#caught in a silver rope

[junojoel]

Dancing is a Dangerous Game

Joel Miller x Reader, 9.4k

Summary: You need to escape the city, Joel needs help on his ranch. Despite the differences in your lifestyles, cowboy Joel teaches you the ways of the land.

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, unprotected piv, creampie, THEN oral (f!receiving), outdoor sex, joel is a widower, sorry i accidentally made it really sad, joel is also soft for reader, and a romantic

this is the product of me playing stardew valley and reading the pumpkin spice cafe. enjoy :)

The city had a way of hollowing a person out.

You realised it the morning you woke up with your cheek pressed against your desk, a half-finished cover letter stuck to your forearm, and the acidic tang of stale coffee burning your throat. Four years of late-night study sessions, unpaid internships, and networking events had earned you a shiny degree and absolutely no idea what to do with it.

The job offers were there if you wanted them. Cubicle farms with fluorescent lighting and managers who'd call you "honey" in meetings. Apartment leases with paper-thin walls and neighbours who played bass-heavy music at 3am. A life measured in subway delays and happy hours that weren't happy at all.

So when you found the ad for Miller Ranch buried in the classifieds—Help needed. Room and board. Quiet place for quiet souls—you didn't overthink it. You packed your duffel, left a vague note for your roommate, and pointed your car west until the skyscrapers melted into golden fields.

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The ranch wasn't what you expected.

You'd imagined something from a postcard—red barns, cheerful horses, maybe a friendly dog trotting up to greet you. Instead, you found a sprawling property that looked like it had been wrestled from the earth itself. The main house was all rough-hewn logs and a sagging porch, the wood weathered silver by decades of sun. A few outbuildings dotted the land, their roofs patched with rusted tin. And beyond it all, endless stretches of pasture fading into shadowy pines.

You were still sitting in your car, gripping the steering wheel, when the screen door creaked open.

He moved like the land did. Slow, deliberate, utterly unconcerned with anyone else's pace. Broad shoulders filled the doorway, his faded flannel rolled up to reveal forearms corded with muscle and scars. His beard was more grey than brown, his hair just long enough to curl at the nape of his neck. But it was his eyes that caught you: dark, assessing, the kind of eyes that had seen too much to be impressed easily.

He studied you with dark eyes that missed nothing. Your clean sneakers, your manicured nails, the way you squinted against the sunlight like you'd never truly seen it before.

"You lost?" His voice was rougher than you expected, like gravel under tires.

You lifted your chin. "Are you Joel Miller?"

"You the one who called about workin' here?" His voice was gravel wrapped in velvet, the kind of sound that settled low in your stomach.

You swallowed. "Yeah. I, uh—I emailed last week."

He didn't smile. Just nodded once and stepped aside. "Better come in, then."

You learned fast that Joel Miller didn't waste words.

He showed you the ropes in silence—how to check the fence lines for breaks, how to tell if a horse was favouring a leg, which tools to use when a storm knocked a branch through the chicken coop roof. His hands were always moving, always working, rough fingers handling everything with a care that surprised you.

"You ever done any of this before?" he asked on your third day, watching you struggle to coil a rope properly.

You wiped sweat from your brow. "Does petting a pony at a county fair count?"

A huff. Not quite a laugh, but close. "Guess we're startin' from scratch, then."

He didn't baby you, though. When you spilled a bucket of grain, he made you sweep it up. When you misread the clouds and left the hay bales uncovered before a downpour, you spent the next afternoon hauling soggy bundles to the compost. But he never yelled. Never made you feel stupid. Just showed you, again and again, until your hands stopped shaking and your muscles stopped burning.

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You found him in the kitchen at 2 AM, the old percolator hissing on the stove.

"Couldn't sleep?" you asked, lingering in the doorway.

He didn't turn around. "Old habit. Used to take night shifts checkin' the herds."

You padded closer, the wooden floor cool under your bare feet. The kitchen smelled like coffee and cinnamon—he'd been baking earlier, you realized. There was still flour dusting the counter.

"Mind if I join you?"

A pause. Then he reached into the cabinet for a second mug.

You sat at the scarred oak table while he poured, the steam curling between you. Outside, the wind whispered through the pines.

"City girl like you," he said suddenly, sliding the coffee toward you. "What made you come out here?"

You wrapped your hands around the mug, letting the heat seep into your skin. "Needed to remember what quiet sounded like."

"Why'd you really come out here, darlin'?"

The endearment slipped out so naturally you almost missed it.

You watched the horizon lighten from black to deep blue. "I think... I needed to prove I could."

His knuckles brushed yours as he reached for the bottle. Neither of you moved away.

For the first time, Joel looked at you—really looked at you. And you saw something flicker in his gaze, something warm and understanding.

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The sky turned the colour of a fresh bruise an hour before the twister touched down.

You were repairing the chicken coop roof when the wind kicked up, sending your hammer tumbling into the dirt. The air felt charged, like the moment before a lightning strike.

Joel's shout carried across the yard. "Get to the cellar! Now!"

You'd never seen him run before. He moved like a man possessed, boots pounding the hard-packed earth as he closed the distance between you. His arm hooked around your waist just as the first hailstone struck your shoulder, a marble-sized bullet of ice that left your skin throbbing.

The storm cellar doors groaned in protest as Joel wrenched them open. Damp, cool air rushed up to meet you as he practically carried you down the stairs.

Darkness.

Then the single bulb flickered to life, revealing shelves of canned goods, emergency supplies, and, oddly, a stack of well-loved paperbacks.

"You okay?" Joel's hands were suddenly everywhere, tilting your chin up to check your pupils, running down your arms to inspect for injuries, his touch clinical yet somehow intimate.

"I'm fine," you breathed, though your heart was trying to escape your chest. "Just... just scared."

The admission hung between you as the storm raged overhead. The bulb flickered again, then died completely, plunging you into blackness.

Joel's voice came from closer than you expected. "Ain't nothin' in this world can hurt you while I'm here."

You reached out blindly, your fingers finding the rough denim of his shirt. His breath hitched as you fisted the fabric.

Somewhere above, the world was ending. Here in the dark, something was beginning.

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The cellar doors groaned as Joel shouldered them open, releasing you both into a world transformed. Dawn painted the ravaged landscape in pale gold, revealing the storm's cruel artistry. A century-old oak now lay uprooted across the north pasture, its massive roots clawing at the sky like skeletal fingers. Fence posts had been plucked from the earth and scattered like straws, barbed wire curling in dangerous spirals across the mud. The chicken coop roof had taken flight, landing thirty yards away in a splintered heap.

Joel exhaled sharply through his nose, the sound more weary than angry. He rotated his left shoulder unconsciously—the old injury from a mustang bucking him off always acted up before rain.

"Gonna need to—"

"Check the livestock first," you finished.

His eyebrows lifted slightly. Two months ago you'd asked if cattle could swim during a flash flood. Now you knew ranch priorities.

The work was brutal. By noon, your shirt clung to your back with a mixture of sweat and residual storm humidity. Joel moved with relentless efficiency, his forearms corded with muscle as he wrestled fence posts back into alignment. You watched the way his wedding band caught the sunlight when he wiped his brow, the silver chain glinting against his sun-darkened skin.

At the third post, your blisters burst.

You didn't make a sound, but Joel's head snapped up like he'd heard something. His eyes dropped to your hands, where blood seeped through the leather work gloves.

"Goddammit." He was in front of you in three strides, peeling the ruined gloves off with surprising gentleness. His thumb brushed the raw flesh of your palm, and you hissed involuntarily.

Joel's mouth tightened. "Should've said something."

"You would've told me to toughen up."

"Would've told you to take a damn break." He rummaged in his saddlebag for the medical kit he always carried. The antiseptic stung, but his hands were steady as he wrapped your palms in gauze. "Stubborn city girl."

The way he said it sounded almost like praise.

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The next week passed in a haze of exhaustion and unexpected discoveries.

You learned that:

A properly sharpened axe sings through wood with a sound like a breath being released

Joel's coffee preferences involved exactly two sugar cubes (never spoonfuls)

Your body could ache in places you didn't know existed

Each evening, Joel would appear at your elbow with some new remedy; a salve made from beeswax and lavender for your sunburn, a stretch to ease the knot between your shoulder blades, a cold beer pressed into your hand with a quiet "You earned it."

Tonight, you found him at the workbench, repairing a bridle by lantern light. The golden glow softened the lines of his face, catching the silver strands in his beard. He didn't look up as you approached, but his shoulders relaxed slightly when you set a fresh cup of coffee beside him—two sugars.

"Thanks." His voice was rough from disuse.

You leaned against the bench, close enough to smell leather and the faint cedar scent of his soap. "Show me?"

Joel's hands stilled. For a heartbeat, you thought he'd refuse. Then he shifted, making space for you at his side.

"Watch close," he murmured, his shoulder pressing against yours as he demonstrated the intricate stitch. His fingers moved with practiced ease, the needle flashing in the lamplight. "This part's gotta be tight enough to hold, loose enough to flex."

You tried to focus on the technique, but his proximity made concentration impossible. The heat radiating from his body, the way his breath stirred your hair when he leaned in to correct your grip—

The needle slipped.

"Shit." A bead of blood welled on your thumb.

Joel reacted before you could, catching your wrist. His calloused thumb brushed the droplet away, his mouth set in a hard line. "Ain't paying you to bleed on my tack."

But he didn't let go.

The lantern flickered, casting long shadows across the barn wall—two silhouettes frozen in the amber light, fingers intertwined.

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Betty the nanny goat had taken a disliking to you from day one.

Today, she'd decided to escalate hostilities.

"You're gonna want to—" Joel's warning came too late as you bent to refill the water trough.

Betty's horns connected with your backside with the precision of a missile strike. The world tilted violently as you face-planted into the mud, the entire herd erupting in gleeful bleats that sounded suspiciously like laughter.

Strong hands hauled you upright before you could drown in three inches of water. Joel's chest vibrated against your back—the bastard was laughing.

"Told you she don't like people looming over her," he said, voice thick with barely-contained amusement.

You wiped mud from your cheek, glaring. "You could've warned me sooner."

"Where's the fun in that?" The words slipped out before he could stop them, his eyes widening slightly at his own audacity.

Something warm unfurled in your chest. This was new—Joel teasing, letting his guard down. You retaliated by flicking a glob of mud at his shirt.

His jaw dropped. "Did you just—"

The second mudball hit him square in the chest.

For one terrifying second, Joel looked genuinely pissed. Then his eyes darkened with something far more dangerous. "Oh, you're gonna regret that, city girl."

What followed was a mud battle worthy of any childhood memory, complete with strategic retreats behind hay bales and Betty the goat serving as an unwitting double agent. By the time you both collapsed against the fence, breathless and filthy, Joel's laughter rang out clear and unguarded—a sound you'd only heard in fragments before.

The setting sun painted him in gold, his smile lines crinkling in a way that made your chest ache. Mud streaked his cheek, his shirt clung to his torso, and his eyes—

His eyes held yours with an intensity that stole your breath.

The moment stretched, thrumming with something unspoken. Then a cold rivulet of mud slid down your neck, breaking the spell.

Joel cleared his throat, suddenly business-like. "Better clean up before supper." But his fingers lingered on your elbow as he helped you up, his touch lingering just a heartbeat too long.

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The generator sputtered its last breath during the season's first real cold snap.

You found Joel in the living room, already building a fire with the economical movements of someone who'd done this a thousand times before. The flickering light caught the silver in his stubble, the strong line of his nose, the way his shirt stretched across his shoulders as he worked.

"Got extra blankets in the cedar chest," he said without turning.

You hesitated in the doorway, suddenly hyperaware of the flannel you wore—his flannel, the soft blue one that had been hanging in the hall until you'd "borrowed" it three days ago. The one that smelled faintly of his soap and the woodsmoke that always clung to his clothes.

Joel turned then, freezing when his eyes landed on you. His gaze darkened as it travelled from your bare feet to the oversized cuffs swallowing your hands to the way the fabric draped off one shoulder.

Neither of you moved.

The grandfather clock ticked loudly in the silence, each second stretching taut between you. Somewhere in the house, a pipe groaned. Outside, the wind howled through the pines.

Joel's throat worked as he swallowed hard. "You—"

A log shifted in the fireplace, sending up a shower of sparks. The moment shattered.

"Should check the livestock," he finished roughly, grabbing his coat with unnecessary force. The door clicked shut behind him with deliberate finality.

You sank onto the couch, pressing your face into the flannel's collar. His scent surrounded you, warm and familiar and utterly intoxicating. Outside, the temperature dropped steadily, but your skin burned as if touched by sunlight.

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The invitation arrived on a Thursday, creased and coffee-stained, delivered by old man Henderson when he came to pick up his repaired plough.

"Annual Harvest Social," the flyer read in looping script. "Music, supper, and dancing at the Grange Hall. All welcome."

You were elbows-deep in soapy dishwater when Joel tossed it onto the counter with a grunt. "Town nonsense," he muttered, but his eyes flicked to your reaction.

You wiped your hands carefully, studying the faded print. "We going?"

The silence stretched so long you thought he hadn't heard. Then:

"You wanna go?" His voice was carefully neutral, but you noticed the way his thumb worried at a callus on his palm.

The image flashed unbidden—Joel in a clean shirt, his large hands warm at your waist, moving to music under paper lanterns. Your throat went dry.

"Could be fun," you managed.

Joel studied you for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then he gave a single nod. "I'll dig out my good boots."

The night of the dance, you stood frozen before the hallway mirror, suddenly unsure. The dress—a thrifted floral sundress—felt foreign after months of denim and flannel.

A knock rattled the doorframe.

"Ready or not, we're gonna be—" Joel's voice died abruptly as you turned.

He stood transfixed in the doorway, his good white shirt half-buttoned over a clean undershirt, his usual scuffed boots replaced by polished ones. His gaze travelled down your bare legs with the weight of a physical touch before snapping back to your face.

Something dark flickered in his eyes. "You... uh." He cleared his throat. "We're gonna be late."

The truck ride into town was silent except for the staticky country station and the sound of Joel's fingers tightening rhythmically on the steering wheel.

The Grange Hall glowed like a lantern against the prairie night, alive with fiddle music and laughter. You felt every eye on you as Joel guided you through the crowd with a hand at the small of your back—his touch burning through the thin fabric of your dress.

"Miller!" A grizzled rancher clapped Joel on the shoulder. "Ain't seen you at one of these in—" His gaze landed on you. "Well I'll be."

Joel's fingers flexed against your spine. "This is—"

"His ranch hand," you supplied, watching the older man's eyebrows climb.

The music shifted then—a slow waltz, all aching strings and longing. Joel stiffened beside you.

Across the room, women whispered behind their hands. You caught snippets—"...that Miller..." "...never brought anyone since..." "...still wears Tess's..."

Joel's jaw clenched. "We should—"

"Dance with me." The words left your lips before you could stop them.

His eyes went wide. "I ain't much for—"

"Please."

Something in your voice broke his resolve. With a shaky exhale, Joel took your hand and led you onto the floor. His right arm slid around your waist, his left hand cradling yours like something precious.

"You're supposed to—"

"Just follow me," he murmured into your hair.

And God help you, you did.

Joel moved with surprising grace for a man who claimed to hate dancing, his body swaying in time to the music. The heat of him surrounded you—the cedar and leather scent of his cologne, the scratch of his collar against your cheek, the way his breath hitched when your hips brushed.

The song ended too soon. Joel made to pull away, but you clung to his hand.

"One more?" you whispered.

In answer, he drew you closer, his lips brushing your temple as the next song began.

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The truck cab was thick with unspoken words as Joel navigated the dark ranch roads. Moonlight painted his profile in silver, catching the tension in his jaw.

"You okay?" you ventured.

His grip on the wheel tightened. "Tess loved those dances."

The name hung between you like a ghost. You'd never asked about the wedding band he still wore, about the locked bedroom door at the ranch, about the way he sometimes stared at the horizon like he was waiting for someone.

The truck rolled to a stop outside the darkened house. Joel didn't cut the engine.

"I should tell you about her," he said hoarsely.

You reached across the seat, covering his hand with yours. "Only if you want to."

His fingers turned, intertwining with yours. For a long moment, you sat there in the quiet, two sets of breath fogging the windshield.

Then Joel killed the engine.

You sat in the stillness, your hand wrapped around his, the silence heavy but not uncomfortable. The only sound was the soft rustling of the wind through the trees, the hum of the distant creek, and the distant calls of coyotes. For a second, you both just... sat. Neither of you moving, neither of you speaking. The weight of the unspoken words between you felt like an uncharted territory neither of you were willing to navigate just yet.

Joel’s thumb brushed lightly over your knuckles, a subconscious comfort more than anything else. His gaze shifted to the darkened ranch house ahead, his eyes narrowing as though the past was pressing in, refusing to let go.

“Tess was…” He started, then paused. The words seemed to choke him for a second. “She was my world, y'know? Before…” He swallowed hard, and you could see his jaw tighten as he forced the rest of it out. “Before she died.”

Your breath caught, the weight of the sudden revelation hanging thick between you. You could feel him pull away into himself as soon as the words left his mouth. He wasn’t looking at you anymore—his eyes were trained somewhere in the distance, focusing on nothing in particular.

“She was the love of my life," Joel continued, his voice low, raw. "We had a house, a future... hell, we had plans. Then…” He trailed off, his hand tightening briefly around the steering wheel, like he was holding onto something for dear life. “She got sick. Fast. One minute, she was fine. The next, she was gone. Just like that."

You stayed quiet, your heart thumping painfully in your chest. You didn’t know what to say, how to ease the weight of that kind of loss. The kind of grief that ran so deep it felt like it might swallow him whole. Joel had always been a man of few words, but this? This was raw.

“The doctors said there was nothing they could do. That it was too late. I kept telling myself I should’ve known... that I should’ve noticed sooner, that maybe I could’ve done something. But I didn’t. And now…” His voice cracked, but he quickly cleared his throat, regaining his composure, even as his hands trembled on the wheel. “Now, it’s just me. And sometimes I wonder if that’s all I’ll ever be. Just a guy who lost everything.”

You swallowed hard, heart aching for him. The grief, the loss—it was so much more than you’d ever imagined.

His gaze flicked to you, but only for a moment, before he looked away again, his expression unreadable. There was a tension in his posture, a stiffness that told you he was holding himself back from saying more. From letting it all spill out.

“I don’t talk about her much," he muttered, his voice hoarse, like the words had been locked away for far too long. "Tess… she was everything to me. I don’t know how to move on from that. I don’t know if I ever will.”

You reached out without thinking, your fingers brushing against his hand, and for a moment, he didn’t pull away. He just let you hold on to him, his rough fingers curling against yours as if you were grounding him, pulling him back from the edge of a memory that threatened to pull him under.

“I’m not asking you to forget her,” you said quietly, squeezing his hand, your voice steady. “You don’t have to. But you don’t have to carry it all by yourself, either.”

Joel’s breath hitched, and for the first time, you saw the rawness of the man behind the rancher—the weight he’d been shouldering for so long, and the part of him that was still fragile, even if he didn’t show it. His eyes softened, though there was still that quiet wariness in his gaze. He hadn’t let go of the past, not entirely, and maybe he never would.

But maybe, just maybe, he could let a little of it slip away.

“You remind me of her,” he whispered, so quietly you almost didn’t hear it. “The way you... the way you care. Even when I don't deserve it.”

Your chest tightened, and you leaned in, your hand still holding his. "I'm here, Joel," you said, your voice barely above a whisper. "And I'm not going anywhere."

For a long moment, there was nothing but the quiet hum of the truck’s engine and the distant sound of wind rustling through the trees. Neither of you moved, neither of you spoke. It was as if the world had paused, just for that instant, to let the weight of the moment settle.

Eventually, Joel shifted, breaking the silence with a deep breath. He ran a hand through his hair, letting out a slow exhale. “Guess it’s getting late,” he said, trying to regain his usual composure, but his voice was still rough, thick with something unspoken. “We should get inside.”

You both climbed out of the truck, and Joel led the way into the house, his hand brushing against yours once more as you followed him inside. The warmth of the fire hit you immediately, the familiar scent of woodsmoke mingling with the faint smell of coffee and cinnamon.

Joel stopped by the fire, his shoulders hunched slightly as he stared into the flames. You stood beside him, not speaking, just being there. A quiet presence, a steady hand in the darkness.

After a long while, Joel spoke again, his voice low. “You remind me of the way things used to be. Before…” He let the sentence trail off, like he didn’t want to finish it.

You didn’t press him. Instead, you simply nodded, letting him find his own pace.

For a while, neither of you said anything, but there was something in the silence now. Something warm. Something that felt like the beginning of something new, something fragile but real.

Eventually, Joel turned toward you, his eyes dark but not empty. His fingers brushed your cheek, lingering just a moment before he pulled back, like he wasn’t sure whether he was allowed to touch you like that.

"Thanks," he muttered, his voice rough. "For listening."

And for the first time in a long time, Joel Miller didn’t feel quite so alone.

The fire crackled softly, casting a warm glow over the room as the shadows danced across the wooden walls. The night was quiet, but it wasn’t heavy. It felt more like a kind of peace settling in around the two of you. Neither of you spoke for a while, as if the silence had become its own conversation.

Joel stood by the fire, staring into the flames, his posture a little less rigid than it had been before. His hand rested on the mantle, his fingers curling around it like a lifeline, but the tension in his body had softened. He looked different somehow, less burdened. Maybe it was the weight of his grief being shared, maybe it was just the comfort of your presence, but something in him had shifted.

You stayed quiet, sitting on the couch, your eyes watching him, the soft sound of his breathing filling the space between you. You didn’t feel the need to fill the silence with words—it felt like a space where both of you could just be.

But eventually, Joel shifted, breaking the stillness with a quiet sigh. He ran a hand through his hair again, like he was trying to work through something in his mind.

“I don’t know what to do anymore, y’know?” he said, his voice low, almost like he was speaking to himself more than to you. “I’ve been running on autopilot for so damn long... Just trying to make it through the day. But lately... everything feels harder.”

You could hear the weight of exhaustion in his voice, the kind that had settled deep in his bones over the years. He wasn’t just tired from the work—he was tired of the constant struggle, of carrying everything on his own.

You stood up slowly, walking over to him. Without saying a word, you reached out, your fingers brushing against his arm. It was an almost imperceptible gesture, but it was enough. He stiffened for a second, but then his shoulders relaxed, and he glanced at you, his eyes softening.

“I don’t know how to fix everything for you, Joel,” you said quietly. “I can’t take away the pain, or bring back what you lost... But I’m here. And you don’t have to do this alone anymore.”

He looked at you for a long moment, like he was seeing you in a different light—maybe not just as someone to lean on, but as someone who was offering him something he hadn’t realised he needed. A way out of the solitude he’d built around himself.

You reached up then, gently cupping his face with your hands. His stubble scraped lightly against your skin, and his breath hitched for a second, but you didn’t pull away. You simply held him there, your eyes locked with his, letting the words settle between you.

“Maybe we don’t have to figure everything out right now,” you said softly, your voice steady despite the storm you could sense in him. “Maybe we can just... take it one step at a time.”

For a long moment, neither of you moved. The only sounds in the room were the crackling of the fire and the soft rhythm of your breathing. And then, almost imperceptibly, Joel leaned into your touch, his eyes closing briefly, like he was allowing himself to feel something—anything—that wasn’t the weight of the past.

“I don’t know what I’d do without you,” he whispered, his voice barely audible, as though the words were both a confession and a plea. “I don’t know how to make it right.”

You smiled gently, your thumbs brushing the roughness of his skin, your heart aching for him. “You don’t have to make it perfect, Joel. You don’t have to fix everything. Just... be here. With me.”

The tension in his body slowly ebbed away, and for the first time in a long while, Joel allowed himself to lean into you. To let someone else carry a small piece of the burden. The moment was fleeting but meaningful, a quiet understanding passing between you both.

“I’m not promising anything, but…” Joel trailed off, his gaze softer now, something more vulnerable creeping into his eyes. “Maybe I’ll start trying. For once.”

You nodded, your heart full of quiet hope, and took a small step closer to him. “One step at a time.”

Joel didn’t answer, but his hand reached for yours, his grip gentle but firm. He didn’t let go when your fingers intertwined. It was a small gesture, but it meant something bigger than words could convey.

The fire crackled again, casting more dancing shadows on the walls, but it felt like the start of something new. Something fragile but real. And for the first time, you didn’t feel like you were alone either.

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You woke early, as usual, the first light of dawn peeking through the curtains. You could hear Joel already moving around downstairs, the familiar sound of boots on the wooden floor, the creak of the old chair at the kitchen table. You stretched and pulled yourself out of bed, the chill of the room pushing you into motion. It was another busy day ahead—feeding the animals, checking the fences, mending what needed mending—but you found yourself looking forward to it more than you had before.

You made your way downstairs, the aroma of brewing coffee filling the air before you even reached the bottom step. Joel was standing at the stove, his back to you, flipping pancakes in a skillet with an ease that came from years of practice. The warm, golden light of the morning spilled through the windows, making the kitchen glow.

"You’re up early," you said, leaning against the doorframe, your voice soft but teasing.

Joel glanced over his shoulder at you, offering a small, almost imperceptible smile. "Not much for sleepin’ in." He turned back to the skillet, flipping the pancake with a practiced flick of his wrist. "Figured I’d get a head start today."

You crossed to the counter, grabbing the mug Joel had already set out for you. "I could get used to this," you said, pouring yourself a cup of coffee. "You know, waking up to pancakes and coffee."

He let out a low chuckle, his eyes catching yours for just a second. "Don't get too comfortable. I’m not much of a cook. You might end up makin' these yourself sooner or later."

You laughed softly, your fingers curling around the warm mug. "I think I could manage."

There was an ease in the way the two of you moved around each other now. Where once you’d felt like a stranger in a new world, now it felt... natural. Even the hard work didn’t seem quite so overwhelming anymore. You knew the land better, understood its rhythms, the way it demanded respect without asking for much in return. And Joel—well, Joel was becoming something you hadn’t anticipated. He was still the man of few words, the one who carried the weight of the world on his shoulders, but there was a gentleness in him now. A trust.

You sat down at the table, watching him finish cooking, the way his large hands moved so gracefully despite their size. There was a quiet confidence in him now that made your chest tighten, and it wasn’t just because of his strength. It was because, for the first time in a long while, he seemed like he was allowing himself to be here—really here—with you.

"After breakfast," Joel said, setting the last pancake on the stack, "we need to check the horses. Haven’t seen 'em this morning."

You nodded, taking a sip of your coffee. "Got it. I’ll grab the gear."

The work felt familiar now, but there was something different about it. It wasn’t just about chores anymore—it was a way to connect, to feel part of something larger than yourself. You and Joel worked together, side by side, fixing fences, checking the cattle, and tending to the land. It was a steady rhythm, one that was comforting in its predictability.

By midday, you’d found your stride. You’d mended a tear in the barn roof, helped Joel move hay bales, and checked the water troughs. And when the sky turned to gold with the setting sun, you both found yourselves leaning against the fence, the last light of the day painting everything in warm hues.

Joel’s hand brushed against yours as he shifted, and for a moment, you felt like the world had quieted completely—just the two of you, standing in the vastness of the land you had come to love, connected in a way that felt timeless.

"You know," he said, breaking the silence, "I never thought I'd be this comfortable with someone around. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve had people work with me before, but it’s different with you."

You looked up at him, meeting his eyes. There was something in his gaze now���something deeper. "I think I’m finally getting used to the quiet, too," you admitted. "And to you. I’ve never met anyone quite like you, Joel."

Joel’s lips twitched, a small, rare smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Guess I’m just a stubborn old cowboy," he said with a hint of humor, though there was something more sincere in the way he said it, like he was offering a piece of himself you hadn’t seen before.

You shifted closer, the space between you shrinking. "I don’t mind stubborn," you replied softly. "It’s... kind of endearing."

Joel's smile softened, and for a moment, neither of you spoke. The evening air was still and cool, the sound of the crickets chirping blending with the distant lowing of the cattle. The world was small here, simple. But somehow, it felt full.

When you reached up to brush a loose strand of hair from your face, your hand grazed Joel’s arm. He stiffened just slightly, and for a heartbeat, you both seemed to hesitate. Then, almost without thinking, you reached out again, this time more deliberately, and placed your hand on his forearm, your fingers lingering.

Joel’s gaze flickered down to where your hand rested, and then back to your face. There was an unspoken understanding between you now—no more games, no more hesitations.

"Don’t go getting any ideas," Joel said, though there was no real bite to his words. "You might end up stickin' around for good."

A light laugh bubbled up from you, and you squeezed his arm. "I’m already stickin' around," you said, your voice more certain.

⭑･ﾟﾟ･*:༅｡.｡༅:*ﾟ:*:✼✿　　✿✼:*ﾟ:༅｡.｡༅:*･ﾟﾟ･⭑

The sun was beginning to dip low in the sky, casting an orange glow over the horizon as you and Joel made your way back from the creek. The day had been long, but there was a certain satisfaction in it—a quiet contentment that settled in your chest. Now, as the evening light bathed everything in gold, the two of you walked in silence back toward the house. The barn loomed behind you, and the fields stretched out endlessly before you, a peaceful canvas of green and brown.

You were both tired, but there was an energy between you that felt new, something that tugged at the edges of your thoughts. It was the way your heart seemed to race just a little faster every time Joel’s presence shifted around you. The way your breath caught in your throat when you glanced at him from the corner of your eye.

Joel stopped walking a few paces ahead of you, his boots kicking up the dirt, and turned toward you, his face softening in the fading light. The warmth of the day was still lingering in the air, and the world around you seemed to hush, waiting.

“You’ve been here for a while now,” Joel said, his voice low, like he was considering each word carefully. “I’ve seen you adjust. You’ve done more than just fit in. You’ve... become part of this place.”

You met his gaze, your heartbeat quickening at the seriousness in his eyes. "I never thought I’d find a place like this," you said quietly, your voice almost a whisper, as though sharing a secret. "And I never thought I’d meet someone like you."

Joel stepped closer, his boots scraping softly against the dirt. His presence felt different now—closer, more intense. He stood just a few feet away, and for a moment, neither of you spoke. The distance between you seemed to shrink with each passing second, the silence heavy with unspoken words.

“I’ve been thinking about that,” Joel said, his voice softer now, like he was letting down a barrier. “About how much you’ve changed things around here. Not just for the ranch, but... for me.”

Joel’s eyes flicked to your lips for the briefest moment before returning to your eyes. And in that instant, the world seemed to still, the sounds of the ranch fading into nothing.

With a slight movement, Joel reached out, his hand gently cupping your cheek. It was a soft, almost tentative gesture, but there was a strength to it, an undeniable certainty in the way his thumb brushed across your skin.

Your heart pounded in your chest, and you could feel the warmth of his touch spread through you, igniting something that had been slowly building since you arrived.

Before you could think, before the moment could slip away, you leaned in.

Joel’s hand slid around to the back of your neck, pulling you closer as the kiss deepened, the world around you melting away. His lips were warm and insistent, and the gentle pressure of his kiss sent a thrill rushing through you. For a moment, it was just the two of you—the world and all its distractions faded into the background.

When you finally pulled away, breathless and slightly dazed, you rested your forehead against his, your eyes fluttering open to meet his gaze. There was a quiet understanding between you now, something new, something that had shifted in the space between the two of you.

Joel’s voice was barely more than a whisper as he spoke. “I’ve wanted to do that for a while.”

You smiled, your chest full, heart racing. “I think I’ve wanted you to.”

He chuckled softly, his thumb brushing across your cheek. “You’re not what I expected, you know that?”

You laughed softly, the sound light and genuine, before stepping back just slightly, your fingers brushing his. “Neither are you.”

You were up earlier than usual, moving through the kitchen in a daze of thoughts, your mind still racing from the kiss. The silence of the ranch was comforting, almost like a cocoon, wrapping you up in the stillness of everything around you.

Joel hadn’t said much when you parted ways the night before, but the look in his eyes—intense, yet soft—had told you everything. It was clear that neither of you had expected the shift that had come so naturally, but now, there was no denying it. Whatever had just begun, it wasn’t something you could walk away from.

You heard the soft sound of boots on the porch, the familiar rhythm of Joel’s steps as he made his way toward the house. You turned around just as he entered, the sight of him bringing an unexpected rush of warmth to your chest.

He smiled, a little shy, a little unsure—like he was still figuring out where to stand in all of this. You both were.

“Mornin’,” he greeted softly, his deep voice carrying a quiet sincerity.

“Morning,” you replied, offering him a smile that felt more like home than anything else.

By the time breakfast was ready, the kitchen was filled with the scent of eggs and bacon, the soft clinking of plates as you set the table.

“Want to head out to the fields later?” Joel asked, his voice casual but with a hint of anticipation.

You nodded, your stomach fluttering with excitement. “Yeah. I’d like that.”

Joel smiled, that familiar warmth returning to his expression.

⭑･ﾟﾟ･*:༅｡.｡༅:*ﾟ:*:✼✿　　✿✼:*ﾟ:༅｡.｡༅:*･ﾟﾟ･⭑

The sun hung high in the sky, casting long shadows across the fields as you and Joel made your way out into the vast expanse of the ranch. The air had warmed up since the early morning, and there was a gentle breeze rustling through the grass, carrying with it the sweet scent of wildflowers.

As you walked beside him, your thoughts drifted back to the peaceful breakfast you’d shared. The conversation had been easy, flowing naturally between you, but there had been something comforting in the silence, too.

When you reached the edge of the field, you stopped, your eyes falling on a patch of grass where Joel had already laid out a blanket. There, in the middle of the field, with nothing but the sounds of nature around you, he had set up a picnic. The scene was simple, but there was something about it that felt intimate, like a secret just for the two of you.

The two of you ate in comfortable silence, the easy rhythm of sharing a meal together only adding to the sense of peace that seemed to settle over you both. After a few moments, Joel reached for the book beside him, holding it out to you with a slight grin.

“I thought you might like this one,” he said, his voice quiet. “It’s one of my favorites. I’ll read it to you, if you’d like.”

You took the book from his hands, glancing at the cover—The Secret Garden. Your heart warmed at the thought of him wanting to share something so personal. It felt like an invitation to step into his world, to see the things he held close.

“I’d like that,” you said softly, your eyes meeting his.

Joel settled back against the blanket, the sun casting a golden glow over him, and you curled up beside him, resting your head on his shoulder. The moment felt so simple, but in its simplicity, it was perfect. The world outside this small bubble you had created seemed to fade away as he began to read aloud, his voice deep and steady, the words flowing smoothly into the air.

As he read, you let yourself relax, the sound of his voice weaving a sense of comfort around you. There was something incredibly romantic about the way he read, each word filled with a quiet intensity, like he was sharing a piece of himself with you in each sentence. The book’s story was a good one, the characters coming to life with Joel’s voice, but it wasn’t just the story that held your attention—it was the feeling of being here with him, in this moment, with nothing else to do but listen and be present.

You could hear the occasional breeze stirring the trees, the distant call of a bird, but everything else seemed to fade into the background as you found yourself wrapped up in both the story and in him.

Eventually, Joel turned a page, pausing for a moment as he glanced at you. “You comfortable?” he asked, his voice low, almost like a whisper.

You nodded, lifting your head slightly to look up at him. “I’m perfect,” you said, and it was true. There was no place you’d rather be than here, beside him, feeling the warmth of the day and the gentleness of his presence.

Joel gave you a soft smile, his gaze lingering on you for a moment before he returned to the book. He continued reading, his voice almost a soothing hum against the backdrop of the quiet ranch. Every now and then, you’d glance up at him, watching the way the sunlight caught in his hair, the way he spoke with such focus and care. It was moments like this—quiet, intimate, with no rush—that made everything feel so right.

As the story unfolded, you both became more absorbed in the tale, but time seemed to stretch, becoming less important. The whole world could have passed by, and you wouldn’t have noticed. It was just the two of you, sharing a peaceful day in the fields, wrapped up in a story and in each other.

When Joel finished the chapter, he closed the book and placed it beside him, his hand gently resting on the blanket. He looked over at you, his expression soft.

“Did you like it?” he asked, his voice a little hushed.

You smiled, a soft warmth spreading through you. “I did. Thank you for sharing it with me.”

He nodded, his lips curving up at the corners. “You’re welcome.”

There was a moment of quiet, a small but meaningful silence that held everything you both hadn’t yet said, but didn’t need to. You shifted slightly, turning to face him more fully, your gaze catching his. You could feel the subtle change in the air between you, the quiet understanding that had been building all morning, now palpable.

Slowly, as if it had always been meant to happen, you leaned in, closing the space between you. Joel’s hand gently cupped your cheek, his thumb brushing over your skin, and then, without any more words needed, your lips met. The kiss was slow and tender, the kind that lingered in your soul long after it ended.

When you pulled away, you stayed close, your foreheads resting together, both of you breathing in the same quiet rhythm.

“I think I could get used to this,” you said softly, your voice barely above a whisper.

Joel smiled, his eyes soft with affection as he gazed at you. “Yeah. Me too.”

"You’ve... you’ve got a way of making everything feel a little different," Joel said, his voice catching slightly as he looked into your eyes. The silence that followed was thick, the weight of his words settling between you like a promise, an unspoken acknowledgment of something growing deeper between you both.

