—dripping in wealth and good intentions—cheered, blind to the tremor in her hands, the fragility of her smile. She was still their “Heart of the Runway,” but the heart was cracking.

Lando Norris slouched in the fifth row, his McLaren cap pulled low, his tie a crumpled mess. He’d flown from Spa to Milan on a whim, chasing the spark of her—his girlfriend of thirteen months, the girl who’d steal his hoodies and mock his driving over late-night calls. She’d been off lately, a shadow creeping into her texts, her laughter dimming. Tonight, her glance slid past him, empty, and his chest tightened.

“She’s not herself,” he said to Daniel Ricciardo, who lounged beside him, twirling a straw in his drink.

Daniel squinted, studying her. “She’s smashing it, mate. What’s your glitch?”

“No wink. No nothing. She’s… gone.”

“Probably knackered,” Daniel said, shrugging. “Our sis has been grinding—charity gigs, fittings, the lot.”

Backstage, Y/N peeled off the gown, her skin prickling where Matteo’s eyes had lingered. He’d hovered, all charm and menace—“You’re radiant, cara”—and she’d nodded, mute, fleeing to her hoodie like it was armor. Lando and Daniel waited in the hall, their voices a tether to a life she was losing. Lando pulled her into a hug, his warmth a balm she couldn’t keep, and she pressed her face to his chest, memorizing him.

“You good?” he asked, his lips brushing her hair.

“Yeah,” she lied, the word ash in her mouth. “Just tired.”

Daniel mussed her hair, grinning. “You’re a legend, Y/N. Food? I’m buying.”

“Next time,” she said, stepping back. “Promise.”

Lando’s eyes lingered, worried, but he let her go. She walked to her hotel alone, the echo of Matteo’s threat a drumbeat in her skull. In her room, she locked the door, slid down the wall, and let the sobs rip free—silent, shuddering, a storm she’d held too long.

The fracture spread slow and deep. Matteo’s presence was a virus—his hands brushing her at fittings, his whispers a constant blade: “Keep quiet, or they all see.” She played along, smiled for cameras, but the mirror betrayed her—gaunt cheeks, eyes like bruises. Lando’s texts piled up—Miss you. You sure you’re okay?—and she’d dodge with emojis, her voice too brittle to call. Daniel’s FaceTimes went to voicemail, her excuses flimsy: Busy. Swamped. Soon.

Paris haunted her, a wound festering. Then, a week before Milan, the nausea hit—sharp, relentless, blamed on nerves until a test in her London flat showed two blue lines. Pregnant. The truth landed like a punch, stealing her air. Matteo’s face flashed—his hands, his sneer—and revulsion mixed with something softer, fiercer. This baby was hers, not his—a boy, she decided, picturing dark hair like hers, a life untainted. She couldn’t end it, couldn’t punish him for her scars. Her savings, fat from years of runways, could buy a new beginning. She’d run, shield him, start clean.

Milan was her farewell. She walked that runway with a ghost’s grace, her decision made. Back home, she packed a duffel—clothes, cash, a burner phone—sold her flat in a blur, and smashed her old life to pieces. Her final text to Lando was a knife twist: I can’t do this anymore. I’m sorry. Don’t call. She burned every bridge and disappeared into the night.

Lando’s Miami hotel room was a cage of silence, the Grand Prix’s roar muted by the text searing his screen. I can’t do this anymore. I’m sorry. Don’t call. He stared, willing it to shift, to explain itself. He called—voicemail, cold and final. Texts died, undelivered. By dusk, her digital footprint vanished—Instagram, Twitter, gone. Her number was a dead line. He sank onto the bed, hands shaking, the world unmoored.

Daniel stormed in, summoned by Lando’s broken voice. “What’s happening?”

“She’s gone,” Lando said, throat raw. “Dumped me. Vanished.”

Daniel scrolled their last chat—her ribbing him about a karting fail, five days back. “This isn’t her. She doesn’t ditch us.”

“She did.” Lando flung his phone, a Silverstone photo glaring up—her in his cap, laughing, him nuzzling her neck. “She’s been fading, Dan. I missed it.”

Daniel paced, digging through memories. “Monaco—she barely ate, kept twitching at every sound. Said she was fine when I pushed.”

“Paris,” Lando rasped. “She came back hollow. Wouldn’t talk. I let it slide.”

They clawed for answers. Her agency offered fluff: Y/N’s on a break. Her flat was sold, the landlord mute. Friends were baffled, some stung by her silence. The internet spun tales—Lando’s affair! Her secret fling!—but they rang hollow. She wasn’t running to someone; she was running from something.

Daniel unearthed a text, weeks old: Matteo’s a sleaze. Too grabby lately. Lando’s blood iced. “Him?”

“Could be,” Daniel said, jaw tight. “She’d hide it if it was ugly. Protect us.”

Lando stood, fury and fear coiling. “We’re finding her. She’s out there, broken, and I’m not losing her.”

St. Ives was a jagged edge of Cornwall, cliffs biting the sea, the town a tangle of stone and salt. Y/N landed there, her platinum hair dyed chestnut, cropped short, her runway poise swapped for a slouch in thrift-store coats. Her savings bought a cottage—peeling paint, creaking floors, hers. A job at “Pages & Pints,” a bookshop with a beer tap, paid the rest—quiet, cash-under-the-table work stacking novels and pouring pints.

Three months in, her belly swelled, a boy kicking beneath her ribs. She named him Finn, after a fisherman’s tale she’d read, a nod to the sea that hid her. She’d forged a brittle peace—tea at sunrise, walks where the wind drowned her thoughts. Matteo’s video loomed, a guillotine he could drop, but here, in this nowhere, it felt distant. She’d left Lando’s voice, Daniel’s warmth, her old self, to save Finn from her ruin.

Nights carved her hollow—dreams of Lando’s touch, Daniel’s grin, waking to a cold bed. A McLaren sticker on a tourist’s bag would jolt her, grief slicing fresh. But Finn was her anchor, his tiny heartbeat her reason. She’d stay lost, a ghost with a purpose, and they’d never find her.

END OF PART 1

[adddddiiii]

Wounded

Contents: Jason Todd x gn!reader

Jason Todd was used to handling things on his own. Pain, exhaustion, and blood loss were just part of the job. He had long accepted that no one was coming to pick up the pieces when he fell apart. So when he staggered onto your fire escape, bleeding through his jacket, the last thing he expected was for you to help him.

"God, Jason," you breathed, pushing open your window. The cold night air rushed past you, but all you felt was the sharp stab of worry. "What the hell happened?"

Jason gritted his teeth and shifted against the railing. "Took a bad hit. Nothing I can't handle."

You crossed your arms. "Right. Because bleeding out on my fire escape is a totally normal Tuesday night for you."

"Pretty much."

You rolled your eyes but didn't waste time arguing. Instead, you grabbed his arm, ignoring his gruff protests, and pulled him inside. He was heavier than he looked, all muscle and armor, but you weren’t about to let him pass out in the middle of Gotham’s winter chill.

"Sit," you ordered, shoving him onto your couch. "And don’t argue."

Jason let out a low chuckle, wincing as he shrugged off his leather jacket. "Kinda bossy, aren’t you?"

"Shut up," you muttered, already grabbing your first aid kit. The second you saw the deep gash running across his side, your stomach twisted. "You need stitches."

Jason waved a dismissive hand. "I can do it myself."

You shot him a look so unimpressed that he actually hesitated. "You also don't have to be an idiot, but here we are."

That earned you a smirk, but Jason let you work. Your hands were steady as you cleaned the wound, pressing down gently when he hissed in pain. He was warm under your touch, solid despite the way his body sagged with exhaustion.

"You really shouldn’t be alone after this," you said. Your voice was softer now. "I mean, do you even sleep? Or eat real food?"

Jason let his head tip back against the couch. "You offering to be my nurse?"

"I’m offering to be your friend," you corrected. "Because you clearly need someone watching your reckless ass."

For a moment, Jason didn’t respond. He just watched you, something unreadable in his blue eyes. Then, to your surprise, he smiled — small, but real.

"Guess I could get used to that."

You huffed, shaking your head, but the worry in your chest eased just a little.

Jason Todd might have been used to handling things alone, but maybe — just maybe — he didn’t have to anymore.

[batboysanonymous]

Bird in a Cage (Pt. II)

Azriel x Reader

Summary: Azriel had spent a lifetime mastering control, but when he sees the fragile ruin of his mate—the love he was forced to leave behind—shattered by grief and betrayal, his restraint splinters, and vengeance ignites in his veins.

Pt. 1: Bird in a Cage

Azriel had spent years perfecting the art of control.

He had endured pain, had survived wounds both seen and unseen, had been broken and reforged in a way that left no room for weakness.

But as he pulled back—just enough to look at her, to really look at her—he felt something inside him snap.

She was fragile.

Too fragile.

His mate, his fierce, brilliant, impossible mate, who had always burned with a quiet, unwavering strength, was—

Gods.

Her skin was too pale, stretched too thin over the delicate lines of her face. Dark circles bruised the skin beneath her eyes, her lips cracked, her cheekbones sharper than he remembered. She felt smaller in his arms, like she had withered away into something barely holding itself together.

Azriel’s stomach dropped.

His jaw clenched so hard it ached.

Because this—this wasn’t just exhaustion.

This was starvation.

This was grief.

And not just grief.

Grief that had consumed her.

His blood turned molten.

He had known it would be bad. Had known that his death—his supposed death—would hurt her, would break her in ways he could never forgive himself for.

But this—

This was unforgivable.

His hands trembled as he brushed a knuckle over the ridge of her cheekbone, as if afraid she might disappear if he wasn’t gentle enough. She leaned into the touch, her eyes fluttering shut, and the way she sank into him, the way her body melted against his as though she didn’t have the strength to hold herself up—

Azriel saw red.

His shadows curled viciously around him, coiling tighter and tighter, feeding off the fury threatening to detonate inside him.

Because there was only one reason she had gotten this bad.

Only one reason she had been left to wither away into nothing.

Rhysand.

His brother.

The High Lord who had looked him in the eye before he left, who had promised to protect her, to take care of her while Azriel was forced to stay away.

Rhysand, who had let her suffer.

Who had watched her break.

A growl rumbled in Azriel’s chest. His wings flared slightly, his fingers tightening at her waist.

Y/N blinked up at him, confusion flickering in her exhausted eyes.

“Az?” she murmured.

His breath came sharp and shallow. He forced himself to breathe, forced himself to temper the rage clawing its way up his throat.

Not here.

Not now.

Not when she was in his arms, when she was alive and breathing and still shaking like she didn’t fully believe he was real.

But he would deal with Rhys.

Soon.

And it would not be pleasant.

Not when his mate—the love of his gods-damned life—had been left to waste away.

Azriel exhaled shakily, forcing the tension from his muscles, his focus shifting entirely back to her.

“We need to get you inside,” he said softly, his voice still laced with an edge of barely-restrained fury.

She frowned slightly, blinking as if only now realizing that she was trembling in his arms.

Azriel didn’t wait for her to argue.

With ease, he scooped her up, her body feather-light in his arms, and cradled her against his chest.

Her fingers curled weakly into the front of his leathers, and that was nearly his undoing.

Because she shouldn’t be this frail.

Shouldn’t feel like she might break apart at the slightest touch.

Shouldn’t have suffered like this.

His wings snapped open, and he took off, his jaw tight, his mind already sharpening with deadly precision.

Rhysand would answer for this.

And nothing would stop him.

───────────────────────────────

Azriel had never been one for dramatics.

His anger was a quiet, simmering thing—a blade honed so sharp it barely needed to be wielded. He did not shout, did not let rage dictate his actions.

But as he stormed into the River House, shadows lashing violently at the air around him, his rage was unstoppable.

Cassian barely had time to react before Azriel’s voice cut through the space like a blade.

“Rhysand!”

A crash echoed from the study—like a glass shattering against the floor. A second later, Rhys appeared, his face darkening as he took in the sight before him.

Azriel, rigid with fury.

Y/N, barely standing behind him, her body still too thin, her skin still too pale.

Cassian had gone deathly still beside them, his hazel eyes narrowing in realization as they darted between them all.

Rhys’s lips parted, but Azriel was already moving.

His shadows snapped out like a whip, slamming the doors shut behind them, sealing the room in silence.

“What did you do to her?” Azriel’s voice was lethal, quiet, but the weight of it filled the entire room.

Rhys inhaled sharply, his violet eyes flicking to Y/N, something unreadable flickering across his face.

