#even then it's mild and talked about in the past tense

[makoodles]

ミi hear you like magic? i've got a wand and a rabbit!

part one | part two

🍓 pairing: simon "ghost" riley x fem reader

🍓 tags: nsfw, size kink, virgin!reader, oral sex, vaginal sex, rough(?) sex, some mild second-hand embarrassment perhaps, sex toys, edging, failed masturbation attempts, ghost takes your virginity and also maybe ruins you for literally anybody else ever again

masterlist

reblogs are always enormously appreciated!

The ceiling over your head is drab grey and water-stained, the old paint peeling away in strips. It’s an ugly sight, but you barely see it; you’re too busy trying to catch your breath.

The sheets beneath you are uncomfortably damp with your sweat, but you don’t have the energy to roll over just yet. You feel hot and itchy with frustration, and you scowl up at the ceiling above you as your fingers curl into fists. But even though you feel like laying in your now grubby-bedding for the rest of the evening, you can’t let yourself wallow. There’s going to be a knock on your door any minute, and this is not a position you want to be found in.

With an irritable groan, you haul yourself off the bed and to your feet. Your muscles ache and you feel too warm, but you reach for your clothes anyway. The worn cotton of your shirt feels scratchy against your skin, but maybe that’s just because you’re still over-sensitive and irritable.

You can never quite bear to look at the aftermath of what you’d been doing, so you avert your eyes as you gather up the bright silicone and plastic devices littering your mattress. It’s embarrassing now that the adrenaline has worn off and disappointment is beginning to set in, so you end up gathering them all up more roughly than necessary.

The term ‘toy’ seems incongruous to you. It sounds too childish, too immature. It makes you sound like a stupid kid, as though you aren’t a young adult past twenty fumbling your way through sexual self-exploration. It’s embarrassing, and much more frustrating than you ever would have predicted – despite all of your clumsy, desperate attempts at pleasuring yourself, you’ve never quite managed to reach that peak of pleasure you’ve heard other people talking about.

You grumble quietly to yourself as you try to wipe away the sticky lube that’s still coating your thighs. Your muscles are a little achy from all the tensing you’d been doing trying to come with that stupid vibrator, not even accompanied by the satisfaction you had been hoping for.

It’s not as though you’ve never gotten the opportunity to experiment with others; you’re not unforgivably ugly, you don’t think you have a bad personality, and for the past few years you’ve been surrounded by military men that certainly aren’t known for being picky. And it certainly isn’t like you haven’t received your fair share of offers. 

It just never seemed right. You’re not overly concerned about ‘saving’ your virginity or anything like that; it’s just that putting yourself into such a vulnerable position is scary. You’re aware of the irony, of course, that you’d trust many of these people with saving your ass from catching a bullet in the field, but allowing someone to see you so intimately feels like a step too far.

You’re still sweaty and flustered and naked when a knock sounds from your door, and you freeze. The doorknob turns, but doesn’t open; in that moment, you’re deliriously grateful that you had turned the lock – it’s something that you’ve forgotten to do on far too many occasions.

“Lass, you in there?” Oh god, it’s Soap. 

Cursing quietly to yourself, you jolt into action. Your pants are crumpled at the bottom of your bed where you had shed them, and you hurriedly gather them up and struggle your way back into them.

“Gimme a minute!” You yell, praying he doesn’t notice the somewhat frantic edge to your voice.

You stagger slightly as you worm your way into your pants, and then lunge to grab the stupid dildo you’d just been trying to use. You feel your skin prickle with humiliation as you try to force the stupidly large silicone cock into your already full underwear drawer, jamming it shut roughly to hide it from sight. You don’t want to even imagine what Soap might have to say if he were to see what you had been doing; you think you might have to go full deserter mode and abscond into the wilderness.

“Did ye forget about drinks?” Soap’s drawl carries through the thickness of the door. He doesn’t sound even slightly put out – if anything, he sounds a little amused.

You pause, close your eyes, sigh. Fuck. You had not, in fact, forgotten about drinks, you just thought you had more time.

“No, I– just a minute!” You yell back, shoving your shoes on and trying to fix your hair.

You had completely lost track of time, and now you don’t even have time to rinse your sweat-damp skin off – you’re going to have to sit through drinks with the squad all grimy, like a physical reminder of what you had been up to for the last two hours.

When you finally unlock the door and wrench it open, Soap is standing on the other side tapping a staccato rhythm on his thighs with his open palms. He’s dressed casually in just blue jeans and a black muscle shirt, and he gives you a look of semi-disbelief.

“What the hell were you—”

“Gym.” You interrupt, landing on the only explanation you can think of for your sweaty skin and messy hair.

Soap blinks, but apparently decides it’s not worth the effort to continue that line of conversation. He just shrugs, then turns and starts making his way down the hall, slowing his pace for you to catch up.

You exhale; Soap can be like a bloodhound when he suspects there’s gossip to be had, and you’re relieved to have dodged a round of his relentless questioning. You suppose he can be surprisingly tactful sometimes, and he knows you well enough not to press you. Or, perhaps it’s because you come across as such a non-sexual being that  it doesn’t even occur to him that there may be another explanation.