You could feel your heart beating a little faster. The way he was looking at you now was unlike anything you’d seen before. His gaze was hungry, but not in the way it had been before—this was more. More raw, more real.

You didn’t say anything in response. Instead, you let the tension build, your breath shallow as you reached for him, cupping his jaw gently in your hand. His breath hitched as your thumb traced the line of his jaw, and you couldn’t help but lean in just a little, your lips barely brushing against his.

Joel’s eyes fluttered shut for a moment, and when he opened them again, the storm that had always been present was even clearer now. You could see the restraint in the way his body was coiled, like a man holding back the tide.

“Don’t hold back,” you whispered, not trusting yourself to say more.

Joel didn’t need any more encouragement. His lips crashed against yours, hot and urgent, a mixture of relief and longing as if he were finally giving in to something he’d held at bay for far too long. The kiss was fierce, as though he were trying to make up for all the time spent keeping his distance.

Your fingers threaded into his hair, tugging him closer as his hands gripped your waist, pulling you into him with a strength that made your breath hitch. The heat between you two grew, making the air around you seem almost too thick to breathe. You could feel the solid weight of him against you, the way his chest pressed into yours with each kiss, the way his hands wandered across your back, memorising every curve of you.

His lips left yours only long enough for him to breathe, his forehead resting against yours. "God, you don’t know what you’re doin’ to me," Joel murmured, his voice rougher than usual, the words a low growl.

You laughed breathlessly, your hands still resting on his chest. "I think I’m starting to get the idea."

The blanket beneath you was rough against your bare thighs, the late afternoon sun warming your skin as Joel hovered over you, his body casting a shadow that made the gold in his eyes burn even brighter. His lips had just left yours, swollen and wet from the way he’d kissed you—deep, consuming, like he was trying to memorise the taste of you.

"You’re sure about this?" he asked, voice rough, his fingers flexing against your hips like he was already fighting the urge to take more.

In answer, you arched up against him, your chest brushing his, and Joel let out a low groan, his forehead dropping to yours.

"Christ," he muttered, his breath hot against your lips. "Out here like this—anyone could—"

You cut him off with a roll of your hips, grinding against the hard length of him, and Joel cursed, his restraint snapping.

His hands were everywhere at once—one tangling in your hair, the other sliding up your thigh, pushing the fabric of your dress higher until his calloused fingers met bare skin. You gasped as he traced the edge of your underwear, his touch teasing, maddening.

"Joel—"

"Tell me what you want," he growled, his lips brushing the shell of your ear before dragging down your neck, teeth scraping lightly.

You whimpered, your fingers clutching at his shirt. "You. Just you."

That was all it took.

His hand slid beneath the waistband of your panties, fingers finding you already wet, already aching for him. He groaned against your throat as he stroked you, slow at first, then firmer when your hips jerked against his touch.

"Fuck, sweetheart," he rasped, watching the way your body responded to him. "Look at you."

You could feel the tension coiling tighter, your breath coming in short gasps as his fingers worked you with a precision that had your toes curling. But just as you were teetering on the edge, Joel pulled back, leaving you empty, desperate.

Your protest was cut off when his mouth crashed back onto yours, his kiss filthy, his tongue sliding against yours as he guided your hand to his belt.

"Wanna feel you," he muttered against your lips, his voice wrecked. "All of you."

You didn’t hesitate. Your fingers fumbled with the buckle, then the button of his jeans, and when you finally freed him, Joel hissed through his teeth, his hips jerking into your touch.

He was thick, hot in your hand, and when you stroked him, his entire body tensed, his grip on your thigh tightening almost to the point of pain.

"Fuck—" His forehead dropped to your shoulder, his breath ragged. "Gonna ruin me."

You smiled, squeezing lightly, and Joel growled, his patience gone.

In one swift motion, he yanked your underwear aside and pushed into you, filling you so completely that you cried out, your nails digging into his shoulders.

Joel stilled, his body trembling with the effort of holding back. "Okay?" he gritted out, his voice strained.

Joel's breath was fire against your neck, his body trembling with restraint as he waited for your answer.

"More than okay," you gasped, arching into him, needing him deeper.

That was all the permission he needed.

Joel moved with a roughness that stole your breath—deep, relentless strokes that had you seeing stars. His hands gripped your hips hard enough to bruise, holding you exactly where he wanted you as he drove into you again and again.

"Look at me," he growled, his voice raw.

You forced your eyes open, meeting his dark, hungry gaze. Sweat glistened on his brow, his jaw clenched tight with pleasure. The sight of him—undone, wrecked, yours—sent a fresh wave of heat spiraling through you.

"Joel—"

"Know what you do to me?" he rasped, his thrusts turning slower, deeper, dragging against every sensitive inch inside you. "Fuckin' ruin me."

You clenched around him, and his control snapped.

With a groan, Joel flipped you onto your back, pinning your wrists above your head as he surged into you, his rhythm turning desperate. His lips crashed against yours, swallowing your moans as pleasure coiled tighter, hotter—until you shattered, crying out his name.

Joel followed with a broken groan, his hips stuttering as he spilled inside you, his forehead dropping to yours.

For a long moment, there was only the sound of your ragged breathing, the heat of his body pressed against yours. Then Joel exhaled, rough and unsteady, his thumb brushing your cheek.

"Christ," he muttered, voice wrecked.

You grinned, still trembling beneath him. "That a complaint?"

Joel huffed a laugh, pressing a kiss to your pulse point. "Ain't even close."

His touch gentled as he traced the curve of your waist, your hip, the inside of your thigh—checking, silently, for any discomfort. When he found none, his hand returned to cradle your face, his thumb brushing your kiss-swollen bottom lip.

"You good?" The question was gruff, but his eyes—dark and liquid in the low light—held an intensity that made your stomach flip.

You caught his wrist, pressing a kiss to his palm. "Better than good."

Joel’s throat worked. He leaned in, kissing you slow and deep, nothing like the frantic heat of before. This was something else—a claiming, a promise, a thank you that didn’t need words.

When he finally pulled back, he didn’t go far. His nose brushed yours, his breath warm on your skin. "Gonna take care of you," he murmured, already moving to slide down your body.

You caught his shoulder. "Joel—"

"Shhh." A kiss to your sternum. "Let me."

His mouth was hot as it traced the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, his beard scraping deliciously. You gasped when his tongue laved over you, slow and thorough, his hands spreading you wide.

"Joel—"

His grip tightened. "Told you," he growled against your skin. "Gonna take my time."

And he did.

By the time he was done, you were boneless and breathless, your fingers tangled in his hair as he crawled back up your body, pressing open-mouthed kisses to your stomach, your ribs, the flutter of your pulse.

"Still good?" he asked, his voice rough with satisfaction.

You could only nod, your limbs heavy with pleasure.

Joel smirked, that rare, real smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes. Then he gathered you against him, tucking your head under his chin, his heartbeat steady against your cheek.

"Rest," he murmured, his hand stroking down your spine. "I got you."

And for the first time in your life, you believed it.

As you drifted, Joel reached for the spare blanket, draping it over you both. His fingers traced idle patterns on your shoulder—circles, spirals, the occasional brush of his knuckles—as if memorising you by touch.

Joel’s lips brushed your forehead. "Stay?"

Not a command. A question.

You curled closer, your leg hooking over his. "Try and make me leave."

His chest rumbled with quiet laughter, his arms tightening around you. "Wouldn’t dare."

And in the quiet that followed, wrapped in the heat of him, you realised—

You were home.

[cupidsworstcrime]

70 Things I think about Boyfriend!Jason Todd

(f!reader)

i am so so so normal about him, I swear

1. He doesn’t bring work home

Jason has a strict no Red Hood talk in the apartment rule unless it’s absolutely necessary. You know when he’s been out rough- he limps a little, his knuckles are raw, but he’ll deflect with, “Guy at the bodega tried some shit.”

You don’t ask. He doesn’t offer. That’s the deal.

2. He’s pierced and quietly punk about it

Yeah, his ears are pierced. Probably has been since he was a teenager trying to look cool in Crime Alley. You caught him wearing your tiny silver studs one morning and when you asked about it, he grunted, “Didn’t want the holes to close.” But now? He steals them on purpose. Your favorite heart-shaped pair? Gone. He’s wearing them on patrol.

3. Jumpy as hell

You’ve learned to call his name gently if his back is to you. Sudden touches get a reaction- nothing violent, but fast. Too fast. His shoulders tense. His eyes flick to every exit like muscle memory. Sometimes he apologizes under his breath like he hates that part of himself. You just squeeze his hand and remind him he's safe here.

4. Lives on black coffee, toast, and junk unless you intervene

Left to his own devices, Jason will literally survive off diner coffee and cold toast- or worse an unholy amount of energy drinks. You started slipping protein bars and cut fruit into his bag like you were packing for a grumpy kid. He acts annoyed. He eats every bite.

5. He smells like leather, gunpowder.... and your shampoo

He started using your shampoo one day “by accident” and now he just does it on purpose. You don’t even complain because the mix of him and you is better than any perfume.

6. Stole your bracelet and won’t admit it

A dainty chain bracelet you lost months ago? It's looped around the base of one of his pistols now, dangling like a charm. When you spot it and raise an eyebrow, he just shrugs:

“Must’ve fallen into my bag.”

“You expect me to believe-”

“Guess you shouldn’t leave your stuff lying around, sweetheart.”

He’s never giving it back. That’s his lucky charm now.

7. Clings in his sleep

He’d never admit it, but he’s a stage-4 clinger. Arm around your waist, face tucked against your shoulder, legs tangled. If you get up to pee, he’ll grumble in his sleep and roll into the warm spot you left behind like a human furnace.

8. Won’t say “I need you,” but he shows it

He fixes your sink at 2 a.m. because it dripped once. He tracks your location “for safety” (but it makes him breathe easier). If you’re late texting back, he spirals internally but never shows it- just casually drops by, “coincidentally,” to check on you.

He won’t say “I need you.” But he shows it. Every damn day.

9. Sings along to old records while cleaning

You caught him once deep-cleaning his guns while singing quietly to a scratchy vinyl playing old blues rock. You didn’t say anything. Just listened. It felt like church.

10. Says “I’m not good at this” but is good at this

He thinks he’s bad at love. He thinks he’s bad at being normal. But he kisses your forehead when you’re sick, folds your laundry weird but tries, and reads the same book five times because it’s your favorite.

He’s good at love. In all the ways that matter.

11. “I love a man in leather” ruined him forever

It started as a joke- you said it with a wink, barely teasing. But Jason? He froze. Blinked. Filed it away. And then that night, lying in bed, stared at the ceiling thinking about all the tactical leather he already owned.

The next time he came home from patrol, he stood awkwardly in the doorway, helmet in hand.

“...Do you like it when I wear the jacket?”

You smirked. He blushed. And that was the beginning of the end.

12. He was pretty sure he was vanilla. He was wrong.

Jason always thought he was a “lights off, soft kisses” kind of guy. And he still is- but now there’s rope in his bedside drawer, wrist cuffs under the bed, and a vague working knowledge of Shibari. He’s not saying it’s all your fault.

But it is.

13. He only lets himself explore it with you

You’re the only one he trusts enough to see that side of him. He’s not used to feeling safe being vulnerable- even when he’s the one in control. But with you? He can breathe. He can ask. He can learn.

And when you look up at him with love and hunger in your eyes, he doesn’t feel like a monster- he feels wanted.

14. He absolutely panicked the first time he said “Good girl”

It slipped out. He didn’t plan it. He just said it in the heat of the moment and you moaned. Hard.

Jason’s brain blue-screened.

He froze for a solid three seconds and whispered, “...Did you like that?”

You nodded.

He never stopped saying it after that. Still says it like it’s sacred.

15. But outside the bedroom? He's still the shyest little freak about it

You: *teasing him at dinner with a wink*

Jason: *choking on his water and glaring at you like he’s been caught committing crimes*

You: “Baby, you literally tied me up last night.”

Jason: “Keep your voice down!”

16. Leather jacket is now permanently associated with you getting handsy

It’s your fault. Every time he wears the jacket, you get a look in your eye like you’re about to climb him like a tree.

Now he can’t put it on without a smug smirk and the quiet thought: She’s gonna pounce.

17. He’ll never go to a sex store in person, but he’s got a burner account online

Jason Todd has a burner account with expedited shipping and privacy wrapping because he’s too much of a shy little freak (to everyones suprise) to risk being seen browsing handcuffs in person.

You caught him once comparing reviews on two different floggers, reading so seriously you'd think it was a medical journal. He blushed hard when you snuck up behind him.

18. Aftercare king

No matter how dark or rough it gets, he’s the most tender man afterward. Holds you close. Kisses your shoulders. Runs you a bath and washes your hair like it’s a ritual.

“Did I go too far?”

“No, Jay. You were perfect.”

And he just melts, forehead against your shoulder, whispering: “Okay. Good.”

19. Still folds towels wrong. Still starts fake fights about it.

He'll tie you up with perfect knots but can't fold a towel for shit. You don't know how the two coexist. He’s a contradiction you’re obsessed with.

20. One time he called himself your “bad boy” and immediately cringed

He was trying to be flirty.

He meant it ironically.

He said, “You like your bad boy in leather, huh?” and then groaned halfway through it like he regretted every word.

You burst out laughing.

He kissed you to shut you up.

He's 'Bad Boy 🎀' in your phone now and he hates loves it.

21. He is so dramatic when he’s sick

This man has literally died. He’s been shot, stabbed, blown up.

But give him a head cold? And he is bedridden. Blanket burrito. Groaning like he’s on his deathbed. Whispering, “Tell Alfred… I fought bravely…” before blowing his nose with your nice hand towel.

22. “I’m fine.” - a blatant lie

He’ll cough so hard he bends over double, then straighten up like nothing happened.

“You need rest-”

“I’m fine.”

“You sound like a dying engine.”

“I’ve had worse.”

Yeah. And? That doesn’t mean he should be eating cereal for dinner and refusing to take cold meds.

23. He won’t admit it but he’s needy as hell

He doesn’t ask. Not directly. But his head ends up in your lap. He “accidentally” falls asleep curled against your side. He mumbles your name mid-fever dream, eyes fluttering open and searching for you.

You bring him soup, and he blinks at you like you’ve just saved his soul.

24. Absolutely pouts if you leave the room too long

He’ll be half-asleep, but the second you get up to do anything- laundry, pee, breathe -he’ll grunt, shift dramatically, and mumble,

“…Thought you left me to die.”

You roll your eyes. “I was gone for two minutes.”

“Could’ve been the end.”

15. He’s warm. Like a human furnace

Fevers don’t just make him sick- they make him clingy and overheat-y. He’ll wrap himself around you like a weighted blanket and then get mad when you complain about sweating.

“I’m literally melting, Jason.”

“I’m dying, but go off I guess.”

26. Gets oddly philosophical when medicated

One dose of NyQuil and he’s pondering the meaning of mortality and if souls really go to heaven.

“You think if I died again, you’d still love me?”

“Jason. Baby. Please take a nap.”

27. Claims he doesn’t remember any of it once he’s better

You mention how cute he was? The way he asked for more soup with a soft “please” and big sleepy eyes?

“I don’t recall,” he says.

You show him a video? “Deep fake.”

Catches you giggling? “You’re making shit up. I’m a menace. I don’t cuddle.”

28. But secretly? He loves how you take care of him

He didn’t get this, growing up. No one ever rubbed circles on his back or checked his temperature with a kiss. He doesn’t know how to ask for it… but god, he soaks it up when you give it anyway.

It’s healing in more ways than one.

29. When you get sick later? He panics

Oh suddenly he’s a nurse. Full-time. Soup. Blankets. Calls in favors from actual doctors he knows.

“Baby, it’s just a sore throat-”

“No. No. I’ve seen this before. It starts with a sore throat. Next thing you know, you’re in a Lazarus Pit.”

30. One time he sneezed in his helmet and you never let him live it down

He didn’t take it off in time. It echoed. It was tragic.

You laughed so hard you cried.

He glared at you with the most long-suffering expression of his life and muttered,

“This is why I work alone.”

31. He warns you the first time things get serious

It’s not the mask that’s hard to take off. It’s the shirt.

The first time you're undressing each other, he pauses, hands shaking slightly as he pulls back.

“I should warn you,” he says.

And then quieter:

“It’s bad.”

32. He avoids mirrors when he’s shirtless

Not just because of the usual trauma- but because sometimes he catches his reflection and flinches. The Y-shaped autopsy scar down his chest is brutal. Surgical. Cold.

It reminds him of what he was: a body on a slab. A lost cause.

Not a man. Not a lover. Just evidence.

33. He expects you to look away

Even as he undresses, he’s already bracing for it- for the flicker in your eyes, the pity or horror or discomfort.

He stares at the wall. Waits for the silence. Waits for the shift in the way you breathe.

34. You don’t look away. Not even a little.

Your touch is reverent. Your lips follow the trail of old scars like a prayer.

“You’re beautiful,” you say.

Jason’s chest stutters, and he doesn’t believe you- not really -but he wants to.

God, he wants to.

35. He never turns the lights on during sex. Until you ask him to.

He’s okay in shadows. He’s safe in them.

But one night, you whisper, “Let me see you,” and something in him breaks open.

He lets the light touch all the places he hides.

And your hands never flinch.

36. His scars are sensitive

Especially the big ones. Sometimes they itch. Sometimes they burn.

But when your fingers trace them? It’s grounding. Calming. Makes him feel like maybe he can own this body again.

37. One time, you kissed his chest and he teared up

He didn’t mean to. It just happened.

You didn’t say anything- just held him while he breathed through it. And that silence? That softness? It meant more than any words could.

38. You bought him a new mirror one day. He stared at it for weeks before using it.

It was taller. Nicer. Framed in soft wood. When he finally stood in front of it with you, he didn’t look away.

You stood behind him, arms around his waist, and he whispered,

“…I don’t hate it as much. When you’re in the picture.”

39. He traces your body the same way now

All the places you’re soft, he worships. All the places you’ve ever been insecure- he sees none of it.

“Look at me,” he says.

“If you can love this,” he gestures to himself, “then you better let me love you.”

40. You never treat his scars like they make him broken

Because they don’t. They make him Jason. And you wouldn’t trade a single inch of him- not the roughness, not the past, not the damage.

Because under all of it, is a heart that still dares to love you back.

And that's more beautiful than anything you’ve ever seen.

41. Letting it slip about the Waynes

One day, while in the middle of an argument (as one does), Jason just blurted it out.

“Okay, fine, maybe I was adopted by the Waynes!”

You froze.

“Wait. Hold up—WHAT?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m a Wayne. Big surprise, right? Have fun with that one.”

"...BABY, FUCK YOU MEAN YOU'RE RELATED TO BRUCE FUCKING WAYNE?!?"

Jason just stares at you, clearly unprepared for this reaction.

“I-”

“JASON. WHAT. THE. FUCK.”

42. He immediately regrets saying it

As soon as the words leave his mouth, Jason wants to claw them back. He’s not ready to unpack that- it’s a can of worms he’s been keeping sealed tight.

But then there’s you, wide-eyed and slack-jawed, looking at him like he just dropped the biggest bombshell.

“Shut up, okay? Just—just don’t bring it up ever again.”

But he knows that’s never going to happen.

43. He insists on not using any of Bruce’s money

The second he found out about the inheritance, Jason made it clear:

“I’ll never touch any of that money. It’s not mine.”

Bruce offered him more than enough, but Jason’s pride wouldn’t let him. He’d rather suffer on his own than take a single dollar from the man who, in his mind, could never truly be family.

Yet, when you need something- he can’t help but slip you a debit card once in a while, eyes narrowing as if daring you to question it.

44. Off-brand snacks and drinks, forever

You’re sitting at home one night, you reach for some chips, and Jason’s hand slaps yours away.

“No. Not those.”

He reaches into the pantry and pulls out a bag of “Chipperoni Crunchies,” not the name-brand chips, but the generic stuff. The ones that come in weird, colorful bags with cartoon characters on them.

“They taste better.”

You give him a skeptical look.

He just shrugs.

“They do.”

It’s the same with his drinks. He’ll turn his nose up at anything with a fancy label on it and will only go for store-brand cola that comes in an off-color can.

“You can’t taste the difference,” he insists, as he sips from a glass bottle, wiping the rim like he's a secret connoisseur of trash beverages.

45. He keeps a stash of “guilty pleasures” in your kitchen

No one else is allowed to see the true extent of his obsession with cheap snacks. If Alfred found out, he'd be disappointed. So he keeps it secret.

When you’re not looking, he’ll stockpile all of his guilty pleasure foods in your kitchen: neon-colored candy, microwave pizza, and prepackaged cupcakes with sprinkles that stick to your teeth in the worst way.

“Don’t tell anyone about this,” he mutters, but you both know it’s inevitable.

He’s just Jason. No amount of money or Wayne prestige can make him stop being Jason.

46. The first time you tease him about it, he’s defensive

You laugh at the ridiculously large bag of "fake Cheetos" he’s just brought over.

“Don’t laugh,” he growls. “They’re better, okay?”

“Really? The fake version of Cheetos?”

“It’s called being resourceful,” he grumbles, crossing his arms like he’s trying to defend his honor.

It’s just a bag of chips, but the Wayne pride is stronger than he likes to admit.

47. He will never be caught at a five-star restaurant

You’ve tried. You’ve dragged him to fancy places, tried to get him to “treat himself” to something nice.

Jason? Never steps foot in a place like that unless it's on business- and even then, he’s glaring at the rich patrons like they're the real criminals.

His idea of a perfect date? Fast food, a cheap diner, or just takeout from his favorite hole-in-the-wall pizza place. That’s his comfort zone.

48. If you ever bought him something fancy, he’d get weird about it

You got him a really nice leather jacket once- smooth, premium quality, sleek black.

He took one look at it and immediately said, “You didn’t need to get me this, babe. I’m good with my old stuff.”

But when you weren’t looking, he stroked the soft leather and secretly loved it.

The jacket still sat in his closet, perfectly untouched- just waiting for a moment when he’d admit that maybe he deserves nice things. But he’s not there yet. Not really.

49. He low-key loves your "bougie" (normal) snacks, but won’t admit it

You try to introduce him to your more “refined” tastes. Maybe it’s a fancy cheese, or high-end chocolate, or a real coffee drink that’s not just “instant” powder.

At first, Jason’s all about his junk food. But you catch him secretly swiping the expensive chocolate bar from the fridge.

“I hate these,” he says, but you catch the way his eyes flicker with a guilty pleasure.

“Then why do you keep eating them?”

“Shut up.”

50. He’s proud of his independence

He may hate the whole Wayne legacy, but he’s still proud of how he’s carved his own path. His tastes, his choices- even his snacks -are just another way of proving that he’s not defined by his 'family' name.

And somehow, that’s the part that makes him feel the most like himself. Not the Red Hood. Not “Wayne’s adopted son.” Just Jason Todd.

51. You call him “daddy” in front of someone- an accident to be fair

One morning, you’re in a rush to leave for work and casually call out, “Bye, daddy!” out of habit before heading out the door. You don’t even think twice about it.

But when you shut the door, you turn and see Damian sitting on the couch, looking at you like you’ve just committed the most cardinal sin.

Silence fills the room as you realize what you've done.

Jason, meanwhile, is trying not to laugh while Damian stares him down, and there's a whole "You told her to call you that?" conversation that never gets resolved. Damian just gives Jason the side-eye for the next few days.

52. The first time you meet his family- Oh boy…

When Jason finally takes you to meet his family, you almost choke at the sight of that massive, impressive mansion.

You’d been hearing about them for a while, but nothing could prepare you for the pure opulence of the place.

Jason, trying to play it cool, introduces you to his siblings. But deep down, you can see the unease in his eyes. He’s hoping his siblings don’t completely embarrass him in front of you.

Spoiler: they totally do.

53. Jason’s siblings stealing you away to tell you embarrassing stories

Once they know you’re there, his siblings (usually the most asshole-ish ones) quickly whisk you away to the kitchen or garden, telling you the most embarrassing Jason Todd fucked up stories.

One talks about the time he tried to sneak out as a kid and got stuck in a tree for an hour. Another shares the story of when he lost a bet to Damian and had to wear pink for a week and he cried.

By the end of it, you’re laughing so hard, you can’t tell if Jason’s going to explode or just sit there trying not to die of embarrassment.

54. Jason’s family finds out you’ve been living together for a year- a whole year?!

At a family dinner, you and Jason casually mention you’re planning on moving apartments soon.

That’s when his siblings drop the bombshell.

“Wait, you’ve been living together for a year and never told us?”

Jason looks at them like he’s been caught in a mildly embarrassing situation. “What’s the big deal? It’s not like I owe you a rundown of my life.”

His family is way too interested now, and Jason tries to play it cool, but you both know it’s one of those awkward moments that will haunt him for years to come.

55. Jason’s protective side when it comes to his family and you

If his siblings start messing with you too much or saying anything too embarrassing, Jason’s response is instant.

“Knock it off. You wanna deal with me?”

He doesn’t threaten them, but the way he says it? Yeah, they take a step back.

And when it’s just the two of you later, he’s like, “If they ever make you uncomfortable, I swear, I’ll-”

You reassure him, but you appreciate how seriously he takes your comfort with his family.

56. Jason buys you a ridiculously expensive gift, but it’s low-key, and you’re both uncomfortable

One night, Jason comes home and hands you this insanely expensive necklace with a diamond 'J' charm—way out of your usual price range.

"What's this?" you ask, giving him a confused look.

“Just... because,” he says, scratching his head awkwardly. “I saw it and thought you’d look good wearing it.”

You’re immediately touched, but you can tell Jason’s acting a little weird about it. It's one of those moments where he wants to spoil you, but his pride gets in the way.

57. Jason finds it way too easy to spoil you now though

At first, he fought it. He thought, “Nah, I’m not the type to just throw money around.”

But now? Oh, now it’s second nature.

If you even hint at something you want, Jason’s on it like white on rice.

He knows the moment you mentioned a new phone, you’re gonna find it waiting for you at home. Because Jason was already ahead of the game.

58. His family doesn’t understand his quiet obsession with you

At some point, his siblings ask him directly, “So... when are you gonna admit you’re in love with her?”

Jason almost chokes on his drink. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

But everyone knows. His family can see how he softens around you, how he’d do anything to make sure you’re comfortable and happy.

And Jason’s so not used to this, so he just acts all defensive about it, even though his family’s already figured it out.

59. Jason doesn’t actually talk about his family that much

It’s not that he’s embarrassed. It’s just that Jason doesn’t want you to see him through the lens of his family’s wealth and drama.

Sometimes he lets little things slip, but mostly, he keeps his family life under wraps.

He doesn’t need you to like them. He just wants you to like him, and to him, that’s what matters most.

60. Jason’s family low-key approves of you

Despite all the chaos, his family starts to realize that you’re a good match for Jason. You challenge him, make him laugh, and somehow manage to keep him grounded when his ego gets out of hand.

At the end of the day, they know he’s better with you.

That doesn’t stop them from occasionally teasing him, of course, but they can see what he sees in you.

61. Jason panics to pick the perfect ring

Jason spends days- days -agonizing over the perfect ring. It’s not that he doesn’t know what you’d like, it’s just that this is a huge decision. He doesn’t want to screw it up. So, of course, he recruits his sister for help, who takes you out on a ‘girls day’ to get your nails done and do some shopping. You have no idea why, but Jason’s silently breathing a sigh of relief the whole time as she helps pick out a ring that he’s sure will make you say yes.

62. Jason cries while talking to his brothers

Jason never thought he’d be talking about marriage to anyone- let alone his brothers. But here he is, pacing back and forth in front of them, confessing that he’s about to propose. And he's... crying. Not because he's weak, but because he's terrified. “I’m actually doing this,” he whispers, shaking his head. “I’m about to propose to the woman I love. Holy shit, I’m actually doing it.”

His brothers? They’re all smiles and a little bit of laughter, making fun of him, but deep down, they know this is a big step for him, and they support him.

63. Jason gets on one knee, and you don’t say anything

When he finally proposes, it’s simple. In the park where you had your first date. Jason goes down on one knee, holding the ring out in front of you, but you’re so quiet that for a second, he thinks you’re going to say no. Panic sets in, and then you start sobbing, whispering over and over, “Yes, yes, yes.”

Jason’s heart nearly explodes, and he kisses you right there, the world disappearing around you both.

64. Hes... a dad?

A few months after the proposal, you show him the ultrasound picture, and Jason freezes, his eyes tracing the dates. He counts back, and a realization hits him like a ton of bricks. “Oh fuck,” he mutters to himself, panic rising. “That was the night we-”

It takes him a minute, but he’s almost certain. That was the night you conceived. It’s terrifying, yet beautiful, but he’s more scared than he’s ever been. He wants to be a dad, but can he actually do it?

65. Jason moves the wedding date up

Jason may not be traditional, but once he found out about the baby, he made a decision. The wedding date was moving up. He wasn’t going to have his daughter born to parents who weren’t married, and damn it, he wasn’t waiting any longer. He wants to make sure that little girl has the kind of family he never had growing up.

66. The wedding is simple but perfect

The wedding is small and simple, just how Jason wanted it. His brothers are both his best men, and they give him so much shit about it, but Jason wouldn’t have it any other way. You agree to let his sister be your maid of honor, and though there are a few moments of tension, everything falls perfectly into place. Jason, in his suit, looks at you like you’re the only thing that matters. You both say your vows, and there’s no turning back now.

67. Jason holds his newborn and sobs

When you give birth to his daughter, he holds her in his arms for the first time, and Jason just breaks. He’s never been so overwhelmed in his life. It’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen, and when he presses her tiny body against his chest, he cries. Big, ugly, full of love tears. "I’m gonna protect you with everything I’ve got," he whispers. "I promise."

68. The Wayne family spoils her rotten

It’s not surprising that Jason’s daughter gets spoiled by the entire Wayne family. Every time they visit, she gets showered with gifts, new clothes, toys she doesn’t even know what to do with. Jason watches it all with a soft smile, knowing how much this little girl is going to be loved and protected. They can spoil her as much as they want, because she’s his little princess.

69. Jason being the ultimate girl dad

It’s her fourth birthday, and Jason’s letting his daughter paint his face with play makeup, sitting there patiently as she dabs the brush all over his face. It’s the kind of moment that makes Jason feel like the luckiest man alive. He’s so in love with her. No matter how messy or goofy things get, he wouldn’t change a thing. She’s his little girl, and he’ll cherish every second.

70. Jason Todd has never been happier

As chaotic and sometimes overwhelming as his life has been, nothing compares to this moment. Sitting on the couch with his daughter on his lap, his arms around you, Jason can’t help but think that this? This is happiness. The love he never knew he needed has found him, and for the first time in a long time, he feels like everything is right. He’s a husband, a father, and for the first time in his life...

He feels at home.

And that leather jacket you got him years ago? He's finally wearing it.

RAHHHHHHHH I AM SO NORMAL ABOUT HIM

[butchpillowprince]

Butch4Butch Porn Catalogue

Written erotica

The Holy Grail, required reading: George's Boi by greyhyms on AO3 - butch/butch, Daddy kink, stone butch

Set in Stone: butch on butch erotica (2001) at openlibrary.org

The entire Jess/Lupe A League of Their Own tag on AO3

Sinclair Sexsmith - butch4butch and butch4femme: website

Orlando Silver - butch4butch and T4T: Substack

Dev Ill/thedevilisadyke: AO3

kind to be cruel - butch/butch - dignification kink, Daddy kink

bad guy - butch/butch - sadism and masochism, blood play, bondage

in the alley - butch/butch/butch - orgasm control, pain kink, public sex/in an alley, Daddy kink, Sir kink, threesome

fangs4fur - butch/butch - vampire and werewolf, breeding kink, pain kink, blood play, sadism and masochism

Bite, Burn, & Sting - butch/butch, needle play, pain kink, piercings, genital piercing, Daddy kink, impact play, masturbation

Solder & Flux - butch/butch, power bottom/service top, hatefucking, enemies to lovers, pain play, Daddy kink, knife play, blood play, gagging

Smoke and Flame- butch/butch, smoke play, marijuana, Daddy kink, choking

Forgive Me, Father - butch/butch, blasphemy kink, masturbating in a confession booth, wax play, spanking

dykediaries: Literotica

Bois' Night - butch/butch, a friend helps a friend get over a breakup

Meet Me After Work? - butch/butch, a butch gets picked up by a customer at their job

One Night Stand - butch/butch, two butches get set up on a blind date

Reconnecting - butch/butch, two old transmasc friends meet up post-transition

Welcome Surprise - butch/butch/femme, threesome, a butch/femme couple incorporate another butch

basicbutch: Literotica

Arm Wrestle - butch/butch - The reigning arm wrestling champ at the dive bar meets her match.

One Bad Night - butch/butch - A terrible night out results in unexpected romance.

(my stuff) Leo Wilder/ butchpillowprince:  AO3, website, instagram, linktr.ee

Yes, Sir anthology (paperback, ebook)

Coming Home novella (paperback, ebook)

Charlie & her friends series

Poker Game - butch/butch/butch/butch/butch/butch group sex - Charlie and her friends play poker and find a new way to place their bets.

Halloween Party - butch/butch/butch/butch/butch/butch group sex - Charlie and the gang throw a Halloween party and play truth or dare.

Camping Trip - butch/butch/butch/butch/butch/butch group sex and three butch/butch pairs - Charlie and her friends go on a camping trip together after the Halloween party.

New Year's - butch/butch/butch/butch/butch/butch group sex - Charlie and her friends go to a kink party for New Year's Eve.

One-shot originals

Against the Ropes - butch/butch - Tensions run high in the boxing ring between rivals.

Amateurs - butch/butch/butch/butch - Some butch friends film amateur porn in a parking lot, and get caught.

Bittersweet Rivals - butch/butch - Two basketball rivals meet at the bar and work out their rivalry on the dancefloor.

BOY TOY - butch/butch - A couple explores a "BOY TOY" collar fantasy together, and acts it out in the bedroom.

Butch Bros - butch/butch - Two butch buds hang out and have a good time on the couch.

Butch Cocksuckers - butch/butch/butch - A set of roommates work on their communication together.

Chastity - butch/butch - A closeted, repressed baby butch gets corrupted by a filthy, greedy butch top.

Gym Rat - butch/butch - A gym bro follows a silver fox to the showers.

Library Stacks - butch/butch/butch - Two students find a creative way to study in the library, and they get caught.

Oil Change - butch/butch - Jack's friend needs some help in the garage.

Road Trip - butch/butch - A country boy and a city boy take a road trip together, and the city boy misbehaves.

Suit and Tie - butch/butch - Two butches get dressed up for the opera and don't make it out the door.

Tough Guy - butch/butch - A heartbroken butch goes to the bar, flagging black on the right.

Use Me - butch/butch - A drink on the couch becomes more when the boy learns how to ask for what he wants.

Audio erotica

Dev Ill/thedevilisadyke: butch4butch audio library

Closer Than Ever and Game Time on Dipsea (paid or 7 day free trial) - masc lesbian friends have a Dyke Night that starts with a friendly massage / They go to a bar and realize their prospects aren't as hot as each other

Masc for Masc on TryQuinn (paid or 7 day free trial) https://www.tryquinn.com/audio/masc-for-masc

The entire butch4butch tag on Gone Wild Audio Sapphic (/r/gwasapphic)

Video porn

Fagdyke Cruising

Shutter

Blue Room

Butch4Butch Daddy boy scene

Butch vs butch lesbians

Butch & Butch

Sid Blankovich and Jiz Lee

Adina and Saffron

Daddi Dice and Red Jackhammer

Dallas and Syd Blakovich

Two lesbian butches having anal sex

Butch on fire

Real girlfriends

The rest of the butch4butch tag on PINKLABEL.tv

Am I missing something? Reblog and link to it!

[mihanisms]

Fuck. Caleb has no idea how he ended up in this situation. The last thing he remembers is your pretty, doe-like eyes, wide with mischief, and that perverted smile curling at your plush lips, hypnotizing him.

"Trust me, baby. You’ll like it."

He’s not so sure about that now.

The ropes on his arms feel foreign—usually, it’d be you bound up, whining and pleading for more from him. But now, he’s the one spread out, wrists tugged above his head, muscles twitching under the restraints as he watches you beneath him, breath shallow. His cock stands flushed and aching between his legs, contrasting the cool, glistening metal resting against his tip.

"Relax, Caleb," you murmur, trailing your fingers down his stomach, light and teasing. "You trust me, don’t you?"

He does. God, he does. But the unfamiliar weight of hesitance is coiled tight in his gut, warring with the sharp edge of anticipation. The slick press of the instrument at his slit is so delicate, nearly innocent. His fingers flex against the bindings, jaw tightening as heat builds low in his stomach.

He swallows hard, throat drying up. "Baby, I don’t- Fuck- I-I don’t even know what I’m doing…"

"That’s okay," you purr, watching the way his body shudders. "You don’t have to. I made sure to do aaaaall my research before this. It won’t hurt….too much?"

Caleb lets out a sharp exhale, his fingers curling into fists against the restraints. His heart is hammering against his ribs, his voice rough around the edges. "Not sure that’s making me feel any better, honey." 

You only smile, tilting your head as you give the dilator the slightest push forward. His jaw clenches as the cool metal dips past the tight ring of his slit, and oh, fuck, that’s….that’s different. His hips stutter, his body caught between retreat and curiosity. His cock twitches, betraying him, and he glares down at the rod teasing the entrance of his cock like it’s personally offended him. 