“I did what I had to—”

Azriel lunged.

Cassian was barely fast enough to step between them, shoving a hand against Azriel’s chest to stop him from tackling Rhys to the ground.

But the shadowsinger didn’t need to touch him to make his fury known.

“You let her suffer.” Azriel’s voice was a deadly whisper. “You let her believe I was dead.”

Rhys’s jaw clenched. “I had to.”

“Had to?” Azriel snarled. “She was starving herself. She was withering away and you let her think—” He sucked in a sharp breath, his hands shaking with the effort to keep himself from lunging again. “You swore to protect her, Rhys. You promised me.”

“I know,” Rhys said, his voice suddenly raw. “You think I wanted this? You think I wanted to see her like that?” His throat bobbed, guilt carving deep lines into his face. “But there was no other way.”

“No other—” Azriel exhaled sharply, stepping back, his hands shaking with restraint. “Tell me why. Now.”

Rhys hesitated.

Cassian shifted beside them, tension rolling off him in waves.

“You owe him that much, Rhys,” Cassian muttered, arms crossed. “You owe her that much.”

Rhys closed his eyes briefly, before opening them. When he spoke, his voice was low, but certain.

“If Y/N had known you were alive, she would have found you,” he said. “She would have come after you no matter the risk.”

Azriel stiffened.

“The mission was too dangerous, Az,” Rhys continued. “If she had followed you, it would have compromised everything. I needed her to believe you were dead. I needed her to stay safe.”

Silence.

The words settled over them like a storm cloud.

Y/N was shaking.

Not from anger.

Not even from grief.

From betrayal.

Azriel turned, just enough to see the devastation in her expression.

Her breathing was shallow, her lips parted like she couldn’t quite comprehend what she had just heard.

“So you let me break?” she whispered.

Rhys flinched.

“I—”

“You let me suffer?” Her voice trembled. “Let me believe I had nothing left?”

Her hands curled into fists at her sides.

“I wouldn’t have followed him,” she said, her voice hoarse. “I wouldn’t have jeopardized the mission.” Her eyes burned. “But you didn’t trust me enough to let me make that choice, did you?”

Rhys’s throat bobbed.

“I couldn’t risk it,” he admitted, voice low. “I—I know you, Y/N. And I know that if there had been even the slightest chance that you could save him, you would have done it, no matter the cost.”

She sucked in a sharp breath.

Rhys looked wrecked.

But Azriel didn’t care.

Not when his mate had suffered like this.

“I trusted you,” Azriel said, his voice quiet but lethal. “And you took everything from her.”

“I was trying to protect her,” Rhys rasped.

Azriel shook his head.

“No,” he said. “You were protecting your mission. Not her.”

Rhys opened his mouth, but before he could say another word, Y/N stepped past Azriel.

She didn’t look at Rhys.

Didn’t say a word.

She just walked away.

And when the door shut softly behind her, the silence that followed was deafening.

Azriel’s voice was a whisper of fury.

“Stay away from her.”

And then he was gone, following after his mate, leaving Rhys standing in the ruins of his choices.

───────────────────────────────

The cabin was quiet.

Not the suffocating, heavy silence of grief, but the kind that settled softly, like fresh snowfall. A reprieve from the chaos, from the pain. A space untouched by anything but the sound of the fire crackling in the hearth, the distant rustling of trees outside.

Y/N sat curled on the worn leather couch, a thick blanket wrapped around her shoulders. She wasn’t sure how long they had been here—days, maybe. Azriel had brought her to this quiet refuge in the mountains, away from Velaris, away from everything.

When they had first arrived, she had barely spoken.

Too tired to fight, too exhausted to keep her walls up.

And Azriel… Azriel had only been patient. He hadn’t pushed. Hadn’t asked anything of her.

He had just been there.

Across the room, he was stirring a pot of soup over the small stove, his movements slow and deliberate. His body was still healing, the fresh wounds from his mission a reminder of how close he had come to never returning. The bruises along his jaw had darkened, his normally sharp features drawn tight with exhaustion.

But he was alive.

And so was she.

She exhaled softly, watching the way his shadows curled around his shoulders, brushing against his skin like they were checking on him. She wondered how long he had gone without rest, how long he had spent knowing she was in pain but unable to reach her.

She had spent weeks drowning in grief.

He had spent weeks enduring hell, knowing she was suffering, unable to do anything.

They had both been destroyed in different ways.

Now, they would have to rebuild. Together.

Azriel turned, catching her gaze. His expression softened as he wiped his hands on a cloth, moving toward her.

“Try to eat something,” he murmured, kneeling in front of her. He held out a bowl of steaming soup, the scent rich and warm. “Just a little.”

She hesitated, but the concern in his gaze, the gentle way he was looking at her, made her lift the spoon to her lips.

The first taste was like warmth spreading through her, a stark contrast to the numbness that had clung to her for so long.

Something in Azriel’s shoulders eased when she took another bite.

“Good,” he murmured. “That’s good.”

She studied him as she ate—really studied him. The way his hands trembled slightly when he exhaled. The way his hazel eyes, darkened with exhaustion, never left her.

She set the bowl down on the low table beside her before reaching out, fingers grazing the scarred skin of his hands.

His breath hitched.

“Az,” she whispered.

His eyes flickered to hers, wary. As if he thought she might pull away.

But she didn’t.

Instead, she took his hands in hers, running her fingers gently over the callouses, the scars, the hands that had held her, fought for her, killed for her.

“I’m here,” she murmured. “You don’t have to carry it alone.”

Azriel let out a shuddering breath, his eyes closing briefly.

“I thought I lost you,” he admitted, voice raw. “I thought—” His throat bobbed. “I felt what you were going through, and I couldn’t—”

His voice broke.

Something in her broke with it.

She shifted, moving until she was sitting on the floor with him, her hands cradling his face.

“I’m here,” she whispered again. “We both are.”

Azriel’s hands came up to frame her face in return, his touch feather-light, as if he was afraid she might disappear.

For a long moment, they just breathed together.

His forehead dropped to hers, and when she exhaled, he was already there, catching the pieces of her, holding them together with his own.

They had been broken.

But they would heal.

Together.

───────────────────────────────

A few more days passed before Y/N could even think about returning to Velaris.

She had been terrified of it—terrified of the memories, of the house that still smelled like grief. But Azriel had been patient. He never rushed her. Never forced her to speak of what came next.

But she knew it was time.

They winnowed back to the townhouse at dusk. Feyre was the first to meet them, worry and guilt warring in her eyes. Cassian appeared a moment later, relief etched across his face.

And then there was Rhys.

He stood at the edge of the room, waiting. Not stepping forward. Not speaking.

Y/N inhaled slowly.

Her brother.

The one who had let her suffer, let her believe her mate was dead.

Azriel stiffened beside her, as if readying himself for another fight.

But Y/N only took a slow step forward, watching as Rhysand’s shoulders locked, as he prepared himself for whatever she was going to say.

“You lied to me,” she said quietly.

Rhys flinched.

“I did.” His voice was hoarse. “And I will never forgive myself for it.”

Silence stretched between them, thick and heavy.

“You let me break,” she whispered. “You let me believe I would never see him again.”

Rhys swallowed, something shining in his violet eyes. “I thought I was protecting you.”

She let out a shaky breath, her fingers curling at her sides. “It wasn’t your choice to make.”

“I know.” His voice cracked. “I know.”

Something in her chest squeezed.

He looked exhausted. More than that, he looked remorseful.

And despite all the pain, despite all the anger—she still loved him.

Azriel remained tense beside her, shadows curling at his fingers. But he didn’t stop her as she stepped closer to Rhysand, as she stared up at the male who had been more than a brother, more than a High Lord—he had been family.

“You hurt me,” she said softly. “But I can’t lose you, too.”

Rhys let out a sharp breath, his hands trembling at his sides. “I will spend the rest of my life making it up to you.”

“I don’t want that.” She exhaled. “I just want my brother back.”

His throat bobbed. “I’m so sorry, Y/N.”

She hesitated. Then, carefully, she reached out.

Rhys pulled her into his arms without hesitation, wrapping her in a tight, desperate embrace. She felt his breathing stutter against her, felt the regret that radiated from him like a storm.

It didn’t erase the pain.

Didn’t erase what had been lost.

But maybe… maybe it was enough.

Azriel stayed close, a silent protector at her back. And when she finally stepped away from Rhys, she turned to her mate, to the male who had survived, who had fought his way back to her.

Her fingers found his, their bond humming.

Whole. Unbroken.

And as she looked around at the people she loved—her mate, her family—she knew one thing for certain.

They had been shattered.

But together, they would heal.

Taglist: onebadassunicorn, k-godling, masbt1218, suggesteddoubletake, vanserrasimp, meritxellao, tele86, chaoticpizzalawyerbiscuit, romantasyreader28, annablack, woodland-mist, starlightandsouls, @kathren1sky_blog, @willowpains, masbt1218, @antonia002, bookishcait, fuckingsimp4azriel, @fanficscuziranout, buttermilktea11, @lilah-asteria, @lreadsstuff, @flintthegoodboyo, @saltedcoffeescotch

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[kirain]

Just a little Emmrich fic based on @timethehobo's beautiful art here. Had me feeling angsty. 😅

Vae pushed open the heavy oak door to Emmrich's study, the hinges creaking slightly in protest. The room was as she expected: cluttered yet strangely orderly, filled with the faint scent of parchment and pipe smoke. Shelves packed with ancient tomes, scrolls, and artifacts lined the walls, and to the right of it all stood his desk, a chaotic mosaic of notes, quills, and half-finished experiments.

"Emmrich?" She glanced around but found no sign of him. "He must have stepped out."

The old book in her hands felt heavy as she crossed the room and carefully placed it on the desk, smoothing her fingers over its cracked leather binding. It had caught her eye in Dock Town, and she immediately remembered Emmrich's passing mention of wanting to read it.

Satisfied, she turned to leave, but a sudden, eerie green light flared behind her.

"Well, well," a snide, feminine voice drawled, its tone dripping with venom. "If it isn't Volkarin's little paramour."

Vae froze, a feeling of nausea churning in her gut. Slowly, she turned back to face Johanna's skull. The cursed object sat atop its ornate pedestal, its hollow eye sockets somehow teeming with malice.

"Hezenkoss," Vae said flatly, unwilling to give her any more attention than necessary.

"How cold," The skull cackled, the sound sharp and grating. "I was just starting to enjoy the quiet, then in comes the professor's pet. What did you bring him, hmm? Chocolates? Cheese? Some other fatuous notion of romance?"

Ignoring her jab, Vae headed for the door. "Just a book he wanted. Goodbye, Hezenkoss."

"How amusing. I can assure you, he's already read it," she scoffed. "That absentminded fool could never keep track of what he's consumed. He'd open a book, read the first page, then suddenly realise he'd read it years ago."

Vae paused, her hand lingering over the door knob. Against her better judgement, she sighed and walked to the desk, leaning against it and facing the skull.

"What was he like when he was younger?" she asked.

There was a brief silence, as if Hezenkoss hadn't expected the question. Then, her voice took on a grudging edge. "An idealist. A bleeding heart. A coward."

Vae frowned. "You were friends for years. You must have admired something about him."

"His intelligence," the half-lich admitted, begrudgingly. "And his magical prowess, but that's all. Both became the reason I despise him—he never utilized either one, wasting his potential. We could have ruled Nevarra, brought every neighbouring kingdom to their knees, but he preferred to play nanny to wayward spirits and shortsighted students. Pah!"

Vae's eyes narrowed. "I don't believe you. You don't stay friends with someone for decades without seeing something worthwhile in them."

"As I just said. He was a useful duck to bounce ideas off of, but he never did appreciate my vision."

"Your vision?" Vae crossed her arms, her brow furrowing. "Your vision killed innocent people. Turned spirits into abominations."

"Sacrifices are necessary to achieve greatness," she spat. "I'm no hypocrite. As you can see, I made the ultimate sacrifice. Volkarin will do the same, should he pursue lichdom."

"It's different if it's yourself," Vae argued. "But not when you force it on others. That's not a 'sacrifice', it's just murder."

"No difference, same outcome."

Vae flinched, disgust welling in her eyes. "I can't imagine Emmrich ever being friends with someone like you," she said, her tone ruthless. "Which means, at some point, you must've changed. I just can't help but wonder if it was before you became a lich or after."

"Lichdom doesn't change anyone's personality, morals, or thoughts. I'm the same person I always was," she asserted. "If you want the truth, the old man's too trusting. Too softhearted. He wants to befriend everyone, even if it means adjusting his own interests to suit their needs. I'm sure you've seen it."