There’s an unofficial tradition that when the squad is on base, everyone gathers in the sparsely decorated recreation room for drinks and card games on Thursday evenings. It usually makes for an enjoyable night; Gaz and Soap can always be trusted to supply whatever bottles of alcohol they’ve managed to get their grubby little hands on, and it’s always amusing to watch Captain Price get increasingly more irate as Soap pretends not to understand the rules of whatever card game they’re playing. The whole illicitness of having contraband on base only makes the whole thing more exciting; the CO’s on base often turn a blind eye to the activity, so long as it’s kept under control.

But tonight, you’re distracted.

The others had offered a bit of good-natured ribbing when you and Soap had turned up late, but before long you’re all settled in a loose circle on the poorly-stuffed couches in the corner of the room. Gaz has already unstoppered a bottle of bourbon, and is attempting to convince a visibly unimpressed Price to play a game of Kings with them. You curl up on one of the worn-out couches opposite them, watching with a small if slightly stiff smile.

The atmosphere is relaxed and pleasant, almost enough to make you forget about the irritating buzz of unfulfilled arousal under your skin. You shift, trying to keep your movements small, subtle, to avoid the notice of your team. Your denim jeans are nowhere near as comfortable as usual, and you wonder briefly if you should have simply worn your cargo pants just to avoid the harsh friction of the denim.

You sit there feeling… unmoored. You fidget, drink your smooth bourbon in sips in an attempt to avoid wincing, and try not to look as obviously out of place as you feel. It’s been like this, recently. Joining the task force has been an accomplishment for you, a source of immense pride – you’re the youngest member (just narrowly beating Gaz for the title) and a woman to boot, and though the squad has never treated you any differently it’s hard to kick the belief that you have something to prove. 

You engage in conversations the best you can, but you’re distracted and you know it must be obvious. Your preoccupation gets you a couple of furrowed brows and glances, but there seems to be an unspoken agreement to give you some space.

You don’t even realise the extent of your distraction until a big body settles down on the loveseat next to you, and you jolt. True to his name, Ghost had appeared near silently, escaping your notice until he lowers himself down to sit next to you.

And damn, you forget how big he is sometimes. It’s an average sized loveseat, but the lieutenant takes up over half of it. He’s obviously being mindful not to consciously crush you, but he’s not being overly cautious when it comes to avoiding touching you. He’s dressed unusually casually, and his thick, muscled thigh is wrapped in blue denim as it presses carelessly against yours. 

“You alright?” He asks, his voice low and smooth as he nudges your knee with one of his big knuckles.

You haven’t been a member of the task force for long, but you would know Simon Riley by his hands alone, by the earthy salt-spice in your nose as he leans a little closer to peer at your face. You tilt your head up, unable to stop the small reflexive smile that breaks over your face at the sight of him.

“Yeah.” You breathe, hurriedly straightening up where you’re sitting. “Yeah, sorry. Just thinking.”

His sudden proximity isn’t doing your current state any favours, and you take a quick sip of your drink in an effort to collect yourself. It’s taking a herculean effort not to stare at the way his biceps are bulging against the straining material of his black cotton t-shirt.

“What’re you thinking about?” Ghost asks as he stretches out his legs with a tired groan. The sound is gruff and gravelly, and you feel blood rush uncomfortably to your cheeks. 

“Nothing.” You say quickly.

He doesn’t believe you, that much is obvious, but Ghost never pushes and he rarely speaks more than he has to. He just gives you a glance, brief and knowing and far more penetrating than it should be, before turning his head back so he can watch the boys playing their card game. He’s holding a crystal tumbler filled with dark amber liquid, but he hasn’t yet pulled his mask up to drink from it.

Your eyes drop to the thick, pale scars that mar the backs of his hands. You trace the path of the scar tissue, eyes lingering around the thick knuckles and broad palms, the way that he holds the glass so casually confidently. He’s got nice hands, probably made all the more attractive by the fact that you hardly ever get to see them. Seeing Ghost without his usual long sleeves and gloves makes you feel like a Victorian pervert snatching stolen glances at a passing lady’s ankles.

A quiet snicker causes your eyes to dart back to his face, and you’re mortified to find that he’s caught you staring.

“What’s got you in such a mood?” He asks. Even through the mask you can tell that he’s smirking, though it doesn’t feel as though he’s making fun of you.

“Just one of those days, I guess.” You say without meeting his eyes.

It’s an evasion at best, but Ghost nods ponderously as though he’s giving this great thought. His stare is penetrating, those big brown eyes watching you as though he can see right through you. Maybe he can. You try not to get too caught up staring at his pale eyelashes, darkened by smears of eyeblack.

“Did something happen?” He asks. The question is casual enough, asked as he lazily swirls his whiskey around in his glass, but his gaze is sharp and assessing.

“No.” You sigh, finally looking properly at him.

It’s a little frustrating, but the squad has been like this with you from the start – protective. Your whole military career has consisted of you veritably clawing your way up through the ranks, and you’ve been surrounded by coarse, gruff men that have underestimated you all your life. 141 is different – they don’t baby you, but the way they treat you is unmistakably softer than how they typically treat each other. The concern can be touching, if a little tiring sometimes.