You hold it still between your fingers, the gleaming silver catching the light, and Caleb watches it with wide, cautious eyes like it’s a weapon you’re driving into his heart. Catching the emotions swirling on his face, your smile turns softer, lips finding his inner thigh. “It’s thinner than you think. I’ll go slow. Just focus on what you feel, alright?”

He doesn’t answer—can’t answer, too busy trying not to flinch as you let the weight and gravity do most of the work, easing the rod in millimeter by millimeter. His cock jolts in your grip, and his hips shift instinctively like he doesn’t know whether to push away or into you.

“‘S okay?” you ask quietly.

Caleb nods quickly, his hands gripping the sheets on either side of him. “Yeah. Yeah, just…fuck, it’s cold.”

Then, the rod really begins to sink in. His jaw drops, lips parting in a half gasp, half moan as the pressure builds—it’s not pain, but it’s also not pleasure. Not yet, at least. It was more like a bizarre, alien stretch that lights up nerves he didn’t even know existed. With every slow inch, a sensation crawled up from deep within, growing fuller, heavier, and Caleb was heaving even without being touched properly.

“I- God, baby-” He breathes heavily, pupils blown wide. “Wh- What the hell is that?”

“I don’t even-” he groans again as you press just a little deeper, until the rod slips past the tightest part and settles in like it belongs there. His thighs jerk, but your grip steadies him. “S’mthing like this should hurt, right? It’s not supposed to- Ah fuck- Fuck baby, feels like it’s in my stomach.”

You grin. You have him right where you want him to be. “That’s your prostate saying hi, Colonel.”

Caleb laughs, but the noise breaks in the middle. “...Tell it to back the fuck off.”

You hum, amused, wrapping your hand around the base of his cock. “Hm. That wasn’t your safeword, was it?” you ask sweetly, giving him a slow, deliberate stroke.

He jolts. Hard.

“Hey-” His jaw tightens as the sound shifts inside him with your movement, pressing against the slick, sensitive walls of his urethra. It’s like there’s a pulse inside him now—like the pleasure is coming from within, surging outward from the center of his cock in waves.

Your hand glides up, mercilessly, expertly- overly patient. Waiting for him to surrender. His length pulses helplessly in your grip, and a fresh bead of precum pushes out around the sound, thick and shiny.

He lets out a ragged breath. “Okay, okay- I get it. New kink unlocked. Ten out of ten. We can stop now, and try this another time when I’m more prepa-”

But you don’t stop. You give him another pump, firmer this time, and watch the way he tenses, words caught in his throat. You hum again, pleased, your hand trailing up to the head of his cock. ”Still not your safeword,” you remark sarcastically, thumb circling the sensitive spot just beneath the head. Not enough to push him over. Just enough to remind him how badly he wants it despite all his hesitation and denial.

He growls. Actually growls, eyes snapping to yours. “You’re mean.”

You pout, mockingly innocent. “You said I could try anything I wanted.”

“I didn’t think you meant torturing me with a goddamn sword in my dick.”

You laugh and start moving again—but this time slower. Languid. Mean, like he complained about. The rod shifts with every stroke, pressing deeper, drawing out tight, involuntary spasms from the depths of his body. He’s gasping now, body tight like a livewire, trapped between frustration and desperate need.

“Baby-” he whines, voice breaking on his next words as his head falls back against the headboard. “Baby, it feels weird feels so so weird-”

You stop.

Caleb feels like he’s about to die.

His breath is uneven, the flush on his ears quickly spreading to his cheeks. “Baby, please, ‘m losing my fuckin’ mind-”

You squeeze enough to make him twitch again. His hips try to buck, but the restraints hold him down, and it drives him up the wall. The metal glides with his motion, brushing something deep—too deep, he thinks—and he chokes on his own moan. 

“I want you to lose your mind,” you mumble, kissing his thigh before gently sinking your teeth into his skin. “That’s the whole point.”

He’s trembling—has been, for a while, and your bite does nothing to soothe the storm of sensations traveling through his nervous system.

You can feel the tension radiating off him in waves, his entire body vibrating with the struggle between wanting more and being overwhelmed. The storm inside him is palpable, and you can practically taste the need rolling off his skin.

“Caleb,” you coax, voice dripping with honeyed seduction. “Just let go. You’re already doing so well.”

He shakes his head frantically. “No, no, no- I can’t. I can’t-” The words tumble from his lips, desperate and pleading. His arms strain against the bindings, his body instinctively searching for more friction, more release. The dilator inside him throbs with every movement, and the heat in his stomach builds dangerously close to a breaking point.

Your hand moves with deliberate slowness, tracing the length of his cock while the sound nestles deep within him. He’s close. Too close. The tension builds, unbearable. “You can. You just have to let yourself feel it.”

Caleb’s breath hitches in his throat as you pick up the pace just a little, reveling in the way his body responds. Every jerk, every shudder, is a testament to your control over him.

“Please,” he gasps out, his eyes squeezed shut. “I can’t- Haah-! Please! Just wanna-”

But you hold him there, poised at the edge. You can see the desperation etched into his features, the way his body strains against the restraints as he fights for a release that feels so close yet just out of reach.

“So close.” Your thumb presses down just on the head of his cock, leisurely circling around the handle of the sounding rod. He whimpers, the sound a mixture of frustration and pleasure that has you wanting to draw out more. “So close, baby. Just a little more. You can take it.”

He arches as you drag your hand again, the combination of your motions and the metal creating a tension that has him throbbing with need. “Please!” he cries, the word spilling from his lips in a rush. “I’m begging you, just let me-”

You tighten your hold just enough to keep him on the edge, your thumb moving in a teasing rhythm that’s driving him up the wall. “But I want your eyes open, baby,” you coo softly. “Want you to see how pretty you fall apart.”

Immediately, his eyes dart open to meet yours, a mix of need and disbelief swirling within their purple depths. “You’re killing me,” he pants, voice laced with desperate longing.

“I’m not killing you. We’re just playing, baby. Finding out what makes you tick, hm?” You lean in, lips pressing a kiss to his cock as you apply a bit more pressure on the dilator.

Caleb’s body betrays him, the muscles in his thighs tightening, his cock pulsing beneath your grip. “Can’t hold it- can’tholditcan’tholditican’tican’t-”

“You’re not supposed to,” you mumble, voice muffled by the kisses you press along his length. As you drag your tongue over his entire cock, the rod shifts deep inside him simultaneously, and the combined sensations finally push him over the edge.

He comes with a keening, high-pitched sound, his torso lifting off the bed, cum spilling in thick, hot pulses around the metal, the orgasm tearing through him so deep and measured it looks like it hurts. Repeated cries of your name leave him, tremors running through his hips and legs as his cum drips down onto your fingers.

You hold him through it, feeling the heat radiating from his body and the overwhelmed shudders as he rides out the waves of pleasure. “That’s it, baby,” you murmur, caressing him gently, letting him bask in the bliss longer than he thought possible. “Just breathe.”

You slow your movements, allowing him to come down slowly, savoring the feeling of him still trembling against your touch. He collapses back onto the bed, panting hard, eyes glazed over  as he tries to process what just happened.

Caleb’s chest heaves as he lies there, boneless and completely undone. His wrists strain weakly against the restraints, more out of reflex than any real attempt to move. Sweat slicks his skin, clinging to the line of his throat, and his lashes flutter with each heavy, ragged breath.

You watch him, quietly captivated. The rise and fall of his body, the dazed look in his eyes—like he just survived something holy and horrible and gorgeous all at once. You reach up and carefully undo the bindings, careful not to jostle him too much. His arms drop with a groan, and you catch one before it hits the bed too hard, guiding it to rest along his side.

He doesn’t speak. Just breathes. Stares at the ceiling like it might have answers.

The sound still rests deep inside him, barely shifting with his post-orgasm twitches. You’re patient with him, waiting until the sharpness of his gasps fades into something slower before you finally—gently—slide the rod free. Caleb hisses, the feeling more sensitivity than pain, and his whole body shudders once more as you place the tool aside and press a soft kiss to the base of his cock.

“You,” he finally rasps, his voice hoarse. “What just…”

You giggle quietly, wiping your fingers clean before shuffling up beside him, one hand sliding across his stomach. “C’mon baby,” you whisper, lips brushing his collarbone. “Didn’t I tell you you’d like it?”

He turns his head slowly to look at you, pupils still blown wide. He looks completely wrecked—and utterly in love. “You’re insane,” he whines, laughter bubbling up despite his exhaustion. “I think you just broke me.”

You smile, brushing your fingers through his hair, heart racing at how much he’s surrendered to you. “Good. That was the idea.”

Caleb lets out a rough, shaky breath and pulls you down into him, his arms wrapping tight around your waist like you might float away if he doesn’t. “You’re evil,” he mumbles, lips brushing against your skin. “I have no idea how you roped me into that.”

You smile and nuzzle back, fingers tenderly squeezing his skin. “Because you love me. Aaaand….you didn’t safeword.”

“I was- I was this close, pipsqueak.” His protest is weak, gesturing with his thumb and forefinger apart before letting his arm flop limply over your body again. “But I couldn’t even remember it. You broke my brain. I hope you’re proud.”

Another quiet giggle escapes you and he huffs, nuzzling further into your neck like he’s trying to crawl under your skin. “I’m not moving,” he declares, the words muffled by your skin. “I deserve cuddle compensation after being pushed to my limit.”

“Oh yeah?” you tease, rubbing soothing circles into his back. “But you’re not denying liking it.”

He exhales a breath that sounds suspiciously close to a contented sigh and mutters, “Greedy girl.”

But he doesn’t let go. Doesn’t even try. He just melts into you, warm and limp, clinging to you like a man whose entire soul has decided this—your arms, your breath, your heartbeat—is the safest place in the world.

[carnalcrows]

BOUND TO LOSE

pairing: the salesman x top male reader

synopsis: The salesman doesn't believe that he is inferior to anyone. Until today

content warnings: 18+, hate sex, reader is the masked officer, salesman is a BRAT, collars, spanking, spit as lube, pain kink, collar pulling, mild chocking, unprotected sex, anal sex, no afteracre, dead dove do not eat (?)

word count: 1.2k

You had always known that he was dangerous.

Not in the way the guards were—cold, efficient, unquestioning. Not in the way the VIPs were—ravenous beasts disguised in silk and money. No, this man was dangerous in a different way. His voice could slip into your mind like honey-coated poison, his smiles always a little too knowing, his gaze lingering a second too long. He was a chess player who never made a move without thinking ten steps ahead.

But tonight, for once, he wasn’t the one holding the winning hand.

“You really think you can control me?” His voice was low, smooth despite his predicament.

He was pinned, hands bound behind his back with expertly knotted rope. His suit—always so sharp, so annoyingly put-together—was rumpled now, dishevelled from the struggle. A few buttons had popped open in the chaos, exposing the dip of his collarbone, and the curve of his throat. Despite it all, despite being restrained and on the losing end for once, he still dared to smirk.

Like he had already won.

You gave the leash a firm tug, and for the first time, his breath hitched.

The deep red collar sat snugly around his neck, the silver buckles glinting under the dim light. You had never expected to get this far—to actually get it on him. But you had learned something valuable tonight: for all his cunning, for all his sharp words and sharper smiles, there was something in him that wanted to be caught.

“You’re awfully mouthy for someone tied up,” you said, voice even. Calculated. Dangerous.

His smirk deepened, his chin tilting up slightly in defiance. “And you’re awfully cocky for someone who thinks rope is enough to keep me in place.”

You pulled the leash again—harder this time—and his words cut off into a sharp inhale. His lips parted slightly, his body shifting, and for the first time, there was something new in his gaze. The usual amusement was still there, but beneath it—hidden in the way his fingers flexed uselessly behind his back, in the slight tremor of his breath—was something else.

Something you could use.

“You talk too much,” you murmured.

And then, before he could throw out another smart remark, you yanked him forward and kissed him.

It was messy from the start—teeth, heat, the clash of control against resistance. He made a sound against your lips, one that could have been a laugh if it wasn’t swallowed by the kiss. Even now, even as his back hit the wall and your hands fisted in his shirt, he still thought he could play his little games.

Fine. Let him try.

Because for once, you were the one making the rules.

His smirk dissolved the moment your fingers tangled in his hair, yanking his head back just enough to expose more of his throat. He gasped against your mouth, and you felt it—the briefest hitch in his breath, the way his pulse pounded beneath your lips as you kissed down the sharp line of his jaw.

“You enjoying yourself?” you muttered against his skin, lips ghosting over the sensitive spot beneath his ear.

His breath shuddered. “You tell me.”

You bit down—not hard enough to hurt, but enough to remind him exactly who was in control here. He jolted slightly, a sharp inhale slipping through his teeth, and for the first time, he didn't have some clever remark.

Good.

You kissed him again—deeper, rougher, tasting the frustration on his tongue, the slight shake in his breath. His body pressed against yours, the ropes at his wrists going taut as if he had momentarily forgotten they were there, as if instinct told him to grab at you. But he couldn't.

That realization sent a shudder through him.

"You hate this, don’t you?” you murmured, pulling back just enough to watch his reaction. His lips were slightly swollen, breath uneven, but his smirk had returned—lazy, infuriating. “Being under someone else’s control?”

He exhaled a quiet laugh, tilting his head. “Hate is a strong word.”

You dragged your thumb across his bottom lip, pressing down just slightly, watching as his gaze darkened.

"Good," you muttered. "Then you'll be just fine."

And with that, you kissed him again—longer, rougher, letting the heat coil between you, letting him understand, once and for all, that this time he wasn’t the one pulling the strings.

You pushed his pants and boxers down with a swift tug, revealing his aching cock, desperate for a touch– for absolutely anything.

Were you going to give him that release? Nah, you were going to do this your way.

He shivered as the cold air hit his length– making beads of pre spill from the tip. You flipped him around so that his bare ass was facing you, still clutching the chain of his collar tightly in your other hand.

Before he could say another mocking word, you smacked his lower half, the echo vibrating through the room.

The man had a slow reaction. First, he processed what had just happened to him, and then he realized something. He liked it.

He fucking moaned.

You paused your actions, this wasn’t really supposed to be for his pleasure, but…oh well.

Continuing your actions on his ass, you let go of his collar and pulled your pants down, revealing your hard-on. You spread his cheeks before spitting right on his hole. He would have to do with that much.

The man shivered in delight as you lined your cock with his entrance, slowly pushing in until you bottomed out all the way.

His eyes were blown wide, his mouth hanging open into something like a grin. He was a fucking psychopath. It wasn’t like you could see him though. What you could see was his hole swallowing your dick again, and again, and again.

You increased your pace, bringing one of your hands back up to tug at his collar, making him crane his neck to look back at you.

“You must be enjoying this, hm? Fucking slut.” 

His eyes roll to the back of his head at your words. The degradation must be getting to his head. To an extent, you understood why he was right for the… job of his if one could even call it that.

He clenched around your cock, the lack of airflow due to the tight collar only turning him on even more. His moans and gasps filled the room, hands loosely grasping onto whatever surface was beneath him.

Without warning, he released, spurting his seed onto the wall in front of him. He thinks his hole has been torn open, not that he minds.

You, however, are far from done. You release his collar, and bring both your hands back to his hips, gripping them tightly as you pound into him with reckless abandon. The man feels so much pain. But he fucking loves it.

Your pace starts to stutter slightly, as you empty yourself into him with a low groan, filling him to the brink with your seed. As you pull out, you notice that the cum spilling from his hole is tinged pink. Must be blood.

Not that you care.

Wordlessly taking off the collar, you clean yourself up with the hem of his shirt before leaving him there and walking out. There was much to be done.

The man was in bliss. 

His neck was practically throbbing as he brought his fingers to it. He hadn’t felt this elation even when he was playing Russian roulette with Gi-hun.

Maybe he had to get in trouble more often.

© carnalcrows on tumblr. Please do not steal my works as I spend time, and I take genuine effort to do them.

[slutzforbueckers]

kiss land

pairing: paige bueckers x fem!reader

warnings: smut

synopsis: you were a stripper and paige had her eyes on you—just her luck, you had your eyes on her.

♡₊˚ 🦢・₊✧

the lights turned off in the strip club and everyone knew what time it was. they always did that, a quick black out before a they turned the red lights on. and when they did that’s when you appeared, a two piece black lingerie set clinging to your curves, a red thigh garter strapped around your right thigh. there was pause and everyone went silent. people that only came to this particular club to watch you made their way to the stage, dollar bills in hand—paige happened to be one of those people.

she was almost always in the front row, her eyes stuck on your body the whole dance. you always had a different song choice, tonight’s choice being kiss land by the weeknd. you twirled the pole and bit your lip as you scanned the audience, locking eyes with each one to make them feel special. it worked because when you locked eyes with paige her breath caught in her throat, her pupils dilating to cover the cool blue.

the way you moved on the pole had her captivated, you were graceful with each and every part, you looked so innocent and sinful all at once—it’s what kept the men and women coming back. you slid down the silver pole, swaying your hips and shaking your ass to the beat of the song as you dropped to your knees. an uproar of whistling and drunk men fake moaning filled the club, what really set them off was you pretended to lick the pole as you stood back up.

your eyes found paige’s and she was sure she would pass out because this wasn’t like the other times, you were looking at her. paige’s fingers gripped her black cargos, her lips parting slightly. you held her gaze the entire time you rounded the pole and exited the stage and found your way to her seat.

you stopped right in front of her, legs just between hers, and lowered yourself onto her lap. you were close enough paige could catch a whiff of your perfume—something like vanilla and lust. it wrapped around her like a vice. you leaned in, your lip just beside her ear, voice dropped to a low sultry tone. “hi, pretty.”

paige almost had to force herself to speak, her hands twitching beside her with how badly she wanted to touch you. her voice cracked as she spoke, “he-hey.”

you smiled—wicked and amused—and gently ran your finger along her jaw, then down to her collarbone. the crowd was still going wild, but for a moment, the noise faded. it was just you and her. the connection was palpable, electric.

“see me after, yeah?” you murmured, letting your finger drop as you stood up and turned around, slowly walking away, hips still hypnotizing, the song on its final stretch. paige sat frozen, eyes stuck on your retreating figure, heart pounding in her chest like it was trying to escape. she had no idea what game you were playing—but she was already losing and god, did it feel good.

the second your set ended, paige was already on the move. she tried to play it cool—hands in the pockets of her pants, head down, like she wasn’t just seconds from combusting. her chest was tight, her throat dry, and her steps quick. the bouncer at the side hallways didn’t even ask her anything, he just gave her a knowing nod and opened the rope that led to the private rooms.

room 3. that’s what she was told.

she hesitated outside the door for a second, just long enough to hear the bass from the club vibrating faintly through the walls, then pushed it open. there you were—legs crossed, leaning back against a leather couch like you’d been expecting her all night. the red lights in here were even softer, dimmer, bathing you in a sultry glow. you didn’t say anything right away, just looked her up and down slowly, deliberately, like you had all the power in the world—and you did.

“close the door,” you said softly, voice like smoke. she obeyed without a word, locking it behind her before turning back to you, her breath shallow. you stood up, walking over to her—slow, almost predatory. you stepped up to her, running your hand up her toned stomach to her chest.

paige’s hands found your waist, fingers brushing over the garter still clinging to your thigh. “thought you didn’t do private dances.”

“i don’t,” you whispered, lips ghosting over her jaw. “but you’re hot and i want you.”

that’s when you kissed her, slowly at first just to make sure, and she kissed you back—harder. your mouths moved together in a frenzy, teeth clashing, tongues exploring. paige’s hands found the curve of your ass and squeezed, making you gasp into her mouth. she backed you up until you hit the couch, then pushed you down gently, her eyes dark.

“you always get what you want?” she asked as she lowered herself onto her knees in front of you.

“always.” you spread your legs for her without shame, the black lingerie still clinging to you, now soaked with heat and want.

“you’re so wet already,” she breathed, kneeling between your thighs, fingers trailing up the inside of your leg. her eyes were glossed over with lust as she looked up at you again. “just for me?”

“just for you,” you whispered, head falling back when her mouth brushed against the lace.

she didn’t waste time—pulling the fabric aside and licking a slow, flat stripe up your cunt. you moaned, loud and unapologetic, your hips bucking into her face. her hands gripped your thighs, holding you open as she buried her tongue in you, eating like she’d starved for days, like the only thing that could satisfy her was you.

your fingers tangled in her hair, tugging hard when she sucked your clit just right. paige groaned against you, the vibration making your whole body shake. she ran her fingers over your thigh teasingly before bringing them up and prodding your lips with her middle and ring finger. you met her eyes as you wrapped your hand around her wrist and parted your lips, taking her fingers into your mouth and swirling your tongue around them.

paige let out a soft moan, her hips jerking forward slightly, while she watched you. you were a sight to be seen, you were the definition of a vixen. she was wetter than she had ever been before, she was almost certain she was going to cum in her pants before you even touched her.

she pulled her fingers out and pressed them into your cunt. your back arched and your hand shot down to grip her hair, the stretch burning in the best way. paige set a easy rhythm, hooking and prodding that sweet spot that made your head spin. “right—mhmm—right there, fuck—“

the muscles in your thighs twitched as she sucked your clit into her mouth, her tongue flicking and circling with just the right amount of pressure. paige couldn’t keep her eyes off of you, she soaked up every laboured breath, every moan, every whimper. you brought your hands up to grab at your tits, your fingers pinching and rolling your hardened nipples through your lace bra.

paige hooked her fingers just right and it was over—you came with a cry, thighs trembling, your body arching off the couch but she didn’t stop. she dragged you through another—then another—until you were breathless and ruined beneath her, makeup smudged, hair a mess, your chest rising and falling in desperate heaves.

when she finally pulled away, mouth and chin glistening, she leaned over you and kissed you again—slow this time, deep, like a promise.

“i’ve been watching you for months,” she murmured against your lips, her voice low and raw.

“but this? this is mine now.”

♡₊˚ 🦢・₊✧

[mooishbeam]

『♡』 In the Ring

♡ featuring: boxer!wriothesley x manager!reader

♡ summary: its hard managing a boxer full time. maybe it's time you relieve that stress. wc: 6.8k+ (???>":>?)

♡ cw/tw: mentions of trauma, mentions of violence, rough sex, overstim, face-sitting, size kink, unintentional edging, hair pulling, mentions of choking, argument, confessed feelings, slow burn, kinda toxic?

notes: can u tell how down bad i am for wriothesley. also do yall like the smaller text cause I do. jing yuan fluff next :)) art by sxnalien on twitter! <3 comments and reblogs are appreciated!

For a second, the crowd stills. Bright intense lamps illuminate the sweltering squared circle, buoyant under the nimble movement of the boxers. They trade blows, bobbing and throwing each devastating hook with an even deadlier counter. No one took a hit for the past minutes, and the audience scoots to the edge of their seats at the sheer stamina of the two. Both dripping sweat, barely holding on between the merciless clock and their steadfast opponent. You can almost hear the breeze of swift jabs cutting wind against their jaws. The one with blue gloves can barely manage to guard himself, with a swollen face and wobbly legs, while the crimson gloves deal relentless punches. The crowd shouts. Unintelligible echoes, some that pray for the win, others grieving the money they’re about to lose. He’s caught on the ropes, and attempts a wild swing to save himself, to save his career. Red gloves weaves effortlessly and delivers a brutal crush to his bloodied nose and possibly busted mouthpiece. The crack is resounding, it makes the commentators cringe. His skull flies back, and he comes crashing down from his dizzying tower. The head-first fall vibrates beneath the feet of investors in proximity. 

DING DING DING 

Mass uproar ensues. They jump out of their seats, flailing their arms, joy and pain in equilibrium. 

“And he is out! It’s all over!” the commentator yells. Confetti floats golden dust from the ceiling. The victor stalks the ropes before hopping on them, his gloves raised in the air. Glistening, high off elation, but somehow composed in his attitude, akin to a wolf. 

“A savage knockout from the untouchable world champion, the king of the ring, Wriooothesley!” 

“Wrio, Wrio, Wrio!” they chant. You’re standing near the ropes, already identifying which joints you’ll need to observe after his victory lap. It’s hectic, and you’re jotting down the state of his figure. Past experiences sew through each deep scar carving his rugged biceps and abs, the bruises display early signs of discoloration. He’s tall on the unseen throne, it feels like you’re there with him. A million eyes in that vast stadium, and yet, those midwinter eyes ebbed in silver only look at you.  

Your beginnings as a manager were tumultuous. You could barely comprehend how out of your league you were working for a renowned agency fresh out of college. Though you found quick success in your ability to grab the attention of investors through public relations, you weren’t equipped just yet with the hindsight in preparing for scandals. The other athletes you worked with served no problem, and so you never had to worry about their appeal. Higher ups praised your extensive portfolio, and at such a young age, it was even more commendable. You earned it, fame and respect, interviews and gossip—a delicate dance. You were always busy, assisting your clients throughout the day and maintaining their presence while they slept. It was hard work, but you loved doing it. 

That was until you worked with amateur boxer, Childe. 

A snappy, overconfident lightweight fighter with no regard for anything or anyone. He had an unmistakable void in his eyes, but you fought for him ceaselessly, to prove that he wasn’t the cold person he portrayed himself as. You bore with his flirtatious compliments and innuendos, the need to focus him whenever you documented his afflictions, and he’d not-so-subtly flex his biceps. Childe was unnecessarily violent with underhanded tactics. The media knew this and did everything to amplify that bellicose story. You’d combat it, negate it, but he only fed the flames with threats of retaliation. Taking his phone wasn’t enough, and you couldn’t get through to him. It was only a matter of time before he went off the deep end.  

The day you slept, you discovered a restlessness you’d endure indefinitely. The flickering glow of your device woke you at midnight as hundreds of notifications congested your screen. 128 missed calls from your agency, 50 from news sources, and none from Childe. When you processed the damage from his deplorable stunt, you nearly hurled your phone out the window. He posted revenge porn, and evidently turned off his phone. Surely, there’d be a way to fix this. The chances seemed to dissolve with each text turning green. You started pacing, battling with morality and loyalty and anger. What he did was disgusting, but it’s your job to save him, right? Is he worth saving? You spoke with 4 managers at once, switching through motives and bickering until morning. As you flipped through the television, another emotion struck you. 

There he was, on a tasteless gossip channel. An interview you didn’t arrange, with a man you’ve never seen before. And he was...crying? The sob story emitting from his deceitful lips was almost impressive. Childe went on about how “demanding and horrible” you were backstage. The crocodile tears dried up through dodgy anecdotes, but it was enough to have people hooked. You were allegedly physically and emotionally abusive. He was too scared to speak up due to your position and he just couldn’t bear it any longer. Then he dropped the bomb; he blamed you for his post. You forced him to do it, jealous of his previous partners, emphasizing how enamored you were of him. The questionable tears began to fall again, but this time he covered his mouth, withholding the duping smile crawling on his face.  

You were filled with blinding rage, unable to control the fury at which your remote connected with the screen. It was everywhere now, social media websites booming with live opinions. He had no reason to slander you, and you couldn’t pinpoint why he chose to hurt you like this. You cried for him, shared stories of childhood and family. The knife you used to protect him was firm in your back, twisting and digging with each disgusting message in your inbox. You had no game plan to conduct, and no tears left to cry.  

Within a week, you finally understood how cruel this industry could be. Within a week, you were no longer on top. You lost clients fast. It spread like wildfire and not a single outlet spared an ear for your side. People you called friends, coworkers, hadn’t replied to your messages. When you got back to work, the rooms were silent as you passed. You could feel their judgement, whispers rattled with rumors and accusations. They waited for the tiniest slip-up and pounced like hyenas—you were eaten alive by their pitiful stares. You attempted to tell your truth multiple times throughout the week, but it was consistently rejected. The headlines were eye-catching: 

“Manager From Hell: Childe Tells All!” 

“He Cries: A Story of Love and Jealousy” 

Your stomach churned to the magazines being shown. Despite the great amount of loss you suffered, you were thankful for the one person that believed you, your boss. 

“Childe is a lying little snake. The media knows that, too.” 

“Then why is this happening?” 

“Money. That story is making bank right now. But I know for a fact you wouldn’t do this” he reassured.  

“Thank you, sir. But...I lost everything; I just don’t know what to do.” The weariness was heavy in your voice. 

“I have someone you can manage. It won’t be easy, but if anyone can do it, it’s you.” You were unsure of yourself now, and he continued.  

“You’re one of my best. If you want to climb out of this, now’s your chance.” Yes, you were unsure, drowning in doubt. But if the only way to get above water was to keep swimming, you wouldn’t give up so easily. 

Wriothesley wasn’t exactly known for his kindness. Crude, cocky, maybe even spoiled were descriptions that circulated in the tabloids. He had a knack for pissing reporters off by not answering questions or humming over their voice with a shit-eating grin on his face. Women loved him, however, throwing bras and phone numbers written on scrap as the condemned “bad boy” departed post-game. They screamed his name at once, and he’d done nothing to deserve it. He relished infamy—that way, it was much harder to pry into his private life. 

It had to be a coincidence that it was someone you fangirled over. In college, your eyes were glued to the screen every Sunday, waiting for Wriothesely’s post-conference and behind the scenes interviews. He didn’t speak often, but just the sight of those inky strands streaked with ash made your heart flutter featherlight in your chest. 

When you first approached him, he was just as arrogant as you’d expect. 

“Good evening!” you beamed. You caught him outside the gym, and he still had his headphones in. Full volume and blankly staring as you went on about the opportunity, silent under the blaring music. He took one earbud out when you finished. 

“Hm? Who’re you?” 

You were slightly annoyed. “Let me reintroduce myself, I’m (Y/N). Your new manager.” 

“No. Bye.” He began to walk past you without an ounce of care. You couldn’t lose it like this. 

“Ah, wait!” He turned half-heartedly. 

“Listen, I get it. You don’t want to be bossed around. But honestly, your reputation is shit. That can’t be good for business.” you persuaded. He towered over you, the figure of a Greek giant peeked through the compression top as he lazily watched you. 

“So? Why do you care?” he remarked. 

“I’ll help you. Sponsors, advertisements, whatever you want. You’re good, but you can be so much better. Let’s make money together.” You held your hand out, awaiting a handshake of approval. He merely glanced at your limp wrist. 

“Help? You’re obviously not doing this for free.” 

“Of course not. Give a little, take a little. I don’t do charity cases” you shrugged.  

He groaned, raking his fingers through his thick mane. At the very least, he hadn’t walked away yet. “I'd prefer for my life to be private.” 

“Then I’ll guarantee your privacy.” 

“Really?” he scoffed. “What can you give me besides empty promises?” 

“Anything you desire. Work with me, and I’ll make it happen.” That offer enticed him. No one had been this persistent with him yet, he scared off any manager that dared succor him. It was slightly entertaining, the way you burned ambition in your eyes, you were so easy to read. Most people wouldn’t look directly at him, and here you were, ready to follow him home if that’s what it took. He chuckled, and his massive hand reached for yours. 

You shook hands, and your fates were sealed.  

That was a year ago, and ever since then he’s been a thorn in your side. Nonstop drama and rectifying consumed your life. You didn’t think a man who spoke so little in public could talk so much around you. Whenever you argue—which is a frequent occurrence—his smirk grew wider at your frustration. You weren’t sure why you ever liked him in the first place. He only puts in effort when it comes to sparring, but you’re determined to ameliorate his standing, and in turn, yours.  

The minute you open the doors to the hall, the sound of pummeled sandbags, clanking metal, and sneakers skidding across the floor roars in your ears. Some men are dialed in on abusing the inanimate objects, the rest tense through repetitions of dumbbell curls with a hiss. You're in quick strides, the phone arm's length away from you as the sponsor on the other end screams. Another petty drama surrounding Wriothesley grabs the attention of the internet. Luckily, you have thorough experience remedying this. 

“What are you going to do? You’re fucking with my money!” you hear the faint voice. You bring the phone back to your ear. 

“Don’t I always deal with it? He fights, I make up for the other half. Give me a few hours.” 

“I’m not going to wa-” You hang up at the response. 

You propel the double doors free into a large room with a boxing ring in the center. A group of trainers swarm the perimeter, you can barely see through.  

“Don’t be scared!” one of them taunt towards the sparring partner, who has an unthinkable panic creeping in goosebumps dotting his skin. Each sloppy dodge tilts him more and more off balance against the strikes. Wriothesley has a powerful stature, with his back curving in a way that accentuates the rough muscle shaping his spine. You drone an annoyed sigh at the commotion and push yourself through them.  

“Move it, move!” you yell, before jostling your way to the front of the ring. 

“Wriothesley! Times up.”  He turns his head to the side, unintentionally sparing his partner and glares at you. 

“Two minutes.” 

“No. Now.” you command. He looks up at nothing, as if considering his options if he cusses you out. Then he begrudgingly drops the gloves and pulls himself under the ropes. The group disperses from the lack of action and he’s mere inches from you now. Sometimes you forget how to breathe in his half-naked presence.  

“What the fuck is your problem?” He mumbles while drying his head with a towel. His colossal forearms are raised over his head, highlighting the happy trail thick down his abdomen and tufts of hair on his armpits.  

“You. How many times do I have to tell you not to train during recovery?” you seethe. 

“Damn. Must’ve slipped my mind.” He doesn’t sound convincing in the slightest. 

“Well then, I’ll be sure to remind you hourly.” 

“Nah, I’m good. Hearing you once a day is enough.” He tosses the towel to you like his dutiful servant and grabs his water bottle. The liquid drips down his chin and on his shorts, hanging below his v-line. 

Your eyebrow twitches from withheld vexation. “If you don’t want to hear me twice, I suggest you do what I tell you. We need to talk.” A heavy sigh leaves him as he stretches, and he passes you the water bottle. If you had the strength to collapse the bottle with one hand, you would. “Lead the way” he goads. 

Wriothesley follows you through the backdoor of the gym to a secluded alleyway. When you get there, he immediately pulls out a cigarette you didn’t know he had. You were aware he smokes occasionally, but seeing it physically coaxed a strange worry in your gut. You twist your phone to him, to display evidence of him instigating an argument with Childe on social media. He reads in silence, briefly laughing at the recollection of his own comebacks, then lights the cigarette. 

“What’s this? Didn’t I say keep a low profile?” you reprimand. 

He drags in a deep breath of nicotine, and you eye the foul scent with distaste. He blows it above your unhappy face. “Calm down. Once a month thing. That fucker's testing me.” 

“This can’t happen again, Wriothesley.” He ignores you to continue his mumbling. “I should break his neck like a twig. He’s lucky he didn’t say that shit to my face, fucking punk.” he grouses. You're struggling to gather your thoughts, the cigarette compacted between his thick fingers irritates you. 

“We all appreciate your restraint, however-” you get closer, and yank the stick out his hand. 

 “No-!” Before he can finish, you promptly smudge it underneath your shoe. You aren’t sure how he’d react, but you didn’t expect him to sulk like a puppy. 

“You aren’t doing this shit while I’m here.” 

“Oh my god” he pouts, throwing his hands into his face and pulling them down.  

“You’re lucky I don’t report it to the doctor. None of this, ever again.” 

“Fuck, alright just...” he lets out a defeated sigh. “What do you want me to do about it? Apologize publicly?” You need him to do nothing; neither agency wants controversy, and it’d most likely be swept under the rug in just a couple days. You point his water bottle to him. 

“Nope, I’ll handle it. Just sit there and be pretty.” you reassure. He leans down to your height with a sweet smile and even sweeter gaze. 

“I do that well, don’t I?” he quips. 

“You manage.” He latches onto the water bottle, and drinks from it in your hand while looking at you. A soft heat envelops you beyond words that never reach your lips. 

“Listen to what I’m saying. Low. Profile.” Wriothesley comes up from thirst, dragging his tongue along the straw to the top, and licks his blushed lips. He delights in your flustered reaction. 

“Low. Profile.” he repeats in a sarcastic drawl. 

Later in the week, you receive a call in your office. It was fairly busy today, with coworkers constantly “checking in”, more so to see Wriothesley sitting across from you. He had no reason to be here, and you were surprised at his arrival. Be it boredom or a certain longing, a dull swell pulsed in his chest once he saw your overworked smile. 

“Hello, this is (Y/N) of Boxe Association. May I know who I’m speaking with?” Wriothesley’s ears perk up at your sudden professionalism, and he mimics your cadence. 

“Good afternoon, it’s Isadora.” Isadora was an event coordinator you previously worked with before your controversy. You understood that she stopped communicating to protect her business, but the pain lingered. You twirl the phone cord around your fingers, and meet eyes with Wriothesley, who’s laid back in the chair, his arms behind his head. 

“Oh. Hey, it’s been a while.” you say. You turn your swivel chair away from him to continue the conversation. His eyebrow twitches slightly with an unconscious scowl, and he walks towards your chair. 

“It has. I’m calling because I have a proposition that might interest you. I believe a meet and greet would be appropriate for your client. A large chunk of his fanbase are young adult women, however, he’s also popular with children.” He spins the chair around with a firm hand and presses his cheek against the phone. 

“That’s true.” You side eye him, and without skipping a beat, mush his nosey face away. His hot breath on your digits makes your skin tingle. 