Vae swallowed, thinking back to all the times Emmrich went out of his way to ensure his colleagues' comfort at the cost of his own. Hiding his skulls, refraining from discussing necromancy in front of Taash, choking down one of Harding's ham sandwiches, afraid he'd insult her if he didn't try it—and then all the times he fussed over Vae herself.

"He's kind," she countered, though she knew it was sometimes to a fault. "He said you were, too. Once."

"Pah! You mistake kindness for naivety. I was young, with no concept of reality." She groaned, as if cursing her former self. "I grew out of that. Volkarin didn't. Beneath his grey hair and wrinkled skin, he's still a child at heart, always seeing individuals over the collective."

Vae shook her head. "Do you feel any guilt at all for what you've done to him?"

The skull chuckled, a bitter, humourless sound. "Guilt? For what? He impeded my plans. I did nothing to him."

"You had him on a hit list."

"Yes, because I knew that bleeding heart would never stand for my glorious uprising. Better to crush him, and that ridiculous pile of bones he drags around, than risk his interference. It wasn't personal, you see? Just collateral."

Vae's jaw clenched, her hands balling into fists. "You have no idea how lucky you are to have that 'bleeding heart' in your life. The rest of the Mourn Watch wanted to seal your skull in a tomb, alone, for eternity. But he fought to become your caretaker, because he couldn't stand the thought of you rotting in solitude. Even after everything, he pitied you."

Silence fell over the study, save for the faint crackle of energy within the skull. Hezenkoss said nothing, but her glow dimmed slightly.

Vae huffed and rose to her feet. "He's taking your betrayal harder than he lets on. You should be grateful for his kindness."

The half-lich grumbled, a note of frustration in her voice. "I was never loyal to him. There was no betrayal.”

"Yes, there was," Vae's temper flared. "You could always go to him, always talk to him. You were friends. He cherished that, cherished you, but you threw it all away—and for what? A broken existence? Eternal imprisonment? Loss of all feeling? You'll never be able to walk again, smell again, enjoy someone's touch on your skin. You had it all, but now it's gone. Was it worth it?"

For a long while, Hezenkoss said nothing, Vae's eyes boring into her sockets. Then, with a soft, almost incredulous hiss, she said, "I will escape."

"Maybe," Vae nodded. "But if you do, know this: I will never let you hurt him again."

Hezenkoss' laughter rang out as Vae moved towards the door. "You won't have to worry about that, darling. The decrepit old fool probably only has a few years left anyway!"

Vae tensed but didn't look back. Gritting her teeth, she wrenched the door open—and froze. Emmrich stood in the hallway, his expression a mixture of shock and pain, the weight of the overheard conversation hanging heavy in the air.

"Emmrich," Vae whispered, stepping into the hall and closing the door behind her. "How long have you been—?"

"We were friends once," he whimpered, his eyes drifting to the floor, "...weren't we?"

Vae reached out, her fingers brushing against his cheek. He was so hurt, and it killed her to see. Without another word, she pulled him into a hug, her arms wrapping tightly around him. Almost immediately he melted in her embrace, burying his face in her shoulder, his hands trembling.

"I'm sorry," she murmured.

He didn't respond, but the way he clung to her spoke volumes.

[velarisdusk]

Cracked Earth and Wilted Roses

Lucien x Reader

Day 4: Villain / Hero @sjmxreaderweek summary: The Spring Court is unraveling, and the screaming downstairs is only part of it. Feyre's letter said she wasn't coming home, but it didn't prepare you for the version of her you found instead. word count: 1.2k content: [ canon levels of violence (mentions of arguing/throwing things/very rageful tamlin) ] author's note: a bit of a loose interpretation of this prompt but i just needed someone to tell lucien he's doing a good job :( he deserves it :(((((( i just saw the word 'villain' and my brain went 'i didn't realize i was the villain in your narrative' LUCIENNNNNNNN :((((( OH ALSO the italicized parts are directly from that scene in ACOMAF

The Spring Court mansion was trembling.

You sat near the tall windows of yours and Lucien’s room, watching the garden sway beneath a sky bloated with storm clouds, the scent of earth and roses drifting in through the open glass. But it wasn’t the weather shaking the floor beneath your feet.

It was the screaming.

Lucien had gone to speak to Tamlin the moment you both returned from your search for Feyre in the Night Court—face tight, movements sharp with the kind of anger he rarely let show. You hadn’t followed. Didn’t need to. You could hear it from here. Raised voices. A crash. Something—glass, maybe—shattering against a wall. The house seemed to flinch with every word, as if even the stones of it had grown weary of conflict.

You pulled your knees up to your chest, wrapping your arms around them. You could still feel the rain soaked into your clothes, still see Feyre’s expression when she looked at Lucien like she didn’t know him anymore. Like maybe she never had.

“You gave up,” she breathed.

“You gave up on me,” she said a bit more loudly. “You were my friend. And you picked him—picked obeying him, even when you saw what his orders and his rules did to me. Even when you saw me wasting away day by day.”

Lucien had snapped something back—something about needing to keep the court united, about being the example—but it hadn’t mattered. 

You’d seen the way he froze when she spoke her next words.

“I begged you,” Feyre said, the words sharp and breathless. “I begged you so many times to help me, to get me out of the house, even for an hour. And you left me alone, or shoved me into a room with Ianthe, or told me to stick it out.”

You’d wanted to step forward then. Say something. Do something. But the look on Lucien’s face had stopped you. It wasn’t defensiveness. It was guilt. Raw and bone-deep. The kind of guilt that had been eating him long before today.

And Feyre— Feyre wasn’t the girl you remembered.

She stood in the pouring rain like a blade forged from ice and shadows. Leathers clung to her body like armor, wings tucked tight behind her, as if daring any of you to look too long. The power around her crackled, dark and dangerous. 

What had Rhysand done to her?

Her eyes held no warmth. No softness. Just cold calculation—merciless and sharp. You’d all suspected the words in that letter from the Night Court hadn’t been hers. But seeing her now…

The Feyre you’d known was gone.

And then that final moment—her words a blade against the throat of whatever hope Lucien had left.

“Tell Tamlin,” she’d said, choking on his name, “if he sends anyone else into these lands, I will hunt each and every one of you down. And I will demonstrate exactly what the darkness taught me.”

There was something like genuine pain on his face. 

She didn’t care. She just watched him, unyielding and cold and dark. 

Lucien nodded to the sentinels. Bron and Hart, wide-eyed and shaking, vanished with the other two. 

He said softly to Rhysand, “You’re dead. You, and your entire cursed court.”

The words haunted you still. Not for their threat—but for the way Lucien had meant them.

The shouting downstairs had quieted now, but your body still buzzed with tension, every muscle coiled tight.

You didn’t look away from the fire in the hearth until you heard the door open behind you.

Lucien stepped inside like the weight of the entire court was hanging from his shoulders. His hair was damp, curls falling loose around his face, and his jacket was half unbuttoned, like he’d yanked it off in frustration and changed his mind halfway through. He looked exhausted. Not just physically, but deep down—like something inside him had been hollowed out.

He didn’t say anything. Just shut the door gently behind him and leaned against it, staring at the floor as though it might open up and swallow him whole.

You swallowed hard, voice quiet. “Did he listen?”

Lucien laughed, but there was no humor in it. “Tamlin never listens. Not when it matters.”

You stood slowly, walking over to him. He didn’t move as you stopped in front of him, close enough to see the way his hands trembled where they hung at his sides.

“She meant what she said,” he murmured. “Feyre… She looked at me like I was a stranger. Worse than that. Like I was something she had to fight off.”

You reached out, resting your hand gently on his arm. “Lucien…”

“I left her here,” he said hoarsely. “I told myself I couldn’t do more. That I couldn’t risk it. That it wasn’t my place. But she begged me, and I still—” His voice cracked. “And now she sees me as no better than him.”

You could see it then, clear as day. The way it was eating him alive.

You stepped closer, placing your other hand over his heart. “You made mistakes, yes. But you also tried. You pushed back. You kept her from Ianthe as much as you could. And you’ve done the same for me.”

Your voice softened, steady but warm.

“You’re the one who noticed I was slipping away after Calanmai those years ago. You didn’t ask questions—you just sat with me until I could breathe again.”

His brow furrowed slightly, but you went on.

“You brought me those books from the Continent. The ones you pretended you didn’t know how to smuggle out.” A faint smile touched your lips. “You remembered the exact titles I told you I liked. You always remember.”

Lucien’s throat bobbed as he swallowed.

“You lied for me, when Tamlin asked why I was gone so long in the gardens. You said I’d been patrolling with you. Even though we both know you’d catch hell for that.”

Still no answer—just that same hollow, broken look in his eyes.

“So let me remind you,” you said gently. “You went against Amarantha for her. Feyre. You saved her life—when no one else would. You nearly got yourself killed for it.”

His gaze dropped, jaw tight.

“You didn’t stop her from going Under the Mountain. You couldn’t. But you helped where you could. You healed her nose when it broke. You let her feel human for five minutes in a place that turned everyone into monsters.”

You swallowed once, then added, even softer, “You stood by her when it cost you everything. And you’ve stood by me, too.”

He didn’t flinch—but you felt the shift in him. The way his breath caught, just a little.

“You’ll always be a hero to me,” you said.

Lucien’s eyes widened—barely. Like he didn’t know what to do with that.

You pressed your hand more firmly against his chest, feeling the heartbeat under your palm, and finally he met your gaze. “And I know you want to be better. That counts. That matters. You’re not the villain of this story, Lucien. Not to me.”

[disasterofastory]

Leather and dust (Thranduil x Reader)

Leather and dust Thranduil x Reader Warnings: smutty

Summary: Thranduil pays you a visit in the library.

The creak of the heavy doors breaks the silence of the library. It's loud and sharp in the silence. A small gasp leaves your lips as you jump because of the sudden sound. The book almost slips out of your hands, and you tighten your hold at the last moment. Your nails dig into the leather cover.

You know he is here. You can feel it. And hear it. His steps are heavy thuds on the ground. Putting the book back in its original place on the shelf, you try to listen to the rhythmic noise to find out where he may be. A frown appears between your brows as you turn your head left and right. His steps echo between the tall walls. One moment, you are sure he is far away, and the next second, your heart jumps to your throat at his closeness.

Where is he?