And maybe it’s because he’s your lieutenant, but Ghost’s attention has always been just this side of overwhelming. It feels like you’re pinned beneath his dark eyes, his gaze somehow sharpened as he watches you from beneath his more casual balaclava, the skull pattern printed on his jaw adding another layer of intimidation. But his shoulders are relaxed as he sits next to you on the small couch, settling the weight of his attention over you like a blanket.

You’ve always respected him, admired him. How could you not? He’s practically a living legend, his reputation larger than life, and he’s scary as fuck. But he’s also softer than you had expected, gentle when he needs to be. He still rides you hard in training, pushing you to your limits and taking no quarter, but you can’t begrudge that. Not when you know he’s working to keep you alive. Perhaps that’s how the attraction had first bloomed; once it started, it was hard to stifle.

Ghost hooks one finger into his balaclava and pulls it up just high enough to expose his mouth, and he presses his glass to his lips to take a sip of his drink. You struggle not to stare like a moron, but he makes it so difficult. His lips are full and pink, and there’s a rugged scar bisecting his top lip. His stubble is dark blond and short, and it doesn’t hide the various scars and marks that decorate his strong jawline. 

You almost jolt when he pulls the mask back down, hurriedly averting your eyes and forcing yourself to look out across the room. It’s not just the 141 that’s decided to take up in the rec room this evening; there are soldiers from other units littered all around the room, laughing and joking, playing lazy games of pool on the table in the corner and smoking. The smoke alarm has been jimmied off the ceiling and the window is open, and even Price is turning a temporary blind eye to the blatant disregard for regulations in favour of puffing on one of his cigars. 

Ghost shifts on the worn-out fabric of the couch, and lays an arm over the back of the headrest behind you. It’s a casual, thoughtless movement, but it ends up pushing his body slightly closer to you in a way that makes you feel as though you’re about to catch fire.

You cross your legs, but the seam of your jeans presses into your pussy in a way that sends a frisson of heat up your spine. You hurriedly uncross your legs, and attempt to school your expression into casual neutrality as you force yourself to tune back into the conversation.

“–ach, c’mon, Captain,” Soap is saying in a wheedling tone that he probably thinks is endearing. “One round of strip poker won’t kill ya–”

“No.” Price says in a voice like thunder, brooking no argument as thick cigar smoke pours from his nose. It gives the impression of an enraged bull.

Soap either is ignorant to the warning, or is choosing to wilfully ignore it. Judging by the sly gleam in his eyes, you can guess which. He turns to you then, and waggles his eyebrows.

“C’mon, lassie, you’ll play, won’t ya?” He asks with a grin that promises trouble. “I guarantee you’ll be a sight better than any o’ these louts.”

“Speak for yourself,” Gaz pipes up, already grinning. “I was looking forward to seeing the Captain in his jocks–”

Price promptly knocks his drink back, before pushing himself up to his feet with a grim groan. “Right. That’s enough of you lot for one night.”

Gaz and Soap break into peals of laughter, settling back into their seats as they watch their captain march away.

“Offer’s still open, love,” Soap says, still snickering when he looks over to you. “Wanna play?”

Ghost shifts, his wide thigh knocking into yours as his arm stretches behind your shoulders. He lets out a short exhale through his nose, but when you glance up at him you find him as stoic and hard to read as always.

You just roll your eyes. It’s not the first time that they’ve tried to rope you into strip poker, and you’re sure it won’t be the last. You can always trust Soap to start stripping his clothes off when he’s three drinks in, whether he’s playing a game or not, so it’s not surprising that he tries to involve other people in his bad decision making.

And it’s not a big deal, really. There’s been countless missions and operations that have ended up with all of you staying in uncomfortably close quarters with each other. You’ve seen them naked countless times, and the same with them for you. It’s never meant anything, and you know that Soap’s teasing is exactly that – you don’t think they’ve ever once looked at you through any sexual lens at all.

But even still, the joke flusters you more than it should.

“Think I’ll be joining Cap in going to bed, actually.” You say, clearing your throat and setting your glass down on the low table in front of the couch.

The playful booing from Soap doesn’t do much to change your mind, and you stick out your tongue at him and Gaz as you push yourself up from the couch. You try to ignore the loss of heat at your side when you move away from Ghost, though you can’t help but glance back at the lieutenant. He’s not looking at you, his gaze directed into his glass. You try not to feel disappointed about that.

You say your goodnights, and retreat from the rec room.

By the time you make it back to your dorm however, you’re already playing the conversation back over in your head and wondering if you had made the wrong decision.

Perhaps you should have just played the damn game. Despite your inexperience with all things sexual, you’re not actually all that shy about your body. On missions, you and the squad are often forced into tight quarters, and they've all seen you in various stages of undress before. It's hard to be self-conscious around a group of people that have seen you at your worst, whether that’s soaked in blood, unshowered, sleep-deprived, or injured.

But you were so keyed up from your earlier failed attempts at masturbation that the thought of being so physically exposed in front of your squad is mortifying. It feels as though your unresolved arousal is still simmering through your veins, turning your thoughts slow and soupy and stupid. 

It’s not so surprising. Your preferred method of dealing with stress is coming back to your private bunk and messing around with your vibrator until you’ve forgotten all of your problems. The problem is, you’ve never quite been able to reach that climax you’ve heard so many talk about.