“Who is that” he mumbles. You'd never seen Wriothesley interact with children, and you have every reason to be hesitant. 

“Hmm...any positive activity with children is good publicity. I’ll consider it. I’ll let you know by tonight.” The second you hang up, you release his face. 

“Why are you being annoying-” 

“Who were you talking to” he chides.  

“Isadora. She’s an event coordinator.” His clenched jaw unwinds. “She wants to do a meet and greet with you and a few kids. If we go through with this, I’ll have a camera crew and some reporters there. It’ll be good for your image.” 

“Okay.” he agrees. That was quick.  

“...Are you sure? Kids are loud and obnoxious a lot of the time.” 

“So? Fine by me. I can teach them how to fight.” Your skin crawls at the thought of Wriothesley launching a child through a wall. “That won’t be necessary.” 

“It’ll be fun.” The more he assures you, the more uneasy you feel. 

“Wriothesley, I’m serious. Don’t screw this up” you plead. He holds his pinky out. “I won't.” His loose interpretation of promises was dubious at best, but you had no other options, and this might be your only opening. You curl to his word. 

After parleying the finer details, you broadcast a raffle for young fans to meet Wriothesley. The traffic to the website was overwhelming, and you quickly began sorting out tickets for the favored winners. 

 Fortunately, the next couple of weeks were par for the course. 

It’s the night before the event, and you’re getting ready for bed. You sit at your desk in a big T-shirt and do your daily review of personal data. As you're scrolling through and identifying what needs improvement, you get a notification on your phone. 

“Breaking News: Boxer Bar Fight!” Curious, you open the tab to a video. It makes your breath stall, sweating frantically. You can’t think clearly, and your shaky hands can barely increase the volume. Unidentifiable noises and wobbly camerawork made it impossible to catch anything besides those familiar inky black strands, throwing punches in a drunken stupor at a defenseless man. Your previous conundrum flashes through your memory in a horrific stop-motion; the duping smile on his face. 

No. It’s happening all over again. Why is he at a bar? You messaged him before he went to bed. He never goes to bars. Why now, the night before the event? It’s late, he doesn’t go anywhere without telling you. 

He promised. 

None of it made sense as you threw on any sweatpants in your drawer and ran out the door. You can’t wait until morning. Disaster punctures and tears any rational decision you contemplate. Shouting silently within your mind, a crashing rage—or sadness—boils in your nervous stomach. You’re tunnel vision in a taxi on the way to his address. 

When you get there, you bang on the door with a fury that vibrates throughout the archway. His home is extravagant, with two cars and an expansive driveway. You bang again. 

“Wriothesley!” He finally opens the door. He’s still half asleep, pajama pants low on his waist, groggily leaning against the arch.  

“(Y/N)? Uh, what’s up?” He slurs in a deep slumbering voice through heavy eyelids. You barge in without saying anything. “Make yourself at home, I guess.” 

The interior is just as opulent as the exterior, it almost looks untouched. Every corner has a case or shelf stacked with ornate trophies and medals of excellence. It was the home of someone who achieved peak perfection and reveled in it. He follows you to his living room, bewildered at your furious expression. You play the video in front of him, and he watches with that same puzzled attitude that makes you angrier. You try taking deep breaths to compose yourself, but they halt shallowly. 

“What the fuck is this?” you accuse. 

“What? I don’t know.”  “Like hell you don’t know, this shit is on every homepage. Are you serious?”  

The cranky boxer pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs. You show up at his house, and it’s to badger him about a rumor. Your temperament only heats the smoldering ember fueled by incessant claims. He covers his mouth, physically stopping the involuntary response. 

“Okay” he says, and blurts a facetious chuckle. Your heart thumps in your chest and ears.  

“Oh, It’s a fucking joke? I bust my ass to save your career and you’re laughing?” you snap, voice increasing in volume until it reaches a broken peak. He returns with the same energy. 

“When did I ask you to fix anything? Did you ever think that maybe I don’t fucking need you-” 

“You can barely control your smoking habits you pompous ass-” 

“I would if you didn’t nag me all the time. Whining and complaining, it’s fucking annoying!” he yells. Neither of you meant the words spilling out the bubbling surface, but your tongues were solely seasoned with the next spiteful jab. 

“Yes, whining! Because all you need to do is be on the straight and narrow, but you take nothing seriously, Wriothesley, and that’s exactly why-” 

“Exactly why what? Why your career went to shit so you’re piggybacking off mine?”  

Your battle stops. You can’t find the words to rebuttal. All the opinions of your colleagues, the media, Wriothesley, and yourself coagulate into a lump that fills the tightening throat. Pride comforts tears brimming your eyes. 

He pauses, as though he came to reality. An apology attempts to form on his lips, but it never manifests. “(Y/N), I didn’t-” 

“See you in the morning” you choked. You walk to the door, and he reaches out to the infinite space thick between you two.  

You didn’t sleep the entire night. It’s morning, and you’re exhausted. You consistently replayed the quarrel in your head through the taxi ride home, and when you strived for rest, it plagued your mind. Your coffee is untouched during your morning routine, a movement comparable to zombies. You don’t bother to confirm if Wriothesely is at the building—either way you owe it to the event holders to be there. 

You arrive just before the children file into the training room. Thankfully, Wriothesley is there in the center. Live cameras from reporters and parents border the walls; if something were to occur, it would be irreversible. Your head suddenly hurts. 

Perhaps playing it up for his reputation, the smile stretched across his face is a sunny warmth you’ve never seen from him. He waves to them, and they erupt with screams. To your astonishment, he gets on his knees to be eye level with them. They all jump into his arms at once, and he topples over onto the mat.  

And he’s laughing. This grumpy asshole fighter is laughing. A hearty, genuine laugh as he wraps his sturdy arms around all of them and picks them up at once. He whirls them around and they orchestrate high-pitched giggles. “Ready to have some fun?” he chortles. They say yes to varying degrees of excitement, and the meet and greet proceeds. 

You can’t help but smile when he frolics with the kids. They chase him with boxing gloves, he pretends to fall dramatically. Dogpiling him, he lets out a shrill scream of defeat. He manages to work in proper defense techniques while they jump him like a test dummy. He tosses each kid in the air whenever they ask, and never tells them no. You receive another call from Isadora amid your admiration, and you step outside. 

“Hey! Good news, these views are off the charts and the internet is really in his favor right now” she congratulates.  

“That’s great...what about the video from last night? Did you see it?” you ask. 

“Video...oh, that! Don’t worry, it’s confirmed fake.” What? Oh no. Immediate regret stirs in your blood, and you force the phone away to catch your breath. You feel utterly stupid. 

“Hello?” You quickly bring the phone back to your ear. “Yea, sorry. I have to go; I’ll call you later.” you insist. You can’t facepalm any harder. You make your way back to the training room, where the kids decorate his gloves with iridescent stickers. Wriothesley occasionally looks at you, but you can’t bear to show your guilty face. 

When the event is over, you both make sure to hug every child on the way out and thank the parent for coming. You’re sorting through mountains of requests people made to see Wriothesley again, and you mute your phone over the influx of emails. Peeking at the broadcast, under the footage in bold letters:  

“(Y/N) Back from the Dead?”  

It wasn’t the most flattering title, but it proved that public perception was salvageable. You emit a sigh of relief, for you and Wriothesley. As you’re packing your things to exit, he blocks the door with his body. 

“Can we talk?” You were dreading this discussion, but agreed, nonetheless. The ride to his home is silent, you grapple with a proper apology. 

You lean against the kitchen bar, while he’s laxing on the couch. Sleep deprivation torments you, causes you to wander as you fill in papers from sponsors. You can’t see the way Wriothesley steals glances at your slack figure curving to the marble. He eventually spoke.  

“So, um.” 

“I’m sorry, I forgot to tell you. You did a good job today Wriothesley, you should be proud.” You flash a meek smile. He fumbles with his thumbs uncomfortably. 

“I am. Aren’t I the best?” he boasts. 

“You are” you say. The lack of sleep beckons you to a spur of honesty as you scribble. “You have stunning form, perfect accuracy, and immeasurable talent. Not just anyone can do that.” you return. He gazes at you, that dull swell pumping in his veins again. The cozy radiance of lights brightens your tired eyes. 

“You’re a big fan, huh?” he chuckles.  

“Of course, I used to watch you in college. I had a major crush on you” you snort. “Everything you are is amazing, but you know this. So cut it out.” He sits on the armrest, swallowing your confessions. The room is entirely too hot, he needs alleviation—he needs you. 

“Sorry. For what I said.” 

“Forget it. It's my fault, I was careless. I apologize.” you admit. 

“You know I didn’t do it, right?” 

“I know.” 

“I didn’t.” 

“I know.” you reassure.  

“What if some other bullshit controversy comes out. Then what?” You stop writing to give him your full attention. 

“Then, I’ll trust you. We’ve gotten this far. Even if no one else does, even if for some reason I lose my job and I’m not your manager anymore, I’ll trust you, Wriothesley.” you reveal. He doesn’t move. Wriothesley knew he wasn’t deserving of trust, and he’d made a plethora of mistakes throughout your arrangement. You had every right to leave him long ago. Nobody gave him the time of day or cared for his wellbeing like you did, but he couldn’t reciprocate. Even so, here he kneels, at the feet of an angel that shows him undying mercy. 

Wriothesley stalks at you, but you remain. He looms over you, pinning you to the counter with both arms, inches from your face. It isn’t a threatening force, but one that begs for confirmation. That slated storm searches for a specific craving, you feel his chest rising and falling laden with yours. 

“You’re too close” you quiver. The bitter musk and vanilla enveloping your senses makes you foggy, it lingers through the whole house. 

“Tell me to leave.” His mouth slants to you, and he waits expectingly. You ogle his features, the scratches of a warrior celebrated across his hardy torso. His hair brushes against your forehead, imperfect and uniquely beautiful. Why were you mad, again?

“Tell me to back off, (Y/N)” he pleads. The pads of your fingers lightly caress his ear, then his jaw. 

“Please” he whispers. Your thumb grazes his bottom lip, and he succumbs to the urge. 

You collide fervently, lips coated in definitive desire. Dancing with rough, bruising kisses that don’t make space for air. It smears on your face, dips down your neck and swiftly returns to your lonely mouth. The pressure of the counter bar burns across your lower back from his weight, but those mind-numbing kisses soften any injury. You bite his lip when he pulls away, and he groans. Suddenly, he lifts you effortlessly with his hands on your ass, and you clash teeth and tongue in a passionate challenge. He demands entry, and you moan into the wet mass intertwining through sloppy kisses. It explores your mouth, sending throbs to your nerves and subdues any control you have left. Your arms are wrapped around his neck, but you yearn for deeper contact. He licks up the organ, and spots moist, hungry kisses on your jaw. You both take a fleeting breath before converging again. You find passage in his hair and suck staining rose-colored marks on his neck while he carries you to the bedroom. 

“You’ve been waiting for this, hm? Slutty groupie” Wriothesley moans. You drag kisses along the shell of his ear. He tosses you onto the fluffy bedding and haphazardly strips to his underwear. The wide mirror opposite his bed gives you a glimpse of his thighs and shapely bottom hugging the briefs. You’re supposed to be undressing, but that thronging bulge made for a titan makes you nervous for what’s to come. He palms the erection to soothe the ache and climbs over you. He’s somewhat gentle, careful with the bulk of his body as he cradles your face for more kisses. The way he looks at you, a covet softness or misted lust tantalizing the wetness pooling in your panties. He moves to your neck, French kissing down your throat and on your collarbone. You feel like a virgin again, heart racing from every graze of his fingers and lips. His calloused digits grope the plush fat of your thighs, and gradually reach the hem of your skirt. You snake your hands over his pecs and abs and read the muscles. Moaning into each other's mouths, indulging every part of your bodies as you’ve wanted to do for months. He pulls your skirt off and you hold your button-down over your exposed panties. Heat spreads in your body, and he amuses at your sudden bashfulness. 

“Oh…you’re shy?” he teases, before popping the buttons off with a brutal rip. “Wrio!” you yelp. That’s the first time you called Wriothesley a nickname; he must’ve died and went to heaven. The lace gift wrapped around your breasts taunts him, and he buries his face immediately. He nips the sensitive skin and snaps the clasp off. “Cute. Need to feel you” he husks. He twirls the bud in his mouth, while manipulating the other between his girthy fingers. Alternating among loving hickies and harsh tugs of his teeth on your nipple. You whine, and his laugh tickles your raw skin. He flips over on his back and steadies you on top of him. Discards the rest of your top, and let’s out a shaky groan.  

“You’ve never been this speechless” he says. You smile and kiss his puffy lips, your hands kneading his chest. “You’re so pretty” you coo. He huffs while rubbing circles on your waist, eyeing your inner thighs covered in juices.  

“Then come fuck my pretty face.” He slips under the waistband and tweaks the fabric, but you grip his wrists. “Wait! Let me shower first- “ 

“You said you'd give me anything I desire, remember that? Keep your promise." He yanks the thin material down your legs in your weak clutches, trailing a string of drool that sticks to your labia. “C’mere” he grunts and lifts you towards his face. Your thighs are soft on either side of him, and you still in his grasp. He lolls his tongue out, but you’re reluctant to fully sit. “I’m heavy” you murmur.  

“Shut up.” He embraces your body, and you have no choice but to settle in his warmth. He keeps you flush with his flat tongue, swiping up and down the squishy flesh molding to his mouth. You writhe in his grasp, but he continues to lap at your clit with a starving lust. Wriothesely soaks in your velvet skin and perfumed essence dribbling down his chin. He doesn’t come up for air, and your brain is mush over him, his lips slurping your quivering cunt. A buzzing intensity courses through your twitching stomach. You rut your hips against his mouth, and he maintains his position while you use him. You’re grinding on his tongue, absent-mindedly biting your lips and mewling endlessly as you bring yourself closer to climax. He hums while sucking the nub and the vibrations make you cry out.  

“Wrio, ‘m coming” you whine. You hump his mouth until you come undone in a pulsating finish. His hands restrain you, greedily devouring the newly found honey as it pours out. You ride it through while he curls the tip of his tongue at your opening. Without warning, you feel the pink muscle push in your recovering vulva. “S-Shit, Wrio” you whimper, trembling on him as he drives inside. He seizes the back of your thighs and begins to bounce you up and down the mushy appendage slowly stretching you. The sensation is overwhelming, his nose skims your oversensitive clit each time you drop, and you sob. Wriothesley moves faster, your hands entangle in his hair. You babble please’s repeatedly, gazing sensually at each other as the coil winds in your gut. More, more. Then it snaps, an abrupt shock, clenching on his tongue as you cream. He raises your lower half; the wetness collecting in your convulsing heat makes his cock strain more than it already suffered.  

“Such a cute slut” Wriothesley husks. Your numb legs can’t navigate on their own, so he places you on your stomach. “We’re not done.” He springs his throbbing length free. The veins are consistent, prominent up his shaft to the angry red crown—9 inches begging to be inside you. Fresh precome trickles down his tip and he sighs at the bloated pain in his hefty balls. You arch your back, presenting yourself to his awaiting size. When he doesn’t enter you turn to him impatiently and he smirks. 

“Put it in” you whine. Wriothesley spreads your backside, and watches you clench around the ghost of him. He glazes himself with your slick, and moans from the feeling of your puffy lips cuddling his cock. “It’s not every day a fan gets to sleep with me. Be grateful.” he teases. He pumps through your squashed thighs, the head prodding your nub while he forces your chest flush with the bed. After he thoroughly coats himself, he nudges the bulbous tip to your entrance. 

Wriothesley sinks into your sex. You’re gripping him like a vice despite the searing soreness of your body accommodating the scale. The fevered sleeve nearly makes him crash to the hilt, but he stutters gradually to relieve your discomfort. He hits the base and shudders. You feel unbelievably stuffed, as if it’s squirming in your cervix. Then he starts at a savage pace. He’s using you like a flesh-light, balls smacking your overwhelmed tender nub with a carnal impulse. His moans spill uncontrollably as he watches your rippling ass and viscous webs blend together, clinging to his cock and forming a cloudy froth at the base. Your knuckles turn white on the sheets; you can’t think or feel anything that isn’t him, core surging with intense want. 

“Fuck, you’re so tight, gonna snap my dick off. Ah- gonna make sure you can’t walk t-tomorrow. Then- hah- then you won’t be able to find anyone who fucks you like this, who makes you come like this.” He’s rambling and stuttering, completely incoherent the closer he gets. He glances at the mirror, then at you. You feel your hair jerked back by his massive hand, and lock eyes with Wriothesley in his drunken haze. “Stop, it’s embarrassing!” you slur. You’re both sheened with sweat, disheveled bodies satiating the hunger in any way you can. 

“Shh, you hear that?” The squelching slam of passion echoes in the room, sopping down your leg through his pummeling thrusts. Your back bends unnaturally as though it were folded in half. “You’re so fucking hot, so needy for me.” His veins adorn your walls, you start to tear up from the mixture of pleasure and pain. He notices your tears and holds you up so that your back is flush with his chest. 

“It hurts?” he questions, stalling his movement. You feel him twitch. “No, feels s’good Wrio. More” you mewl. He chuckles, and gently wraps his hand around your throat before pumping again.  

“Too good? Am I the best you’ve ever had? Say it.” He moves faster, free hand rubbing your clit. Your knees buckle and eyes roll back to your skull, he takes in the scene of your convulsing figure in the mirror. “S’best I’ve ever had, please ‘m so close!” you rasp, matching the rhythm of his thrusts. He chases his high, panting animalistically in your ear.  

“Shit- look how desperate you are. Want me to come inside? Y-yea, I bet you fucking do”

“‘M coming!” you babble.

“Good. Make a mess.” he commands. Fire trails up your limbs, and you tighten before falling apart. Fluttering around him, taking him deeper while you come on his sack. Wriothesley pursues his sputtering hips, spurting thick globs that paint you white. He whimpers as you milk his spasming length dry and presses tired kisses along your shoulder blade. When he comes down from his apex, he turns you over on your back. It’s hard for him to not be proud of your boneless existence sprawled on his bed. You’re both breathing hard in silence, and he leaves for a couple minutes. You’re stunned when he returns with a damp rag to clean you up, and some dark substance in a mug.

You find the strength to sit up while he wipes your lower areas. “Where are my clothes?”

“...For what?”  he mumbles.

“To leave?” It seemed like common sense to you—boxers usually don’t go for long-term relationships, and so you assumed it to be a one-night stand. You dip over the edge of the bed and locate your skirt, but Wriothesely hops up and snatches it before you can. “I’ll put it in the wash. Relax.” 

“I didn’t know you were so hospitable. Do you do this for every girl?” you tease. He gets visibly upset, and shoves the cup from the dresser in your hands. “Don’t piss me off. Now, drink. I’ll order food.” 

Multicolored sunset flaking through the sheer curtains frames his stature while he’s on the phone. You sip the tea, it’s a vile grainy taste. For a moment you imagine what life could be like with him by your side—poor quality tea and an awful temper. In your pleasant aftermath, it doesn’t seem bad at all.

[sweet-as-an-angel]

Simon Catches You Giving Johnny Head

Warnings: 18+, Implied Smut, Oral (Male receiving), Infidelity, Johnny being a Manipulator, Slut-Shaming, Implied Dub-Con Elements, Cum Swallowing, Stomach Bulging, Stomach Ache, Skin Irritation, Sexual Punishment, Profanity, No Pronouns used for Reader except ‘You’.

Wordcount: 833 words

Simon had walked in on you giving Johnny head. And when you saw your boyfriend’s hulking silhouette take up the entire doorway, you scrambled off Johnny’s soaked shaft and looked up into Simon’s eyes with a wide, frightful stare.

Simon was immediately ready to berate you, to seeth his vengeance into you and destroy you from the inside out, but your voice came out in a tiny whisper.

“Just wanted to learn how to do it properly, Si,” you said, sniffling. Your eyes glistened and Simon couldn’t tell if it was from Johnny’s cock hitting the back of your throat or the fact you were caught in such a compromising position. “Just wanted to—“ you sobbed, lightly — “to make you feel good.”

And when you looked up at him with those puppy-dog eyes, he could almost excuse the fact that you’d been shoving his best friend’s dick down your throat for god knows how long. Or rather, that Johnny had coerced you into doing so, so eager and willing to let you – make you – guzzle his cum, filling you from the inside with thick ropes of semen.

How many times had Simon rested his hand on your stomach, unaware of the fact that remnants of another man lay just beneath his fingertips?

His blood boiled.

He knew Johnny must’ve had something to do with this. You’d never do anything of the sort without believing Simon would be okay with it, and Johnny’s silver tongue was nothing short of legend. 

He wouldn’t – couldn’t – let Mactavish off the hook, either. The image of the Scot’s hand encompassing the back of your head, pressing you down further and further onto his member, the slick noises of your tongue working his girth with his head thrown back in stolen pleasure sparked a blaze in Simon’s chest that he would put to good use.

Simon sighed. Deeply. He decided to be lenient. Merciful. 

He grabbed you by the hair and dragged you to sit between his legs as he took a chair, the object whining under two-hundred-and-odd pounds of skin, muscle and hate. 

“Let’s see,” he said, gripping you tightly with one hand, watching you writhe at the pressure and pull on your scalp like a fish on a hook. With his other hand, he unzipped his pants, lifting his hips and yanking them down to his thighs. His half-hard cock leaked with pre, weeping.

You tried to plead with him, tried looking over to Johnny for help. The latter watched, just as terrified as you, having hastily stuffed himself back into his trousers, mirroring Simon’s growing condition.

“‘Nough talk.” Simon’s voice was gruff, unlike anything you’d ever heard. His eyes were blackened, too, entirely devoid of humanity.

“Let’s see how well Johnny’s trained you, hm? Put that whore mouth and all you’ve learnt to good use.”

You were willing to do anything to make him stop looking at you like that – like he loathed you – to rid his face of his furrowed brow and hard glare. You begged to please him, told him how you could take all of him — every inch — and how you were so ready to do so.

Simon listened. He raised you.

“Seein’ as y’so keen, I’ll strike you a deal. If y’can make me cum in the next sixty seconds, I won’t punish you.”

Your core tightened. 60 seconds?! That’s it?

Simon’s gaze found Johnny, still bolted in place by the periphery of the former’s wrath.

“But if y’don’t,” he pierced his once-friend with a look that could maim, torture and destroy. Johnny swallowed, held his gaze. “I’ll just have to show you and your teacher how it’s done.”

Neither you nor Johnny could talk, run or call for help after Simon had made ample example of you, both for the numb, raw ache in the back of your throat and the fact that Simon had you working his dick more often than there seemed hours in the day, forcing you down deeper and deeper onto his length, enjoying the sensation of you choking and gagging on his tip, the back of your throat tightening around him as tears streamed down your cheeks, leaving your skin itchy and red.

You could hardly move for the weight of Simon’s loads sitting heavy in your stomach, giving you a noticeable bump that neither Simon nor Johnny could take their eyes off. He never let you spit, even when you complained that your stomach hurt, churning and filled past full with the amount of cum swimming inside you. Swallowing every drop of his semen was mandatory for your redemption, he said. 

Don’t worry, he made Johnny work, too. Whenever you’d been a good little whore for Simon, taking everything he gave you without complaint, he’d make Johnny give you the same treatment he’d coerced from you in the first place.

“Go on,” he’d say to the Scot, staring him down. “Since y’were so keen on makin’ (Y/N) do it, you’ve gotta return the favour.”

Reblog for more content like this! It helps creators like myself tremendously and it is greatly appreciated :-)

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[heliosunny]

fyodor x f!y/n but she is his past lover but she died in the past but he lived because of his ability and she got reincarnated in the future but she's with the ADA and she and fyodor kinda reunited plsss i Love Angstttt

I am closer than you think

Yandere!Fyodor x F!Reader

The scope stayed trained on Atsushi’s head, the crosshairs still and steady, finger curled just enough on the trigger for a signal—until you walked into view.

The wind carried your voice as you asked Atsushi a question about the mission. Fyodor’s breath caught in his throat.

He hadn’t been prepared for this.

Your face.

Your voice.

His hand trembled.

The sniper he posted on the neighboring rooftop wasn’t as patient.

Bang.

Blood sprayed from your shoulder as the bullet tore through your arm. Atsushi pulled you back behind cover in a panic, calling your name over and over again. But you were still conscious.

“...You came back to me.”

He ripped off the earpiece and crushed it beneath his boot. The sniper didn’t get to fire again. Fyodor reached him within minutes. There were no last words, only a silent, swift end. The man never even saw it coming.

Blood dripped from Fyodor’s fingers as he stood at the edge of the rooftop, watching the chaos below.

You were gripping your injured arm but trying to stay focused.

Fyodor stepped back into the shadows. The mission was over—for everyone else. From now on, he would handle things.

You had returned to this world.

Which meant fate had given him another chance.

-----

Rain tapped gently on the cobblestone, washing the city in silver-grey. It was the kind of cold that clung to the skin, curling under coats and behind collars—but Fyodor stood still, cloaked in a simple black umbrella and a harmless face not his own.

He watched you from a distance at first, half-convinced this was a trick of grief. You laughed at something Kunikida said.

He had to be sure.

So he walked in your direction.

He bumped into you, making the small object in his hand to fall—a silver ring, old and worn. It clattered against the wet ground, and before he could even kneel, you had bent down first.

“Oh—here” you said, voice as soft and kind as it once had been. You handed him the ring, “Be careful not to lose that. It looks important.”

He didn’t respond immediately. The world was too loud. The rain. His heart.

You smiled anyway and stepped back. “Take care.” And then, with your coat hiked up and bag slung over your shoulder, you ran through the rain.

He stood there, unmoving, as if the sky itself had gone silent. The ring sat still in his palm.

He remembered the first time you wore it, in a past life where you had smiled just like that. When you told him, “This is a promise. Even if the world ends, we’ll find each other again.”

You kept your promise.

And now it was his turn.

That night, in the quiet of his hideout, Fyodor discarded the disguise and sat at his desk, hands still damp with rain. A fresh plan unfurled across the page.

-------

The news played in flickering shades of horror—another attack. The numbers of victims were staggering. Blood on the streets, lives taken mercilessly.

This was massacre.

Silence gripped the Agency office like a noose. Kunikida’s jaw was locked. Yosano’s fingers twitched on the arms of her chair. Even Ranpo’s usual smugness was missing.

BANG

The doors burst open, and Atsushi stumbled in, panting, rain soaking through his jacket. Behind him—

“Fyodor Dostoevsky?” Dazai muttered under his breath, already rising to his feet.

Tied tightly with ropes, Fyodor looked almost serene. His hair clung to his face from the downpour, expression calm, like a fallen king temporarily detained.

He didn’t resist. He simply… smiled.

Why does he feel familiar?

He was placed in the center of the room. The ADA formed a loose circle around him.

“You surrendered?” Dazai asked “That’s new.”

Fyodor tilted his head slightly. “Do you truly believe surrender was necessary? I came to talk.”

“You came after civilians were slaughtered” Yosano snapped, stepping forward. “Forgive me if I don’t find you charming.”

“We’ll hand him over to the authorities once we confirm it’s safe” Kunikida said, though the tension in his shoulders betrayed his concern.

You stood at the back, silent. His gaze drifted across the room—

And landed on you.

The moment your eyes met his, the room might as well have fallen away.

You don’t remember yet, do you? That smile seemed to say.

“You look troubled,” Fyodor murmured, “As though you’ve seen a ghost.”

“Don’t engage with him” Dazai warned, stepping between you. “He’s playing games.”

But Fyodor didn’t mind. He simply leaned back.

He was exactly where he wanted to be.

And now, so were you.

Thunder rumbled beyond the walls, the kind that shook windows and sank deep into your bones. Rain poured relentlessly, washing over the streets like punishment. The authorities couldn’t send a transport, and none of the vehicles worked well enough to brave the storm. Fyodor would be staying… longer.

Most of the ADA had taken the chance to rest—Kunikida asleep at his desk, Yosano quietly sipping tea in another room, Ranpo snoring on the couch.

It was your turn to watch him.

He sat in the center of the room, ankles and wrists bound, but he looked as relaxed as a man sipping wine at a concert. You sat in the corner, alert but exhausted.

You weren’t used to prisoners watching you back.

“…You always liked the rain.”

Your eyes flicked toward him.

“I’m sorry?”

Fyodor smiled faintly, leaning forward just enough for the ropes to creak. “You used to tell me it calmed you. Said thunder made you feel safe. Strange, isn’t it? Most people fear storms.”

“You’re mistaken. I never told you that.”

“Not in this life, no,” he murmured, “But it’s still true, isn’t it?”

You didn’t answer.

His eyes never left you, watching every flicker of confusion cross your face.

“Who are you really?” you asked cautiously.

“Someone who’s been waiting a very long time.”

“That’s enough. You’re trying to get in my head.”

“I’m only speaking the truth. You don’t believe me now, but eventually, something will stir. You’ll feel it.”

He leaned back again, the ropes creaking once more as he tilted his head.

“I wonder” he mused, “when you’ll dream of me again.”

Outside, the storm howled like it remembered everything you forgot.

And inside, Fyodor smiled—because the game had begun.

-----

The storm still raged when it happened.

You were dozing off in your chair, mind hazy from the long shift, when the door slammed open. A stranger, soaked to the bone, raised a gun.

“No more waiting!”

You barely registered the glint of the barrel before the shot rang out, piercing Fyodor’s chest.

“Fyodor!” you gasped, springing to your feet—but he slumped over.

Dead

The stranger didn’t even get to smile before his body convulsed. His eyes rolling back as something took over.

“…So impatient” Fyodor muttered, “But thank you for the opportunity.”

You backed away instinctively. “What… what did you do? How did you become Fyodor?”

He turned to you slowly. “You should rest.”

Your eyes widened. “Wha—"

He swiftly struck the side of your neck with a precise chop, hitting a pressure point and causing you to black out.

By the time the others stirred, it was already too late.

“Let’s begin.”

From the windows and ceilings, they came—his people.

The Agency fell in minutes.

Fyodor stepped over the bodies.

“You’ll wake up somewhere safe” he whispered, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. “Far away from all this….”

As the rain began to fade, Fyodor looked over the Agency one last time.

------

You woke to the scent of blood.

Drip… drip…

The realization hit you harder than the blow that knocked you out. The cold bite of metal dug into your ankle.

You weren’t in the Agency anymore.

Where—

Then you heard it.

A muffled voice.

You turned your head sharply.

There, not far from you, was him.

Fyodor stood with eerie calm over a restrained man, dressed in black and trembling. The stranger was gagged, arms bound behind him. He was already bleeding from a few shallow cuts.

Fyodor tilted his head with almost childlike curiosity as he slowly dragged the blade along the man's arm again, just deep enough to let blood run.

“People are so interesting when they beg,” he mused, “Don’t you think?”

“Stop it.”

He didn’t even glance at you.

You scrambled to stand, only for your legs to give out—clank. The chain pulled taut, digging into your ankle. You tried again, crawling as far as the restraint would allow.

The man gasped in agony.

“Please,” you breathed, reaching out. “Please…”

Your hand trembled, a soft glow blooming at your fingertips—your ability, barely igniting.

A whisper of golden light extended toward the wounded man, but you were too far. The chain jerked you back just inches before your power could reach him.

You choked out a sob. “No—!”

The blade slipped from his fingers, clattering to the ground. The man slumped forward, unmoving. Gone.

You stared at the corpse, horror clinging to your throat like smoke.

His hand touched yours.

You flinched.

Fyodor knelt beside you, slowly lifting your trembling hand into his own. His fingers curled around yours with a disturbing gentleness, and he brought your palm to his cheek.

The warmth of your power still lingered on your skin.

His eyes closed for a moment, almost like he was savoring it.

Then they opened again.

“I didn’t know you could do that.” he whispered, “Is this why they recruit you?”

You tried to pull away. He didn’t let go.

“You tried to heal him,” he murmured, brushing his lips lightly against your knuckles. “Even after everything… You’re still so kind.”

He looked down at your chained ankle, then back up at you.

“…But kindness doesn’t work here, my love.”

------

You lost track of time a long time ago. You didn’t know how many people he brought in. You didn’t know their names. You didn’t know if they were innocent or guilty—only that they screamed, and you watched.

Because you couldn’t stop it.

Every time you tried, every time you reached out to heal them, to speak, to beg—

He stopped you.

You sat curled on the floor, back pressed against the freezing wall. Your fingers shook. Your throat was dry from screaming in vain. The body from today hadn’t even been removed yet—his blood still fresh in a line across the room like a brushstroke on canvas.

Fyodor sat across from you, legs crossed, a book open in his lap as if this were a quiet afternoon in a library.

He didn’t look at the corpse.

He looked at you.

“Didn't even bother to use your ability now.” he said casually, flipping a page. “No more mercy left in you?”

You didn’t answer.

He waited a beat, then closed the book softly and stood.

The sound of his boots approaching was slow.

He crouched before you, “Do you hate me yet?”

“I don’t know.”

He smiled.

“That’s alright. You don’t have to know.”

-----

You hadn’t spoken in two days.

Fyodor had noticed.

So when he entered the room this time—quiet as ever, book tucked under one arm—you didn’t react. You just sat there.

Until you heard the faint shlick of a blade.

You looked up.

Fyodor stood in the center of the room, the knife in his hand now streaked with blood. Crimson ran down his forearm in a thin line.

“What are you doing?”

He knelt in front of you, holding out his arm. “I wanted to see.”

“See… what?”

“If your kindness was gone” he said simply. “If your mercy had died with the others.”

You looked at him, trembling.

Your body moved before your mind did, you reached out—touching his skin. Your ability sparked to life. The wound knit itself closed in seconds.

He didn’t look away.

Neither did you.

When it was done, you lowered your hands.

“You really are something extraordinary.” he whispered, cradling your hand in his own. “No matter how many monsters you see, you still want to save people. Even me.”

He pressed a kiss to your wrist.

“Because you’ve pleased me,” he murmured, “I’ll give you something in return.”

He stood and moved to the wall.

Click.

The chain on your ankle slackened, the lock undone.

“Don’t misunderstand,” Fyodor said, “You’re still not allowed outside.”

He motioned around the room.

“But you can move freely in here now. You’ve earned it.”

“Why?”

He turned back toward the door.

With his hand on the handle, he glanced at you over his shoulder.

“So you won’t mistake this for a prison.”

He smiled.

“It’s home.”

And then he left, locking the door behind him.

-----

You thought you were careful.

You only wanted to know—where he kept you, how far the doors led, how many halls twisted beyond your cell. If you could find a map, an exit, anything.

But of course… he noticed.

He didn’t drag you by your hair or slap you.

He just smiled.

“Curious little cat,” he murmured, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “Come with me.”

The white room was so blinding it made your head spin.

There was nothing inside. No windows, no furniture. Just glossy walls, glowing lights, and an icy emptiness that mirrored the dread growing in your gut.

Fyodor stood at your side, one hand resting lightly on your shoulder.

"You’re testing me," he said. "And that’s alright. You were always a little defiant. But actions have consequences."

The door at the far end opened.

One by one, people were led in. Blindfolded. Shackled.

You couldn’t even tell how many. Maybe five. Maybe ten.

You stepped back, bumping into him.

He gently guided you forward again.

"I’ll only stop," he said, stepping past you, "when this white room turns red."

The first shot rang out like thunder.

You screamed, instinctively twisting away—but Fyodor grabbed your chin, forcing your face forward.

"No looking away," he said flatly. "You wanted to wander. So see what freedom looks like."

Blood began to smear across the pristine floor.

You trembled violently, your mind screaming at you to do something—but your legs were frozen.

The fourth body hit the floor.

“Please—” your voice cracked, panic strangling your throat. “Please, stop it, I’ll do anything—!”

“Anything?”

“I’ll listen— I’ll obey— I’ll stay, just please— stop— stop—”

He walked toward you.

You flinched, but he didn’t touch you.

Instead, he crouched beside you and leaned in, his breath brushing your ear.

“You were always stubborn in your past life, too” he whispered. “But in the end, you always came back to me.”

He rose to his feet and waved a hand toward the guards.

“Clean it up,” he said casually. “We’ve made enough of a mess for today.”

You sank to your knees as they dragged the bodies away, the red still fresh beneath your feet.

And Fyodor?

He smiled softly down at you, hand resting lightly on your head.

----

You hadn’t spoken since that day.

You did what he said. Sat when he told you to. Ate the bite or two he forced past your lips. But your body moved like a doll’s. Your eyes had lost their fire.

That night, Fyodor didn’t bring another person in.

Instead, he came to your side quietly, a tray of warm food in his hands—soup, bread, a cup of tea.

He crouched beside you, patient as ever.

“You haven’t eaten properly in days,” he said softly, setting the tray down. “You’re no use to me if you starve, dear.”

You were curled in the corner.

He reached out, brushing your cheek with the back of his fingers.

“It’s been hard, hasn’t it?” he whispered, “I know. I’ve pushed you. Hurt you.”

He lowered himself to sit beside you, back against the wall.

“But I couldn’t help it.”

You slowly turned your head. “You enjoyed it”

“I enjoy you. Every part. Even the parts that cry and scream and say no.”

He reached for the tray and picked up a spoon.

“Eat,” he said, holding it to your lips. “I’ll feed you if I must.”

You stared at the spoon—steam curling in the air.