"What the book did to cause that frown?" Another gasp leaves your lips at his words. Your head snaps up where he stands, and your hand slips away from the book's spine to fall next to your body. Your fingers seek out the soft material of your skirt to grab something. "It did nothing, my King," you reply when you find your voice. Thranduil stands a few meters away from you at the end of the shelf. His hands are behind his back. His posture is straight and confident. His whole presence demands respect and obedience. "Then who earned your sour mood, Y/N?" "Oh, nobody," you croak out, clearing your throat. "I just... I was deep in thought." "Do you want to share them with me?" He asks, stepping closer. "Maybe I can ease your worries." "I have no worries, my King," you tell him, shaking your head. "My thoughts don't even deserve to be mentioned." You are lying. Of course, you do. But how could you share your thoughts with the elven king? How could you tell him that he is the reason for your worries? That you barely can breathe in his presence? And you can't look at him without burning? And the little game he has been playing with you for weeks now drives you desperation and madness at the same time? "It's hard to believe that your thoughts don't deserve mentioning," he argues softly. The corners of his lips jerk upward, but Thranduil doesn't let himself smile even though the amusement is clear on his face. Humor glints in his bright blue eyes. Not knowing what to say, you clear your throat again before speaking. "Can I help you with something, my King?" You ask him, trying to be more professional. "The others told me you want to reorganize the library," he says. "Yes," you nod. "Tightening the relations between Lake-town and the dwarves made a mess here. I thought perhaps..." "Why?" He asks, and the sudden question stops you from speaking. "Why does a mortal woman like you with such a short lifespan waste her time here? With old books and languages?" His question hurts for a moment. The frown is back on your face with a small pout. "I..." The wrinkle between your brows deepens as you try to think of your answer. "Maybe that's why." Turning to the books so you don't have to look at him, you continue. "I don't have hundreds and thousands of years to get to know and experience everything. The books and documents... they help. And..." The air gets stuck in your lungs when you feel him moving behind you. His chest touches your back. His whole presence hovers above you and almost pushes you to your knees. "And?" His warm breath fans over the side of your face. It smells like fruits and a hint of the finest elven wine. "And..." You have to force the words out of your tightened throat. "And their smell. It's parchment, dust, leather, and ink. They are comforting." By the time you finish your sentence, your voice becomes a weak whisper. The tip of his nose brush over the curve where your neck and shoulder meet. Your heart stops beating for a long second, and your thighs clench without your control. "That explains it," he hums against your skin. "Explains what, my King?" You ask back, still frozen in place. "Your scent," he says. "Dust, leather, and ink. It haunts me since you are here. I lay in my bed at night, unable to sleep because of you. I can hear you. I can smell you." "Oh." "Do you know what I do then, Y/N?" He asks. His large hands land on your hips. His hold on you is tight and possessive. You can feel the squeeze of his fingers between your legs even though his touch doesn't move away from your sides. "No," you reply. The word leaves your lips panting. "Then ask me, Y/N." His lips brush over your neck as he speaks. "Ask me what I do when I'm unable to free myself from the thoughts of you." "What do you do, my King?" Your question is shaky and breathless. His chest presses against your back some more. You can feel him pressed against your bottom. "I imagine you," he replies. You can barely feel the kisses he hints on the line of your shoulder as he goes up to your neck, but you still know what he is doing. "I close my eyes and imagine you beneath me. You are bare and flushed in front of me. Your lips are red from my kisses, and your legs are open as you wait for me." You can feel yourself getting wetter and wetter with each word that leaves his lips. One of his hands slips down to your skirt, pulling up the fabric with calmness and patience. "I try to imagine how you taste and how you sound as you scream my name and beg for more." "Thranduil." His name slips off your tongue with desperation. Your eyes fall close, and you have to grab one of the shelves to keep your balance. "I imagine this pussy around my cock instead of my hand." His long fingers find their way under your panties easily. His touch glides over your wetness, gathering your juices until he is soaked in your essence. "Open your mouth," Thranduil orders. His voice is quiet but not less commanding. "And suck." Your own taste spreads across your tongue as he pushes two of his fingers between your lips. "Is it as sweet as I imagined?" He asks but doesn't let your answer. When you open your mouth to speak, he pushes deeper until you gag. Saliva drips down your jaw. "I will taste you tonight," the elven king states. "I will feast on your pussy all night until you are as mad with need as I am." But you already are. The world is dizzy around you, and only Thranduil's arm keeps you on your feet. Your pussy aches and throbs for more.

And everything is over before you know it.

"Come to my room tonight," Thranduil says. You feel cold without his warmth behind you. "I will wait for you."

[d1s1ntegrated]

i’ve been listening to this song on repeat and can’t get shiggy out of my head. can you please write something along these lines, cause oh my god would this be so hot🥵

porn star dancing shigaraki pov x stripper reader

summary: dabi drags shigaraki to a "titty bar" for his 21st birthday, because "being a virgin at 21 is like a dog who's never had a biscuit". 

cw: quirkless au! dabi and shiggy are best friends, drinking, strip club setting, shiggy's pov, alt!reader, oral virginity loss, language, nudity, oral (male rec), groping, whining, pining, slightsub!tomura, virgin!tomura, slightlydom!reader, teasing, private lap dance, happy ending lol, handjob, headshoving, dirty talk, basically just shiggy being an epic simp loser. wc: ~4230 words

this is from tomura's pov. i felt it would convey his sluttiness best :)

·̩̩̥͙＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚　　˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊·̩̩̥͙

"GET OFF THE GAME, DUMBASS. WE'RE GOING OUT". dabi's voice shouts from down the hall. i sigh and roll my eyes, yanking my headset off my head. usually, i'd ignore him, but i knew he wouldn't leave me alone today. i tried not to make a big deal about it, but he's been making a stink about my birthday for months now, as if drinking legally at a bar would feel any different than drinking illegally in my room. but, hell, if it gets him to shut up, i guess.

i groan and stretch myself out of my gaming chair, giving my prized possession a solemn goodbye, and trod out of my room. dabi is waiting in the hallway, leaning against the wall. "there you are, freak. you ready to go get wasted with a bunch of topless bitches?" he looks me up and down, smiling sadistically. i shrug, and he pats my shoulder.

"come on, lets get trashed." i know i can't argue with him, so i follow him out the door, thinking about how badly i'd rather go back to my room and play league. whatever.

---------------------------------------------------- the club is sketchy, to say the least. a dark grey exterior with no windows, just one neon sign above that reads "the silk iris" in flashy pink lettering. at least it's not named some weird shit like "vixen den".

i suck air in through my teeth as dabi lights a cigarette next to me. "can we go home?" i say miserably next to him. he chuckles, taking a long drag.

"fuck no, shigs. we're goin' in, and i'm gonna tell those pretty girlies in there that it's your birthday" he flashes his teeth at me and instead of a smile, i see a predator baring its fangs in warning. fuck my life. i try to beg him not to, but he's unreceptive.

"please, dabi, i'll go in, fine, but dont tell them shit, please" i clasp my hands together and shake them at him, as if im praying. but if dabi was a god, he was a cruel and evil one, who doesn't answer prayers.

"fine fine, shigaraki. i'll be nice, i promise." he curls his lips and tosses the finished cigarette to the ground, crushing the filter under his boot. he grabs my shoulder and guides me with an iron grip to the door. "lets go!" he slaps my back hard and i grimace. no going back now.

the door pushes open and immediately, the smell of heavy smoke and cheap cologne rushes my sinuses. theres another door between the club and the entrance, and a part of me wishes i could just sit in the lobby all night. but dabi whips his id out, and i reluctantly follow. we flash them at the bouncer, who nods and grins wide when he sees mine. "happy birthday man. have fun". his voice is gruff and deep, his body towering over mine. i force a slight smile, and nod "thanks" before begrudgingly going through the door.

the lights are low, thank god. deep reds and purples accent the darkly-painted walls, and the carpet is patterned with some vampiric-looking textile, and i study it intently. the music is so loud, the bass shakes my eardrums, and i groan. if i'm gonna be here all night, i'm gonna need a drink. dabi knows this already, and he drags me over to the bar and nods to an empty stool. i slink onto the worn leather and he yanks my hood off my head before he sits next to me. i grumble but he ignores me, and flags down the bartender.

a tall, slender girl in a very tiny bikini top struts over, big pearly smile on her face. her red hair curls gently around her face, and she greets us with a very peppy voice. "hi boys! what can i get for ya?"

dabi eyes the girl up and down and leans back in his seat a bit, giant smirk plastered to his face. his piercings tug at his lips as he answers, "hey doll. it's actually my buddy's birthday today," he claps my shoulder again and i shrink into myself, "what do you recommend?"

the girl claps her hands together and jumps a bit. "happy birthday sweetheart!" those teeth smile at me again, somehow wider than last time. she turns back to dabi and asks, "is this his first time?"

dabi answers with a bellowing laugh, "ohhh yeah. shig's gonna turn into a man tonight" he nudges me and i force out a laugh.

"well, shig," the bartender drags my name out sleazily, "i have just the thing for you." she trots away from us for a few moments, returning with a shot glass full of a bright green substance. "you like fruity drinks?" she asks and nods at me. i shrug and reply "i'm not sure". she lets out a high-pitched giggle and looks to dabi.

"and for you?""whatever's on tap, sweetheart. and a shot of jameson." his voice is low and he's still grinning. she returns half a second later with a tall beer glass, and a little shot of whiskey. she nods at us and says as she tends to another customer now, "ill start a tab for you boys."

i hesitantly pick up the shot glass and dabi picks his up with me. he raises his brows and laughs. "take the shot, pussy". he clinks his glass against mine and i take a deep breath as we take the first shot. it goes down surprisingly easy, much easier than the cheap whiskeys and vodkas i'm used to. its...actually fucking delicious. the bartender notices us and claps. she brings me another one a minute later and i take it fearlessly, the liquid shooting down to my core, warming me up. "thats a green tea shot, love. just in case you wanna order some more" she winks at me as she slides another shot to dabi, "my shift ends in about 5 minutes, so you'll have to order them yourself from now on! happy birthday, sweetie!" i smile at her, feeling my nerves slowly melting away. i thank her and turn to dabi.

"this isn't so bad" i give him a thumbs-up, and he returns it. he picks up the tiny glass and shoots it back, chasing it with the remainder of his beer. he blinks away the burn and shakes his head. "bartender was cute, eh?" he stifles a belch into his fist and claps my back again. "lets go, emo boy." i slide off the stool and follow him.

he leads me to a couple of seats near the stage. i did my best to avoid looking before, but now it was right in front of me. a couple of girls, about six or seven, were twirling around poles, walking up and down the stage, as men greedily shove their hands to touch them, stroke their legs, grab their asses. some shove dollar bills into their waistbands, others hand them bigger bills: tens, twenties, even some fifties. i scoff and take a seat next to dabi, who's already got his wallet out. he hands me a wad of ones, and i sigh.

"i'm not gonna shove my hands into some poor girls panties," i say to him. he glares at me and rolls his eyes. "the more you shove in there, the closer you get to having it, shig. its like buying pussy, bro. come on, just watch." he stands and leans over the stage as a short blonde crawls over, and he beckons her with a finger. he slides his hand over her barely-clothed tits and shoves a couple bills between them. she blows a kiss at him and stands, spinning around a pole and waving at a few of the men before the girls rotate. this goes on for a few minutes, and i feel myself growing uncomfortable with myself.

i grit my teeth and stand next to dabi, and do my best to entice one of the girls over to me. however, once the girl comes over to me, i panic, and end up just handing her a few of the bills in my hand. i wave and immediately smack myself in the face. stupid idiot, what the fuck was that? dabi notices my folly and laughs at me and shakes his head.

"you dumbass, what the hell was THAT?" he raises his voice over the music and i purse my lips.

"i dont know" i say quietly. my head is spinning from the alcohol. i groan and sit back in my seat, afraid to embarrass myself further. suddenly, the music quiets down, and a voice rings through the speaker, announcing a solo act. "please welcome the beautiful, the terrifying, the eat-your-heart-out....calypso!" the group of men cheer as they hear the name. i look confused as the lights switch to a deep sanguine red, and the music switches over from the bass-boosted r&b and rap to metal. a few of the men get up and go to the bar, but watch as they order drinks.

dabi gets up and i call out for him, but he raises a hand and says, "im getting drinks, dude chill! you'll be fine for two minutes!!" the lights brighten again as a girl comes onto the stage. she, like the others, is dressed scantily, but...differently. my eyes widen as she approaches further. she grabs one of the poles and swings her leg around it, and i can't peel my eyes away. her thigh grips the metal, her fishnets so tight against her, i can see the soft skin poking through the holes. the material stretches thin over her ass, which is plump, with only a tiny g-string to cover it. she drops to the floor and lays on her back, her tits spreading in the top as men grab at her, and she slaps them away. they cheer and lay the bills onto the stage, and she gradually grabs the money, shoving it down her top herself.

dabi returns and hands me another shot. i swiftly take it, not taking my eyes off the dancer on the stage. she wraps her hands around another pole and spins a few times before dropping back down, onto her knees this time. i bite my lip and dabi nudges me with his elbow.

"you like that one, shiggy?" he shouts over the heavy guitar solo. i nod slowly and watch her intently. he chuckles beside me and nods. calypso gets to the edge of the stage and i smack the rest of the ones i have in my hand right next to her tall, chunky boots. she notices me and stares down at me and licks her lips, and i feel myself melt. she bends over slowly and grabs the cash, and drags her long fingernail up my neck and jaw. i gulp as she winks at me and whispers something, but i cant hear her over the music.

i feel myself twitch in my pants. i smile weakly up at her and she turns away, collecting the rest of the money on the wooden floor. she then slowly grabs one of the strings of her top and pulls it, slowly unraveling the knot. she spins around as she pulls the top off completely, and tosses it haphazardly in my direction. i scramble up from my seat and grasp at it, unable to control my impulses. i greedily fist it and shove it into my hoodie pocket, hoping she doesn't notice who took it. i fling back in my seat and dabi high fives me.