It’s not for lack of trying, and it’s not as though you haven’t come close to that toe-curling finish you crave so much. But it’s like there’s some sort of block, something that always holds you back before you can go plummeting over that edge. Something that makes the buzzing pleasure dissipate before your eyes like smoke, leaving you worked up and so frustrated. It’s probably inevitable that all those ruined finishes have built up like sludge in your veins, leaving you slow and distracted and irritable.

You eye your underwear drawer thoughtfully as you perch on your bed, before reaching inside and drawing out the same dildo you had been using earlier. You wonder if it would be too much to try again tonight – the muscles in your calves still feel a little bit over-worked from training all day, and you have a feeling that straining in an attempt to reach an orgasm you’ll likely never attain will only make it worse.

But the thought of Ghost in that stupid tight cotton shirt stays firmly stuck in your mind, and that really makes the decision for you. Before you can think too much about it, you’re sliding your jeans off and climbing atop your mattress. The sheets are dirty anyway, after all. May as well have some fun before you change them.

You slide your panties off next, then kick them to the side. It’s difficult not to feel a little pathetic, but you push those feelings aside. So what if you have an embarrassing little crush on a superior officer? It’s not like that’s unusual within the military, and you’re quite certain that dealing with all that unresolved attraction like this is the most sensible thing you can do.

You fish out the bottle of lube you had been using earlier, and drizzle it liberally along the dildo’s length before setting it aside on the blanket. While you’ve used your dildo plenty of times, you still struggle to grow accustomed to the stretch of it. It’s a good dildo – a vibrating one in the rabbit style, designed to stimulate your g-spot and clit at the same time. It was damn expensive too, but it’s one luxury you’re willing to indulge in.

You close your eyes, slide it between your legs, and hit the power button. A low bzzz emanates from between your thighs; you jerk at the immediate barrage of pleasure, your abs tightening and your legs twitching apart, creating more room between them.

Your body is quick to react, sweat prickling under your armpits and your heart thudding quickly in your chest. You can feel electric pleasure coursing through you as you press it against your clit, your toes curling into your sheets.

You bring the vibrator lower, your clit throbbing a little at its sudden absence before you press it inside, sighing. It slips inside much too easily – you’re almost embarrassed by the easy slide. You’re so wet, both from your failed attempt at masturbation earlier and from sitting beside Simon fucking Riley all evening. It’s a deeper, subtler pleasure now, and you clench around it with a quiet moan. 

You cycle through the vibrator’s different settings, making it buzz at odd intervals or lower intensities in your usual attempt to build up an orgasm. You wish, with sudden and mortifying clarity, that it could be replaced with a person. More specifically, a person with big hands and firm muscles that still have some soft give to them, and a toe-curlingly gravelly voice.

You squirm, shifting your hips to change the angle of the vibrator inside you. Without meaning to, you imagine Ghost. It’s hard not to, considering your close proximity to him all evening. Your cheeks heat as you imagine Ghost actually being here, watching you all still and silent with that penetrating dark-eyed stare of his. 

You huff out a breath, arching off your bed. This is always the best part. You have to ensure that you relish the build up, before it all fizzles out from between your fingers. You whimper, soft and quiet, clenching around the stiff silicone as it buzzes away inside of you.

Right as you press the soft little vibrating bunny ears to your clit, there’s a knock on the door. Then, horrifically, like a scene from your fucking nightmares, your door opens.

“Kid, you–”

Ghost is already half-way through the door when he lays eyes on you, and then he goes completely still in your doorway.

“Fuck.” You hiss, scrambling to knock the stupid thing off. 

You fumble for it, panicking. The end is slippery and you can barely manage to grip it. When you finally do, it’s difficult to pull out, your body still attempting to hold it inside. It’s another agonising few seconds to turn it off, the vibrator unfortunately featuring one of those awfully thought-out designs that makes you have to cycle through every single one of the settings rather than hit an off-switch.

And then, finally, silence.

Ghost is living up to his name right now; he’s as stock still and silent as a dead man, stiff as a board as he stares unblinkingly at you. You’re not even sure that he’s breathing, but you can see the whites of his eyes as he gapes at you, frozen.

You stare back at him blankly, hoping that your bed comes to life and swallows you whole just to put an end to your mortification.

At last, Ghost blinks, then finishes his sentence. “You left your phone.”

He lifts his arm. In his large, thick fist, is your stupid goddamn phone. You must have left it on the couch when you had gotten up to leave. You might have wondered at the lieutenant voluntarily bringing it to your dorm for you, but you’re hit with a wave of humiliation so strong that it wipes your brain completely blank.

“Ah.” You say, and your voice cracks. “Thanks.”

There’s a moment of mortifying silence, and then Ghost steps into your room. Your heart jolts right up into the base of your throat as he closes your door behind him. The click of the door is as loud as a gunshot in the silence that’s settled over the room.

Ghost still hasn’t blinked. He’s watching you with eyes that look almost black in the dim light of your room, intense as a predator. 

“I–” You attempt to speak, and your throat clicks dryly. “I didn’t–”

Far too late, you realise that your legs are still splayed open. You snap them shut, inhaling a choked breath through your nose.

“I thought I locked the door.” You finish lamely. 

Ghost apparently decides to simply disregard that, which you’re honestly a little grateful for. Instead he steps towards you – the enormous bulk of him feels as though he’s completely filling every bit of space in the room, sucking out all the damn oxygen.