When you didn’t move, he shifted closer.

“I’ll stop for now” he murmured. “No more blood. Not if you stay beside me like this.”

You hesitated.

Your lips parted slightly, and he slipped the spoon between them.

You swallowed.

It wasn’t poisoned.

He took another spoonful, feeding you slowly.

“Sleep next to me tonight.” he said softly.

He ran his fingers through your hair, resting his forehead to yours.

“You’ve suffered enough… for now.”

[just-some-user-hunny]

Vampire hunter D and Hellsing Alucard fighting over the same darling

I'm going to have to take some creative liberties and ignore some canon material for this to somewhat work, due to the difference in vampire rules and whatnot in each respective lore and world-building, but this idea was too fun to pass on. I think a dynamic between the two would be so entertaining- seeing as they are both Eldrich horrors in their own respect, yet so different. both are complex characters with many layers to them, so I hope I gave them justice with this.

Anyway, I hope you enjoy reading! . ‧ ₊ ⊹˚✧

. ‧ ₊ ⊹˚✧ Their rivalry is inevitable. D has sworn to spend the rest of his days slaughtering the undead- and Alucard is possibly the strongest of his prey as of yet. They are alike, but not- two of a kind, who share the same shadow and bloodlust.

. ‧ ₊ ⊹˚✧ Alucard is both immensely curious and irked by the vampire hunters existence. A being that is not dead, nor alive. A creature born from both the undead and living. A dhampir.

D is something of a worldly curiosity to him- how can such a thing exist? Throughout all of Alucard's un-life has he witnessed such a being. It both fills him with awe, and unrest.

The complexity has even himself spiraling into an unrestful haze- because finally. A rival. A true rival. A being that has the redeeming quality of a semblance of humanity. He can see right through the dhampir- that sorrow and loneliness and regret is so human. So raw, and unabashedly hidden with shame. What a solemn moping creature D is... Interesting.

. ‧ ₊ ⊹˚✧ D is troubled by the vampire king. A monster whom resembles the likeness of Dracula- a twisted shadow of his own father, a being from another timeline, who mocks him with his mere existence. Just being in the same vicinity as him makes his blood boil and stomach churn in disgust. Knowing that this violent blood hungering beast is yearning for you makes him sick. The implications that if he fails, and you fall into the monster's claws, that another dhampir may possibly be brought into its wretched existence is simply something he cannot allow.

. ‧ ₊ ⊹˚✧ The two clash in every possible way- yet align in every possible way. Like a dark twisted duet. Like a shadow clashing with a shadow. It shouldn't be. Two beings having met behind the veil- a veil that should have never been pieced. They glare at one another in the shadows of your footsteps, constantly watching with bated breath.

. ‧ ₊ ⊹˚✧The dynamic of being caught between the crossfire of the two horrors beyond the veil is a restless nightmare- yet an enveloping dream. It doesn't feel...real. To be yearned over by these two men monsters is an enigma of itself, and you've inevitably become the taut rope between an endless tug of war. Back and fourth, back and fourth, neither breaking sweat nor losing their footing. Clashing blades, explosive bullets, the silver of guns and swords glinting in the moonlight. Spilt blood, open wounds, unrestrained ferocity. There is no hunter or prey in this dynamic- their very strength teeters on the edge of a blade-steady yet, wavering. All that is established is that they have both set their claim. And neither are willing to give up.

. ‧ ₊ ⊹˚✧ Their motives are simple, yet complex like entangled string. Red and black thread ensnaring you till you are but a meager little morsel struggling in the spiders web. D wants to eradicate Alucard- rid the earth of his bloodied existence. The very personification of self-preservation and fear of death taken in the form of something bloody and full of hunger has no right to belong in this world. It should be laid to rest.

You, poor little human, are an unexpected obstacle of both himself- and his prey. You're the flesh caged in the bear trap- the butterfly in the web, the pretty patisserie cake on a porcelain platter. He's the jarring metal teeth, the descending spider, the glinting cutlery.

He's a parasite who attached itself to an unsuspecting human- who has no say in the matter. Either you love him, endure him, or despise him, it doesn't matter. He's sunk his teeth into you and won't let go- always in your shadow.

D is a hunter. That's all he has left for himself. He can at least do this favour for both himself, and you. If you call for Alucard's name, it is not enough to deter him. You don't know any better, you can't. You don't know the extent of this horror. You never shall. Never should.

. ‧ ₊ ⊹˚✧ Alucard is frustratingly simple- yet simply complicated. You are a human who's ensnared his interest- his curiosity and fascination. He wants you, all of you. Your voice...your breath...the smell of your skin...your thoughts and dreams and fears. He wants all of it. He's selfish and hungry, and you are the soothing balm to his wounds. He admits he's a monster- a monster that can only hunger and obsess, he has no shame in that. He accepted he's irredeemable long ago- an attack dog, a weapon, something to command and leash for the sake of numbing the boredom and insanity of everlasting existence. He needs motive. Reasoning. Distraction. And you are the best distraction he could ask for.

He's caught in the swing of finding this hunter's endeavours amusing and annoying.

Leave him be, let him enjoy this last thing. Then he may have his spill of blood.

. ‧ ₊ ⊹˚✧ Regardless of the madness- it can come in useful for your own sake of survival. You'll never have to worry about being harmed whilst under the watchful eyes of not only Alucard, the no life king, but the Dhampir hunter, D. It is the one thing that they can seem to agree and find truce over. They are content to slaughter the vile beasts that dare to think they can harm a hair on your head, casting aside their rivalry to kill together. Their protection is priceless in a world filled with danger- not even the wealthiest of people could pay a price to ensure such safety.

. ‧ ₊ ⊹˚✧ those dynamic is full of banter and jeering- Alucard most often the initiator. How can he help himself? This enigma of a being is so ripe and ready for the teasing and prodding. Something that is half monster, half human... It shouldn't be. An abomination as much as himself. Although he shares his hatred through his own twisted morals, the hatred towards lowly vampires who do not abide by nature and kill monstrously with no goal or end- that disgusts him. His respect for the hunter draws a fine line between mutual respect- and despair for his existence.

. ‧ ₊ ⊹˚✧ "You're disgusted with yourself? As you should be. All creatures of the night deserve nothing. Useless beasts"

"You realise you speak of yourself, Nosferatu"

"How witty of you to clue on. You should know better, do you feel the weight of existence? Isn't it crushing? Yes...it is, isn't it..."

"..."

"For someone who is half human, you are certainly as silent as the dead-"

"Enough."

. ‧ ₊ ⊹˚✧ D is... Often wavering with his control around you. Beyond the soft nonchalant veil that he drapes himself with, internally he often finds himself holding back his insatiable bloodlust. You'd probably never guess- by how tamed and calm he is, through both his slow methodic actions and lulling voice- but every part of him is yearning to taste you.

He's not proud of it- ashamed, is the best way to describe it. It's something he's intent on you never discovering- lest you fear him, God forbid. Pain and fear are things he never wants to stir in you from his own doing. He's not the monster who hides under your bed- not the frightening creature who lurks in shadow, hunting for blood. He's more than that, he likes to believe. There's a part of him that regains precious humanity.

. ‧ ₊ ⊹˚✧ Alucard however isn't a creature who can be swayed easily with the scent of blood- his experience and self control has far surpassed his mindless animalistic bloodlust. Despite the way that he is, He's not one to become lost in a mindless haze- eager to snatch you up and shake you around with your throat in his jaws like he was some depraved starving animal. Although the scent or sight of your blood does utter some excitement out of him, he's never one to act upon it. He'll simply stare at you knowingly, smiling softly and offering to bandage wherever you are hurting. he'll be more than happy to lick the wound.

. ‧ ₊ ⊹˚✧ You can imagine the taunting this no-life king has in store for the vampire hunter, watching with smug amusement as this halfling struggles to keep his drool in his mouth just from the mere scent of you. It’s adorable. Pathetic.

He loves taunting the hunter- playing with you like a cat pawing gently at a mouse, to see what kind of reaction he can summon out of this nonchalant creature. His lack of response always irks the vampire, so watching him grow annoyed and angry just for merely being too close to you? Oh it’s bliss.

Alucard loves to stray closer- closer and closer, pushing his luck, all under the watchful eye of the hunter. He’s more keen to touch and caress you like this- like a lion with a lamb, towering over you frightfully as you stand there sweetly and innocently in his claws. As if he were playing with his food. Rest assured you'll never be his food, but that shouldn't damper his fun regarding toying with the naive hunter.

You’ll become surely equated with the Eldritch horror of a man swallowing you up in his shadow- standing closer than necessary. Your back practically flushed against his torso, as large gloved hands gently pet and caress you like you were some pretty little thing to fawn over. It doesn’t matter how you react. Either you tremble and swallow anxiously as your throat is swallowed up his palm- his fingertip dragging softly over the skin to trace the hollow in your throat, unsure and confused- or you may simply stand still and allow your loyal hound of a vampire preen and coo over you with patient endurance. It’s not your response Alucard is after, although it doesn’t hurt to enjoy it, but D’s.

He wants his anger.

His jealousy.

His envy.

For D, the sight of your delicate neck in the hands of Alucard is something that never fails to make his stomach lurch in fury. He’ll glare wordlessly at the vampire mutt- his own blood red eyes simmering like boiling viscera as he clutches his own aching throat.

. ‧ ₊ ⊹˚✧ I know very well how tempting they he’ll say with his eyes, the deep pleased hum rumbling in his chest like a content beast as he tenderly strokes the delicate skin above your artery. Feeling it pump quickly beneath his fingertips, as his eyes glint with amusement at the dhampir’s simmering anger.

See how I can be so near, so close to touch them whilst you salivate and struggle like a starving dog. A dog. That’s what you are.

D could rip him a new one if you weren’t so in the line of fire.

God, this guy's one smug asshole huh D.

. ‧ ₊ ⊹˚✧ That is not to say that Alucard is the only petty one, because D is just as bad. he can be worse.

It is not unusual for the Dhampir to snatch you away and keep you tucked safely beneath the shelter of his cape- keeping you swallowed up in billowing fabric, nestling you close to his side or ribcage. Silently-softly- he’ll extend his arm out welcomingly, draping his cape open for you to hide if you so please. Please. It is the safest place for you in his eyes, swaddled safely from sight nor scent- with you so swallowed up in his clothes and stature, your pretty scent is masked with his. Practically bathing you in it. All you can do is keep up with his strides as his hand settles securely upon your shoulder, keeping you tucked into his side whenever you walk together.

Look D, as much as I like seeing this assholes face prune up, I'd like our body to stay intact. Hey, are you even listening?

So you can image the irk and seething jealousy that burns like hellfire in Alucards vermillion glare as D unveils you to the vampire king- your form nestled close to him, wrapped up in the safe recluse of the dhampir’s cape. That halfling abomination has rubbed off all your scent and his.

The nerve.

. ‧ ₊ ⊹˚✧ It's safe to say that they both become clingy in their efforts to claim possession of you no matter how much D refuses the concept of possessing you, they both know deep inside that's what he yearns for with his lonely dead heart.

So be prepared to be clung to by these two towering children of the night. Alucard pressing himself to you like a touch starved dog, possessive and enveloping. His gloved hands resting upon your shoulders or idly stroking your head/jaw/neck. If not in your shadow, he's by your heel- the tip of his own polished shoes brushing against your heel.

He does it so unnaturally fitting. His large hand curling around your jaw, tilting your head up to wipe something off your face. He could so easily crush you, but that thought never comes to fruition in his mind. or he may drape his arm over your shoulder, his gun bracing against your chest like a makeshift shield. (Or perhaps a little empty threat to make your heart skip a little in your chest). He loves how much it winds the Dhampir up.

"Get that thing off her, if you know what's good for you."

"I don't, you see"

"Off."

"What's wrong? You surely don't think I'd hurt her to you? She's my dear little human, Dhampir. Mine"

"She's not yours, or anyone's."

"Is that so."

. ‧ ₊ ⊹˚✧ Both are eager to claim the spot to reside in your shadow- both literally and metaphorically. They share the same inevitable fate of losing you to time- so they are insatiably eager to take their fill of life from you. To have the pleasure of watching you grow old and silver, front row seats of your existence- if you will. It is unspoken, the sorrow. It’s a lengthy pause that’ll always settle between them; both fully aware, but not strong enough to say it out loud. It all but makes it too real. Alucard is full of pretty poetry when it comes to the concept of losing you- always grinning and wistfully lamenting how full and easy he’d make life for you, but internally there’s a pit of anger and sorrow inside him that’s festers like rotting fruit. Sweet and syrupy, but spoiled and repulsive. These emotions only come to surface through silent lingering glances of softened expressions, which always throw you off. They’re quiet and contemplate, and for once you don’t feel like a yummy morsel under his watch. You’re something to be mourned and cherished. This deep sadness that dwells hidden in his garnet hued irises.

.‧ ₊ ⊹˚✧ D is just as in much sorrow, and that is something that the two creatures of night can fall into agreement with. Immortality is a curse, not something one should wish to possess.

D does not keen to dwell too deeply into the concept of your demise- no matter how peaceful it’ll be. Every smile-line and pretty wrinkle upon your face serves as a reminder to him. He will forever remain porcelain- his hair will remain deep mahogany, whilst you turn silver and frail. Reminding him of how fragile you are- how privileged you are. Still- he is silent with his emotions. Like carved marble set into a beautiful and gaunt expression, never will he show anger or jealousy. He cannot bring himself to bear it.

As long as you are safe and cherished, that is all he can wish for.

. ‧ ₊ ⊹˚✧ their fight for claim can go on and on, scrabbling for a secure footing in the game they've been began- with no means to an end to finish. They are both strong, no matter how endurable D is- nor how many levels of his own power that Alucard unleashes, there's always a standstill. D could be near shredded ribbons of flesh and fabric, but he'll still stand. Alucard could be standing tall in his armour from his days of impaling and bloody reign, and he'd still be toe to toe with the Dhampir. It's infuriating for the both of them. There must be only one victor, one to take their stead in the shadow of your existence. But it's never ending.

This isn't about simple rivalry anymore. It's a neverending duel between themselves, eager to win or die. Death would be a privilege if not for your own place in the matter. They can't die yet, not whilst you are still breathing.

. ‧ ₊ ⊹˚✧ you'll be caught in the crossfire of possession and duty, desire and a twisted version of love. It is for you to bear witness to, So don't look away.

[masorciereviolette]

Oh Captain, My Captain

Pairing: Olivia Benson x Reader

Warnings: Arguments, Sad Themes, Typical SVU Case Drama & Angst, Vaguely Described Crimes, Puke Warning, Unexpected Emotional Connections, Mentions of injuries, Soft Enemies To Lovers, Kissing.

Word count: 13.6k

A/N: I truly hope y’all like this, lmk ur thoughts :)))

Summary: An old friend of Carisi’s is temporarily assigned to the Special Victims Unit when he and the District Attorney are required Upstate. What begins as professional tension quickly spirals into something deeper, more dangerous—and far more personal. As high-stakes cases push them to confront old ghosts and buried truths, walls begin to crumble. Between quiet lunches, stolen glances, and one confession that changes everything, neither of you can deny what’s been building. But in a world where justice comes first, can you afford to fall?

Taglist: @wuhluhwuh03

Link To Masterlist Next Part

The knock on Olivia’s office door is brisk—precise, like everything else about her week so far. She doesn’t even glance up at first, eyes still fixed on the open file in her lap, already anticipating who it is.

Sure enough, the door swings open a beat later, and there’s Carisi, strolling in like a man with one foot out the door. His suit jacket is slung over one shoulder, and he’s got a travel folder tucked under his arm, half-unzipped and bristling with printouts. There’s a subtle bounce in his step, the kind of lightness that only comes with temporary escape.

She finally looks up, brow arching. “You’re really leaving me with the circus, huh?”

Carisi’s mouth twists into a grin as he shuts the door behind him. “Only for a week. Two at most. But hey—silver lining, I’m not leaving you empty-handed.”

Olivia leans back in her chair, crossing her arms with the kind of suspicion she usually reserves for suspects caught in a lie. “Oh yeah? Who’d you rope into babysitting the courtroom while you’re off in Albany dodging press and pretending not to hate it?”

That smug grin widens. It’s the kind of grin she’s known long enough to recognize as trouble wrapped in charm. “You remember my friend from Brooklyn—”

“No.”

Carisi raises both brows, undeterred. “You didn’t even let me finish.”

“I don’t need to,” she fires back.

He laughs, clearly amused, and holds up a hand like a peace offering. “She agreed to cover SVU while I’m gone. Full authority. Total discretion. Already been briefed on everything too and before you ask—yes, she already started reviewing the backlog.”

Olivia’s eyes narrow. “Carisi. Your friend from Brooklyn? The same one apparently who told Fin she had—and I quote—‘better things to do than wait for decent police work’?”

“In her defense,” he says, dragging out the words like he’s bracing for impact, “that was during that mess with the triple homicide, the falsified warrants, and that precinct that practically wrote its own internal affairs reports.”

“I remember,” she says, dryly. “And I also remember wanting to throw a chair after that court hearing.”

“Which you didn’t,” he points out, holding up a finger. “Because deep down, even you knew she wasn’t wrong.”

Olivia lets out a sharp breath, pushing the file off her lap and setting it on the desk. “That doesn’t mean I want her anywhere near my department. I need someone who cares about the people we’re fighting for. Not just their conviction stats.”

Carisi sobers slightly, but there’s still something amused in his eyes—like he’s watching a movie he’s already seen once and is excited to see her reaction the second time. “She cares, Liv. Just… not in the way you’re used to. Not warm, and she’s definitely not fuzzy. But she fights hard. And if a case is worth it—bleed for it.”

She studies him, her expression unreadable. Years of dealing with unpredictable cops, distraught victims, and courtroom disasters have made her hard to rattle—but Carisi’s evasiveness is starting to itch at her.

“So,” she says slowly, “what am I in for?”

He hesitates. It’s not long, but it’s long enough. Then, with a crooked smile that lands somewhere between fond and vaguely apologetic, he says, “Let’s just say… you two are either gonna cling or clash, that I’m not really sure yet.”

Olivia doesn’t return the smile. “That’s not comforting.”

“Wasn’t meant to be,” Carisi replies, striding forward to drop the travel folder on her desk. “It’s honest. Shes brilliant, Liv. Scary brilliant. Razor-sharp instincts, zero tolerance for bullshit, and doesn’t back down—ever.”

She flips the folder open, eyes scanning the first few pages. Case assignments, brief notes, a printed itinerary from the DA’s office. Nothing about the ADA themselves. No photo. No profile. That alone makes her more wary. “I’ve worked with ADAs like that before,” she says, still reading. “It never ends well.”

Carisi’s smirk deepens, like he’s holding a secret she’s not ready to hear. “She’s not like the others.”

That gets her attention. Her eyes lift sharply. “And that’s supposed to reassure me?”

He shrugs, letting the silence hang just long enough for it to border on smug. “Just give her a few days. You might surprise yourself.”

He starts to turn away, then pauses, glancing back over his shoulder with a knowing glint in his eye. “Oh—and try not to take it personally liv, she just takes a moment.”

Olivia frowns. “What?”

His grin is all teeth now, bright and obnoxious. “You’ll see.” And with that, he’s gone, whistling under his breath as he strolls back down the hall. Olivia stares at the now-closed door for a long beat, then down at the folder in her hands.

You’ll see.

Great.

The first spark happens on a Wednesday. Clouds hang low over Manhattan, the kind of gray that seeps into everything—moods, clothes, patience. It’s already been a rough morning. Two callouts, one victim interview that ended in tears and a vomit-smeared hallway, and now this—another delicate case strung together with barely enough evidence to keep it from unraveling in her hands.

The victim, a nineteen-year-old college freshman, came in the night before, shaking so hard Olivia had to physically steady her hand just to hold the pen. The timeline was thin. The physical evidence, thinner. But Olivia believed her. She saw the signs, heard the tremble in her voice that couldn’t be faked. Still, belief wasn’t admissible in court.

Then a break—small, but promising. One of Olivia’s detectives caught it on security footage from a deli across the street. The suspect entering at a time that didn’t match his alibi. If they could just cross-reference that with the MTA logs or ping tower data, maybe they could wedge the window of doubt wide enough to break it open.

She flagged it herself. Typed it out. Highlighted it. Attached the timestamped footage and handed it off. “Go straight to the temp ADA,” she told him, tapping the top of the file with two fingers. “If they’ve got half a brain, they’ll know this is the slip up we needed.”

That was late morning. By early afternoon, her detective is back. Standing in the doorway of her office, no file in hand. Just a dull look of exasperation and something clenched in his right hand. He doesn’t speak right away, and Olivia knows—knows—this isn’t good.

“Don’t tell me she passed on it,” she says, already on edge.

He hesitates, then steps forward, extending a small square of neon yellow. A sticky note. That’s it. Olivia takes it, frowning, and reads. “Find more solid information. Don’t waste my docket.”

The handwriting is neat. Clean. Effortless. No signature. No stamp. Just sharp-edged confidence bleeding off the page in ink. She looks up, voice low but tight. “This is it?”

He shrugs helplessly. “Said if we had something real, to try again tomorrow. Maybe.” The maybe lands like a slap. Olivia doesn’t say anything at first. Just pushes her chair back so hard it screeches against the floor. No pause. Just fire.

She storms past the bullpen, boots striking tile like warning shots. Someone calls her name—maybe Fin, maybe Amanda—but she doesn’t slow. Her eyes are already locked on the front doors like crosshairs. Her jaw is tight enough to ache. Her hands are balled into fists. By the time she’s outside, the winter air barely registers. The wind tears at her sleeves, but she’s too furious to feel cold.

Don’t waste my docket.

She runs the words over in her head, over and over again, like a mantra she wants to throttle someone with. It wasn’t the dismissal that got her, It was the arrogance.

The assumption that her team hadn’t already combed every inch of that case, hadn’t fought tooth and nail just to bring something forward. The idea that someone sitting comfortably behind a desk could brush it off with a one-liner and an anonymous note like they were swatting away an annoying email.

She didn’t give a damn how brilliant this ADA was supposed to be. If they thought they could steamroll SVU and treat the unit like a line on a checklist, they had another thing coming. Thirty minutes later, she’s pushing through the glass doors of the District Attorney’s office, straight past the front desk without a word. She knows where the office is.

Carisi had pointed it out just days ago when he tried to introduced her to “her new partner in justice,” said with that smug little smirk like he knew exactly how combustible this pairing was going to be. You weren’t there of course, “ran out for supplies”.

The receptionist behind the desk starts to stand. “Ma’am—Captain—do you have an appointment?”

“No,” Olivia says flatly, already walking. Her boots echo down the marble hallway, a measured storm heading for one very particular office door. She doesn’t knock, she doesn’t need to because this wasn’t a meeting. This was a reckoning.

You hear the footsteps before you see her. Not the polite, half-hearted shuffle of a courier or the tentative knock of a detective worried about pissing off the new ADA. No—these are deliberate. Sharp. The kind of footsteps that have backed down perps in interrogation rooms and chased down predators in alleys slick with rain and blood.

You don’t bother looking up from the file you’re annotating. The pen in your hand doesn’t even pause as the door swings open—no knock, no courtesy, just authority wrapped in fury.

Olivia Benson. Well. That didn’t take long. You glance up slowly, deliberately, like someone turning the page on a mildly interesting novel. Her expression could cut glass. “Captain Benson,” you greet, voice low and dry. “What an unexpected surprise.”

She doesn’t return the pleasantry. Doesn’t sit. Doesn’t blink. “You sent my detective back with a sticky note.”

You lean back in your chair, resting your chin in your hand, elbow balanced on the armrest like a queen on her throne. “If I’d had more time, I might’ve included a gold star and a participation ribbon.”

Her jaw tightens. “That evidence could’ve strengthened the timeline. Could’ve been what we needed to move this case forward.”

You cut her off with a raised brow and a flick of your pen. “It Could’ve also collapsed like a paper bridge in a thunderstorms wrath. Secondhand timestamps. Incomplete footage. Zero cell data. I don’t take maybes and turn them into miracles, Captain. That’s your job. Mine is to win.”

She takes a step forward. Not threatening, but definitely not friendly. “Your job is to seek justice. For victims. For the Nineteen-year-old girl who came to us in pieces and trusted that we’d fight for her.”

Your spine straightens, shoulders rolling back. Your eyes sharpen as they lock with hers. “And you think I’m doing her a favor by pushing through evidence that wouldn’t survive ten seconds against a defense attorney with a pulse?” you ask coolly. “You think that’s justice? Because what I think is that weak cases don’t end in guilty verdicts—they end in hung juries, retrials, or worse. They end with monsters walking out of court with a smirk and a lawsuit.”

“You could’ve talked to me,” she snaps. “Explained it. Instead, you embarrassed one of my best detectives.”

You shrug, unapologetic. “If your detective can’t handle the reality of rejection, they’re in the wrong line of work. I’m not here to massage egos. I’m here to prosecute.”

Olivia’s eyes flash. “You think this is about ego?”

“I think this is about you not being used to hearing the word no,” you say, voice steel-edged. “I’m not one of your detectives. I do not report to you. And I don’t rubber-stamp evidence that won’t hold. So if you want a prosecutor who’s going to bend every time you stomp in here breathing fire, call the DA and ask for someone softer.”

Her nostrils flare. You expect her to yell. You kind of want her to—it’d be easier than the way she’s looking at you now, like she’s trying to peel back every layer and figure out what broke you to make you this way.

“You really don’t get it,” she says, quieter now, but somehow twice as cutting. “This isn’t some desk job where you get to sit in judgment and pretend that your detachment makes you better. These victims… they’re not case numbers. They’re not hypothetical arguments in a courtroom. They’re real. And they deserve someone who gives a damn.”

Something flinches in your chest—fast and buried. You don’t let it show. Instead, you sigh, smooth out your expression, and rise slowly from your chair.

“I do give a damn,” you say, voice lower now. “I give enough of a damn to make sure their stories are airtight before I put them in front of twelve strangers to have the worst experience of their lives dissected and judged like front page news. Because if I screw that up, they don’t just lose the case. They lose their faith. In all of us. ”

She blinks once, but doesn’t back down. “You don’t even know her name, do you?”

There’s no accusation in it—just disappointment. That stings more than it should. “She matters,” Olivia continues. “Even if you don’t think so yet.” You let the silence stretch, neither of you blinking. The tension between you hums with something hotter than just frustration. She’s not wrong—and you hate that.

Finally, you exhale and glance toward the case files stacked on your desk. “I’ll review the timeline again. If there’s something there, I’ll reconsider. But don’t send someone to me without prepping them properly next time. I don’t coddle. Ever.”

Olivia tilts her head slightly, a bitter smile tugging at her mouth. “Yeah. I got that.”

She turns toward the door without another word, and for a second, you think she might leave it at that. But her hand pauses on the knob. “You know,” she says without turning, “Carisi said you were sharp. Implied you’d challenge me.” She looks back over her shoulder, just enough to meet your gaze.

“He forgot to mention the part where you’d make me want to throw a chair through your window.”

You smirk. “He probably didn’t want to spoil the surprise.” She shakes her head once, scoffs under her breath, and walks out—no slamming, no theatrics. Just the calm, deadly quiet of a woman who’s not done with you yet.

You wait until her footsteps fade down the hallway before finally sitting down again. The silence that follows is heavy, coiled.

You stare down at the returned note still on your desk. For the first time since you wrote it, it looks… flippant.

You hate that, And you hate that she’s still in your head. “For their sake…” You rub a hand over your face, muttering under your breath.

“Goddamn Carisi, I’m gonna kill your ass—”

—————————————————

You’ve been assigned to SVU for less than a Ninety Six hours and already it feels like every day is a full-blown psychological endurance test. You’re dodging homicide cases like landmines, talking judges off metaphorical ledges, and battling Captain Olivia Benson like it’s a full-contact sport with no rulebook and no timeouts.

You’re barely two sips into your coffee when the phone buzzes on your desk. You stare at it for a beat like it insulted your mother, then clicked the screen

Detective Tutuola: We’ve got a problem.

You groan and pinch the bridge of your nose. It’s not even eight, then another buzz.

Detective Tutuola: Liv wants you down here. Now.”

When you step off the elevator at the precinct, you spot Olivia immediately—postured like a general at war. She’s planted firmly in front of the board, arms crossed, eyes locked on the photo of a bruised girl, she was young…...She doesn’t glance your way when you walk in, which somehow makes the tension worse.

“Captain,” you say, dry and clipped, as you approach.

“You’re late,” she says flatly, still not looking at you.

“I’m exactly on time,” you reply, brushing past a desk. “You just have an early martyr complex.” It slips out too fast, too instinctively—but she hears it. Her head tilts slowly in your direction, and when she finally looks at you, her glare could stop traffic.

“This is Sarah,” she says instead of arguing. Her voice is lower now. Sharper. “Eleven. Picked up outside her school by an older male. Assaulted for over twelve hours. Escaped just before dawn.”

That shuts you up. You glance at the photo, the sharp bloom of bruises beneath the girl’s eye. Your throat tightens despite yourself. “She’s safe now?” you ask, voice quieter.

“In the hospital. Broken wrists. Two cracked ribs. She’s got a trauma counselor in the room, but—” Olivia finally meets your gaze, and you see it. The weight. “She won’t understand what happened to her for years.”

You nod slowly, swallowing whatever sarcastic retort was forming. She hands you the case file—no ceremony, no preamble. You flip it open and scan quickly. Surveillance footage. Statement. Sketchy ID. One potential name, misspelled twice.

“This won’t get us a warrant…” you say without looking up. “It’s not enough just yet.”

Olivia takes a step toward you, posture rigid. “We don’t have time. If he disappears—”

“Then bring me something with teeth. A witness. A neighbor. Anything that doesn’t fall apart under scrutiny.” You close the folder. “I’m not getting a warrant thrown out on a bad Fourth Amendment argument. We lose it now, we lose it forever.”

She glares at you like she might actually throw the folder back in your face. “God, you’re infuriating.”

You raise your brow. “Don’t flatter me.”

Right then, Fin appears behind you, clearly sensing the storm about to make landfall. “We found a cabbie. Said he might’ve picked them up yesterday afternoon. He’s coming in now.”

You glance at Olivia again. She’s still staring at you—half murder, half something else. Like she’s trying to solve you and not liking what she’s finding. You exhale through your nose. “Fine. I’ll stay.”

Her brows lift slightly. “What, no note this time?”

You sigh, flicking the edge of the file with your finger. “Not yet.”

The interrogation room is colder than usual, humming with that sterile quiet that makes everything feel louder. The cabbie sits across from you, thin and wiry, fingers twitching against the table as he speaks.

“I didn’t know anything was wrong,” he insists. “She didn’t say anything. Just sat there.”

“You picked them up where?” you ask, pen poised.

“Near a school on Henry Street. He waved me down. Said they were late for an appointment.”

“She say anything at all?” Olivia asks from beside you, her tone gentler but unrelenting.

The man shakes his head. “No. Just quiet. Real quiet.” He rubs the back of his neck, like the memory is suddenly sitting wrong. “I thought… I thought they were father and daughter. Didn’t think twice.”

You nod. “Where’d you drop them?”

“Bushwick. Near Troutman. Apartment complex.” Beside you, Olivia stiffens. You don’t realize how close she’s sitting until your elbow bumps hers when you adjust your chair.

It’s not intentional, You glance over. She’s scribbling notes, eyes locked on the cabbie’s every movement. Her fingers are tight around the pen, her jaw clenched like she’s holding her breath.

The cabbie’s dismissed a few minutes later, leaving the two of you in the silence of the room. You glance at her again, studying her from the side—the way her shoulders curve in just slightly when no one’s looking. Like she’s been holding the weight of this case since the second it hit her desk. Maybe longer.

“Hey,” you say quietly. She doesn’t look up.

“That was something. The cabbie.”

She exhales slowly, voice low. “It’s still not enough.”

You nod, not disagreeing. “But it’s a start. And we both know that’s more than we had this morning.”She finally glances at you. Not with anger. Not with challenge. Something softer. Tired, maybe. Or just real.

“You always like being this difficult?” she asks after a beat, lips twitching at the corners.

“I’m consistent,” you say. “And it keeps the day interesting.”

She lets out a quiet chuckle—short, dry, but undeniably real. “Charming.”

“Unfortunately, yes,” you reply, meeting her gaze. The silence that follows isn’t heavy this time. It lingers between you—not awkward, not angry. Just… charged. Like whatever this is, whatever it’s becoming, is starting to shift. Something under the surface giving way.

Later, when the sun’s dipped low and the precinct is humming with the usual late-night chaos, you’re not in your office. You’re still downtown tucked away in an interview room, arguing your case to a bleary-eyed judge over video call. The statement from the cabbie isn’t enough on its own—not by protocol. But context, urgency, the right pressure in the right places? You’ve always known how to press just hard enough.

You lay it out clean. You take the pieces Olivia Benson brought to your desk and you frame them like a prosecutor should. Then you go a step further. You make it matter. And maybe—just maybe—that’s what tips it.

The judge signs off. Unexpected. But not undeserved. By the time the suspect’s in custody, cuffed and sullen in the back of a squad car, the bullpen is in motion. The air crackles with that brief, fleeting electricity that comes with a win—especially the kind that nearly slipped through your fingers. You’re walking through, ready to call it a night, when you catch her watching you. Not openly, not obviously. But she’s there. One elbow on her desk, eyes steady. She knows.

She knows you pulled strings to get the warrant approved. Knows you made her case a priority when you didn’t have to. And it’s no longer a gaze of disdain. But not admiration, either.

It’s… something in between. Something curious. Measuring. Like she’s trying to reconcile the version of you she assumed with the one she’s now staring at. Like she’s not sure what to make of you—but she’s starting to want to try. And maybe—just maybe—you’re not so sure yourself.

—————————————————————

The precinct hums weirdly different at night. The phones are quieter, the desks half-empty, the buzz of fluorescent lights louder than usual.

You’re in the conference room reviewing trial prep for Sarah’s case when Olivia walks in without warning. No knock. Just her usual presence—heavy with exhaustion and expectation.

She tosses a file onto the table. “You missed this,” she says sharply.

You glance at it. “No, I in fact didn’t.”

Her arms fold. “Then why wasn’t it in the supplemental report you sent to my squad?”

“Because it’s redundant,” you reply, not even looking up. “The interview is inconsistent, and you already have stronger corroboration from the cabbie, this wouldn’t help.”

“Doesn’t matter. You don’t get to decide what’s relevant to my detectives.”

You set your pen down carefully. “No, Captain. I get to decide what makes it into my trial strategy. That’s why I’m here.”

Olivia’s eyes flash. “You still think this is just strategy? That what we do here is some chess game to feed your ego in court?”

You stand, hands braced against the table now. “And you think this whole unit runs on moral righteousness and intuition. I don’t care what fairy tale you’re selling, Benson. I work with facts. Evidence. What holds up in front of a jury.”

She’s already across the room before you realize it, eyes locked on yours. “You think I haven’t stood in front of a jury?” she hisses. “You think I don’t know how fragile it all is? I’ve seen predators walk out because some ADA decided not to trust the victim’s word over the paperwork.”

You grit your teeth. “And I’ve seen guilty men go free because a cop couldn’t keep their emotions out of the investigation.” That one lands hard. Her jaw clenches, and for the first time, you see it—a flicker of something deeper. Not just frustration. Not even rage.

You try to pull back, but she beats you to it. “My emotions?” she repeats, low and cold. “You think I’m too emotional for this job? Is that what you’ve been thinking this whole time?”

“I didn’t say that—”

“You didn’t have to,” she snaps. “You’ve made it crystal clear. From the moment you walked in here with your deadpan sarcasm and your detached attitude.”

You open your mouth, but she’s not finished.“You think I’m weak because I give a damn. Because I care what happens after the trial’s over. Because I sit with these girls and hear them sob about how they can’t sleep without nightmares and pray that the system doesn’t fail them again.”

Her voice cracks—just barely—and that stops everything. The whole room stills. Her fists are trembling now, not from anger, but from restraint. You take a breath. “I don’t think you’re weak, Olivia.” She blinks. “I think you’re not what I expected—.” That lands even harder.

Your voice lowers. “Because I’ve spent my entire career not letting things get personal. I go home at night and I don’t carry it with me. That’s how I survive. And you—you walk in here like every case is life or death. Like it’ll kill you if you don’t make it right.”

You swallow. “I don’t know how to be like that. I don’t know how you do.” She looks at you for a long time.

The room hums with the tension between you—rage, yes. But something else now. Something raw. Human. Finally, she speaks, quieter than before. “I don’t get to turn it off. I’ve tried.” A long silence.

You nod slowly. “That must be exhausting.” There’s something in her eyes then—recognition. Not agreement, not yet. But the barest crack in the wall she’s kept up around you.

“It is,” she admits. “But I don’t know who I’d be if I stopped.”

You hold her gaze. “Probably still terrifying.”

A short, humorless laugh escapes her. “You’re such an ass.”

“Yeah,” you say softly. “But I’m not your enemy, Benson.” She nods. Once. Barely. Then turns to leave.

The days that follow are… different. The cases are still the same—grisly, complicated, too often thankless. The long hours don’t relent, and the emotional weight doesn’t let up. Trauma hangs in the air like humidity, thick and oppressive, seeping into everything. But Olivia stops looking at you like you’re a brick wall she’s determined to knock down.