"WOOOOO! ATTA BOY!" he shouts at me and downs the rest of his glass. i look back up to calypso on the stage, spinning around another pole sleazily. her movements are fluid and flawless, and i swallow the excess drool in my mouth as i watch her. the way her tits look, her supple curves, the jiggle of her ass against the metal and wood as she dances around the stage. none of the other women on the stage before had gotten my attention, but...she did. i cover my lap with my hands and spread my legs to hide the raging hard-on against my tight jeans.

the song ends after an excruciating few minutes and i let out the breath i didnt know i was holding. as she exists the stage, she drags a clawed hand against the mirror wall at the back of the stage. the whole crowd cheers, a few of the men going so far as to shout her name out. the next solo act comes out and i stand up, deciding to hide in the bathroom for a second. fuck, this doesnt look odd or anything.

i tap dabi's shoulder and tell him "i gotta piss, i'll be back" and he just nods as he stares intently at the next dancer.

i rush into the bathroom and slam the door behind me, locking the stall. i sigh and press myself against the shoddy stall door and yank the top i shoved into my pocket out. i press it to my face and inhale. my cock jumps in my pants as i do so, and i stifle a moan. it smells so sweet, and spicy, and just so fucking good. i palm at the front of my jeans as i inhale. fuck, her tits were in here. fuck. i rub my thumb over the soft material, imagining how it rubbed against her nipples, how the strings tugged at the weight of her tits. i shudder and shake my head, shoving the top back into my pocket. not here. i'll have all the time in the world to get off once i'm home, i remind myself. don't be the guy that jerks it in the public bathroom.

i gather myself as best as possible, splashing water on my face before exiting the bathroom. i shiver at the cold on my feverish face and push the heavy door open to see dabi standing outside, grinning maniacally.

"guess what, birthday bitch?" he tilts his head at me and chuckles. i stare with genuine fear as he points to one of the doors across from me.

"you see those doors, buddy?" i nod my head. "you know what's behind those doors?" i shake my head. the third door to the right opens and a man exits, looking absolutely blown away. a girl in a tight white bikini exists after him, looking distracted. fuck.

"dabi, nonononono, i do NOT want a private dance, nonono please" i tug at his jacket and he shakes me off.

"too bad, buddy. you're gettin' one." i whimper out in fear and clench my jaw. "come on, dumbass. youre 21 now. and youre still a virgin. it's kinda sad. at least get the experience of a lap dance, my god."

"dabi, i do not want a lap dance, i want to go-"

"shigaraki, a virgin at 21 is like a puppy who's never had a biscuit before. now go. second door. have fun!" he laughs evilly again and saunters off to the bar again, leaving me to my own devices.

i could run right now, or...

or i could man up and go get a fucking lap dance.

in private.

with a girl.

fuck it, i say to myself and go up to the second door. i take a deep breath and turn the knob, entering slowly. its empty.

what the fuck?

i take a seat on the giant plush....couch? futon? bed thing? i'm not quite sure, but it wraps around the room in a U-shape. the walls are made of all mirrors, with a sound system laid into the wall, and speakers next to the ceiling. i sit in the middle of the leather seats and scratch my neck anxiously. either dabi set me up real good, or...

a knock at the door startles me out of my thought and i look up. the door swings open and swiftly shuts. i recognize the body...the face...calypso walks in and raises her brows at me. every bit of my drunkenness dissipates at the sight.

"you're the birthday boy, huh? that's convenient. can i get my top back?" she says, her voice low and drawn out. she stares down at me and my eyes feel like they're going to fall out of my head. she's wearing something different now: a tight red top with a thong, pulled up around her hips, accentuating her curves. her boots are frighteningly large, thick leather straps and buckles crossing over her calves and thighs.

i fumble over my words as i pull the top out of my pocket, "i, how did you kn- i'm sorry" i wince at my own voice, and she laughs.

"giant mirror. the look on your face. i'm not dumb" she leans in and whispers the last lines into my ear, sending a shiver down my spine.

"oh...okay" i choke out. "sorry" i repeat, and she stands.

"good boy" she nods, and presses a button on the stereo. "porn star dancing" begins to play. i bite my lip and look up at her nervously. she traces my jaw with her nail, just like she did earlier, and climbs into my lap.

"do you want a lap dance, pretty boy?" her voice is sweet and sultry in my ears. i grip her thighs instinctively as she grinds into me slightly and i nod furiously. any intention i had of resisting is gone, as i glance at her ass in the mirror across from us. her thighs are warm and plush, and as she stands back up, i have to stifle my whimper. she turns around and bends over, giving me the perfect view of her ass. i reach out to grab it, and she turns around.

"ah ah, no touching yet, pretty boy." i exhale hard at the way the nickname rolls off her tongue. she continues to bend and sway in front of me, and my desperation grows. my saliva builds rapidly at the sight of her supple body teasing me, and i swallow hard again.

she brings herself back to face me, pushing her soft tits against me. they smell the same as her top, soft and spicy and sweet. i moan and plant a kiss to the flesh and she lets out a soft "hmm". i take this as an okay to touch her, and i bring my hand down hard on her ass, gripping it tightly. she gasps and flashes her wild eyes at me. she sits fully in my lap, grinding her ass against me, bouncing and bending on me.

i cant help but harden back up, my cock beating against it's jean prison again. my breath quickens as she slides off, and suddenly drags a hand to my upper thigh, squeezing it hard. i gasp at the touch and she laughs, a sickeningly seductive smile painting her beautiful face. my eyes roll back as she palms the front of my jeans.

wait.

i look to her now as she licks her lips and bites her lip. she drops down to her knees, her eyes glassy and half-shut as she stares up at me. i look at her in the mirror again, seeing her boots pressing against her plump ass again. i groan and push my hair back, and she fiddles with the front of my pants.

"your friend out there said you were a virgin, is that right?" she draws out, wicked and teasing. i nod and my cheeks flush with embarrassment. "you want me to fix that?" she questions nonchalantly as she pops the button of my jeans.

"wait, what?" i stumble, and she chuckles softly.

"i don't do this for everyone, you know." she points a cruel finger at me, "but when i saw how desperate you got out there, i honestly wondered if i could break you. thank god your friend asked me for the dance, otherwise i'd have to come find you myself" she laughs lowly, and i shiver.

i cant find the words, so i just nod furiously. she smiles up at me and unzips the front of my jeans. i help her by pushing down my boxers, letting my cock spring free. she gives a soft surprised look, and i furrow my brows.

"you're much bigger than i expected" she whispers, and wraps a hand lazily around my shaft. if i wasn't so turned on right now, i might take that offensively. but as she wraps her pouty lips around the tip, i throw my head back, ignoring any cues that this might not be a part of the lap dance.

her tongue swirls luridly around my tip, causing me to gasp. i'm already overstimulated, my cock twitching and jumping at her touch. she takes me deeper down her throat until her nose buries into my skin, and she lets out a low hum against the throbbing appendage. as i moan, she wraps her hand back around, sliding it alongside where she sucks me off, the doubled sensation causing my hips to buck up. she giggles around my dick as she sucks it, and i tangle my pale fingers into her hair. its so soft, just like the rest of her. she moans softly at the sensation of me pulling it, and i whimper. she pulls off of me with a gentle "pop" and i groan.

"you sound so fucking pathetic, pretty boy" she whispers.

"t-tomura. call me tomura" i choke out in rushed breath, and she nods.

"tomura. pretty name for a pretty boy" she nods, and i cant help but moan again at how she says my name. she brings my cock back into her mouth and drags her tongue all the way up, wrapping her soft fingers around my balls and squeezing gently. my body feels like its on fire and i start to feel myself breaking.

"ah-ah, ha, fuck" my breaths tangle with the mantra of swears and incoherent noises spilling from my mouth. i make no effort to stifle myself, there's no point. i grip her hair harder and she presses her teeth ever so slightly into the flesh of my cock, and i tremble. the sensations are driving me wild, and i completely lose control. i watch as her mouth slides up and down, her spit dripping down my length, tangling with the mess of precum already spilling from me.

"hnng, fuck, agh, ah ah, ah, i'm gonna" i whimper out, and she only looks up at me, not stopping. her grip on my balls tightens as i twitch inside her warm mouth, and the sight sends me over the edge.

"god, FUCK, fuck, ah, fuck, i'm cumming, oh fuck, i'm cumming" i pant out, and shove her head all the way down as my cock sputters. she chokes slightly around me as i feel the thick ribbons shoot down her tight throat. i whimper and moan out unapologetically, and she keeps sucking even after i finish, sending volts of electricity through my entire body. she pulls off of me sloppily, a string of drool and cum dripping from her lips. i twitch as the aftershock rumbles through me, feeling the alcohol (and blood) rush back to my head. my breathing staggered. she wipes her mouth with the bottom of my hoodie, and stands.

"you did such a good job, tomura" her voice is slightly raspy as she praises me, and strokes my face. i smile weakly up at her.

"th-thank you, calypso" i breathe out, and she returns the soft smile.

"happy birthday, pretty boy" she turns the music down and heads for the door.

"wait" i bleat out, and she turns, "can we...can i see you again?" she laughs with an exhale, and grins.

"come back next weekend." she replies, and my heart seizes. i nod and look at the floor.

"can i have your number?" i ask quietly.

she chuckles and shakes her head no.

"do you want...the top back?" i hand it to her, and she shakes her head.

"consider it your birthday present." and she walks out the door before i can respond. i shove the top back in my pocket and fix my clothes, checking myself in the mirror before exiting a couple minutes after her.

as always, dabi is standing across from the door, unlit cigarette hanging from his lip. "how'd it go, buddy?" he chortles, and i look up at him.

"we're coming back next weekend" i say, and without another word, i head out the front doors. the bouncer nods at us as we exit, and dabi follows behind with a "fuck yes!".

when we return home, i fling myself into my bed and yank the top out of my pocket. i examine every speck of glitter, the tag, everything. i slip the padding out of it, just for shits, and notice in thin black ink:

"your lucky day.

XXX-XXX-XXXX."

⭑*•̩̩͙⊱••••✩••••̩̩͙⊰•*⭑

hope u enjoyed! i finished this at 3:50am and poured my whole ass heart into it. i had a lot of fun writing this :D

lmk if i should write more from shigs pov, or if a reader pov would be better, i tried to be experimental ;-;

thank u for the request as always!!

xoxo

[cloudss-space]

Emo boy

( killer chat ) emo boy ronin x hot topic worker reader ... fluff ...

author note: personally, not my fav, but i did want to write something involving "emo boy ronin" so, this is my attempt on that. i hope that you all enjoy !! trigger warning: - slight none

You step into the bright fluorescent light of Hot Topic, the air thick with the scent of synthetic leather, stale incense, and overpriced vanilla-scented candles. The walls are covered in band posters, slashed denim jackets, and the eerie glow of neon skulls. The clock in the corner ticks, its hands crawling, reluctant to even whisper the passage of time.

The outside world seems to bleed into the space. You can hear the hum of the pavement through the glass door and feel the restless heat pressing against the window. But inside, there is nothing but this cocoon of plastic and metal. Customers come in droves, their faces as pale as ghosts. Each one is a shadow passing through, drawn by the allure of rebellion. They skim the shelves, their fingers brushing across black fabric and metal, never pausing long enough to care. No one stays long enough to see the rot beneath the surface, the decay festering in the corners.

You lean against the counter, staring intently at the skull rings and spiked chokers. There's a dread in the air, a silence that is too loud. The people pass by you like ghosts, nothing more than moving shapes that dissolve into the dark corners of this purgatory. You catch glimpses of their empty, hollow eyes, filled with the deadness that matches your own. They flicker and die as quickly as they ignite.

A shrill sound slices through the air. The register dings as yet another transaction is made, yet another meaningless purchase. You feel the weight of time wasted as you hold the small sliver of paper in your hand. Another moment lost. You shove it into the drawer, the metal clattering like a corpse hitting the floor.

A couple approaches the counter. The girl is wearing a tight T-shirt that shows off her arms, which hang limp by her sides. Her eyes are shadowed, her makeup smeared like ash from a dying fire. The boy beside her wears chains so heavy they could drag him into the underworld. They argue about which pair of boots would fit better, but you don't care. You want to scream at them, tell them how insignificant their choices are in the grand scheme of nothingness. But you don't. You watch them. Their breaths rise and fall like the dull thud of a drumbeat.

As they leave, you look at the clock. It hasn't moved. The seconds are frozen in place, refusing to shift. You are stuck in this place, trapped in a loop of tedious moments that stretch and stretch into infinity. The light flickers overhead, casting jagged shadows across the room like a sickening pulse. It makes you shiver. You want to scream. But you won't.

A shriek of feedback tears through the speakers. You flinch at the noise scraping against your mind, gnawing at the edges of your sanity. Another band. Another song. The lyrics are blood-soaked, dripping from the speakers like a warning you can't decipher. It's all noise, all hollow sound with no meaning. It fills the void, but only makes it worse.