“...‘S this why you were so distracted this evening, hm?” He says as he approaches the bed. “You were in a mood ‘cause you wanted to get back to playing with yourself?”

It’s not a question, exactly. At least, it’s not phrased like one. Ghost’s tone is knowing, with an undertone of gruff amusement. You’re certain that you’re not imagining the rough, breathless quality to his voice either, though the thought sends nerves fizzing through your bloodstream.

“No.” You deny uselessy; it’s plainly obvious what you were doing, after all. “No, I just–”

He doesn’t wait for you to finish. His eyes are still glued to you, even though your thighs are now pressed together. Before you can stop him, he reaches down and takes a hold of your hot pink vibrator where you had been trying to hide it beneath your thigh.

“Cute little thing.” He comments, tilting his head to look at the dildo hanging between his thick fingers.

Mortification burns through you. A panicked sort of screech escapes you and you yank it back out of Ghost’s stupid big hand, shoving it under the blankets. 

Perhaps if it had been anyone else, your humiliation wouldn’t be burning quite so intensely. But this is Ghost – your lieutenant, the gruff man that you’ve looked up to ever since you joined the task force. He’s not a man famed for his patience, nor for his eloquence, which is making this situation all the more unbearable.

“Lt,” You wheeze, scrambling to sit up and cover your pussy with your hands as you squeeze your legs closed. “I swear I didn’t– I’m sorry–”

But Ghost doesn’t seem interested in your apologies. He’s still watching you as though he can see right through the damn blanket, as though he’s measuring you up and trying to come to a decision about something. In that moment, you hate your reaction to him – no matter how humiliating this situation is, you want him to approve of you, even now.

“Didn’t mean to interrupt.” He grunts, and then he sits down on your bed.

You gape at him. It feels as though your brain has stalled; you’re pretty sure you’re not reacting correctly right now. You probably should have screamed when the lieutenant walked right into your room without knocking. That surely would have sent him straight back out again. And even now, you should probably be ordering him out, telling him to leave. 

But you don’t.

“I was.. um.. finished anyway.” You manage to croak out. You sound so pathetic that you nearly make yourself cringe.

Ghost doesn’t answer immediately. He just watches you, his eyes as dark as ever beneath the mask. For a moment, you think he’s not going to answer at all.

But then he says, “Didn’t look like you finished to me.”

Blood rushes to your face so quickly that it makes you light-headed as you catch his meaning. Oh, what the fuck. This is just adding salt to the wound now.

“I wasn’t trying to–” You start, then cut yourself off. “That’s not why I was– I was just trying to relax.”

In the ensuing silence, you realise how silly you sound. At the very least, Ghost doesn’t laugh; he just tilts his head to the side, consideringly.

“Let me see.”

You gape at him. “I– sir–”

“Let me see, sergeant.”

It’s not an order. Not quite. Ghost’s voice is effortlessly assertive, but it falls just short of being a command. You have room to refuse. You could tell him to get out of your dorm right now, and he’d do it. Knowing the lieutenant, he’d never bring it up again, either.

You drop your knees apart, spreading your thighs in an unpracticed, self-conscious sort of motion. 

Under the lieutenant’s sharp gaze, your skin prickles and your nerves strain. Even sitting down on your bed, he’s a veritable behemoth of broad shoulders and thick corded muscle. His hulking form towers over you even now, and you feel so damn small as you lay there propped up against your pillows in nothing but a t-shirt.

Ghost has seen you naked before, obviously. You can’t afford to be prudish in the military, where you never know when you’ll next have true privacy, and you’ve changed out and showered with the squad countless times. It’s never meant anything, and the men in 141 have never made you feel anything less than comfortable with them.

This, however, is different. This isn’t just a case of catching a quick glimpse of your nude form as you shower in the group shower rooms when you’re out on missions – your whole damn pussy is out on display for him, still glistening wet and sticky from your ministrations and the lube you’d used.

Ghost’s inhale is as loud as a thunderclap. You’ve never felt so exposed, so vulnerable in another person’s presence. You feel a little ridiculous laying like this as he watches you, but another part of you feels so humiliatingly desperate for some kind of approval from your lieutenant. 

At first, that approval is nowhere to be found. Ghost is notoriously difficult to read, and you’re beginning to sweat as you lay there waiting for a response – any response.

At last, he makes a noise. It’s part grunt, part hum, and part groan.

“You’re still wet, sergeant.”

Are you imagining it, or is his voice an octave deeper than usual? 

Your eyes trace his face, trying to imagine what he looks like beneath the mask. You can see the suggestion of his nose, the square curve of his jaw. His darkened eyes are watching you so carefully that you feel as though you’re physically being pinned in place.

You swallow. “It’s just– I–”

“You didn’t get to finish.” Ghost interrupts, with the air of completing your sentence for you. 

You try to speak, but nothing more than a strangled sort of murmur escapes. You swallow hastily, then try again.

“I wasn’t going to. Sir.” You tack on the title at the end as an afterthought, but this whole situation is so far beyond professional that you probably needn’t have bothered. “Finish, I mean. I… I never do.”

You’ve admitted it before you can really think about it, and then you regret it wildly. You can’t help but wonder if you’ve overstepped a boundary, but then again the boundaries are currently so blurred that they’re virtually impossible to discern.