Now, it’s something else. Now, it’s like she’s circling—measuring—trying to figure out what’s beneath the surface and, more importantly, why it bothers her that she doesn’t already know. Like not being able to read you is a flaw in her otherwise flawless instincts.

You don’t make it easy. You’re still guarded, still clipped in your language and unapologetic in your choices. But there’s a shift. A ripple.

It happens during an afternoon that blends into every other—gray sky, lukewarm coffee, the scent of printer toner and stress. There’s too much paperwork and not enough manpower. Olivia’s been in and out of her office all day, splitting her time between chasing down a witness and fielding press inquiries.

There’s the a kid. She’s sitting at the far end of the bullpen, legs dangling, wrapped in a coat two sizes too small. Her shoes are scuffed and her socks don’t match—one purple with stars, the other plain white and bunched at the ankle. She looks barely ten. All knees and elbows, sleeves frayed from nervous fingers. She clutches a half-empty juice box like it’s the only thing anchoring her.

She’s waiting for her mother, who’s still with Amanda, finishing up the stack of forms required to even begin a case. You pass by once—glance. Pass again. Then something tugs at you. You double back. No drama. No big declarations. You crouch beside her, your coat creasing at the knees, and hold out a bag of m & m’s you’d stashed in your jacket earlier. “You look like you could use something sweeter.”

She eyes you with wide, uncertain eyes—silent. You don’t push. Just hold the bag out patiently. After a beat, she reaches out and takes it. Not with trust, but with the quiet, learned caution of someone who’s had to grow up faster than she should.

You don’t say anything else. Just sit beside her, careful not to crowd. From your pocket, you pull a pen and start drawing something on your palm—deliberate strokes. After a few seconds, you tilt your hand toward her, revealing a lopsided cartoon ghost with big eyes and a surprised mouth.

She leans over slightly, curiosity edging past fear. You wiggle your fingers. The ghost “waves.” It’s barely there, but it’s real—a tug at the corners of her mouth. A tiny, tired smile. The kind you don’t chase. The kind that just… happens, if you’re lucky.

You pat her knee gently and stand, already halfway back to your sanctioned desk before she even considers opening the bag. You don’t notice Olivia watching. But she saw everything.

She’d stepped out of the break room mid-conversation with Fin, coffee in hand, expression unreadable. She spotted you crouching beside the girl, and her voice had trailed off. Fin kept talking, but Olivia didn’t respond. Just stood there in the doorway, eyes fixed on the quiet, unspoken moment between you and the child.

She doesn’t interrupt. Doesn’t approach. Just watches. Thoughtfully. Like maybe—for the first time—she sees something she truly wasn’t expecting. Later, hours after the girl and her mother have gone and the bullpen has emptied into tired footsteps and quiet key taps, she brings it up. No lead-in. No preamble. “You’re good with kids.”

You don’t look up from your laptop screen. “I’m good with people who’ve survived the worst day of their lives. Whether they’re ten or forty-five doesn’t matter.”

There’s a pause. You feel her watching again—measuring like she always does, but softer this time. “That’s not in the manual,” she says quietly.

You glance at her now, finally. “Neither is how to deal with you, Benson. And yet here we are.”

She almost smiles. Almost. But doesn’t. Still, something in her expression changes—just slightly. The way she looks at you holds… interest. Curiosity. Respect, maybe. But mostly, it lingers. Like the moment stuck to her ribs a little more than she expected it to. And when she finally walks away, the space she leaves behind doesn’t feel the same. Not colder. Not distant. Just… different. And you’re not entirely sure that’s a bad thing.

It happens again two days later. The precinct at night is a strange limbo. Half the squad’s gone, the rest typing quietly or nursing lukewarm coffee. You’re behind the desk again half-buried in files for the upcoming trial, why you honestly couldn’t answer. You technically had an office available to use….Olivia’s been circling you all day—not physically, but in the way she glances over when she thinks you’re not looking.

The tension between you has cooled to something simmering. No longer combative. Just uncertain. Then the call comes through. A clerk buzzes the desks direct line. “ Counselor, there’s someone downstairs asking for you. Said it was urgent. They wouldn’t give a name.”

You frown. “Send them up.” You don’t think much of it—probably a detective dropping off paperwork, maybe a defense attorney trying to get cute by tracking you down here. But when the elevator dings and the doors slide open, the blood drains from your face.

Because standing there, in his dress blues, is your father. Retired NYPD. Former commanding officer in Queens. And the reason you left your last post in Brooklyn in the first place. The same man who made it clear that you were never the kind of daughter he wanted.

He looks the same—rigid posture, gritted jaw, shoes so polished you could see your own reflection in them if you weren’t already focused on keeping yourself from reacting. He doesn’t wait for an invitation. “Still chasing headlines, huh?” he says as he walks in. “Thought you’d have burned out by now.”

You don’t answer. You just shut the file slowly and stand. “What do you want?”

“I came to say congratulations,” he says mockingly. “Your brother mentioned you got assigned to SVU. Thought I’d see if the stories were true.”

“They are,” comes Olivia’s voice from across the room. You hadn’t realized she was watching from the hallway.

Your father turns to her with a tight-lipped smirk. “Captain Benson. I’ve heard about you.”

“I wish I could say the same,” she says coolly. The air between them sours quickly.

“She’s one of the best we’ve got,” Olivia adds, nodding toward you. “Hard to rattle. Harder to beat in court. That’s why she’s here.”

He chuckles, low and bitter. “Yeah, well. Toughness isn’t the same thing as loyalty.”

Your jaw clenches. “Is this necessary right now.”

“Don’t worry, I’ve seen enough.” He looks at Olivia again. “Good luck keeping this one in line. She always had a habit of mistaking disobedience for independence.” He walks out before you can respond. The elevator swallows him whole, just like it did the last time he walked out of your life.

You turn back to your desk, trying to focus on the file in front of you. But your hands are trembling. You hadn’t expected him. Not here. Not now. And definitely not her witnessing it. You don’t realize Olivia’s still standing in the doorway until she speaks again—quietly. “I didn’t know.”

You shake your head. “No one does. Carisi’s the only one who ever met him. Once. It didn’t go over very well.”

“What happened?” she asks, softer now.

You shrug, staring down at the file like it can save you. “He didn’t like the way I used my voice. Or my brain. He wanted a daughter who smiled and nodded. Not one who cross-examined him at thirteen. Carisi didn’t help”

Olivia steps closer. Carefully. Like she’s not sure how close is too close yet. “You don’t seem like a person to just bury things,” she says.

You laugh once, bitter. “It’s the only way I made it through. Law school. My childhood. Him.” She doesn’t say anything for a moment.

Then—like she was connecting pieces of a puzzle splayed in front of her “That case with the girl in the cab. You didn’t push back because you didn’t care.” You glance at her.

“You pushed back because if the case cracked under pressure, you’d carry that failure,” she says. “Just like you’ve carried everything else.” You hate that she sees it. Hate it even more that it’s accurate.

You chuckled bitterly “I’ve never had the luxury of failure.”

Her eyes soften just a fraction. “Me neither.”

For a long moment, you both just stand there. No war between you. No battleground. Just two people who’ve built their lives around control, finally seeing the fractures in each other. And Olivia? She doesn’t look at you with interest anymore. She looks like she understands. Like maybe—just maybe—she wishes she’d understood sooner.

——————————————————

It’s been five days since your father showed up, you stopped working out of the precinct due to absolute embarrassment over what transpired, and Olivia hasn’t brought it up once. But she’s also stopped sending her detectives to drop off paperwork. At first, you figured it was coincidence—just an efficient captain handling her own files. But then it kept happening. A delivery here, an update there. Sometimes just a copy of a transcript she could’ve easily emailed.

Now, it’s become something of a pattern. She shows up in your office unannounced just after five, holding a small folder and a paper coffee cup. You raise an eyebrow. “Delivering messages personally again?”

She smirks faintly. “My squad’s busy.”

“They’re always busy.”

“And I like the walk,” she says simply, stepping inside.

You watch her a beat too long. “You know there’s a whole department of runners for this.”

“I know.” She sets the folder on your desk, takes the seat across from you. “Besides, it gives me a chance to check in. See if you’ve set any more precinct records for most interdepartmental complaints in a single week.”

You snort. “That was one time, and he called the victim ‘sweetheart.’ I regret absolutely nothing.” Olivia actually smiles. Not just the polite press of lips she usually offers in court—but something real. Quiet. Like maybe she’s stopped expecting you to explode every time she enters a room.

You reach for the folder. “This the latest from the Victim Support counselor?”

She nods. “She flagged something about the younger sister being afraid to sleep. Possible secondary trauma.”

You flip through the report. “I’ll reach out. Maybe get her a direct line to our social worker in the ADA’s office. Someone not wearing a badge.”

Olivia nods, then hesitates. You glance up. “What?”

“Carisi called this morning,” she says slowly. “Said the DA’s office is extending your placement with us.”

You blink. “He didn’t tell you?”

She shakes her head. “No. Apparently it’s due to ‘unforeseen administrative complications.’ Whatever the hell that means.”

You sigh and sit back in your chair. “He mentioned something about Albany stonewalling a few policy changes. Didn’t give me much else, and I didn’t push.”

“Huh.” You both go quiet. It’s not awkward—just still. A shared pause neither of you feels the need to rush through. You sip from your now-cold coffee and glance at her over the rim. “If you’re looking to get rid of me, I’m afraid you’re out of luck.”

“I haven’t decided yet,” she replies, but there’s no heat behind it. Only the faintest trace of something else. Interest. She leans forward after a beat. “I looked into your father.” That catches you off guard.

“Excuse me?”

“I wasn’t snooping,” she adds quickly. “I just… I recognized the name. Went through a few archived cases. His record’s spotless. Commendations. Arrests. Seems like he was—”

“An excellent cop,” you finish for her, a humorless smile tugging at your mouth. “Yeah. That wasn’t the problem.” Olivia stays quiet. Waiting.

You exhale slowly. Fold your hands. “My mother was killed in a carjacking when I was seven. Random. Wrong place, wrong time.” Olivia doesn’t speak. Her eyes are locked on yours—calm, open.

You continue, your voice tight but steady. “My father was already losing himself to the job, even before that. After she died… he just disappeared. Not physically. Just—emotionally. Completely. He went from being cold to nonexistent.” You look away for a second, then back at her.

“He kept the house, but we were on our own. Cooked my own meals, applied to college by myself, signed my own permission slips until I graduated. He made sure the lights stayed on, but that’s it.”

Another beat. “I think part of him died with her. The rest turned into a badge and a bottle.” Olivia’s expression doesn’t shift much, but her hands tighten where they rest on her knees.

“He ever hurt you?” she asks quietly.

You shake your head. “Not in a way that leaves marks.” That hangs there between you. Heavy. “You remind me of him, you know,” you say, more gently than expected. “Or at least the cop he used to be. Always watching. Always carrying it. Always trying to outwork the damage.”

Olivia looks at you for a long moment. Something in her chest rises and falls more deeply than before. “I’m sorry,” she says.

You shrug. “Don’t be. It made me who I am.”

She tilts her head. “Which part?”

You meet her eyes. “The part that doesn’t flinch anymore.” Another pause.

“I don’t believe that,” she says softly. “I think you flinch all the time. You just don’t let anyone see it.” You don’t answer, because she’s right. She stands slowly, smoothing out her jacket. But she doesn’t move to leave just yet.

“You know,” she says, voice quieter now, “you don’t have to keep proving how untouchable you are. Not to me.” You look up at her, and for once, let her see something unguarded in your expression.

“I don’t know how to be anything else.” Olivia’s gaze lingers for a beat—warm, but weighted.

“I think you do,” she replies. “You just forgot.” She walks out a moment later, and this time… you wish she hadn’t.

The call comes in just after 6 a.m. By the time you get to the precinct, Olivia is already there—shoulders tense, jaw locked, eyes trained on the briefing room like the whole building might collapse if she looks away.

She doesn’t greet you. Just gestures you in with a tilt of her head. Inside, Fin and Amanda are seated at the table. A uniformed officer stands by the whiteboard, flipping through a few handwritten notes. The case file is thick. “Walk me through it,” you say, sliding into the chair across from Olivia.

Fin starts. “Fourteen-year-old girl, Jessa Monroe, found at the bottom of a tenement stairwell in the Lower East Side. Multiple fractures, two black eyes, defensive wounds. She’s alive, but barely. She was conscious for a minute when the first unit arrived—said, ‘He pushed me.’ Then passed out.”

“She’s in a coma now,” Olivia adds. “No sign of forced entry, no surveillance footage from inside the building.”

“She live there?” you ask.

Amanda nods. “Third floor. With her stepfather and younger half-brother.”

Your fingers drum against the table. “Biological mother?”

“Deceased,” Fin says. “Died of an overdose when Jessa was ten. Stepdad’s had legal custody since.”

“And where was he when this happened?”

Olivia’s voice is flat. “He says he was out picking up groceries. Left the kids alone for half an hour.”

Your eyes lift. “And do we believe that?”

“I believe she said ‘He pushed me’ for a reason.” You exhale through your nose. Something sharp coils in your chest. You glance at the folder in front of you, then back at Olivia.

“How much history do we have on him?”

Amanda flips a page. “Minor priors. DUI, resisting once about ten years ago. Nothing recent. CPS has visited the home twice in the last year, but no official action taken.”

“And the little brother?”

“Eight,” Olivia says. “He was there. Says he didn’t see anything. Just heard yelling, then a thud.” You feel your gut tighten. You’ve seen this case before. Not this exact one, but versions of it.

Girls shoved down stairs, pushed over balconies, into silence. Evidence that only suggests guilt but never lands hard enough to make a jury care. These are the cases that haunt you, the ones that test the line between justice and law.

Olivia catches your expression. “You okay?”

You nod once. “I just hate this case already.”

By mid-afternoon, you’re back in the interrogation room, watching through the two-way mirror as Olivia questions the stepfather. He’s calm. Too calm. Hands folded. Voice smooth. Keeps using Jessa’s name like it’s currency. “I would never hurt her,” he says, over and over. “She’s my daughter.”

“She’s your stepdaughter,” Olivia corrects. “And she was terrified of you.”

He flinches—but just barely. “Kids exaggerate,” he says. “She’s emotional. Always has been.”

You feel your hands curl into fists at your sides. Outside the glass you stood observing, Olivia glances over her shoulder at you—like she feels it too. The wrongness. Afterward, she finds you back in your office. “We don’t have enough,” she says.

“I know.”

“I hate this part.”

You nod. “Me too.” There’s silence for a beat. Then she asks it, voice quieter now

“You’ve seen this before, haven’t you?”

You glance at her. Then away. “Yeah. I prosecuted a similar case three years ago. Same setup. Step-parent. Girl was eleven. Nobody believed her. Not until it was too late.”

“What happened?”

You exhale. “She was found in a crawl space under the floorboards.” Olivia flinches.

“She lasted four days,” you add. “They’d called it a runaway. By the time they looked deeper, she was gone.” Olivia doesn’t say anything.

Eventually, you speak again—this time softer, not to fill the silence, but because it hurts to leave it there. “You think being in this job makes you numb. But it doesn’t. It just makes you quiet about what it breaks.”

She steps forward slowly, arms still folded. “I don’t think you’re numb.”

You look at her. “I think you’ve just had to pretend longer than most of us.” You want to scoff, say something sharp—something to build the wall back up. But instead, you say nothing.

Because she’s right again, and you’re tired of pretending she’s not. That night, as you walk out of the building together, neither of you says a word. But Olivia keeps glancing at you. Not like she’s watching your steps. Like she’s watching your cracks. And you? You don’t hate it as much as you should.

You wake up before your alarm—again. It’s becoming a pattern. The apartment is still dim, touched only by the early gray light leaking through your curtains. The air is cold against your skin as you swing your legs over the side of the bed and sit there for a moment, elbows on your knees, trying to gather the pieces of yourself that never quite rest.

You shower. Dress in practiced movements. Coffee brews while you review emails on your phone, already anticipating the day ahead. There’s always a backlog, always another victim waiting, always a clock ticking somewhere in the background.

You make it into the office earlier than usual—earlier than most. The halls are still quiet, only a few staff members and a bleary-eyed intern at their desks. You nod at the desk attendant without stopping, coffee in hand and a folder tucked under your arm. Your office is just how you left it, papers stacked neatly, whiteboard half-filled with notes, and the scent of aging case files lingering like dust in the corners.

You take a seat, the leather chair groaning beneath you as you power on your screen. The hours before lunch pass in a blur of red pen, witness statements, and strategic annotations. You’re halfway through a supplemental witness list for a different case—something low-priority but still heavy when there’s a knock on your door.

Except Olivia doesn’t wait for you to answer. She walks in like she belongs there, which—by now—she does. There’s a rhythm between the two of you now, a quiet understanding built on friction and fragments of trust. She doesn’t waste time.

“He’s talking,” she says.

Your posture straightens. “The kid?”

She nods. “Fin’s with him now. Amanda says he’s scared, but he asked if we could get the bad man out of the house.”

Your chest tightens—not professionally, not clinically, but in that place you try to keep separate. The one that knots itself every time a child’s voice has to carry more weight than it should. “We’re recording?” you ask.

“Every word.”

You’re already moving. By the time you reach the observation room, there’s a hum in the air—activity without chaos. Olivia walks beside you, silent but present. She doesn’t need to say anything. The fact that she came to you first says enough.

Through the glass, you see him—Nico. He’s sitting in the interview chair, legs too short to reach the floor, so they swing in slow, nervous arcs. One hand is curled tightly around a stuffed rabbit that looks like it’s seen better days—ears worn, stitching loose at the neck. His other hand rests uncertainly on the table in front of him.

Fin sits across from him, calm and steady, hands folded on the table. No pressure. No raised voice. Just patience. Nico’s voice is barely audible through the speaker, soft and brittle as he talks about the man in the house. The way he yells. The way he touches things he shouldn’t. The way Nico learned to make himself small. Unnoticeable.

He keeps glancing at the mirror. He doesn’t know it’s glass. Doesn’t know you’re there, or maybe he does in the way kids sometimes just know. You don’t speak. You don’t move. Just watch.

Olivia watches, too, arms crossed over her chest, jaw tight but unreadable. She doesn’t blink much. You wonder if she’s holding her breath, the same way you are.

“He asked Amanda if he’d get in trouble for telling,” Olivia says quietly beside you. “She told him the bravest thing a person can do is say the truth out loud.”

You nod once, eyes still on the boy. “She’s right.” You don’t say the rest, that sometimes telling the truth doesn’t feel brave. Sometimes it feels like reopening a wound with your bare hands and waiting to see if anyone will stop the bleeding.

Nico keeps talking. “He was yelling,” Nico says. “I heard him tell her she was bad. That she was making him mad again. She cried. I told her not to yell back, but she did.”

Fin’s voice is low, patient. “Then what happened, buddy?”

There’s a long pause. Nico hugs the rabbit tighter. “Daddy pushed her.” The words hang in the air like a slow-motion punch.

“I heard her scream,” he says, quieter now. “Then nothing.” You close your eyes. Olivia’s standing right next to you, arms folded, jaw tight—but her eyes shine with something deeper. Grief. Rage. Resignation.

You don’t say a word. The warrant for the stepfather’s arrest is signed within the hour. The squad moves quickly—Fin and Amanda lead the charge, and Olivia oversees every inch of it. You’re back at your desk, prepping charges and anticipating the usual tricks defense will try.

But your mind is somewhere else. It’s on Nico. On Jessa. On a justice system that only listens when the scars are loud enough. By 6 p.m., the squad is back. The stepfather’s in holding, expression blank and unbothered. He doesn’t ask for a lawyer right away. He just stares at the table, like none of this is real.

You don’t want to be in the room with him. So you go to Olivia’s office instead. She’s seated at her desk, but not working. Just staring at a file that hasn’t been opened. When you knock, she doesn’t flinch—she just waves you in without a word.

You close the door behind you. “You okay?”

“No.”

You nod. “Same.” Silence.

Then—“He confessed. After we showed him the boy’s statement.”

You sink into the chair across from her. “What’d he say?”

“That she was ‘too much.’ That she kept challenging him. That she didn’t know how to be grateful.”

You swallow hard. “Like it was her fault.”

She nods. “Like it always is.”

Your fingers tap the edge of her desk, restlessly. “There’s no making this one okay.”

“No,” she says. “But at least she gets to wake up one day knowing he’s gone.”

You exhale. “If she wakes up.” That silence hurts worse than anything else. You glance at her. “You ever think you picked the wrong path?”

Olivia’s eyebrows lift, faintly. “This job. These cases. The uphill climb every damn day. Some days it feels like we’re just patching holes in a sinking ship.”

She studies you for a moment. Then she says, almost too softly: “Yeah. I think about it a lot.” Your throat tightens. You don’t expect the next thing you say, but it slips out anyway.

“My mom was kind. Strong. And the only reason I survived childhood with him.”

Olivia watches you closely. “She died because someone wanted her car and didn’t want witnesses,” you say. “And my father used that as an excuse to shut down. To be a shell of a man who couldn’t even look at me without seeing her.” You take a breath.

“I got into this work because I wanted to make sure somebody was still fighting for people like her. But lately… I don’t know.”

“You feel like you’re losing ground,” she finishes. You nod. There’s a pause before Olivia speaks again, and when she does, her voice is different—softer, but unwavering.

“You’re not.” You meet her gaze.

“You didn’t save Jessa before he pushed her,” she says, “but you’re going to make sure he never does it to another girl again. That’s something.”

“Is it enough?”

“No,” she admits. “But it’s what we’ve got.” Another long pause. “You don’t have to carry it all yourself, you know,” she adds.

You look at her. Really look. “Neither do you.” For a second, the air between you shifts. All the sarcasm, the tension, the snide remarks and pride and cynicism—it’s still there. But quieter now. Muted by something heavier.

Respect.

Grief.

Need.

Olivia clears her throat and sits up straighter. “I’ve got one more statement to review tonight. Want to stick around?”

You raise an eyebrow. “You asking for company?”

“I’m asking if you’re done pretending this doesn’t affect you.” You pause. Then rise to your feet.

“I’ll stay,” you say. And you do.

——————————————————

It starts the same way it did with you. The first time, you bring the case file over yourself because your assistant’s out sick and you don’t trust the new temp not to drop it off with the wrong squad. That’s what you tell yourself, anyway. You walk the file down the hall, knock on Olivia’s office door, and hand it over.

She lifts a brow. “You lost your sarcasm too or just your assistant?”

You smirk. “I figured if you can do it, so can I.”

She rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling. “Careful counselor. You’re starting to blend in.” You leave before the warmth in your chest can do anything foolish. The next week, you do it again. No reason. Just… do.

By the third week, it’s a rhythm. You swing by with updates. Sometimes you don’t even knock anymore. Just walk in, drop the folder, exchange a look. Maybe a joke. Maybe not. Sometimes she’s already waiting with a folder of her own, like she anticipated you.

Neither of you comments on it. You just keep showing up. Until one afternoon, when you walk in and she’s sitting at her desk with two paper bags and a water bottle balanced precariously on top of her paperwork.

She doesn’t look up when she says, “If you’re going to keep bringing me files, the least you can do is stay for lunch.”

You blink. “I—what?”

She finally looks at you, calm as ever. “Salad or sandwich?”

You hesitate, then close the door behind you. “Sandwich.”

She pushes a bag across the desk without missing a beat. “Didn’t take you for a hand held food kind of person.”

“You took a guess on my eating habits?”

She shrugs. You pull out the sandwich. It’s exactly what you would’ve ordered. Neither of you says a word for a while. You just eat in comfortable silence, papers spread between you, the city moving on without either of you noticing. It becomes another thing. Not every day. But most.

Lunch together. Sometimes at her desk, sometimes at yours. Sometimes in the back booth of a quiet café a few blocks away where no one asks for autographs or testimony. It’s not flirtation. Not really. It’s something quieter. Slower. Heavier. A trust that’s grown legs and started walking on its own.

Fin notices first. You’re standing at Olivia’s desk with a coffee in one hand and a case folder in the other when he strolls by, sipping from his own cup like he’s minding his business. He gives Olivia a look—pointed, amused.

“What?” she asks.

He shrugs. “Just nice seeing you smile again. Usually it takes a perp in cuffs or a finished trial to do that.”

Olivia glares at him. “It’s lunch.”

“Mm-hm.” He walks away without saying more, but you don’t miss the grin he hides behind his cup.

Olivia huffs. “Ignore him.” You don’t say anything. You don’t have to. Your smirk says enough. Later that week, you’re sitting across from her again, both of you working through a joint case file, when she looks up—softly, almost like she’s thinking out loud.

“You’re different now.”

You glance at her. “Than when I got here?”

She nods. You take a beat before answering. “You are too.”

She watches you. “Not sure I’ve changed much.”

“You’ve let me in ” you say simply. That silence again—thick but not heavy.

Then Olivia exhales a laugh under her breath. “People like us don’t just let someone in. We wear each other down.”

You tilt your head. “You think that’s what this is? Wearing down?” Her eyes flick to yours.

“No,” she says. “Id hope it’s something else.” You don’t press her. But when your fingers brush as you both reach for the same folder, neither of you pulls away.

The day starts quiet, too quiet. You’ve been working the serial assault case with Olivia for the past week—long enough for it to start clawing under your skin. A man targeting women walking alone at night, sticking to a tight ten-block radius.

Always the same profile, women late twenties to early forties, just a few blocks from home. He’s methodical. Smart. He leaves no prints, no DNA. Just trauma and the echo of fear. So far, he’s a ghost.

But this morning, there’s movement. A woman calls in—a potential witness. Claims she saw someone tailing a woman on her street two nights ago, hiding in the shadows.

She hadn’t come forward before. Said she was too scared. Thought maybe she’d imagined it. But after seeing a story in the local paper—an article naming the string of attacks—she couldn’t stay quiet anymore. She lives within the ten-block radius.

When Olivia asks you to come with her, she doesn’t explain why. You’re not technically needed—this isn’t an interview or an interrogation. It’s groundwork. The kind of thing a detective handles without involving the ADA.

But you don’t question it. You just grab your coat and follow her to the car. The drive is quiet. She’s focused, but not cold. You can tell she’s been here before—in the lull before the break, the quiet before the chaos. She keeps glancing in the rearview mirror, scanning her surroundings like she’s not just driving, but watching.

You don’t ask why. Not yet. The woman lives on the fourth floor of an old walk-up. The apartment smells like smoke and old carpet, and the radiator ticks with every breath of heat it tries to push through. She’s nervous, pale, and clearly still shaken.

Olivia talks to her gently—doesn’t crowd her, doesn’t push. She coaxes the details out slowly. The woman recalls seeing a man loitering in the alley across from her building, watching a neighbor walk by.

She says he didn’t move. Didn’t light a cigarette. Didn’t scroll on his phone like someone passing time. Just stood there. Still. Intent. He was wearing a hat. A dark jacket. Gloves. She didn’t see his face, but something about the way he stood gave her chills.

You take notes quietly, watching from the side of the room. Olivia kneels down beside the witness as she speaks, level with her on the old couch. Her voice softens, her presence steady. And once again, you feel that tug in your chest—that strange, quiet awe at how she becomes something else in these moments. Something unshakable.

You’re halfway down the steps after the interview when Olivia suddenly freezes mid-stride. Her hand shoots out, stopping you before your next step. “What?” you ask.

She doesn’t answer—just shifts her gaze across the street. You follow her line of sight. There’s a man standing on the corner, one hand braced on the brick wall of a laundromat. He’s not doing anything. Not smoking. Not texting. Just… standing there.

Watching the building and now watching you. His eyes meet yours—and he turns sharply, walking away with purpose. Olivia’s voice drops to a whisper, all steel. “I think that’s him.”

“Wait, what?” You blink, heart rate kicking up.

She doesn’t hesitate. “Come on.” You’re barely back in the car before Olivia throws it into gear, pulling out just as the man rounds the corner.

She’s driving fast, but not reckless—just with the precision of someone who’s done this too many times. “Why the hell would he be here?” you ask, trying to keep your voice level.

“Because she wasn’t the only one who read the article,” Olivia says, jaw clenched. “If he saw his pattern exposed, he might’ve come to see who talked.” The thought makes your stomach turn.

“He was watching the building,” she adds. “Waiting to see who came out.”

You glance behind you, adrenaline spiking. “So he was tracking us?”

“He was tracking her,” she corrects. “You and me being there just pushed the clock.”

He turns down an alley off 12th, disappearing between two buildings. Olivia slams the SUV into park without a word. “I’m going after him.”

“I’m coming with you—”

“No.” She’s already half out the door. “If he sees you, he’ll bolt.”

“Liv—”

“Just give me two minutes.” And then she’s gone. You sit in the car, heart pounding, hands clenched. You hate this. Hate the waiting. Hate the knowledge that she’s chasing someone dangerous while you’re stuck here, sidelined.

Every instinct in you wants to follow, call fin, do something. But she asked for two minutes. So you give her that. Three minutes pass. Then four. The longest seven minutes of your life tick by before she bursts back into view, breathless, fury burning in her eyes.

Blood on her knuckles.

Scrape on her temple.

“He ran,” she pants, slamming the door shut. “I clipped him—cornered him against the wall. He fought dirty. Scaled a fire escape before I could cuff him. Patrol’s sweeping the block.”

You stare at her, chest tight. “You went after him alone.”

“I told you to stay in the car.”

“I’m not one of your rookies.”

“No,” she snaps, whirling on you. “You’re the ADA who didn’t see the guy watching you from thirty feet away.” Silence. You feel the weight of it settle like lead in your chest.

Her hands are shaking now. Not from the fight. Not from the adrenaline. “You think he was really there for the witness?” you ask softly.

“I think he wanted to see who was working the case,” she says, quieter now. “And I think if he got a clean look at you, walking alone out of that building… we’d be handling this from a whole different angle.”

You sit back in your seat. The cold from the leather seeps through your coat. “Why didn’t you tell me that was a risk?” you ask, voice low.

“Because I didn’t want to scare you.”

You glance over at her. “You think I scare easy?”

“No.” She breathes out, softer this time. “I think I care too damn much.” That undoes something in you. For a second, neither of you speak.

She leans back, rubbing her scraped knuckles with the edge of her coat sleeve, then mutters, “You don’t make it easy.”

You huff out a quiet breath. “Neither do you.”

“I meant what I said.” Her voice steadies. “I don’t know how to not care about you.” You look at her fully now, heart hammering in your chest. No games. No posturing. Just her—raw and real in the driver’s seat beside you.

“I don’t want you to stop,” you say finally, voice barely audible. She turns, eyes locking with yours. And this time, there’s nothing in the way. Not sarcasm. Not fear. Not pride, just you and her. In this car. In this truth.

Her voice drops, barely a whisper. “Good.” And for the first time all day, the silence between you feels like something you can breathe in, like it’s finally safe to hope.

The next morning, the precinct feels different. It’s subtle—like someone shifted everything half an inch to the left. No one else notices, of course. Not Fin. Not Amanda. Not the kid behind the desk trying to staple six pages in reverse order. But you do.

And so does Olivia. She doesn’t look at you when you walk in. Not immediately. Just keeps her eyes on the case board, one hand perched on her hip, a mug of coffee in the other like it’s the only thing grounding her.

“Morning,” you offer, voice calm. Controlled.

She looks up slowly. Nods. “Morning.”

No smirk. No glare. Just that look. The one you’ve been trading back and forth for weeks now—only now it’s heavier. Realer. You both let something out of the cage last night, and neither of you knows how to shove it back in.

You drop a file on her desk, fingertips brushing the edge like it might burn. “Here’s the DA’s final charge recommendations for the stalker. He signed off on attempted murder and felony assault. Jury’s going to want blood.”

“They’ll get it,” Olivia replies. And for a moment, that’s all you say.

Until Fin walks by, throws a quick glance between the two of you, and mutters under his breath, “You two finally figure it out yet, or should we all start a betting pool?”

You shoot him a warning look. Olivia glares harder. He just smirks and keeps walking. By lunchtime, you’re back in your office, pretending the same sandwich you’ve eaten for three days in a row still has taste. There’s a knock on the door—gentle, careful.

You know it’s her. She steps inside, coffee in hand, hesitating for once. “Do you have five minutes?”

You gesture to the chair across from you. “For you? Always.” That lands with a soft thud between you. Olivia closes the door.

“You okay?” you ask, and this time it’s different. You mean it differently.

She nods. “Are you?”

You hesitate. Then: “No. Not really.”

Her brows knit slightly. “Because of yesterday?” You nod.

“Because you were in danger?”

You shake your head. “Because you told me you care.” She goes still.

“And because I wasn’t surprised,” you add. “Because I already knew. I just didn’t want to admit what it meant.”

Olivia sinks into the chair, leaning forward, elbows on her knees. “This job doesn’t make room for… whatever this is.”

You study her. “And yet you keep bringing me lunch.” She almost smiles.

You lean back, letting out a breath. “I don’t know what to do with it either. But I know it’s not nothing.”

“I don’t want to pretend it is,” she admits. “But I don’t want it to ruin everything, either.”

“It won’t,” you say, quieter now. “Unless we lie about it.” The silence stretches again—but it feels different this time. Less like avoidance. More like standing at the edge of a cliff, looking down, knowing the other person is right beside you.

“You said it,” you murmur. “I felt it. And now nothing feels the same.”

Olivia meets your gaze. “What if that’s okay?” You stare at her. She stares back. And for once, neither of you looks away.

You both decide to not eat lunch separately, you don’t talk about the case. You don’t talk about Carisi, or the DA, or the man still sitting in a holding cell waiting for trial. You just sit across from Olivia, in the same booth you’ve randomly found comfort in for weeks now. Two meals. Two drinks. One table with something unspoken finally breathing between you. You’re not exactly sure what to call it just yet.

It’s another late evening, The kind of late where the city hums quieter and the precinct feels like a skeleton of itself—bare-bones and echoing. Olivia’s still in her office when you drop off the finalized court schedule. She doesn’t hear you approach, too focused on the open file in front of her.

You knock gently on the frame. Her head lifts. “Hey.”

You step inside. “Do you ever go home?”

She shrugs. “Do you?”

You offer a small smile. “Touché.”

You place the folder on her desk, but you don’t back away. She doesn’t tell you to. There’s nothing formal about the way you’re standing there, just… present. She leans back in her chair and exhales, scrubbing a hand through her hair.

“I should get some sleep,” she mutters, not moving an inch.

“Yeah. Me too.” But neither of you makes a move. The quiet between you isn’t awkward anymore. It’s waiting.

Eventually, she nods toward the empty chair across from her. “Sit.”

You do. For a moment, you don’t say anything. Just study her in the dim office light—tired eyes, sleeves rolled up, a pen tucked behind one ear like she forgot it was there. “You’re still carrying yesterday,” you say softly.

“So are you.”

You nod. “I don’t think I know how not to.”

Olivia leans forward, her elbows on her knees, hands clasped. “I keep thinking about what would’ve happened if he had turned around. If he’d seen you.”

You pause. “But he didn’t.”

“I know.” Her voice is low, threaded with something heavier. “But it’s like… that moment doesn’t leave me. I keep picturing it.”

Your breath catches in your throat, and before you can talk yourself out of it, you stand. Walk around the desk. Stop just beside her. She looks up.

You say nothing.

Neither does she.

But her eyes soften—unspoken and knowing—and it pulls something out of you that you didn’t realize was already halfway there. You lean down slowly. Not cautiously, not calculated. Just drawn. And when your lips meet hers, it’s quiet. No crash. No dramatic pause.

Just contact. Warm and natural and so obviously overdue that it feels like exhaling after holding your breath for months. She doesn’t pull away. You do—just barely, after a few seconds—eyes wide, stunned at yourself.

“I—” you start, already regretting the impulse. “I’m sorry, I—”

She doesn’t let go, doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t give you the space to backpedal. She just rises out of her chair, closing the small gap, and kisses you again—deeper this time, like it’s not a surprise at all. Like she’s been waiting for this as long as you have.

There’s no apology in it, only intention. When she finally pulls back, her forehead rests gently against yours. Neither of you speaks for a long time.

Then, Olivia whispers “I’m not sorry.” You breathe out, barely a sound.

“Me neither.” And just like that… it’s real.

Not a maybe. Not a hypothetical. But you and her. Here. Now.

Finally.

——————————————————————

It’s been two weeks and not much has changed. Another file. Another sandwich. Another unspoken excuse to see her. Now that you’ve stopped pretending it’s just about work. The paperwork still gets delivered. The case briefs still get signed. But the pauses are longer now. The glances heavier. And the way Olivia watches you when you walk into her office?

Yeah. It’s not professional anymore. Today, it’s you bringing her lunch. A real one. Not something from the vending machine. You even remembered how she takes her iced tea—light lemon, barely any sugar. She raises an eyebrow when you set it on her desk.

“You’re making the rest of the department look bad.”

You shrug. “Good. Let them rise to the occasion.”

She smirks. “Smug looks good on you.”

You sit in the chair across from her while she unwraps the sandwich. For a few minutes, it’s just quiet eating and casual conversation—banter, clipped sarcasm, and the kind of comfort that sneaks up on people who’ve stopped trying to fight it.