Then, a pair of black boots clunk against the floor and your attention is drawn to them. Another customer. Another shadow. She picks at her fingernails, as if trying to find the truth in the cracks of her skin. She doesn't look at you, but you see her out of the corner of your eye. The drag of her steps, the subtle sway of her body, as though she's been hollowed out from the inside, searching for something she'll never find. You watch her. She disappears into the dark, leaving nothing behind but a whiff of her perfume—a cloying scent of decay.

The silence returns. It's a suffocating kind of quiet, the kind that's too thick to breathe in. You don't know how long it's been since anyone spoke. The store is empty, just one person in the corner, hunched over a display of wristbands. They move slowly, like a ghost in a dream, hands trailing over the leather, never touching anything. They're waiting for something to happen, something to break the silence. But nothing happens. Seconds tick by.

The overhead lights buzz again, like flies caught in a spider's web. You can hear your own breath in the hollow space, your pulse thrumming in your veins like a drum that refuses to slow down. You glance at the clock. There is no movement. The minutes are frozen in time, caught in the jaws of some endless, agonising moment. You wonder if the world outside still exists, or if it has crumbled to dust.

Your fingers curl into fists, but they shake. Your chest constricts as if the air itself is thickening, making it hard to breathe. You feel the weight of your own existence pressing down on you. This place, this job, is a prison, a cage built from nothing but endless hours of waiting for something that never comes. You could scream, you could tear at your skin, but it wouldn't matter. The walls will not move. The clock doesn't tick any faster.

The next customer enters, a young man with a lip piercing and a look of quiet despair. His eyes are dark, filled with something you can't name, and for a moment, you wonder if he sees it too. You carry the same emptiness, the same weight of something unspoken. But he moves on, picks up a t-shirt and shuffles to the counter, and you are certain he can feel the same hollow echo you do. If he knows this place is just a veil, a mask over the abyss.

He hands you the shirt, and you take it, instantly recognising the fabric as ash. It's black, as expected. It's always black. You ring it up, the register making its empty noise. The drawer opens with a squeal, and you think about how long it's been since you've felt anything other than numb.

When he leaves, the door chimes as he departs, and you watch the last of the light fade. The shadows grow, stretching across the room and swallowing the colour whole. The walls close in on you, but you stay still, frozen in place, as the silence grows louder and louder until it engulfs you.

The clock ticks once more. Another second gone. Another moment slipping through your fingers. You are waiting for something to change, or you have forgotten what it feels like to move. The day stretches on. The world beyond the glass remains a distant memory.

Time. It is a slow, dripping wound that won't heal.

The door chimes again, a soft clang, barely a whisper in the dense air. A boy steps in. He's the kind of boy who doesn't walk, he drifts—like a shadow made flesh, fading in and out of existence with each step he takes. His skinny jeans hug his legs so tightly they almost appear to be painted on, dark denim faded by too many hours spent in the same empty room. His boots click with a muted tap against the floor, the only sound in the suffocating stillness.

His hair falls over his face like a dark curtain, long and tangled, reaching down to his shoulders. It's the kind of hair that's perpetually windblown, yet static, as though he's caught in some endless storm of his own making. The bangs fall in uneven lines, framing his face in a way that looks deliberate, as though he's hiding from the world—or maybe just hiding from himself.

The shirt he wears is an MCR tee. The black fabric bears the logo like a badge of honour, like a secret carved into his skin. You've seen that shirt a thousand times, but it looks different on him. He wears it like a shroud, like it shields him from the world that doesn't care. The world has already eaten him alive and left nothing but the remnants of someone who used to be. His eyes are sunken, deep shadows under them, like he hasn't slept in weeks, hasn't bothered to wipe away the tracks of whatever sadness or rage he carries.

The dark streaks of make-up on his face blend into his pale skin. The way it clings to him is almost ritualistic, as though he's painted the darkness on, drawn it across his features to summon something, to become something else—something dead. It's wrong, but it's perfect. You feel an inexplicable pull toward him, an attraction you can't quite place. It's not the makeup, the dark circles or the clothes. It's the way he moves—or doesn't move. He's there, but not there. His existence seems to fade from the edges of reality.

He stares at the shelves. His gaze is unfocused. He sees something beyond the merchandise. His hands twitch at his sides, fingers brushing the air as though reaching for something just out of reach. You are certain that he is not aware of you watching him, nor does he notice the world around him. He is living in his own private hell, removed from everything, just like you.

Your pulse accelerates, a strange heat spreading through your body. You can't stop looking at him. His stillness, the haunted way he walks, the dark aura that seems to swirl around him like a storm cloud, draws you in. It's a magnetic pull. It's not just about his looks. It's darker, it's dangerous, like the gravity of a black hole. You can feel it in the air, suffocating, drawing everything toward him, sucking you in.

He picks up a chain from a nearby rack, turning it in his fingers. The links of the chain glint in the light, but he is not at all delicate. The way he handles it, casually, as if it's an afterthought, only makes him more intriguing. His lips are set in a thin, tired line, not quite a frown, not quite a smirk, but both, and it's clear he's seen too many broken things, too many things left unsaid.

The air thickens around him. You could almost reach out and touch the space where he stands, where everything about him feels alive, but it doesn't feel like he's alive—not really. His pulse is distant, like it's coming from far away, a heartbeat that's too slow, too deep, too alien to be real. You think you see him shiver, but it's gone before you can confirm it. He doesn't shiver. He doesn't feel.

But he's beautiful. There's a tragedy in him, an ache in your chest you didn't feel before he walked in. He's broken in a way that draws you in, a puzzle that you don't want to solve but can't look away from. You recognise his pain, even without the details. The emptiness in him mirrors the emptiness in you, a dark reflection of the same hollow space that never quite fills.

He turns toward the counter and sees you. His eyes meet yours—sunken and dark, like the bruises of a life lived too close to the edge. There's a fleeting glimpse of recognition in his eyes, but it's fleeting and he quickly looks away. His lips part slightly, and for a heartbeat, you're sure he's going to say something.

But he doesn't say anything. He just looks at you, his gaze heavy, weighing you down like a thousand unspoken thoughts pressing against your chest. His eyes are deep pools of sorrow, but they still find a way to pierce you, to draw you closer. When he doesn't speak, you feel a pang of disappointment. But then, you realise, maybe it's better this way. The silence between you is not just a lack of words, but a shared understanding, a communication without words.

He walks up to the counter, slowly, like he's been frozen in time and is only just starting to thaw. You remain still. You are trapped in the moment, caught in the way the air seems to bend around him. His hand reaches for his wallet, pulling it out with a fluid motion, the dark leather slipping through his fingers like the night itself. You feel his presence all around you, suffocating and intoxicating, like a perfume you can't quite name.

The register dings again, but this time the noise barely cuts through the fog between you. You ring up his purchase mechanically, your hands moving on their own, but your mind is elsewhere—lost in the depth of his eyes, in the hollow of his expression, in the way he stands there, silent, waiting for something that doesn't come.

When he finally leaves, the air itself seems to shift, the space around you hollowed out in his absence. The door chimes again as he vanishes into the world, slipping away like a ghost that was never really there. You're left standing at the counter, your heart thudding in your chest, and you wonder if you'll ever see him again, or if he was just a figment of your own aching mind.

The clock ticks on, ignoring him. But you're not the same. Something inside you has shifted. The air feels heavier, charged with something you can't name. And for the first time today, you realise you've been holding your breath.

The next day is a long, dark road. The store feels the same: suffocating in its fluorescent glow, the walls closing in on you. The silence settles like dust in the corners, the shelves full of meaningless trinkets that mock your restless mind. But even in this heavy, stagnant air, there's something different.

You feel a pull, a hum in the air that you can't quite name. Your thoughts drift back to him, that boy with the long hair and the hollow stare, his presence like a spectre that lingers in the edges of your mind. You are certain that he will return today, that that strange pull will bring him back through the door, or that he was just a dream—one you couldn't wake from.

And then, the door chimes again.

It's soft at first, like a whisper in the stillness, but it's unmistakable. You turn your head, your breath catching in your chest. There he is. He's the same boy, stepping into the store like he belongs there, like he's made of the same air and shadows. His long black hair hangs over his face, but today, there's a subtle difference. His eyes aren't hidden behind his bangs. His eyes are dark and sunken, but there's something else in them now. A flicker. A spark. It's as if you can see recognition in them.

He doesn't look around like last time. He's more focused now, his gaze sweeping over the shelves with a slow intensity, as though he's searching for something only he understands. His steps are quiet, deliberate, as if he's trying to blend into the shadows, yet you can't help but notice him. He stands out in this sea of monotony, in this place full of faces that barely register.

His eyes meet yours, and the world stops for a moment. Your breath catches in your throat, the air thickening between you. His gaze is no longer hollow or distant, but searching. It's as if he's found what he was looking for.

He strides purposefully towards the counter, his steps confident and determined. He's different today. More alive. But still carrying that same weight of something unsaid. His face is pale and his dark circles under his eyes are still there, but today he has more to him. It's as if a slow-burning ember lies behind the darkness, its soft glow almost visible on closer inspection. He doesn't speak immediately, but you can feel the words hanging in the air between you.

You find yourself waiting, your heart pounding a little harder than it should. There's no reason for it. Nothing has changed, except the way your pulse quickens at the sight of him. You tell yourself to breathe, to stay focused, but your mind won't stop racing.

And then, he speaks.

It's just one word, but it cuts through the air, slicing through the tension that has built between you. "Hey," he says, his voice low and almost drowned out by the silence of the store. But his voice is there. It's real. When he says it, you can feel the weight of his gaze shift, settling on you like a weight on your chest.

"Hey," you say, your voice barely louder than his. There's a pause, and then you wait, ready for him to say something more—to ask you something, or maybe even speak the words that have been hanging between you since yesterday. But he just stands there. His hands are still at his sides, fingers curling slightly as if fighting the urge to reach out, to touch something, to feel something.

The silence that follows is strangely comforting. It's not awkward, not in the usual sense of silence. It's as if you and he are both suspended in the same moment, trapped in a world that doesn't make sense, where time moves like molasses, yet here, with him, it seems to have stopped altogether.

He picks something off the rack – a black hoodie this time – and runs his fingers over the soft fabric. His eyes never leave the clothing, but you can see the faintest trace of something darker behind them. It's as if he's trying to bury himself in the fabric, to lose himself in the soft, dark embrace of it, like it'll shield him from the world outside.

You want to ask him what brought him back, but you don't. The question feels too heavy, too intrusive. Instead, you watch him, watching the way he moves with such quiet precision, his body almost too still, like he's afraid of being seen. There's a sadness in him, one you know you could get lost in if you're not careful. You want to fall into that darkness with him, to reach out and pull him closer to you, but you stay silent.

He places the hoodie on the counter and you ring it up without a word, the soft hum of the register filling the silence. Your fingers briefly brush against his as you hand him the receipt, and for a second, it's like the world shifts just slightly, just enough for you to feel something electric pass between you. You don't know if he felt it, but you did. The tension in the air grows thicker, heavier, but you don't mind it. It feels right.

He doesn't say goodbye. He doesn't need to. He just turns, his movements slow and deliberate, and walks out the door, leaving behind that same stillness, that same lingering feeling that refuses to leave. The door chime echoes in your mind long after he's gone, and you find yourself standing there, staring at the spot where he was.

He will return. When he returns, it will be different. Something is changing, something you can't control.

The days blend into each other, indistinguishable from one another, yet every time the door chimes and he steps in, everything sharpens, everything changes. He's back again, and again, and again—like a restless ghost that can't quite leave, like he's tethered to this place, or maybe to you. The days blur together in this suffocating haze, but his presence makes every second stretch out, bending the hours into something that only exists in the quiet space between you.

Each time he walks through the door, it's like a spark igniting in the air. His eyes meet yours with that same haunting stare, but this time, it's less distant, less lost. There's more now, something unspoken but understood, like an unbroken thread weaving between the two of you. The pull grows stronger with each visit, a gravitational force you can't resist.

He starts off barely saying a word, just the softest "hey" that floats through the air like a secret. But with each encounter, the silence stretches just a little less. He starts to linger, standing by the shelves for a bit longer, as if giving you time to take him in, to get used to the way he moves, the way he seems to blur the line between presence and absence.

Then, one day, it happens. He's standing near the band tees again, running his fingers over the fabric as if trying to decide which piece of darkness he'll drape over himself today. You watch him, your breath catching as you notice the subtle shifts in his demeanour—the way his shoulders relax just a fraction when he notices you looking, how his gaze lingers for a fraction longer than usual.