“You never finish.” Ghost repeats it. Slowly, staring right at your face, as though he’s confirming what you’ve just said. 

It sounds so much worse in his deep, gravelly voice.

Embarrassment blooms, thick and sickly in your stomach. Your legs start to twitch closed, too embarrassed to be having this conversation with your cunt bared like this, but then Ghost’s big paw of a hand reaches out to settle over your knee, keeping you open and exposed. It’s so rare to see his hands ungloved, and the bare skin of his callous-roughened hand feels almost scorching hot against your inner knee.

“I don’t– I’ve tried,” You say, and you can’t help but feel as though you’re just digging yourself further into a hole, here. “But I don’t– I’m not able to. I mean, I’ve come close, I’m just not able to… you know.”

You trail off lamely, feeling like the biggest fucking loser ever. Why are you telling him this? Why the fuck haven’t you reacted properly, and kicked him the hell out of your room?

Deep down, a shameful little part of you already knows the answer to that. You’re feeling awfully, sickeningly hopeful. Having Lieutenant Riley in your dorm, sitting on your bed and staring so hungrily at the wet, swollen parts between your legs feels like something out of your wildest wet dreams.

His eyes flick towards your pink silicone rabbit dildo, half-hidden under your blanket, and he grunts consideringly before reaching out and taking it into his hands again. It’s standard-size, but it looks small in his big hands.

“You ain’t doin’ it right, then.” He says, so bluntly that you just blink at him. “Show me how you use it.”

For a brief, wild moment, you wonder if you’re experiencing visual and auditory hallucinations right now. Surely you can’t really be experiencing this right now – and yet the lieutenant is still watching you, and you’ve never disobeyed a direct order before. 

He hands you the vibrator, then waits expectantly.

And… well. All you ever try to do is impress him. 

You shuffle your legs open a little wider, ignoring the flustered heat that scalds your cheeks. You’ve never been all exposed like this in front of another person, and the weight of Ghost’s eyes on you is reminiscent of being under a spotlight.

You swear his eyes darken even further when you press the stiff silicone rabbit dildo to your cunt, if it’s even possible for that gaze to get darker beneath the thick balaclava and eyeblack smeared over the narrow strip of skin that’s visible.

The dildo sinks in so easily that it’s almost embarrassing, and your breath catches both from the stretch and the way Ghost leans in a little closer to see. Far from turning you off, you feel your body throb in response to his proximity, and your cunt flutters pathetically around the plastic toy. You shift, attempting to get a little more comfortable, but you can’t dispel the nerves fizzing in your blood as you attempt to push the dildo a little deeper under Ghost’s sharp gaze.

His big, hulking body is so perfectly still as he watches you that it’s making you a little nervous. The only reaction that you get from him is a small, considering hum, but even then you can’t figure out what it means. Your movements are a little clumsy, so hyper-conscious that he’s watching every single thing you do that you end up fumbling a little. He’s looking at you in the same way he assesses threats, his intense dark eyes examining every movement and reaction you make. It makes you feel small and jittery, especially when you realise that he’s judging you by what you’re doing.

“You gonna turn it on?” He asks, and oh god his voice has definitely dropped lower and huskier. You know you’re not imagining it. 

You can’t even bring yourself to respond with words. You just make a strangled sort of sound of agreement, then clumsily hit the on button. The toy buzzes to life once more, and your toes curl absent-mindedly into the sheets as the soft silicone bunny ears pulse against your clit.

It feels nice, but you can’t manage to concentrate on the feeling. Hyper-aware of Ghost’s attention, you let out a quiet moan as you shift the vibrator inside you. It’s a little exaggerated, but you can’t help it – you feel like you should be putting on some kind of a show. 

You glance back at Ghost’s face, trying to guess what he’s thinking; even through the mask, you can tell that he’s frowning. You feel your stomach clench anxiously. Have you done something wrong?

“This how you usually do it?” He asks.

You swallow thickly, feeling a bit stupid. “Um.. yeah.”

Ghost grunts. He doesn’t sound impressed.

“No wonder you can’t come.” He says wryly.

You go still, eyes widening. In the silence, the bzzzzt! of your stupid vibrator is louder than ever. A sudden wave of shame washes over you, and you start to close your legs again in an effort to block the sight of the toy stuffed into your pussy.

“Oh,” You snap sourly, your embarrassment making you irritable. “So you’re the pussy expert now?”

That startles a loud bark of a laugh out of the lieutenant, a sound so rare that you find yourself desperately trying to commit it to memory.

“Think I might know a bit more than you, sweetheart.” He says. He’s relaxed now, his wide shoulders rolling back. He’s always so effortlessly confident, always so assured in himself and his abilities in a way that makes you feel like a silly little girl. 

Judging by the way the corners of his eyes are just slightly wrinkled beneath the mask, Ghost is smirking at you. He finds this funny.

“What about when you’re with other people, hm?” He asks, and his eyes drop back down to try and get a look at you again. When he realises that your legs are clamped tight together, he reaches out to guide your thighs apart again. “No one’s ever impressed you?”

His hands are big and rough and hot, and your willpower crumbles like wet paper as you allow him to open your legs all over again. The vibrator is still buzzing sadly inside you, mostly forgotten about; the stimulation is nice, but it’s never been enough for you.