You’re halfway to standing when you say, “Alright. I’ve got a motion hearing to prep. I’ll stop by after court—” But before you can take a step toward the door, Olivia reaches out and gently grabs your wrist. You pause, she doesn’t say anything. Just stands, closes the space between you, and kisses you.

It’s soft. Intentional. No hesitation. You kiss her back—instinctively, completely and forget for one stupid, perfect moment that the world exists outside this office. The door, apparently, does not. Because it opens without warning. “Liv, you got a sec—?”

Carisi’s voice cuts off mid-sentence. You and Olivia freeze. Still close. Still caught. Still visibly not doing anything that two coworkers should be doing in the middle of a precinct. He stops just inside the door, staring with raised brows and a look that says so many things, none of which you are emotionally prepared to address right now. He blinks. Then grins. “Well, well.”

You rub the back of your neck, suddenly aware of how warm your face feels. “You’re back—”

“Flight landed an hour ago,” he says casually. “Thought I’d stop by and see how my favorite ADA’s been holding up, you weren’t at the office…..”

“I’ve been—fine.”

“Clearly,” he deadpans, eyes flicking between you and Olivia with far too much delight.

Olivia, however, does not flinch. She simply picks up her sandwich again like she wasn’t just kissing you five seconds ago. “You’re late,” she tells Carisi flatly.

“I wasn’t expected,” he fires back, smug as ever.

“Exactly,” she mutters, taking a bite.

You stare at the ceiling. “I hate both of you.”

“You say that,” Carisi says, gesturing to the sandwich bag in your hand, “but I see you brought her lunch. That’s not hate, my friend. That’s peak domestic behavior.”

Olivia smirks. “I’m a catch.”

Carisi nods. “No arguments there.” You’re halfway to walking out in embarrassment when Olivia’s voice stops you again. “Hey.”

You turn back. She doesn’t say anything—just gives you a look. One that says don’t overthink it. One that says I’ll see you later.

And you nod.

The rest of the day is a blur of court filings, backlogged paperwork, and mild emotional whiplash from Carisi’s smirk permanently burned into your memory. You think you’ve avoided the worst of it—until he corners you outside the courthouse, leaning casually against the railing like he’s been waiting just long enough to be annoying.

“Nice form,” he says.

You don’t break stride. “Go away.”

He falls into step beside you. “I’m just saying, I’ve seen worse kiss interruptions. You could’ve been caught by a uniform. Or Fin. Hell, even Rollins. Olivia probably would’ve had to file a report.”

“You want a report?” you mutter. “Fine. It was a kiss. It happened. Now it’s un-happening because you walked in like a sitcom uncle.”

Carisi just laughs. “Look, I’m not mad. I’m impressed. You and Liv? That’s like two tectonic plates finally giving in.”

You pause on the courthouse steps, turning toward him. “Don’t get used to it. It’s not a thing.”

He gives you a look. “Sure it’s not.”

“It’s not,” you insist, then immediately cringe. “Okay, maybe it’s a thing. But it’s new. And delicate. And none of your damn business bone head.”

He raises both hands. “Fine, fine. No questions. No commentary.” You start to walk away.

“Just one thing,” Carisi calls after you, his voice carrying that familiar, maddening note of knowing something you don’t. You stop but don’t turn around. Not yet.

“She’s not as guarded as she used to be, you know,” he says, like it’s nothing. Like it’s not a grenade he’s just casually lobbed into your chest. “When she looks at you.”

You blink, eyes narrowing slightly even though he can’t see your face. You stand there a second longer, heart stuttering in a way that makes you feel both exposed and infuriatingly human. Then you walk away before you can give that comment the weight you know it deserves.

That evening, you linger longer at your desk than usual. The office is quiet now—too quiet for Manhattan, too quiet for your own good. There’s a half-eaten sandwich on the edge of a file you’re not really reading. A coffee gone cold. Your laptop glows idly in front of you, cursor blinking like it’s waiting for you to type something profound.

You don’t expect her to show up. Olivia’s had a long week. You both have. And part of you figures she’d want distance after earlier—after the tense back-and-forths, after the unspoken moments that hovered just a little too long. You’ve seen it before. She shuts down, folds inward. And you don’t chase.

But then… there’s a soft knock on your already open door. Not commanding. Not sharp. Tentative. You look up. She’s standing there. Same jacket. Same tired eyes. But her posture—there’s something about it that’s less braced. Less armored. Like she came here before she could overthink it. “You got a minute?” she asks.

You nod, barely trusting your voice. She steps inside, closes the door behind her with a soft click. Doesn’t sit. Doesn’t pace. Just stands there, hands in the pockets of her coat, watching you with the caution of someone who’s walked into too many rooms and left them with more regret than answers. “I’m not entirely good at this,” she says finally, voice low and raw.

You lean back in your chair, brow ticking up. “Which part?”

She shrugs, but it’s tight—like it takes effort just to move her shoulders. “Any of it. The… feelings. The talking. The letting someone close without thinking three steps ahead.”

You close your laptop slowly. “You think I am?”

A half-sigh leaves her, half-laugh. “You’re better at hiding it.”

You tilt your head. “I’m a prosecutor, Olivia. It’s literally my job to lie with confidence.” That earns you a small smile, brief but real. She doesn’t look away.

“You regretting this decision?” you ask gently.

“No,” she says, too fast. Too certain. “Not even for a second.” You stand, slowly. Not to intimidate, not to posture—just to meet her at eye level. To close the distance without words.

Your steps are careful, deliberate. Her eyes follow you the entire way. “Then what exactly are we doing?” you ask. She takes a breath like she’s about to answer—but then stops, and her gaze drops for a second, like she’s sifting through a dozen possible truths.

When her eyes return to yours, they’re clearer. Warmer. “I think…” she starts, then swallows. “I think we’re finally not running from it.”

You smile faintly, lips quirking. “That sounds dangerously healthy for us.” She steps a little closer this time. Not much. Just enough that the air feels different.

“You think it’s too soon?” she asks. You consider it—not in the performative way, not to build tension. You really think about it. About every moment that’s led to now. Every clash, every stolen glance, every time you caught yourself memorizing the way she laughs when she doesn’t mean to.

“No,” you say. “I think it’s exactly when it was always going to happen.” There’s a beat of silence, but it doesn’t feel empty. It feels full. Heavy in the best way.

Then, softer—almost shyly, but not weak—she says it “I kinda missed you today.” And just like that, something breaks open in your chest. You reach out without thinking, hand brushing against her wrist. It’s a light touch, tentative at first—testing. But when she doesn’t pull away, you let your fingers curl gently around her skin.

The warmth of her under your touch is more grounding than you expect. She leans in, not rushed, not hesitant—just steady. Certain. This time, you’re not caught off guard. You meet her halfway, and when your lips touch, it’s quiet. It’s not fireworks. It’s not cinematic.

It’s better.

It’s real.

She exhales into the kiss like she’s been holding her breath all week. And maybe you have too.

[laylahluvsasians]

𝐂𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐢𝐯𝐞 || 𝐬𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐦𝐚𝐧 𝐱 𝐟𝐞𝐦!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 - the salesman kidnapped you in the motel after gi-hun pulled that stunt with his two buddies.

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 - kidnapping, stockholm syndrome, slight manipulation.

You weren’t sure how long it had been since the Salesman had taken you. The dim light in the room made it hard to tell the time. Two days — you thought — maybe three. The memories blurred together like a fever dream. The sharp smell of cigarettes lingered in the air, mixing with the faint scent of rain that crept through the cracked window.

He hadn’t hurt you. Not physically, at least. That was the most unsettling part. No ropes, no chains — just the heavy presence of him, always watching. His voice was eerily calm when he spoke, polite even. The man in the suit, with his perfect smile and those calculating eyes, treated you like a guest.

But you weren’t a guest.

You were his.

You thought about running. Many times. The old wooden door was flimsy, the locks easy enough to pry open. But where would you go? He had a way of knowing. Like he could see right through you. And yet, the temptation gnawed at you.

On the second night, you tried.

The rain poured down in sheets, drowning the world in silver. His voice had drifted from the other room, low and distant as he spoke on the phone. You crept to the door, your heartbeat thundering in your chest. The lock clicked open. Freedom was just beyond the threshold.

But before you could step outside, his arms were around you.

“Where are you going?” The question came softly, almost like a whisper.

You twisted against him, but his grip was firm. Strong. His breath ghosted against your ear as he pulled you back inside. The warmth of him enveloped you, the steady rise and fall of his chest betraying no sign of panic. He wasn’t afraid of losing you. He knew you wouldn’t get far.

“Let me go,” you pleaded, but even to your own ears, your voice lacked conviction.

He chuckled — that low, knowing laugh that always made your stomach turn. “Why would I do that, darling?” His fingers brushed against your jaw, tilting your face to meet his gaze. “I’ve given you everything. Safety. Shelter. And yet you still try to leave.”

You hated the way your body reacted to his touch. How the heat of his palms lingered on your skin, how the dark gleam in his eyes made your chest tighten. You should have been terrified. Disgusted. But instead, a part of you clung to the warmth he offered.

“I hate you,” you spat, though the words trembled.

“And yet,” he murmured, his lips dangerously close to yours, “you’re still here.”

The days passed, and so did your resolve. His presence became a constant — a dark comfort. He brought you meals, sat with you, spoke to you like you were something precious. You could see it in the way he looked at you. Obsession, twisted and unchecked.

But then there was something else. A flicker of sincerity beneath the facade.

You didn’t know when it happened. Maybe it was the way his touch lingered, gentle instead of possessive. Maybe it was the moments when his walls cracked — when exhaustion dimmed the sharp glint in his eyes, and for a fleeting second, he seemed almost… human.

And maybe that’s why, when he kissed you for the first time, you didn’t pull away.

The Salesman had captured you. But somewhere along the way, you had captured him too.

-

Days blurred into nights. The ache of fear dulled, replaced by something far more dangerous. You hated the way your body responded to him, how your breath caught whenever he touched you — as if you had forgotten that he was your captor.

The Salesman was careful, always. Every movement deliberate. The way he smoothed his tie, lit his cigarettes, even the way he brushed your hair from your face — it was as if he thrived on control. But sometimes, in the quiet moments, that control cracked.

Like now.

You were curled up on the worn couch, the dim light casting shadows across the room. He sat on the edge, his suit jacket draped over a chair, his sleeves rolled up to reveal strong forearms. The sight of him like this — undone — was a reminder that he wasn’t invincible. That he wasn’t just the enigmatic man in the suit who played twisted games with desperate people.

“You’ve been quiet today,” he said, his voice low, but not unkind. “Thinking of running again?”

You didn’t answer.

Because the truth was, you didn’t know.

He watched you, the corner of his mouth curving slightly. “You’re free to try. You always are.”

That was the game now. He had stopped locking the door. No chains. No threats. Just the constant, unspoken promise that no matter how far you ran, he would find you. And maybe worse — that you wouldn’t run at all.

“Why did you take me?” you asked finally.

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Because I wanted to.”

“That’s not an answer.”

He smiled — that infuriating smile — and reached for his cigarette. “No,” he agreed, “but it’s the truth.”

Silence stretched between you. You hated how easily he could unnerve you. How he seemed to revel in it. But what scared you more was how you had begun to crave it.

“Do you regret it?” His voice was softer now. “Not escaping when you had the chance?”

You should have said yes.

“I don’t know.”

His hand brushed against yours. The warmth of his skin sent an unwelcome shiver down your spine. You could still feel the ghost of his lips from that night — the moment when everything shifted. He hadn’t forced it. No, the worst part was that you had kissed him back.

And now, there was no pretending.

His eyes darkened as he studied you, his thumb tracing the back of your hand. “You want to hate me,” he murmured. “But you don’t.”

“I do.”

He laughed softly. “Liar.”

You pulled away, but his fingers curled beneath your chin, guiding you to face him. His touch was gentle, but there was no mistaking the possessiveness that simmered beneath.

“You’re mine,” he whispered, his lips brushing against your cheek. “And I’m yours. No matter how much you fight it.”

You hated him. You hated the way his words sank into your bones. But most of all, you hated that a part of you wanted to believe them.

Because the truth was, you weren’t sure if you could ever leave.

And maybe — just maybe — you didn’t want to.

[novaursa]

A Lion's Folly (to go back)

- Summary: A story where a lion falls for the eldest daughter of Lord Eddard Stark, you.

- Pairing: stark!reader/Jaime Lannister

- Note: This is the last chapter of this series.

- Rating: Explicit 18+ (blood, gore, violence)

- Previous part: what is dead

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @oxymakestheworldgoround @idenyimimdenial @butterflygxril @lordofthunderthr @mrsnms @itisjustwhatitis @urdxrling @meowmeowmothermeower @nen-nyy @nestvrn

The night air was thick with the scent of damp earth and burning wood, the cold seeping into your skin as they dragged you across the uneven ground. Every struggling step sent rocks digging into your boots, your breath coming in ragged gasps as their iron grip tightened around your arms.

The Brotherhood moved with grim purpose, their faces hidden beneath the flickering torchlight, shadows distorting their features into something almost inhuman. The rope in their hands was coiled, waiting, its purpose clear, its intent unquestionable.

You dug your heels into the dirt, twisting in their grasp. "Stop—stop! I am Y/N Stark, daughter of Eddard Stark! My father was Warden of the North, my mother—"

A harsh jerk nearly sent you to your knees.

"You were a Stark," one of them corrected, his voice rough, cold. "You’re a Lannister now. That’s all that matters."

The words cut deeper than any blade.

"You think a Lannister's wife deserves mercy?" another spat. "After what they’ve done?"

"No—please—"

Panic twisted in your gut, your pulse roaring in your ears.

But there was no stopping them.

They hauled you forward, toward the twisted tree that loomed ahead, its thick, gnarled branches stretching into the sky like skeletal fingers. The noose dangled from its highest limb, swaying slightly in the night air, waiting.

Waiting for you.

"No!" You struggled harder, thrashing against their grip, but they were too strong, too many—

"Lady Stoneheart has judged you," one of them intoned, tightening the rope around your wrists. "And the gods do not forgive traitors."

Your breath came sharp and shallow, your chest tightening as the noose was looped around your throat. The rough fibers scraped against your skin, every heartbeat thundering like war drums in your ears.

"This isn't right," you gasped, your vision blurring. "I am not your enemy!"

They never listened.

They didn’t listen.

The rope tightened.

The world tilted as they kicked the stool from beneath you, the force of it wrenching the ground away, sending you into freefall—

The pressure crushed your throat.

Panic exploded through you, your body convulsing, your lungs screaming for air. The darkness pressed in at the edges of your vision, your fingers clawing at the rope, your legs kicking against empty space.

A snarl.

Then—

A snap.

A blur of pale silver.

The impact of the ground sent shockwaves through your bones, knocking the breath from your lungs as you crumpled onto the earth, coughing, choking, gasping for air. The taste of blood filled your mouth, raw and bitter, your throat burning as you struggled to push yourself upright.

The noose gave way.

Shouts erupted around you, steel clashing, screams cutting through the night like sharpened blades.

A flash of white fur, a snarl, a man’s scream cut short—

Winter was everywhere.

The dagger.

Your fingers grasped desperately at the dirt, your vision swimming, and then—

It lay inches from your grasp, fallen from the belt of one of the men now lying motionless on the ground.

You lunged for it, fingers curling around the hilt just as another set of hands grabbed you, yanking you back.

You barely caught the glint of steel before the pain tore through you.

A stab—low, beneath your ribs, sinking in deep.

"Winter—!"

A gasp tore from your lips, your entire body seizing, white-hot agony exploding through your core.

The direwolf turned, his maw still wet with blood, but he was too far, still tearing through the men that had dared to stand against him.

The man holding you grinned, pushing the blade in deeper.

"Lannister whore," he sneered, his breath hot against your ear.

And then drove the dagger into his throat.

You snarled, twisting despite the pain—

The gurgling sound was immediate, blood spilling over his lips as his grip slackened, his body sagging. You shoved him back with what little strength you had left, watching as he collapsed to the ground, his lifeblood pooling beneath him.

Your vision blurred.

The ground tilted.

The pain in your side burned, spreading like wildfire through your veins. Your limbs felt heavy, your breath shallow, your fingers twitching as your body refused to obey—

Everything went dark.

And then—

The battlefield was silent now, save for the low, wet sound of flesh being torn, of ragged breaths heaving through bared teeth. The scent of blood was thick in the air, saturating the damp earth, soaking into the torn cloaks and broken bodies of the men who had once stood tall, blades in hand, righteous in their cause.

Now, they were nothing.

Winter stood in the center of the carnage, his pale silver-white fur streaked with crimson, his muzzle still damp with the blood of those he had torn apart. His blue eyes, biting as ice, flicked across the corpses, searching for any sign of movement.

None came.

He had ended them.

His ears twitched, his breath coming in low, steady pants. The wind carried the dying embers of the fires they had set, smoke curling lazily into the night sky, the stars above indifferent to the violence that had unfolded beneath them.

Then—

Her scent.

A scent.

Winter’s head snapped toward the crumpled figure on the ground, his body moving before his mind could even process it fully. His paws thudded against the dirt as he closed the distance, stopping just short of where she lay, her form motionless, her breath nearly too shallow to detect.

He nudged her once, his cold nose pressing against her cheek.

She did not stir.

Another nudge, more insistent this time, his head pushing against her shoulder, his breath huffing softly against her skin.

Still nothing.

His ears flattened, a low whine escaping his throat.

He stepped over her, sniffing, his nose tracing along the curve of her ribs, the scent of blood assaulting his senses. The copper tang was strong, but it was hers—not just the men he had ripped apart, not just the iron stink of war.

Deep, beneath her ribs, torn fabric soaked through, the dark stain spreading across her side. His heart pounded, his muscles twitching with unease.

He found it then—the wound.

But barely.

She was still breathing.

Winter let out a huff, his head lowering, his muzzle pressing against her again. He nudged her harder, but her body remained limp, unresponsive.

No.

Another sharp nudge. His breath was ragged now, a growl rumbling deep in his throat—not at her, but at the world, at whatever cruel thing had done this.

Now.

He had to move her.

Winter opened his powerful jaws, his sharp teeth sinking gently into the flesh of her shoulder—not to harm, but to hold. He felt the give of her muscles beneath his grip, tasted the faintest trace of blood, but he ignored it, his instincts burning through him with singular purpose.

He pulled.

The weight of her body shifted, dragging against the dirt, and he adjusted his grip, bracing his paws against the ground before tugging her further. The wound in her side bled sluggishly, but he knew it was worse than it looked. He had seen death, had scented it, and it clung too closely to her skin now, coiling like a viper around her too-still frame.

He growled low in his throat, his grip tightening as he hauled her away from the blood-soaked ground, away from the bodies, away from the twisted tree and the rope that had nearly stolen her life.

He would not let her die here.

With steady, deliberate strength, Winter dragged her into the dark embrace of the forest, his massive form moving with urgency, his paws digging deep into the earth. The trees swallowed them whole, the shadows wrapping around them like silent sentinels, the moonlight barely cutting through the thick canopy above.

The farther he pulled her, the fainter the stench of death became.

She did not stir, did not make a sound.

Winter did not stop.

Somewhere where death would not follow.

He would find a place. Somewhere safe.

And gods help anyone who tried to take her from him again.

The stench of death lingered thick in the air.

Jaime reined in his horse, his left hand tightening around the pommel of his sword as his eyes swept over the carnage. Bodies lay strewn across the clearing, their forms twisted in unnatural angles, limbs stiffened by the passage of time. Blood had dried in dark, sickly patches across the dirt, staining the roots of the great tree that loomed over them all.

A tree with a rope still hanging from its highest branch.

The air felt wrong here. The silence was heavy, not the silence of an abandoned battlefield, but something more sinister—something that made the hairs on Jaime’s arms prickle beneath his armor.

Bronn rode up beside him, pulling his horse to a halt as he surveyed the scene with a keen eye. He let out a slow, low whistle, shaking his head. "Hells, looks like someone had a real party here." He clicked his tongue. "At least a day old, maybe more."

Jaime exhaled sharply, his jaw clenching. He had pushed his men hard, riding through most of the night, but they had still lost time. Too much time.

The bodies bore wounds that spoke of two different kinds of violence. Some had been cut down by steel—slashed throats, pierced armor, the clean brutality of swords and daggers. But others…

Jaime dismounted swiftly, boots crunching against the dirt as he stepped forward, his gaze narrowing on one of the corpses. The man’s throat had been torn open, but not by a blade. Flesh had been ripped apart, ragged and uneven, as if—

"Shit," Bronn muttered, crouching beside another body, his fingers tracing the deep gashes that ran from the man’s shoulder down to his chest. "This wasn’t all done by men."

Jaime turned, his stomach tightening. "What do you mean?"

Bronn flicked his gaze toward the ground, nodding toward the disturbed earth near one of the corpses. "Prints. Big ones."

Jaime followed his line of sight. The dirt bore deep, deliberate impressions—paw prints, far larger than any hound’s, pressed into the ground in a way that suggested swift, brutal movement.

Jaime’s breath hitched slightly. "Winter."

Bronn exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. "Yep. Your lady’s mutt made a real mess of these bastards." He gestured toward another body, where half the man’s face had been ripped off, the flesh and bone gnawed away by powerful jaws.

Jaime’s stomach twisted, not at the gore—he had seen worse—but at what it meant.

And if Winter had been here, so had you.

Winter had been here.

Someone was meant to hang here.

His heart pounded, his mind racing. The sheer number of bodies suggested a slaughter, an ambush, but the rope—the godsdamned rope—meant something else had been planned first.

His gaze snapped back to Bronn. "She was here."

Jaime’s mouth went dry.

Bronn sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. "Aye. Looks like it."

Or perhaps, something had gone right.

Jaime took a step back, his mind whirling. You had been here. You had been caught, captured, nearly hanged. But something had gone wrong.

Winter had been here. And the dead men around them—torn apart, ripped apart—suggested that if you had been meant to die beneath that tree, your direwolf had made damn sure that hadn’t happened.

But where were you now?

Jaime turned back toward the tracks, his throat tight. The paw prints led away from the clearing, deeper into the woods, as if Winter had dragged something—someone—with him.

Jaime inhaled, his jaw setting.

"You think she’s still alive?" Bronn asked, his tone unreadable.

Jaime didn’t hesitate. "Yes."

Bronn studied him for a moment, then sighed. "Then let’s bloody find her before someone else does."

Jaime nodded once, the cold determination settling into his bones as he turned back toward the forest.

You had been here.

And now, he would find you.

You had survived.

The forest was thick, the trees stretching high, their branches tangling together to cast deep, shifting shadows over the ground. The further they rode, the more the air changed—the scent of death from the battlefield gave way to something damp and earthy, the crisp, lingering cold of untouched wilderness. The underbrush had been disturbed, snapped twigs and churned-up dirt marking the passage of something heavy being dragged. The deep paw prints remained, guiding them forward like an unspoken promise.

Jaime rode in silence, his heartbeat a steady drum against his ribs, his mind fixed on what they might find at the end of the trail. His hands were steady on the reins, but his breath came faster than it should have, his muscles coiled too tight.

The others followed, uneasy. The further they went, the quieter the world became—no birds, no rustling leaves, only the distant creak of trees shifting in the wind.

Bronn halted his horse. "There."

Through the trees, in a small clearing nestled against the thick roots of an ancient oak, a massive form lay stretched out, unmoving.

Jaime turned abruptly, his breath catching.

Winter.

The direwolf’s silver-white fur was streaked with dried blood, his broad chest rising and falling in slow, steady breaths. His head rested atop something—someone—his large frame partially covering the body beneath him, shielding it.

Jaime was off his horse before he had time to think.

"Jaime—" Bronn started, but Jaime ignored him.

His boots hit the earth hard, moving forward with slow, deliberate steps, his heart slamming against his ribs.

Winter’s head lifted immediately, his ice-blue eyes snapping to Jaime, a low, deep growl vibrating through his throat. His ears flattened, his lips peeled back, revealing sharp, bared teeth.

Jaime stopped, hands raised slightly, his breath coming fast.

"Easy," he murmured.

Winter’s growl deepened, a warning. His massive frame was still tense, his muscles coiled, his body half-curled over yours, his head low and ready to lunge if necessary.

"Jaime," Bronn muttered behind him. "That’s a very bad idea."

Jaime barely heard him. His eyes were locked on you, barely visible beneath the direwolf’s form.

A fear struck through him, something cold, something panicked.

You weren’t moving.

His voice was quieter now, but firm. "Let me see her."

Winter growled again, shifting slightly, his body remaining protectively over you, his tail flicking with agitation.

Jaime took another slow step forward.

Winter’s breath huffed through his nose, his teeth still bared, his eyes fixed on Jaime with something both intelligent and wary.

Jaime swallowed hard. "You trust her, don’t you?" he murmured. "Then trust me."

The direwolf’s breath was heavy, his gaze locked onto Jaime’s for a long, stretched moment. His ears twitched, his tail stilled. His breathing slowed.

Then, finally—hesitantly—Winter shifted, just enough.

Jaime moved forward immediately, falling to his knees beside you, his stomach twisting at what he saw.

You were pale—too pale, your skin sickly and cool to the touch. Your breathing was shallow, barely more than a whisper of air against your lips.

Winter snarled sharply, his ears flattening again.

"Gods," Jaime breathed. His hands moved instinctively, pushing Winter’s thick fur aside, searching—

Jaime exhaled, steadying himself. "I have to find it."

Winter remained tense, his massive body still close, still watching every single move Jaime made.

His hand met something wet.

Jaime ignored the wolf’s gaze, his fingers moving carefully, pushing aside layers of torn fabric—

A sharp intake of breath left him, his fingers coming away red.

"Shit," Bronn muttered behind him, stepping closer. "That’s bad, isn’t it?"

Jaime barely heard him. His throat was tight, his jaw clenched as he peeled back more of the fabric, his stomach churning at the deep wound below your ribs.

It was jagged, torn, still bleeding, the edges already darkening with something foul.

Too close to being too late.

Too deep.

Jaime let out a shaky breath, his mind racing.

"Get me water," he snapped, already pressing his hand against the wound. "Now."

He had no time to think.

Bronn didn’t argue.

Jaime’s breath came fast, his heart hammering as he pressed harder, his palm slick with your blood.

"You stubborn girl," he whispered under his breath, voice hoarse. "I swear to the gods, if you die on me—"

You didn’t stir.

And Jaime had never been more terrified in his life.

You didn’t move.

The air was filled with dread, pressing against Jaime’s skin like an iron weight as he knelt beside your still form, his hand slick with your blood. Every breath he took felt strained, every second stretching unbearably long as the wound beneath his fingers bled sluggishly, dark and damning.

Winter hadn’t moved.

The direwolf remained coiled over you, his large body still half-draped across your form, his breath coming in low, measured pants. His pale silver fur was stained with drying blood—not his—and his ice-blue eyes never left Jaime, unwavering, watching.

The growl in Winter’s throat had not ceased.

Jaime pressed his lips into a tight line, exhaling sharply through his nose as he applied more pressure to your wound. Your breathing was still there, but it was weak, far too shallow, and if they didn’t get the bleeding under control—

"Well, this is a fucking mess," Bronn muttered as he stepped closer, carrying a waterskin in one hand and a strip of cloth in the other. Two more soldiers followed behind him, their movements hesitant, their eyes darting between the direwolf and Jaime, clear uncertainty on their faces.

One of them swallowed audibly, shifting his grip on the spare waterskin he carried. "Ser, are you certain it’s safe to—"

"No," Jaime snapped, his patience worn too thin to entertain their fears. "But we don’t have a choice, do we?"

Winter’s ears twitched at the sharpness of Jaime’s voice, but the direwolf remained where he was, muscles tensed, the deep growl in his chest rumbling lower, more pronounced.

"Right," Bronn sighed, handing Jaime the cloth. "Then how exactly do you plan on moving your wife’s oversized mutt before she bleeds out?"

Jaime pressed the cloth against the wound, his jaw clenched. "He trusts her. And she trusts me."

Bronn raised an eyebrow. "Yeah? Tell that to him."

Jaime turned his attention back to the direwolf, his good hand steadying against Winter’s thick fur. "Move," he ordered, his voice low but firm. "Let me help her."

Winter’s lips peeled back, his teeth bared in a silent snarl.

Jaime stiffened.

Bronn let out an amused scoff. "Oh, aye, that worked real well. Got another plan?"

Jaime ignored him. He shifted forward, pressing slightly against Winter’s side, trying to coax the wolf away, trying to ease him—

A flash of white, a sharp snap—

Winter’s jaws clamped shut barely an inch from Jaime’s face, his breath hot against Jaime’s cheek, his fangs glistening.

Jaime froze.

The two soldiers took several steps back, their hands immediately going to their swords.

"Fuck," Bronn muttered, not bothering to hide his grimace. "Told you this was a bad idea."

Jaime’s pulse thundered in his ears, but he forced himself not to react, not to flinch, not to move. Winter’s teeth were still bared, his warning clear, but he had not bitten him.

Not yet.

The direwolf’s body remained curled around yours, his large paws placed protectively over your arm, his head lowered between Jaime and you like a barrier, like a shield. His growl deepened, his blue eyes narrowed, his message unmistakable.

Jaime exhaled slowly. "I know."

Winter’s ears flicked slightly, the growl pausing for half a second before resuming.

"I know," Jaime repeated, softer this time, shifting his weight back slightly. "You think you’re the only one who wants to protect her?" His voice was quieter now, lower, his breath even. "You’re the only one who’s ever tried, aren’t you?"

Winter’s snarl lessened, but his muscles remained taut, his tail flicking.

Jaime hesitated for only a moment before reaching out again, his hand steady, his movements slow. "Let me save her."

Winter watched.

Jaime pressed his hand against your cheek, his thumb brushing lightly over your skin—cold, too cold. His stomach twisted.

"She’s dying," he murmured, barely more than a breath. "Let me help."

For a long, stretched moment, nothing happened.

Winter moved.

Then—

Not much, just enough. His body shifted slightly, his massive head lifting just enough for Jaime to see more of you, for his hands to move more freely. But his body remained close, his breath still huffing against you, his growl still lingering in the back of his throat, teeth still bared slightly, a silent promise of what would happen should Jaime fail.

"Hells," Bronn muttered. "This better work."

Jaime ignored him, his focus narrowing to you—your shallow breaths, your too-pale skin, the warmth of your blood beneath his hand.

His fingers found the wound beneath Winter’s fur, pressing gently, gauging, his heart tightening as the warmth slicked across his fingers.

It was bad.

Too deep.

Jaime inhaled sharply, pressing the cloth down harder, his stomach coiling.

Too much blood lost.

"Stay with me," he murmured under his breath, his voice quiet, almost pleading. "Just stay with me."

And Jaime knew the wolf was thinking the same thing.

Winter’s blue eyes flicked to his.

Jaime’s men moved with urgency, their boots crunching against the ground as they hurried to prepare the carriage. A spare one had been brought forward, its wooden frame sturdy enough to withstand the journey back to Casterly Rock, but it was far from ideal.

Jaime barely spared it a glance. His attention was fixed solely on you, on the shallow rise and fall of your chest, on the too-pale shade of your skin. The pressure of his hand against your wound was steady, but the blood still seeped through the cloth, staining his fingers red, warm and slick, far too much of it.

He clenched his jaw.

Not enough time. Not enough hands. Not enough—

Bronn crouched beside him, studying the wound with a critical eye before exhaling sharply. "She’s still bleeding, Jaime. We can’t just keep pressing rags against it and hoping she doesn’t slip away before we get her back to the Rock."

Jaime glared at him. "You think I don’t know that?"

Bronn shook his head. "I think you don’t want to hear what we should do."

Jaime said nothing, but his silence spoke volumes.

Bronn exhaled again, his lips pressing into a firm line before he spoke. "We burn it."

Jaime stilled.

The words settled between them like an axe waiting to fall.

One of the soldiers shifted uneasily behind them. "Ser, that’s—"

Jaime shot him a glare, cutting him off immediately.

Bronn ignored the exchange, continuing. "If we don’t close the wound, she won’t make it to the Rock, Jaime. You know it, and I know it. We burn it now, and she’s got a fighting chance."

His golden hand twitched at his side, useless. His fingers on his remaining hand curled tighter around the bloodied cloth. He forced himself to swallow past the lump in his throat, past the fear clawing at the edges of his mind.

Jaime’s chest tightened.

"If we burn it," he said, his voice lower now, quieter, "we could kill her from the shock alone."

Bronn didn’t deny it.

"But if we don’t, she dies anyway," he countered.

Jaime’s throat worked as he sighed.

He looked down at you, at your too-pale face, at the way your body remained slack beneath him, unconscious, unmoving.

He closed his eyes briefly before nodding. "Do it."

One of the soldiers moved quickly, grabbing a dagger and a torch from his belt. The blade was held over the flame, the metal heating quickly, the glow brightening as the seconds stretched unbearably long.

Jaime shifted, his good hand gripping your arm firmly, bracing himself.

Winter’s low growl rumbled deep in his chest again, his ears pinned back, his body still curled around you protectively.

Jaime met the direwolf’s eyes, his voice quiet but firm. "This is the only way."

Winter didn’t move. Didn’t blink. His growl didn’t cease, but he didn’t lunge either.

That was as much trust as Jaime was going to get.

"Hold her still," Bronn muttered. "If she wakes up, we don’t need her thrashing."

Jaime tightened his grip.

The blade pressed against the wound.

The sound of sizzling flesh filled the air, the scent of burnt blood thick and acrid.

You jerked, an unconscious, pained sound escaping your lips, but Jaime held you firm, murmuring something unintelligible under his breath, something he wasn’t even aware he was saying.

The wound seared shut, the bleeding finally ceasing, but your body remained limp, weak, your breath shallow.

Jaime released a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

"Done," Bronn said, tossing the dagger aside, wiping his brow. "Now let’s get her the fuck out of here before something else decides it wants a Stark for supper."

Jaime nodded, his movements sharp, efficient. He shifted carefully, adjusting your weight beneath Winter’s still-watchful gaze. The direwolf’s ears twitched as Jaime slid his arms beneath you, lifting you as gently as he could.

Winter stiffened, his growl increasing again, his body tense as if ready to lunge—

"I will protect her."

Jaime met his gaze.

Then, finally, he moved.

Winter’s breath came heavy, his massive head lowering, his tail flicking once.

Jaime rose to his feet, your body cradled against his chest, your head lolling slightly against his shoulder. You were still too pale, too weak, but he could feel the faintest breath against his collarbone, the slow, struggling rhythm of your heart.

He carried you to the waiting carriage, stepping inside carefully, his men securing the area.

Bronn leaned against his horse, watching with a raised brow. "Didn’t think the wolf would actually let you take her."

Jaime settled you gently against the makeshift bedding inside, his hand still resting over your wound. "Neither did I."

Bronn smirked. "Guess you’re growing on him."

"I hope so."

Jaime exhaled, shaking his head, his gaze fixed on you.

The camp was silent save for the low crackling of the fire and the occasional rustle of the wind through the trees. The men were settled for the night, some murmuring quietly among themselves, others already asleep. The scent of still damp earth and pine clung to the air, mingling with the faint traces of smoke. It was a peaceful night—or it would have been, had Jaime not been watching you so intently, his stomach twisted with something close to dread.

You lay where he had placed you, nestled in the makeshift bedding inside the carriage, your body still, too still. The flickering light of the fire cast soft shadows across your face, illuminating the pallor of your skin, the slight furrow between your brows even in sleep. Winter lay curled close beside you, his large frame pressed against you as if he could will warmth back into your body. His fur glowed beneath the firelight, his eyes barely open, always watching.

Jaime ran his hand through his unkempt hair, his fingers pausing briefly against the cool metal of his golden hand. He didn’t know what to do. He had done everything he could—bandaged you, kept your wound clean, ensured you had water, forced broth down your throat when you were conscious enough to take it. But it wasn’t enough.

You were still slipping away from him.

His jaw clenched, frustration burning in his chest. He was Jaime Lannister. He had survived battlefields, captivity, starvation, losing his own godsdamned hand. But this? Watching you waste away, knowing that no sword, no gold, no fucking Lannister name could keep you safe from whatever war your own body was fighting?

He was helpless.

Winter suddenly perked up, his ears twitching, his head lifting slightly. His eyes focused on you.

Jaime sat forward, brows furrowing. "What is it?"

"Jaime."

Then, a whisper.

His breath hitched.

Your voice was barely more than a breath, rasping and weak, but it was there. Your eyes fluttered open—just barely, your gaze unfocused, as if keeping them open was a battle in itself.

Jaime was beside you in an instant, his golden hand resting carefully on the bedding, his good hand reaching for yours instinctively. "I’m here," he said quickly, his voice rough, desperate. "I’m here."

You blinked slowly, your lips parting slightly before the faintest ghost of a smile crossed them. "You came back."

Jaime let out something between a sharp breath and a broken laugh, his fingers tightening around yours. "Of course, I did," he murmured. "You didn’t really think I’d let you run off without me, did you?"

You swallowed with visible effort, your throat working as though even speaking was exhausting. "I want to go home."

Jaime’s heart clenched. "We are," he reassured you quickly. "We’re going back to the Rock. You just have to hold on a little longer."

"No."

There was something in your voice—something strained, something hollow, something that made the breath in his lungs turn to ice.