"Do you think… they'll ever come back?" His voice breaks through the silence, low and almost tentative, as if he's unsure whether you'll answer or not. It's a simple question, but the weight behind it makes your chest tighten. They — the bands, the ones whose shirts are hanging on the racks, their names etched in faded ink on fabric that's been worn down by years of rebellion.

You blink, not quite prepared for this small talk, but your mouth opens on its own. "Maybe," you reply. "But I think it's the kind of thing that doesn't really come back, you know? They're part of a time, and that time's already passed." You're amazed to be talking to this boy who's always seemed like a phantom, and yet, here you are, standing in the middle of this empty store, speaking about something as mundane as old band shirts.

He nods slowly, his lips curving into a faint, almost imperceptible smile. It's so subtle that for a moment, you wonder if you imagined it, but it's there. It's just the slightest hint of something softer, something human. And then you realise: You're falling for him.

It's strange, this attraction. It's an odd sensation, this yearning you feel for him, this hunger that defies logic. It's not just about his looks, though he's undeniably attractive in that brooding, raw way that makes you want to reach out and heal him, to uncover the secrets behind those dark eyes. It's not just about the way he wears his pain, though that's part of it, too. It's the way he exists, simultaneously here and not here, an enigma you can't unravel and a mystery you don't want to solve.

He returns time and time again, and the attraction grows. It's like a fire growing inside you, stoked by each new conversation, each new visit. His eyes linger on you, his posture shifts when he speaks to you, as though you're the only one in the room that matters to him. Look at him when he thinks you're not looking. See the brief flicker of desire beneath the exhaustion, the darkness, the weariness in his expression.

The small talk continues, each encounter slightly different from the last. He talks about the weather, his favourite bands, how tired he is, how the world outside feels heavier with each passing day. In return, you offer him pieces of yourself: small, fragile fragments of who you are. You tell him about your favourite songs, the books you're reading, the slow, dull ache of working here day after day. The conversations feel effortless, as though they're not just casual exchanges, but something more – something intimate, something shared in the quiet spaces where neither of you says what you truly mean.

Sometimes, he'll come in and barely speak. He'll stand there, leaning against the counter, staring into the distance, waiting for something he can't even define. In those moments, you will find yourself standing beside him, offering him a quiet kind of company, the kind that is needed but never asked for. You don't talk; you exist next to him, and somehow, that's enough.

His presence is now an integral part of your routine, something you actively look forward to. You wait for the moment when he'll walk through the door, when the store will go still and the world will narrow to just the two of you in this small, dimly lit space. With every visit and every word exchanged, your connection deepens, pulling you both closer together like two pieces of a puzzle that don't quite fit but always belong together.

You know that you're not just waiting for him anymore—you're craving him. The pull is undeniable; your heart skips when he enters the room and your breath catches when his eyes meet yours. There's no denying it now.

He's more than just a boy who comes into the store. He's become a part of your days and your thoughts. You feel like he belongs here just as much as you do. With each visit, with every word, that strange, intoxicating attraction grows deeper, more uncontainable, until you realise it will always be enough.

It's late afternoon. The dimming light outside casts long shadows into the store. The usual hum of fluorescent lights overhead is punctuated by the soft tapping of a keyboard in the back, but the store feels emptier today. It feels suspended, as though time has slowed just for you, just for him. It's one of those quiet days where you almost forget how long you've been here, how many hours have passed since you first arrived this morning. But then the door chimes, and everything shifts.

He strides in, as if the air itself revolves around him, and the room instantly takes on a weighty sense of his presence. Ronin. You don't know why that name feels like it belongs to him, but it does. His long hair falls in its usual curtain, but today, there's a hint of something new in his demeanour—a slight looseness to his posture, like he's letting go of whatever invisible weight he's been carrying around for so long.

He glances around, his eyes flicking over the racks, but always find their way back to you. For a moment, neither of you says anything. The silence is familiar, but different today. There's something more to it, as if it's begging to be said. His gaze is a little softer than usual, like he's waiting for something.

You smile at him, your smile small and uncertain, and your pulse starts to race. He notices. His lips quirk slightly, not quite a smile, but enough to show that he sees you, sees the way your body tenses just slightly when his eyes meet yours. Then, finally, he speaks, his voice solid and real.

"Ronin," he says, and the name is like a breath, sharp and heavy, almost foreign on his lips but somehow fitting, like he's just stepped out of the shadows and into the light for the first time. He says it quietly, but there's something almost final about it, like he's been carrying that name around for longer than you can imagine, like it's been locked away inside of him, and now, he's giving it to you. Ronin. The name hangs between you like a promise, like a key to something deeper.

You blink, and the weight of it hits you. Ronin. You repeat the name in your head, letting it settle there, trying to hold onto it, trying to make sense of why it feels so important. You open your mouth to speak, but the words get caught in your throat for a moment, and the air seems to thicken around you, thick with everything unsaid, everything that's building between you.

"Ronin," you repeat, testing it out, and as you say it, you watch his face carefully. His eyes flicker, a brief, imperceptible softening, a pulling back just a little. It's a subtle change, but it's undeniable. You are compelled to explore the nature of this phenomenon.

"That's... that's your name?" You don't know why you feel the need to ask, but the question slips out before you can stop it. You feel like you're stepping into unknown territory, like you're treading carefully on the edge of something that could break open if you push too hard.

He nods, his expression unreadable, but there's a clear sense of melancholy in his demeanour. His name and identity have clearly been a burden for him to bear, something he hasn't figured out how to untangle. "Yeah," he says, his voice quieter this time, more drawn out. "I guess I never really got to tell you, did I?"

There's a flicker in his eyes—regret, maybe, or exhaustion, or both. You want to ask him more about the name, about him, but you don't. Instead, you simply nod, acknowledging the trust he's given you, this small piece of him he's just handed over.

"Nice to finally know," you say, and there's a strange feeling behind those words—like you're stepping into something much deeper than a simple conversation, like this moment is the start of something neither of you quite understands yet.

Ronin doesn't say anything, but the way he looks at you changes slightly. The air between you is no longer just heavy with silence, but with something else — something unspoken. His gaze is deeper now, revealing something personal and raw. By telling you his name, he's invited you into a part of him he's kept hidden for so long.

He stands a little taller, but his gaze never leaves yours. "I didn't think you'd even care," he says, his voice low and almost a murmur, as if the confession itself is more vulnerable than anything else he could say. "But I guess... I don't know. I guess I wanted you to know." The words hang in the air between you, fragile, as if they're teetering on the edge of something bigger, something more.

Your heart beats faster now, not just from the tension in the room, but from the way the world seems to have narrowed down to just him and you, standing here, in this moment. The store feels farther away, as though the walls have blurred into the background, leaving only his name, his presence, his eyes locked with yours.

"I care," you say firmly, not giving it much thought, the truth just flowing out of you, quiet but certain. You don't know why those words come so easily, why it feels right to say them. But it does. When you say them, you can see him relax just a little bit; the tension in his shoulders eases for the first time since he walked in.

For a long moment, there's only the quiet between you, but it's no longer uncomfortable. It's not empty. It's full of possibilities, full of questions and answers waiting to be uncovered. You both stand there, the silence not oppressive but expectant, and you realise, with a sinking certainty, that this moment, this exchange, is just the beginning of something neither of you can run from.

The door chimes and you snap back to reality. He leaves, the soft click of his boots against the floor marking the end of another visit. But before he leaves, he nods slightly, and for the first time, you see the faintest, most genuine smile curl at the corners of his lips.

"See you," he says, his voice low and unambiguous. It is an invitation, a promise that you will meet again.

And with that, he's gone, leaving only the lingering echo of his name hanging in the air, a name you now own, a name that feels like it belongs to you as much as it belongs to him.

The days stretch and unfold, as if the store itself has become part of some slow-moving dream. Ronin keeps coming back, and with every visit, something shifts. At first, it was just the smallest exchanges – barely more than a nod or a quick word about a band, or a flicker of something darker, something deeper in his gaze that made your heart flutter. Now, as the days blur into one another, the distance between you both seems to shrink. Every time he steps into the store, the walls close in, making it just the two of you, standing in this strange, suspended space.

His visits have a rhythm of their own. He doesn't come in every day, but when he does, it's as if the world slows down for a few moments, the time around you bending to accommodate his presence. He lingers longer now, his eyes scanning the shelves but always coming back to you. The silence between you has softened; it is no longer filled with tension, but with a quiet kind of understanding.

It starts with small talk—casual, throwaway comments that don't mean much. But the way he says them, the way he lets his guard down just a little more each time, makes you feel like you're inching closer to something important. One day, he comes in and starts talking about a new album he's been listening to. The conversation is simple at first, just the usual banter—"Have you heard it? It's pretty good. You'd probably like it." But then, his voice drops just a little, like he's letting you in on a secret, and you find yourself leaning in to listen more closely.

"Yeah, I get that it's not everyone's thing," he says, his voice almost a whisper, "but there's something about it... It makes me feel less alone, you know?"

You nod, the words resonating with you. You don't need to explain it—he already understands, like he knows exactly what you mean. It's strange, this quiet bond growing between you, something unsaid but so obvious that it almost feels like an echo of your own thoughts.

The next time he comes in, it's the same—more small talk, more shared silence between the lines of conversation. But there's something different this time. There's a charge in the way he looks at you and the way his words hover between you. It's as if there's more he's not saying.

"Do you get off soon?" he asks one afternoon, his voice soft but laced with curiosity. It's the first time he's ever asked anything like that—something personal, something that makes you feel like maybe he's starting to see you as more than just a face behind the counter.

"Yeah, in about an hour," you answer, the words almost sounding foreign on your tongue. You hadn't realised how much you were looking forward to answering that question until the words left your lips. His question carries weight, his manner inviting you to share more.

He looks at you for a long moment, his expression unreadable, then tilts his head slightly, as if weighing something. There's a pause, a quiet heartbeat of time, before he speaks again. "Let's grab coffee," he says, his voice tentative. He's unsure how you'll react, afraid of pushing too far.

Your heart stutters in your chest, your mind racing. You want to say yes, you want to reach out and accept his offer, but the words get stuck somewhere between your throat and your lips. You feel a strange pull between you, a growing desire to get closer to him, and yet the fear of what that might mean keeps you frozen in place.

Ronin doesn't wait. Instead, he reaches into his pocket, his fingers brushing against something hidden there. His movements are slow and deliberate, as if he's giving you time to catch up, to process. He pulls out his phone and for a moment, the world narrows to this one simple action. He unlocks it, then turns it toward you, the screen glowing with his number ready and waiting.

"I don't know," he says confidently, a hint of a smirk playing at the corner of his lips. "I'll give you my number. That way you don't have to think about it." His voice is quiet, but steady, offering you the chance to decide without pressure or expectation.

You stare at the screen, unsure, your heart pounding, and then you look up at him and see it—the faintest glimmer of something in his eyes, something vulnerable but also confident. He's waiting.

Everything else fades away for just a second. The racks of clothing, the constant hum of the store, the people who pass by without ever noticing you—it all disappears. At this moment, he is the only thing that matters. He is standing in front of you, offering you a piece of himself. You can feel your breath catch in your throat. Everything feels like it's hanging by a thread.

Without hesitation, you seize his phone, your fingers barely grazing his. The moment is suspended in the quiet space between you. You type your number in quickly, almost clumsily, and when you hand the phone back to him, you both know it's more than just numbers being exchanged. It's a door opening just a crack, but enough to let something new, something unspoken, begin to grow.

"I'll text you," you say, and the words feel strange, almost too forward, but they're real. You both know they are.

Ronin looks at you, his eyes softening just a little. There's a flicker of hope, or maybe just curiosity, in the way he gazes at you. "Good," he replies, voice steady, but there's something unspoken in the way he says it, something that feels like the beginning of something neither of you can control.

He slips his phone back into his pocket and nods slowly, almost imperceptibly. "See you later," he says, and this time, it doesn't feel like goodbye. It feels like the start of something new.

As he walks out, you can feel it – the shift, the undeniable change in the air. You're not sure where this is going, but you know, deep down, that this is just the beginning.

The coffee date is unforgettable; its warmth lingers long after it's over, and the cold night air is no match for its radiant warmth. The café was small and intimate, making the world outside feel distant and irrelevant. The conversations flowed easily, as if you had always known each other, as though the silences between words didn't matter, because the space between you was filled with something unspoken, something electric. You talked about music, life, those spaces that neither of you could quite fill, and in those exchanges, you felt more connected than you ever thought possible.