You huff a weak laugh. You should have known that this would come up, and now you find yourself floundering a little.

“No one’s ever tried.” The confession comes out like a whisper, like a secret.

You can see the moment Ghost understands; realisation settles heavy over him like a physical weight, and the whites of his eyes flash as they widen just slightly. For a moment, he says nothing at all. He doesn’t move – it doesn’t even look like he breathes. 

“No?” He says, except it doesn’t really sound like a question. It sounds rough, and you can feel the almost convulsive motion of his fingers tightening around your knee. 

You shake your head wordlessly, beyond embarrassed now.

Ghost’s wispy blond eyelashes flutter softly as his eyes dart down to your pussy, still humiliatingly stuffed with your stupid little vibrator. He takes a moment to stare, then looks back up to your face. He’s so frustratingly confident about everything he does, not an ounce of shame in his posture even as you wilt beneath him.

“Never messed around with anybody?”

“No.” You say, and it comes out on a wheeze. He holds your gaze without faltering, and you realise that he’s expecting you to elaborate. “No, I– it just never happened. I was never… um, I was just always too busy, I guess.”

“Too fussy, more like.” He mutters, quiet enough that it seems like it’s a comment meant just for himself. You don’t know how to take that, so you chew your lip and stay quiet.

His eyes drop down to the vibrating dildo again, and you recognise something that looks like a flash of hunger. It feels like there’s pressure building up beneath your skin, tight and hot, and your thighs fall open a little further. You feel raw and so, so exposed, but you don’t even care when Ghost is looking at you like that.

“Let me try.” He says, the words falling out sharp and harsh as though he they’ve burst out of his mouth before he can stop them. It’s not like Ghost to speak without thinking it through, perfectly calculated, and your breath catches a little at the offer.

How could you ever say no to that? You don’t really think that he’s going to succeed in making you come – at this point you’re pretty sure your body is a little bit broken and you’re just not capable of orgasming at all, and that’s whatever – but the chance to get fucked by Ghost? To lose the lingering vestiges of your viriginity to your ridiculously hot, mysterious, massive lieutenant? It’s like something out of a dream.

“Okay.” You choke out, nodding stupidly. “Yeah.”

You want to be touched. You don’t think you’ve ever actually felt the yearning for physical contact this strongly in your life; you’re practically holding your breath as you wait for Ghost to make a move.

Finally, he reaches out. His first move is to pull the stupid little dildo out of you, still vibrating, and you feel yourself clench convulsively around nothing as he leaves you empty and wanting. He spares it a brief, evaluating glance, and you feel yourself burn as you realise he’s examining how you’ve soaked the toy.

He tosses it to the side, barely even taking the time to switch it off first, then turns his attention back to you. He’s got that same kind of laser-focus he usually only gets out on the field, and you take a moment to feel incredibly grateful that you’re never going to be on the receiving end of that terrifying scrutiny on the battlefield.

It feels like your skin is too tight for your body, every nerve and synapse strained and primed as you wait for him to touch you. But he’s slow about it, as though he just wants to torture you a little bit. 

When he finally reaches out to lay his hands on you, he doesn’t touch where you want him to.

His callous-roughened hands land on your hips, and pull you down the bed towards him. In the same move, he half-climbs up on the mattress, his huge form practically dwarfing you. Your head and shoulders are still cushioned by your pillows, but your legs are splayed open around Ghost where he kneels on your bed.

You glance down, unable to help yourself, unable to resist trying to catch a look at the outline of his erection pressing against his trousers, and oh. Fuck. He’s big. You knew he’d be big, of course, he’s big all over, but Jesus Christ, maybe you’re a little out of your own depth here–

His thick fingers tangle in the hem of your t-shirt, stretching the fabric out. “Take this off.”

You scramble to do as he says, grabbing at your top and pulling it up clumsily. You realise a moment too late that you’re not wearing a bra, but you suppose at this point it hardly matters. You drop your shirt to the side, and try not to feel too horrifically self-conscious beneath the burning hot gaze of the lieutenant.

Though you can’t see Ghost’s face, you can hear the soft exhale he blows out through his nose, just faintly muffled by the fabric of his mask. His eyes are trained on your chest, darting between each of your tits as though he can’t decide which one to settle on. After a long moment, he reaches forward and cups your left tit with one of his enormous hands, thumbing absently at one of your nipples.

It’s silly; Ghost has touched you before. Lots of times. A nudge of the elbow accompanied by a conspiratorial eye roll, a clap to the shoulder, rough hands pulling you to your feet after training or applying white-hot painful pressure to injuries. But this – you’ve never been touched like this before, not by Ghost, not by anyone.

The shaky breath you let out as his big, rough thumb rolls over your firm nipple comes out as a strangled sort of moan that honestly startles you a little. The noise catches his attention, and he snorts.

“Can’t be that sensitive.” He mutters, but then he reaches to thumb at your other nipple as though trying to be sure.

It’s because you’ve never been touched like this by another person before, you tell yourself. Truthfully, you’ve never even touched yourself like this before. You’ve never bothered to play with your own tits; you’ve always just gone straight to breaking out your vibrators. Now, with every brush of Ghost’s scarred fingers over the tight bud of your nipples, you think you must have been crazy to skip over this part of yourself. But then again, there’s no way that your own hands on yourself would elicit the same sharp jolt that shoots from your breasts down your spine.