Jaime froze.

You weren’t talking about Casterly Rock.

Realization dawned in his chest like a slow, sinking weight.

You meant Winterfell.

The home he had helped take.

You meant the home that had been stolen from you.

A lump formed in his throat. "I’ll take you there," he promised, his voice thick. "Once you’re well, I’ll take you to Winterfell. I swear it."

Your lashes fluttered slightly, your gaze slipping in and out of focus. "You don’t understand," you murmured.

Jaime leaned in, his grip on your hand tightening. "Then help me understand."

You didn’t answer.

Your gaze was growing distant, unfocused, your lids growing heavier.

"No," Jaime muttered, shaking you slightly. "No, stay with me. Stay awake."

Winter let out a low whine, his large head nudging against your shoulder.

"Y/N," Jaime said sharply, his voice cracking, his thumb stroking your knuckles insistently. "Open your eyes. Stay with me."

Your body slackened slightly, your breathing growing shallower.

"Damn it, open your eyes!"

Nothing.

Jaime felt his stomach drop, his pulse roaring in his ears. "No, no, no—"

The sound was deep, mournful, echoing through the silent forest like a ghostly lament.

Winter howled.

Jaime shook you, his breath ragged, his voice breaking. "Wake up, damn you!"

But you were already slipping away.

Bronn’s hands were on him before Jaime could even register the weight of them, yanking him back, away from you, his grip firm, unrelenting.

"Jaime," Bronn barked, shaking him once, his voice strong. "Jaime, she’s gone!"

Jaime fought against him, twisting, his golden hand nearly catching Bronn’s shoulder as he tried to wrench himself free. "No!" His voice cracked, wild and raw, his chest heaving. "She’s not—"

"She is!" Bronn snapped, his own breath coming fast, his fingers digging into Jaime’s tunic. "Look at her, damn you!"

And his world ended.

Jaime looked.

You lay there, impossibly still, your chest no longer rising, your breath no longer misting in the cold night air. Your skin, already pale from blood loss, had taken on the lifeless stillness of death. Your lashes, dark against your cheekbones, did not so much as flutter.

Jaime choked on his own breath, his body going rigid.

"No," he whispered, barely a breath, barely a sound.

Bronn's grip loosened, but he didn’t move away. Didn’t release him entirely. "I’m sorry."

Jaime shook his head. "No."

His knees hit the dirt, the cold seeping into his bones as he stared at you, uncomprehending. He reached out, his fingers trembling as they brushed against your cheek. You were still warm—just barely—but it was fading. The last remnants of life, slipping from your body like sand through his fingers.

A ragged breath tore through him. "This is my fault."

Bronn was silent.

Jaime swallowed, his throat raw, his vision blurred. "From the moment Catelyn Stark ordered Brienne to smuggle me out of Robb's camp—" He exhaled shakily, his fingers curling against the fabric of your tunic. "I should’ve begged her to let me rot in that cage. Should’ve begged her to put an arrow through my eye when she found us."

His voice broke on the last word, his head bowing, his shoulders shaking.

Bronn was still standing there, still watching, but he didn’t speak. He didn’t offer empty reassurances or hollow comforts. There was nothing to be said.

Jaime had done this.

He had been the hand that set these events in motion, every choice leading to this moment, every decision carving the path that had led you here—bleeding in the dirt, your body broken, your soul stolen before he had ever found the words to tell you what you meant to him.

The weight of it pressed against his ribs, heavy, suffocating.

And yet, as he knelt there, as his fingers traced the sharp line of your jaw, the memory of your warmth already fading, he couldn’t help but feel like he had been doomed from the moment he first laid eyes on you.

He had never been the kind of man who believed in fate.

And now, he would never belong to anyone else.

You never belonged to him.

His breath came in uneven bursts, his throat tight, his hands clenched into fists as he whispered, "I’m sorry."

The wind stirred slightly, rustling the trees, carrying the last of the night’s chill through the camp.

Jaime barely noticed.

What he did notice was the eyes on him.

Slowly, he turned.

Winter sat just beyond your still form, his silver-white fur ghostly in the moonlight, his blue eyes locked onto Jaime’s with something deep, something ancient, something knowing.

Jaime met his gaze, the air thick between them, something unspoken passing in the silence.

The direwolf had known this was coming.

Perhaps he had always known.

Or pity.

And now, Jaime could only wonder if Winter was looking at him with hatred.

The years that followed passed like a slow, grinding tide—unstoppable, unrelenting, each moment pulling Jaime further from the night he lost you, and yet, never far enough. Time dulled the rawness of the wound but never truly healed it. There were days he almost believed he had forgotten, that the weight in his chest had lightened, that he could go days without seeing your face in the back of his mind.

But then, in the quiet, in the empty halls of Casterly Rock, in the moments between duty and expectation, you would return.

Some ghosts did not fade.

Jaime never returned to King’s Landing after that night in the woods. The letter from Cersei remained forgotten, discarded somewhere on the long road back to the Rock. He knew what it had said. He knew the demands, the anger, the expectations of his place at Tommen’s side, of the war she saw coming, of the family she expected him to protect.

But Jaime no longer cared for duty the way he once had.

Instead, he carried your body back to Casterly Rock himself.

Not on the back of a cart, not in the hands of his men. His arms.

For miles, through rain and sun, through the broken silence of his soldiers, through Bronn’s rare, uncharacteristic quiet, Jaime bore the weight of you as if it were his own personal cross to carry.

Bronn never spoke about it, not then, not after. The sellsword had looked at him once, long and measured, but said nothing. And for that, Jaime was grateful.

Winter had followed.

Through it all, the direwolf had remained, padding silently behind the procession, a spectral shadow against the golden banners of Lannister men. His blue eyes held a quiet fury that never dulled, never softened, not even when Jaime lowered you onto the cold stone of the Rock, not even when he refused to let any hand but his own prepare you for burial.

Tywin had tried to speak, once. Had tried to reason, to command, but Jaime had only looked at him with something *hard, something unchangeable.

And for the first time in his life, Tywin had backed down.

Jaime had built your tomb facing the sea.

Not in the dark depths of the Rock, not in the cold crypts beneath its halls, but atop the cliffs where the wind could reach you, where the sound of the crashing waves could echo against the stone, where the sky stretched wide and open, as if to carry you home.

Winter had stood beside him as the last stone was set.

Then, without hesitation, the direwolf had turned and walked away.

No one had stopped him.

Jaime had watched until the silver-white form disappeared over the hills, until there was nothing left but the sound of the sea and the hollow ache in his chest.

No one saw Winter again after that.

Some said he had vanished into the North, beyond the Wall, beyond the reach of men, into the wild places where no banners flew. Others whispered that he still lingered near the Rock, a ghost in the hills, watching over a grave with a loyalty that stretched beyond death.

Jaime did not know what to believe.

All he knew was that, for the first time in his life, he had lost something he could never undo.

Years passed.

Tywin died, cut down in his own chambers by the very son he had spent a lifetime molding.

Cersei burned King’s Landing in her own madness, and when the war was done and winter came, Jaime found himself standing in the ruins of everything he had once known, holding the shattered remnants of a family he no longer recognized.

Bronn got his castle, just as he always wanted.

Jaime gave it to him without hesitation.

And Jaime himself?

He returned to the Rock, the place he once swore he would never call home.

It was not a home. It never had been.

But it was where you lay, where the stone bore your name, where the wind carried whispers of something he could never touch again.

Some nights, he thought he heard Winter’s howl.

And some nights, he wished he never woke up to hear it.

[s1mon-r1ley]

Needy

König x Fem! Reader

Hi! I won’t be posting for a while/haven’t been posting because of some things happening, but I made this a while ago so I’ll post it. I’ll be posting again in about a month or so.

SMUT

MINORS DNI

König was needy, there is no doubt about that. He can’t live without you, can’t breathe, can’t sleep can’t think. It’s like his whole world stops spinning and his heart stops beating when he has to separate himself from you. His darling. Deployments are the worst, his mind muddled as all he can think about is his beautiful woman back home.

Most nights when he’s gone are spent secretly pumping his fat cock to photos of you, some innocent and some of those dirty little photos he begged for you to send. Dressed in that cute pink bra and pantie set he bought you, even begged for you to where his dog tags and cum on your tits, thick ropes covered your breasts and face, the silver around your neck absolutely covered in cum.

His teammates have caught him, more then once, he’s a desperate pathetic man without his liebe. He’s not ashamed, not one bit when all he can think about is that pretty face and sexy body. It gets worse when he’s almost done with his deployments, just the thought of seeing you has him quickly going to the bathroom while palming his cock to jerk himself off until he’s shooting blanks.

Once he’s home, he’s all over you. Not even attempting to get out of his gear and just bending you over the couch, lifting the pretty little sundress and bunching it above your hips, his swollen cock hurting as he sees your wearing his favorite pair of panties, a delicate lacy baby blue thong. He hooks his finger on the lace garment, moving it to the side as he tugs out his cock.

He doesn’t even last that long, his tip pushes in for the first time in four months and he cums on the spot. It doesn’t deter him, not once bit, just fucking his seed deeper into your warm cunt, humping you like an animal in heat. Load after load he spills into that sweet pussy, mumbling incoherent words, mixed German and English. After each bust he switches the position, now on the floor as he pumps himself in from behind, whole body weight crushing you while he pants on you like he just ran a marathon, drool dribbling on your back from his mouth wide open.

It’s almost like every couple of thrusts he’s orgasming, whimpering in your ear, moaning almost louder then you. Creamy seed coats his cock, a small ring of the fluid at the base and dribbling down his balls. “Say you’re mine, tell me who you belong to..” he moans out, holding your hand, gently caressing the wedding band on your finger. You can barely speak when he fucks you so good, cock drunk from the amazing sex. “M’yours…” you squeak out, barely heard from the slapping of your ass against his pelvis, sloppy wet pussy and both of your moans intertwined with one another, your definitely getting a noise complaint from the neighbors.

Your pussy I’d so sensitive from his big cock pounding into you for the last half hour, eyes rolling into the back of your eyes as you orgasm just from that massive fucking cock alone, he’s too fucked dumb to do anything else other then fuck you as much as possible. He coos sweet praises to you, punctuating his words each thrust. “Love this fucking pussy… missed it so much.” His cock carves and leaves a place only he will ever reach, claiming it as his each time he shoot’s his load into you, neither of you would have it any other way.

Hickeys scatter your thighs, breasts, neck, shoulder, back and collar bones. His sharp teeth digging in to your back trying to quit himself but that’s impossible, you make him fucking crazy, make his cock impossiblelu hard, no woman could ever have this effect on him like you do, never. Your pussy is like a warm embrace he’s never had, holding him and sucking him back in each time his fat dick leaves your depths only to plunge back in one more.

After countless orgasms his hips stutter, collapsing on top of you as his cock softens in your gummy walls, trapping his loads inside you and keeping it as far in your depths as possible. Your knees are rubbed raw from the carpet, hips bruised from his grip on them and ass red from his powerful hips slapping against them each sloppy thrust. He turns you on your back and nuzzles against you, face planted straight between your tits, moaning sweet praises to you. It stays like this for a while until he carries you into the bathroom and takes a bath with you while talking about your time while separated.

He can’t leave your side, not after those long periods without you, it’s physically impossible for him, always finding every excuse to be with his darling, you’re his whole reason for being. You can never feel unwanted from the way he is obsessed with you, he will do anything for you. These things will always reassure his devotion to you.

[mediocre-shark-tales]

US Texas GP

Masterlist

Walking into the paddock at the Circuit of the Americas for the first time as a driver at my home Grand Prix was nothing short of surreal. The hum of the crowd, the familiar twang of American accents, and the sea of red, white, and blue paraphernalia felt different—this wasn’t just any race. This was my race.

Billboards and posters with my face adorned the venue, some with bold captions like “Homegrown Talent” or “The Lone Star of Formula 1.” I couldn’t help but smile as fans called out my name, waving signs and flags in support. For all the challenges I’d faced this season, this moment made it worth it.

I’d spent weeks planning my outfit for this race, knowing it would be scrutinized and remembered. I wanted something that paid homage to my American roots but also represented me—a mix of boldness, resilience, and a little flair.

The first piece I chose was the hat: a sharp, black Western hat with a silver band that caught the light with every step I took. Centered on the band was a bull head emblem, strong and unmistakably Texan.

Underneath, I kept it simple with a crisp white shirt, its fabric soft and well-worn, tucked neatly into high-waisted dark denim. The belt was a statement piece—a leather strap with an ornate rodeo buckle that glinted as I moved. Draped over my shoulders was a suede jacket with fringe, its design both practical and eye-catching.

The boots were my favorite part. Worn-in leather, scuffed just enough to show their authenticity, they echoed the long road I’d traveled to get here. And the lasso? A playful touch, slung over one shoulder, reminding everyone that I was here to rope in the competition.

The outfit wasn’t just clothing—it was a statement. It said, This is who I am. Take it or leave it.

As I walked through the paddock, I felt the energy shift. Journalists turned their heads, cameras clicked furiously, and fans cheered louder.

“She’s gone full Texan!” someone shouted, eliciting laughter and applause.

Franco was the first to greet me, his grin as wide as ever. “Hermosa, you’re stealing the show already. Lando’s going to be jealous.”

Lando appeared not far behind, dramatically placing a hand over his heart. “You’ve outdone us all. I should’ve worn a cowboy hat.”

“You couldn’t pull it off,” I teased, adjusting the brim of mine.

“True,” he admitted, with a playful shrug.

As part of the home race experience, my media duties were doubled, if not tripled. I made my way to the press conference room, where a mix of local and international journalists eagerly awaited.

The questions were predictable at first:

“What does it mean to race at your home Grand Prix?” “How do you feel about the fan support here in the U.S.?”

I answered them all with the same passion I’d carried all week. “It’s incredible to see the support from my fellow Americans. Racing here is a dream come true, and I want to make everyone proud.”

But then, as always, the conversation shifted.

“Your outfit today—does it symbolize anything about your journey?”

I smiled, tipping the brim of my hat slightly. “It’s a nod to where I come from. I wanted to bring a little piece of home to the paddock, and, well, I think it worked.”

Another journalist asked, “With all the pressure of a home race, how do you plan to stay focused?”

I paused thoughtfully before answering. “Every race has pressure, but this one is special. I’m not just racing for myself—I’m racing for everyone out there who’s ever been told they couldn’t do something. That’s the focus.”

As the day wore on, I walked the grid with my team, taking in the sights and sounds of the track. The familiar roar of engines echoed in the background, and the smell of rubber on asphalt filled the air.

Fans leaned over barriers, waving hats and flags. Some called out personal messages—encouragement, gratitude, even a few heartfelt wishes of luck.

One little girl, no older than six, caught my eye. She was wearing a tiny cowboy hat and holding a handmade sign that read, “Girls can race too!”

I walked over, crouching to her level. “You’re absolutely right,” I said, signing the brim of her hat. “And one day, I’ll be watching you out here.”

Her eyes lit up, and her parents thanked me profusely. It was a small moment, but it reminded me why I fought so hard to be here.

By the time I returned to my motorhome, the sun was setting, casting a warm orange glow over the paddock. I took a moment to stand on the balcony, looking out at the track. Tomorrow, the real work would begin—practice sessions, debriefs, and the constant grind of preparation.

But for now, I allowed myself a moment to soak it all in. This was my home race, and I was ready to give it everything I had.

The atmosphere in the garage buzzed with energy as I stepped in, already suited up for FP1. It was my only practice session before heading into a jam-packed sprint weekend schedule. With just one hour to learn the track and figure out how the car would handle here in Texas, there was no room for error. Every lap counted.

The familiar weight of my regular helmet rested in my hands as I made my way to my car. This one wasn’t flashy, but it was comfortable—a trusted companion that had been with me all season. I planned to save the special designs for later, where they’d make the biggest impact.

My team had worked closely with me to craft two helmets that truly represented what this weekend meant to me.

For the sprint race, I wanted something bold—something that screamed America without apology. The design featured an angry eagle, its wings stretched wide as it tore through the imagined sound barrier, painted to resemble the American flag. The sunset hues blended seamlessly with the imagery, creating a helmet that felt larger than life.

On the top sat a reimagined Route 66 sign, reshaped into my race number, 66. It wasn’t just a nod to my roots, but a symbol of the journey I’d taken to get here.

The race helmet, however, held an entirely different meaning. It was a replica of Logan Sargeant’s design. Though I didn’t know Logan personally, I respected his journey and the fact that he, too, had carried the weight of representing America on the grid.

We made only subtle changes: swapping out his name and number for mine, adjusting the sponsors to reflect my team, and making sure the craftsmanship was impeccable. I’d asked for it to remain a complete surprise, something for the fans and paddock alike to discover only once I stepped out onto the track.

Sliding into the cockpit, I felt a familiar surge of adrenaline. The team gave me the all-clear, and I fired up the engine. The Texas heat radiated off the tarmac as I rolled out of the garage, ready to get a feel for the track.

The Circuit of the Americas was a beast of a circuit. Long straights, tricky esses, and elevation changes that could throw off anyone not paying attention. But I loved it. There was something about racing in my home country that made me want to push just a little harder, take the corners a little sharper.

FP1 was productive, though not without its challenges. The car felt decent, but there were a few areas where balance issues cropped up. I spent the session giving constant feedback, running through different setups to prepare for both the sprint and the race.

“Car feels a little light in the rear through Sector 1,” I said over the radio after my third lap. “We’ll need to stabilize it for the race pace.”

By the end of the hour, I felt confident. There were still improvements to be made, but I had a solid foundation to work from.

I returned to the garage as the session wrapped up, my mind already switching gears for the upcoming sprint qualifying. With about an hour to spare, I decided to stretch my legs and shake off the lingering tension. The Texas sun was relentless, but the walk between garages helped me cool off while keeping my muscles loose.

With my racing overalls tied around my waist and a water bottle in hand, I jogged lightly from one end of the paddock to the other, weaving through the crowd of team personnel and fans. Just as I rounded a corner, someone barreled straight into me at full speed.

The collision sent me sprawling onto the pavement. I landed hard on my backside, groaning as I caught my breath. The other person, however, was already profusely apologizing, their accent immediately familiar.

“Sorry, sorry, I wasn’t looking where I was going!”

I blinked, looking up into the grinning face of none other than Liam Lawson.

“Liam?” I exclaimed, my surprise quickly morphing into delight.

Liam Lawson—the guy I’d been through hell and back with during my karting days, my confidant, my pseudo-brother—stood there, a sheepish grin plastered across his face. We’d been inseparable as kids, supporting each other through the highs and lows of our careers. Even now, as we both fought tooth and nail for a permanent seat in F1, there was never an ounce of jealousy between us. Just unrelenting pride for one another.

Liam extended a hand to help me up, his laughter bubbling over as I dusted myself off. “Fancy seeing you here,” he teased.

I smirked, immediately falling into our usual rhythm of playful banter. “Look who it is—newly promoted F1 driver Liam Lawson. The same guy who conveniently forgot to tell his best friend about said promotion, so she had to hear about it through the media.”

Liam winced dramatically, placing a hand over his chest. “Ouch. Straight for the heart.”

“You deserve it,” I shot back, crossing my arms but unable to hide the grin spreading across my face. “Seriously, Liam, how could you not tell me?”

He scratched the back of his neck, looking genuinely apologetic. “It all happened so fast. I was going to call, I swear, but then everything blew up, and I didn’t want to jinx it.”

I rolled my eyes but couldn’t stay mad at him for long. This was Liam, after all—the same guy who had stayed up all night helping me perfect a karting setup before a big race and had cheered the loudest when I’d landed my reserve driver role.

“Well, I’m proud of you,” I said, pulling him into a quick hug. “Even if you’re a terrible best friend.”

“Thanks,” he said with a laugh, stepping back. “But I’m not that terrible. I brought something for you.”

He reached into his backpack and pulled out a small container. “Hannah made cookies, and she insisted I bring you some.”

I couldn’t help but grin. His girlfriend, Hannah, was amazing—kind, funny, and incredible in the kitchen. She was the one person I could see Liam settling down with, and I secretly hoped they’d make it official someday.

“You’re forgiven,” I said, grabbing the container and popping the lid open to sneak a cookie. “Barely.”

We spent the next few minutes catching up, trading stories and laughs like no time had passed. Seeing Liam here, in this moment, reminded me just how far we’d both come. The journey hadn’t been easy, but having someone like him in my corner made it all worth it.

As the clock ticked closer to sprint qualifying, I reluctantly said goodbye, knowing I had to refocus.

“Good luck out there,” Liam said, clapping me on the shoulder. “Show them why you’re a part of the future of this sport.”

“You too,” I replied with a wink. “And next time, don’t make me find out through a press release, Lawson.”

He laughed, throwing his hands up in mock surrender. “Yes Sir.”

As I jogged back toward my garage, the encounter left me feeling lighter, a renewed sense of determination coursing through me. Having Liam there was a reminder of why I loved this sport and the friendships it had given me along the way. Now, it was time to focus and make the most of my home race weekend.

The moment I strapped back into the car, all the outside noise disappeared. The roar of the crowd, the hum of conversations, even the buzz in the garage faded into the background. It was just me, the machine, and the track ahead. The familiar ritual of adjusting my gloves, checking my visor, and gripping the steering wheel calmed my nerves. I was ready.

The green light for Sprint Qualifying flicked on, and the engines roared to life. The Texas air was dry and crisp, the track shimmering under the afternoon sun. I was hyper-aware of every little detail—the vibrations under my seat, the hum of the car as I weaved through the out-lap, and the occasional crackle of my engineer's voice over the radio.

“Let’s bring it home today, 66. Focus and execute,” my race engineer, Landon, reminded me.

The first run was solid but unspectacular. My times were competitive, but not groundbreaking—hovering around P8. The team made quick adjustments to the car, tweaking the front wing and tire pressures to give me just that little bit more grip. I sat in the cockpit as the mechanics worked around me, closing my eyes and replaying the corners in my head.

Stay calm. Be smooth. Push where it counts.

The second run felt different right from the start. The track was warming up, the grip improving, and the car responding beautifully. As I hurtled down the long back straight, the roar of the home crowd grew louder. Even inside the car, I could feel the energy.

“Purple Sector 1,” Landon’s voice came through, even-toned but with a hint of excitement.

My heart raced, but I forced myself to stay focused. The esses flowed under the car like a rhythm, and I nailed the exit onto the next straight.

“Good exit,” Landon confirmed.

The car was alive under me, every input translating perfectly to the track. I pushed through Sector 2, catching a slight slide out of Turn 12 but recovering without losing much time.

“Green Sector 2. Keep it clean,” Landon instructed.

The final sector was always the trickiest, but I braked late and hard into Turn 15, carrying just enough speed without overshooting the apex. The last few corners blurred together in a haze of precision and adrenaline as I blasted toward the finish line.

As I crossed the line, I held my breath, waiting for Landon’s voice.

“You’re P4!”

For a second, I didn’t believe him. “Repeat that?”

“P4, P4! Excellent job!” Landon’s voice was louder this time, barely containing his excitement.

The realization hit me like a tidal wave. P4. My best qualifying result yet. I was on the second row of the grid, closer to a podium than I’d ever been. And in my home race, no less.

“YES!” I screamed into the radio, pounding my fists on the steering wheel. “YES, YES, YES!”

The emotions bubbled over as I slowed the car and brought it back to the garage. Pride, excitement, disbelief—it all hit me at once. My engineer’s voice was drowned out by the cheers of my team as I rolled into the pit lane. The Aston Martin Team near the entrance of Parc Fermé were alive with energy, mechanics and engineers high-fiving each other, their faces beaming with pride.

As I climbed out of the car, the roar of the American crowd greeted me. I pulled off my helmet, letting the cheers wash over me. My home race, my people, and they were celebrating with me.

Lando appeared out of nowhere, grinning ear to ear. “P4? Are you kidding me? That’s insane!”

I laughed, still trying to catch my breath. “I can’t believe it.”

“You better start believing,” he said, slinging an arm around my shoulder. “Because that was incredible.”

Franco rushed over next, practically tackling me in a hug. “That’s my girl! P4 at home? You’re a legend!”

The overwhelming support from my team, my friends, and the fans brought tears to my eyes. I wiped them away quickly, not wanting to let the moment overwhelm me too much.

“Thank you,” I said, my voice trembling with emotion as I waved to the crowd. “Thank you so much.”

As I basked in the energy of the moment, a familiar voice called out from behind me, cutting through the noise of the garage.

“Well, well, look at you!”

I turned to see Liam Lawson striding toward me, his ever-present grin plastered across his face. Right beside him was his girlfriend, Hannah, looking just as thrilled. Liam wasted no time, wrapping me in a bear hug that nearly lifted me off the ground.

“P4!” he exclaimed, shaking me slightly. “In your home race! That’s huge!”

I laughed, squeezing him back. “I know! I still can’t believe it.”

Hannah stepped forward as Liam let go, her expression warm. “We’re so proud of you,” she said, pulling me into a gentler hug. “You’ve worked so hard for this, and it’s amazing to see it paying off.”

“Thank you,” I said, my voice cracking slightly as the emotions started to creep in again.

Liam ruffled my hair playfully. “Not gonna lie, I’m a little jealous. But seriously, this is your moment, and no one deserves it more. You’ve proven all those doubters wrong today.”

“Thanks, Liam,” I said, grinning. “Now you just have to catch up and get P4 for yourself.”

“Oh, I will,” he shot back with a wink. “But don’t think I won’t brag about this for you in the meantime.”

Hannah chuckled, giving me an encouraging pat on the shoulder. “Just soak it all in. You’ve earned it.”

As they stepped back to let me continue celebrating with my team, I watched them go with a full heart. Liam and Hannah had been constants in my life for years, and having their support on a day like this meant the world.

With their words still echoing in my mind, I turned back toward the garage, taking in the scene around me. Mechanics and engineers buzzing with excitement, Lando and Franco trading jokes, the hum of the crowd still faintly audible in the background—it was all so surreal.

For the first time, I felt like I truly belonged here. This wasn’t just about making a mark in F1 anymore—it was about showing the world, my team, and myself what I was capable of.

As the sun dipped lower in the sky and the garage buzzed with post-qualifying excitement, I let myself savor the moment. Tomorrow would bring new challenges, but tonight, I was living my dream.

[daistea]

𝐋𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐭𝐮𝐝𝐞 - 𝐌𝐢𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐮𝐧 𝐱 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

Mithrun x gn Reader

2,300 words

suggestive / tw kissing / tw choking

◇��◇──◇─◇

 The world was separated by fine lines. They ran through civilization, rarely with a discernible beginning, and rarely noticed by anyone but those who approached them. They were tangled and knotted and digging into the skin of society— and when released, the mark they left was red, bruising. 

 You wanted to snap one of those lines. You wanted to run it across your palm, wrap your fingers around it, and squeeze. You wanted to watch the tension grow, to tear it apart, to leave it ragged and broken and ready to be yours. 

 Yours, as you were his. 

 You felt the fine line grow taut as Mithrun’s good eye searched your face. You’d done something bad. His chest rose and fell as he held himself up with both arms on either side of you. Those arms could’ve been the bars of a jail cell, or the columns of a temple. His palms were flat on the cold ground, his fingers were splayed, one knee was between your legs and you were doing your best to make no noise. 

 Mithrun’s good eye narrowed. He was doing his job, he was the Captain. You could only wonder if he ever stopped being the Captain, if he was ever just Mithrun. Knowing him, most likely not. Another line. Did he ever let it bend?

 As if he could see through your skull and right into your brain, his shoulders tensed and his lips twitched. He knew. He always knew. You inhaled through your nose with hyper-awareness of the rise and fall of your chest. You were far too considerate of how precisely how little room there was between Mithrun and yourself. He smelled like basic soap, like familiarity. 

 “You did something stupid,” Mithrun broke the silence. He didn’t sound particularly perturbed by the fact that you’d done something stupid, but you caught the hint of gravel, the hint of a rough scratch in his throat that told you all you needed to know. 

 You knew. You always knew. His shoulders relaxed a little as if saying his thoughts aloud helped him come to terms with it. 

 The truth was: you did a lot of stupid things. Despite the self-awareness you possessed upon the matter, you still did them. The source was not genuine stupidity, but rather a quality that you and Mithrun shared; single-minded determination. You thought he’d understand. 

 You managed to raise your right hand and gently press it against his chest. Yet, no amount of pressure would push him back. He steeled himself and leaned in closer, shoulders rising as silver curls fell forward to brush across his jawline. 

 “I’m fine,” you argued, and you could not help but avoid the black-eyed gaze that dug through your brain. You settled for glaring at a misshapen brick on the wall of the dungeon. 

 Mithrun seemed to relent. He sat up on his knees and folded his arms over his chest, though you were still on your back in front of him. You’d ended up in that position by accident. You did not stay in that position by accident. It was like pulling teeth, but you ripped your eyes away from the wall and looked up at him. The rays of the light spell above washed him in pale yellow. And the fine line regained its strength with every inch of space created between your bodies. 

 “You’re fortunate I was there,” Mithrun observed with the nonchalance of someone who believed he did not care. 

 That was what you knew so well; Mithrun could care. Mithrun could desire. He wasn’t aware of that, but even if he were, he wouldn’t bother with it. What point was there in desiring anything unrelated to the demon? 

 Another line, though it was not fine like the others. The Captain had simplified himself so much. And simple things were easy to understand. If it didn’t involve revenge, he did not care. That was a line you knew you could not bend, twist, or snap. You didn’t try.

 However, you did walk it like a tight-rope.

 “I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself,” you informed him. You weren’t sure how you sounded, most likely defiant, most likely argumentative. Judging by how he slightly tilted his head at you, it was one of those two descriptors. Yet, the room to care had run out. Your rooms were filled with fire, flames licking at every inch of you and turning you into ash. Your lower abdomen felt as if it was a rubber band being pulled. 

 You liked being pulled. 

 “You put people in danger,” Mithrun responded almost immediately, “you could’ve died.”

 He said the word ‘died’ as if he wanted to spit it in the dirt. 

 You and Mithrun had been separated from the Canaries and your party on account of your own horrible decision making. You couldn’t quite recall what you had done. Was it pathetic that all you knew was Mithrun’s arm around your waist as he yanked you away? One track-minded, surely, but Mithrun had the ability to create new, far more exciting tracks to follow. 

 He’d teleported you both to a room nearby. It was stone and smelled of dust, and hints of green moss crawled up the walls like desperate fingers. You were, most likely, the one who desired the room into existence, a spot for Mithrun to teleport to where you could be alone together. If it was anyone else, Mithrun would’ve been on his feet and determinedly searching for the exit by then.

 But you knew. How could you not know? Mithrun never hid his feelings; a blessing and a curse for all involved. 

 The line appeared again and it was not the thick, simple line that you could never bend. The line that settled between you and the Captain was thin and weak and just asking to be torn apart. Without a second thought, the words were out of your mouth, “I don’t care.”

 You don’t care. 

 You don’t care?

 (You cared.)

 Mithrun’s lips parted and his brows slightly furrowed. He knew what it was like to not care. He had to know you were lying. Yet, the words wrapped around him and sunk into his veins like poison. Immediately, they spread through his body. For someone who cared about so little, he despised how you apparently did not care. 

 Which, in and of itself, was a desire. He felt something. He stared at you as if you’d just kicked a puppy and you knew, in that moment, that he desired— even if he didn’t realize it. 

 That was okay, you decided within seconds. He didn’t need to realize it. 

 “Do you not realize…” slowly, he lowered his body like an anchor dropping into water. His hands slid across the dirty stone, then his forearms, until he was only inches away from you. His breath mingled with yours and your abdomen pulled again. It was as if his proximity had captured your soul on a hook, and it was all you could do to stay grounded. Mithrun continued, “That if you died–”

 The line began to stretch. 

 His fingers wrapped around your throat. Your heart flipped rather gracelessly. His fingers were cold and firm and in the perfect spot, encompassing your pulse. He could most likely feel the increase of your heart rate beneath the pads of his index fingers, but that was fine. He knew. 

 It was nothing new. Yet, you’d seen flowers bloom a thousand times. You’d seen the oranges and pinks of the sunset a thousand times. But you always stopped for them, giving them a moment of your life. Who could possibly say they were tired of seeing the sunset? 

  “Do you not understand what that would do?” He asked. Mithrun’s voice was quieter than usual— he wasn’t trying to seduce you, he was trying to talk to you. For half of a second, you felt like a total pervert for melting beneath his touch. 

 Yet, pervert or not, you wanted that line to stretch further. 

 “Do to who?” You asked, despite the light pressure on your throat, “What would it do? Why do you even care?”

 “I don’t,” was his immediate answer. He had his hand around your throat and looked at you as if you’d ruined his life. Such vitriol, such hatred. “I can’t.”

 You began to thrive. “You’re being contradictory.”

 “Stop.”

 You immediately stopped thriving. “Alright.”

 There were certain lines you wouldn’t cross. Perhaps it was best to leave this particular one alone. 

 But he kept his fingers around your throat. 

 Mithrun’s expression turned slightly softer, though it was just a hint gathered from the shape of the lines between his brows and the slight flutter of his left eye. You could’ve written a book on the slight facial expressions of the ex-Dungeon Lord of the Central Observation Tower. 

 “Promise you won’t do that again.” It was technically a question, but Mithrun wasn’t asking. The Captain was commanding. 

 And as one-track minded and stubborn as you were, you were his. You tried your best to respect his set lines. 

 However, “I’ll try my best,” was all you could offer him. 

 Mithrun’s shoulders lowered, though not because he relaxed. His body arched ever so slightly as he pushed down further on your windpipe— there it was again, that pull, that ache, that burning. Consuming. What had you even done in the first place?

 He noticed, because he always noticed. He simply didn’t usually acknowledge it. His eye widened and searched your face as heat rose to your cheeks. You tilted your head back to give his hand more room. Grabbing people by the neck, using his teleportation magic to remove their heads from their bodies and replace them with stone was natural for him. And touching you, that was natural too. 

 Yet, this was one of those fine lines. As he exhaled softly and his fingers tightened, digging into your skin, your eyes fluttered. The line had been stretched again. Your muscles tensed and you couldn’t help but lift your hips. Through the layers of clothes, the room between your bodies closed and your flames brushed against him. Again, Mithrun exhaled, sharper. His head slightly dipped and his brows furrowed and his hair fell into his face. 

 You knew. 

 He slid lower until your breaths intermingled. You closed your eyes as his lips brushed against yours. It was like holding a monster back by a thin, weak leash. In seconds, it would snap. Rampage.

 With a slight lift of your hips against his, it snapped. You could practically hear the sharp crack of thread breaking away. The taut bowstring of his body released as he pressed his lips against yours. They slotted together. His teeth scraped harshly against your bottom lip and you gasped into his mouth, but he didn’t care. He never cared. He continued, holding himself up by core strength alone as his free hand went to your waist as if he wanted to pin you down to the cold stone floor. 

 You tilted your head so your noses wouldn’t bump. His breath drifted into your mouth; it was hot, but smelled like nothing. Mithrun slowed down for half a second to gently pull at your lip with his teeth, and it was as if he had pulled the rubber in your stomach too tightly, and it was snapping back with a force that wracked your body. The shiver was undeniable. His fingers on your hips dug in even tighter; he clearly wanted to pierce your skin and feel your flesh encircle him. Fingers were important, they were the parts of the body that controlled things, that reacted, that felt. He held you as if he desperately wanted to feel. 

 It hurt. 

 It would leave bruises, round, representing four fingers on your hips.

 The pain spread through you like a drop of dye in water. It branched out, reached out, ran out. It stretched to the edges and corrupted every inch of your body until you were colored Mithrun. 

 That was the line. It wanted to do more than simply bend. 

 One tendril loosened and pulled away. The frayed edges were happy to be free, to feel the air. 

 You raised your arms and wrapped them around his neck, yanking him down even closer. If it was possible to put a negative amount of centimeters between you both, you’d find some way to achieve it. In past relationships, kissing was a constant reminder to pucker, then deepen, then hold. With Mithrun, you didn’t think, you couldn’t think. It was as if he’d breathed something into you that scrambled your brain. 

 And his hand was still around your neck. 

 And his hand tightened. 

 And you let out a soft noise without deciding to do so. His left eye lowered slightly as he pulled back to look at you— admire you? Perhaps. It might not have been pure delusion on your part. 

 Another tendril of the line frayed and threatened to snap. Your abdomen pulsed. After meeting Mithrun, you started to believe that desire was a concept. After kissing Mithrun, you knew that desire was an emotion, a pulsating and raw and consuming emotion that liked to wrap its cold hands around your entire body, around your throat. Merciless. Ruthless. Apathetic to what was logical and right because desire had its goal in mind and would do anything to reach it. 

 He squeezed. You gasped. Something thrummed, threatening to break out of your skin. 

 And the fine line snapped. Pleasure mingled with its enemy: pain. Mithrun crashed his lips against yours again and you softly moaned into his mouth, helpless to his touch. For once, he put in the work. For once, he was motivated. For once, he wanted.

 It wouldn’t last, you knew. Your rightful spot in the race was clearly second, a silver medal. 

 Yet, for the moment, with the way he touched you as if he could kill you for daring to leave him…

 With the way he squeezed, with the way he bit, with the way he exhaled as if letting out years of stress—

 Your lines intersected and, for once, he was yours.