As the evening wound to a close and the last sip of coffee warmed you from the inside out, you both knew it wasn't really the end. Not yet. The night was still young, and Ronin wasn't in a hurry to go anywhere.

"I'll walk you home," he says, his voice low and casual, but there's something underneath it—an invitation that carries more weight than the words themselves.

You don't hesitate, nodding immediately. The air between you electric with anticipation. You are acutely aware of him, his presence filling the space around you, drawing you in without a word or touch. It's just him – Ronin, with his worn MCR shirt, his long, unruly hair, his steady gaze – and you, both moving through the darkening streets like two souls tethered together by something neither of you can fully explain.

The walk is quiet at first. The world seems to be holding its breath, watching the two of you, waiting for something to happen. The only sounds are the crunch of your footsteps on the pavement, the distant hum of cars, and the occasional rustle of the wind. Ronin glances at you, his eyes meeting yours, and there's a quiet understanding between you—a recognition that tonight is different, that something is shifting, something that neither of you can stop.

You walk in step with each other, neither of you rushing or eager to break the silence, because in this quiet, something feels more real than anything else. His presence is close, his hand just a hair's breadth away from yours, and every movement feels amplified, as if the world has shrunk down to this moment.

As you approach your building, the streets become darker, the lights of the city receding into the distance, yet the warmth of his proximity propels you forward. When you finally reach the corner by your building, you stop, and so does he. The air between you both is charged, the tension that's been building between you since the moment you met is palpable. It's as if everything has led up to this precise moment. His eyes search yours, his breath catches, his lips part as if he's about to say something, but he doesn't.

Instead, he steps closer, closing the distance until he's standing just a breath away. His gaze flickers down to your lips, and you feel the pull of it, the magnetic force drawing you in closer. It's as if the rest of the world disappears, leaving just him and this moment.

"Can I kiss you?" he asks, his voice soft and almost a whisper, as if he's afraid of pushing too far, afraid of scaring you off. The way he asks the question is strange. There's no force in it, no urgency. It's just a gentle curiosity, as if he's asking for permission to cross an invisible line between you.

You hesitate, your heart beating faster. You could say no, you could pull away, but you don't. Something in you, the part of you that's been quietly aching for him, wants to feel the weight of his lips against yours, wants to know what that spark between you feels like when it ignites. You feel a tension in your chest, almost unbearable, and when you look up at him again, his eyes are full of raw, open emotion that you can't refuse.

Instead, you answer him with the smallest, most uncertain nod.

And that's all he needs.

He moves in slowly, his hand reaching up to gently cup your cheek, his touch warm against your skin. His breath brushes over your lips, and for a moment, the entire world seems to still. You can feel his pulse, feel his heart racing in sync with your own, and then, without another word, his lips finally meet yours.

It's soft at first, tentative, as if he's waiting for you to pull back, to change your mind, but when you don't, when you lean into him just a little, the kiss deepens. It's slow and deliberate, as if he's savoring every moment and your connection. His lips are warm, his breath mingling with yours, and you can taste the remnants of coffee on his mouth, the bitterness now mixed with something sweeter.

The world narrows to just the two of you, standing on the edge of your building, lost in this kiss. You feel your heart race, feel the heat spreading through your chest, down to your fingertips, as if the entire universe has condensed into this one, perfect moment. His hand slides around to the back of your neck, pulling you closer, deepening the kiss, and you let yourself fall into it, into him.

When he pulls away, it's slow, his forehead against yours, his breath coming in shallow, uneven gasps. You remain silent, standing close together, as if you don't know how to move or break the spell.

"That was...," you begin, but the words trail off. You are unsure of what to say, unsure of what any of it means.

"Yeah," Ronin says confidently, his voice low and rough, "It was." He doesn't say more, the unspoken understanding between you two clear in the air. He doesn't pull away immediately, and neither do you. You stay there, like time has stopped, holding onto this fragile, beautiful moment.

Then, he leans back, his fingers brushing your hand one last time, his eyes lingering on yours with something unreadable, something soft. "Goodnight, [Your Name]," he says, his voice quieter now, tinged with sincerity that sends a shiver down your spine.

"Goodnight," you reply, though you're not sure how you're still standing, how you haven't melted into him completely. You do, your feet feeling almost unsteady as he steps back, slowly disappearing into the night, leaving you standing there, heart pounding, lips tingling with the taste of him.

The door to your building looms ahead, but you don't move. You stand, the echo of his kiss still humming through you, knowing that everything has changed. This wasn't just a kiss. It was a promise. A beginning.

[yumikk101]

Beneath Natlan's Sun

Characters: Kinich, Ajaw

Pairing: Kinich x Reader (Slow Burn)

Type: Romantic, Adventure, Action

Word Count: One-Shot

Genre: Romance, Action, Hurt/Comfort

Rating: T (for mild violence, blood, and action scenes)

Warnings: Mild violence, injuries

Idea by

This story explores the developing relationship between Kinich and the reader through the course of a single, action-packed day. The romance is slow-burn and filled with subtle, meaningful moments, paired with the thrill of survival in the dangerous desert of Natlan. If you love childhood friend dynamics, mutual respect, and emotional depth, this one's for you!

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The sun rose like a massive, burning eye, casting a blistering light over Natlan. Its harsh rays cut through the horizon, bathing everything in a fiery orange glow. The wind, warm and dry, swept across the rugged landscape, carrying with it the scent of dust

You adjusted the straps of your leather satchel, filled with healing herbs and tools, and glanced across, where you could see Kinich standing, his figure a silhouette against the rising sun. His Claymore was slung across his back, and beside him, his ever-present companion Ajaw hovered, his form like a shimmering shadow

Kinich. The thought of his name brought a gentle warmth to your chest. You had known him since you were both children. The two of you had grown up together in the quiet village at the base of the jagged cliffs that lined Natalan. He was a son of the land, a saurian hunter by tradition, while you had always been the village's healer, tending to the wounds of those who returned from the harsh days of hunting

He turned to face you, a soft smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “You’re late,” he teased, his voice carrying over the wind, his eyes scanning you with a mix of amusement and something deeper, something unspoken

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help the smile that tugged at your lips. “And you’re always on time. A true model of punctuality,” you shot back, though your voice was gentle

Ajaw, who had been floating nearby, scoffed. “Don’t flatter yourselves. You’re just wasting time. We’re here to hunt, not to exchange pleasantries.”

“Enough, Ajaw,” Kinich said, his voice a calm command, though his gaze never left you. There was always a quiet affection in his eyes when he looked at you—one that you pretended not to notice, though it made your heart race every time

Ajaw grumbled but didn’t argue further, instead drifting off to the side, clearly eager to get started. You and Kinich exchanged a glance, silently agreeing to move on

Natalan stretched out before you like an ocean of orange, a vast and unforgiving wilderness where survival depended on sharp instincts and unwavering focus

You walked beside Kinich as the three of you ventured deeper into the arid landscape, the sound of your footsteps muffled by the shifting soil beneath you. Kinich’s claymore was poised in his hand, his sharp eyes scanning the terrain for any sign of movement. You, as the village’s healer, kept a watchful eye on his form, your gaze lingering on the familiar way his muscles flexed with each stride

“You’re quiet today,” Kinich remarked, his voice breaking the silence

You shrugged, trying to ignore the heat that rose to your cheeks. “Just thinking.”

“About what?” His voice was gentle, inquisitive, a stark contrast to Ajaw’s usual mocking tone

You hesitated for a moment, unsure of how to put the words into something that made sense. “About how much has changed, I suppose. The village... the people… and us.”

He slowed his pace, turning slightly to meet your eyes, the weight of his gaze making your breath hitch in your throat. “We’re still here. Together.”

His words were simple, yet they carried a depth of meaning that you felt all the way to your bones. You swallowed the lump in your throat. “Yeah. Together.”

Ajaw let out a derisive laugh from above, but neither of you paid him any mind. It was rare to have moments like these—moments where you and Kinich could speak freely, without the pressure of his duty weighing him down

Natalan was never silent for long. As you walked deeper into the ravine, the faint sounds of movement reached your ears—soft scratching, the shifting of scales. You froze, and Kinich did the same. He motioned for you to step back slowly, and you obeyed, heart pounding in your chest

Ajaw hovered above, his eyes gleaming. “There’s something coming. Something big.”

The ground shook slightly, and then you saw it—a massive saurian, its leathery skin blending with the environment, its eyes glowing a dangerous orange. It let out a terrifying hiss before lunging forward, its claws slashing through the air

Kinich sprang into action, his Claymore flashing as he darted forward to engage the creature. The fight was chaotic, the saurian’s powerful tail whipping through the air, narrowly missing Kinich. You felt your heart race as you watched him dodge the creature’s attacks with fluid movements

“Stay back!” he shouted at you, his voice firm

But you couldn’t stay back—not when you saw the wound on his side, a long gash where the saurian’s claws had scraped him. Without thinking, you rushed forward, reaching into your satchel for the healing herbs you kept there. The smell of crushed leaves filled the air as you tossed a vial at the saurian, temporarily stunning it

“Kinich, get back!” you urged, fear creeping into your voice

He ignored your warning and continued to fight, but the saurian was relentless, its sheer strength overwhelming. You watched helplessly as it knocked Kinich off his feet, the sound of his body hitting the ground echoing through the ravine

“No!” You rushed to his side, grabbing his hand as he tried to rise

“Go,” he grunted, pain evident in his voice. “I’ll be fine.”

But you shook your head, clutching him tighter. “I’m not leaving you. Not now. Not ever.”

With a surge of adrenaline, you found yourself on your feet, grabbing your knife from your belt and charging at the saurian. With a swift motion, you plunged the blade into its side, narrowly avoiding its claws as it screamed in fury

Kinich, still on the ground, reached for his Claymore. His voice, though strained, was filled with determination. “Get back, it’s too dangerous—”

But you didn’t listen. You knew what was at stake. You knew that this was more than just a fight. This was a test of everything you had learned as a healer, everything you had learned about how far you would go for the ones you loved...

The dust settled as the saurian collapsed, its massive body thudding heavily against the ground. You fell to your knees beside Kinich, your hands shaking as you pressed them against his wound, the blood soaking through your fingers

“Are you okay?” you asked, your voice trembling as you looked down at him

He nodded, though his breathing was ragged. “I’ll live. But you… you should’ve stayed back.”

You shook your head, not caring about his reprimands. “I couldn’t let you face that alone.”

Ajaw floated overhead, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Well, that was certainly a spectacle. Perhaps you should consider retiring from hunting and take up an acting career.”

“Enough, Ajaw” Kinich said with a grunt, though there was a small smile on his face

You reached into your satchel and pulled out a healing paste, gently applying it to Kinich’s wound. The soothing balm seemed to take effect immediately, and his pained expression softened

“I’m not letting you do this alone again,” you whispered, brushing a lock of hair from his forehead

Kinich met your gaze, his eyes holding something deeper than gratitude—something raw, something that made your heart skip a beat. He opened his mouth to speak, but before he could, Ajaw interrupted

“You two are hopeless,” Ajaw muttered, rolling his eyes

By nightfall, the three of you made camp by the edge of the ravine. The fire crackled, casting long shadows over the ground, and the only sounds were the distant howls of the wind and the occasional hiss from Ajaw

You sat beside Kinich, your legs crossed beneath you as you tended to the fire. The healing process had drained you, but the satisfaction of knowing you had saved him, knowing that you had protected the person you cared about most, filled you with a warmth that no sun could match

Kinich glanced over at you, his eyes reflecting the firelight. “You know… you’re something else.”

You raised an eyebrow, a playful smile tugging at your lips. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He shrugged, a faint smile on his lips. “I mean… I don’t know many people who would risk their lives like that. For me.”

Your heart fluttered in your chest, but you tried to play it cool. “I didn’t do it for you,” you teased. “I did it for myself.”

“Oh, really?” He leaned closer, his voice low and soft. “Then why didn’t you run?”

You met his gaze, your throat suddenly dry. “Because… I couldn’t.”

Kinich didn’t say anything for a long moment. His hand brushed against yours, tentative, as if testing the waters. Your breath caught in your throat, and for a moment, everything else— the saurians, Ajaw’s mocking voice—faded into the background

“I’m glad you didn’t,” Kinich finally whispered

And that was enough...

Author note: sorry this one is not so long I'm considering writing a part two with more events in it but I've been experiencing writer's block a lot recently and this one specifically I just couldn't generate good ideas for it sorry to the person that requested it if it's not what you wanted 😭

I love you all and thank you so much for reading I'll try my best to post more once I'm feeling creative again ✨