“Sir–” You breathe, struggling not to squirm where you’re laying. You wonder, somewhat deliriously, if it might be rude to demand your lieutenant stuff his thick fingers into your pussy. You can already tell that they’re going to feel so much better than your own.

Ghost glances up at you, his eyes unreadable as he watches you bite at your lip. God, his little wispy eyelashes are so blond—

“What?” He says, his voice deep enough that you swear you can feel it rumbling through your bones. “Say it.”

“Want to try your fingers.” You breathe before you can second-guess yourself. 

The laugh that rumbles out of Ghost’s chest is low and smoky. It’s probably impossible to miss the way your eyes have been drawn to his hands all evening, so big and corded with veins and muscle and scar tissue. You’ve witnessed those hands crack bones and snap necks and break down doors, and yet you can’t help but wonder desperately what they’re going to feel like when he starts touching you properly.

He adjusts himself on the bed; he’s a big man, hulking and huge as he kneels on your mattress, his weight causing it to dip. His palms wrap around your ankles with ease, and he hauls you into place with a grim efficiency that goes straight to your pussy.

“Big brute.” You say, a little breathlessly.

He ignores you, using his arms to hold your legs open and wide for him. And all you can do is just lie there as he stares, because goddamn it’s like he’s been carved from steel and you can’t break out of his grip. Not that you want to break out of his grip anyway, but you’d really appreciate it if he actually got moving instead of just staring.

“Fuck,” He grunts after a moment, with the air of talking to himself. “Been hiding this all this time, huh?”

“Jesus.” You breathe in response, subconsciously letting your legs drop open even more.

He makes a low noise of appreciation, and finally reaches out to touch you properly. One thick thumb swipes through the seam of your cunt, and you feel the way he’s smearing the clear sticky wetness that’s been leaking steadily out of you. With his now slick thumb, he drags up towards your clit and circles it with agonisingly light pressure.

You let out an embarrassing choked whine, your toes curling at the sensation. Somewhat ironically, Ghost is handling you far more gently than you usually touch yourself, and you find yourself flexing your hips in an attempt to get him to touch you with more pressure. He ignores your attempts, keeping his pace implacably steady and slow.

“D’you always get this wet?”

You can’t even tell if he’s asking you mockingly or if he’s being genuinely curious; it feels like every inch of your focus has narrowed down to the feel of his big thumb rolling those tight little circles around your clit, his touch scorching against you.

It’s not exactly surprising that Ghost is good with his hands. You’ve seen the way he handles weaponry, locking and loading and aiming to fire with the kind of swiftness that comes from muscle memory, working with unwavering speed and precision. He’s the same in hand-to-hand combat, moving with aggressive fluidity that overwhelms his opponents. You’ve caught hits from him before in training, and you know from experience that a punch from those big hands feels like getting hit by a cinder block.

But even knowing how deft and skilled his hands are, it knocks the breath out of you when he slides his middle and ring fingers inside of you, still rubbing steadily at the swollen bump of your clit. 

When you exhale, it accidentally comes out as a moan. Your cheeks burn, but there’s really no space in your brain right now for embarrassment to sink in. Two of Ghost’s fingers are the equivalent of at least three and a half of yours, and you feel yourself break out into an overwhelmed sweat when they twist and rub against the sensitive squishy spot in the front wall of your cunt.

You’re so damn worked up, your arousal coiled like a knot in your lower belly from your failed attempts to get yourself off all day. Your back curves, humping yourself near mindlessly back up into his hand as he plays you like a goddamn instrument.

You barely even have time to consider how unfair it is that Ghost is so good at playing with you like this when he doesn’t even have a pussy himself, because then he pulls his fingers out of you.

“Oh, no, don’t stop–” You start to protest breathlessly, your chest still heaving, but the quick glance the lieutenant sends you has you falling silent.

Ghost glances down at his fingers. They’re all glossy from fingering you, and he takes a moment to eye up the way they glisten in the dim light of your bunk. You might have felt self-conscious about it, if you couldn’t see the unmistakable gleam of hungry interest in Ghost’s dark brown eyes.

He wipes his hand on the crease of your hip, but you don’t even get the chance to protest before he reaches up to hook his fingers into his mask. You go still, holding your breath in surprise as he pulls the material up until it bunches up around the bridge of his nose.

And that’s– well. You’ve seen his jaw before, and his mouth (Jesus, you had seen it earlier that evening, when he had been sipping on his smooth whiskey of choice), but the sight of his strong jawline and blond stubble and corded scars on his pale skin always manages to knock the breath out of you. And this time, he’s rolled his mask up even further than before, revealing a nose that’s clearly been broken at least once before.

You probably shouldn’t stare so blatantly, especially knowing that Ghost always takes such pains to keep his face covered. You’re not even sure if the other guys on the team have seen his uncovered face, except for Price, and you know that they’ve developed a habit of averting their eyes when he pulls his mask up for whatever reason. It’s a habit that you never quite managed to develop yourself; you’re never able to stop yourself from gaping at him like a moron, drinking in all of the minutest details. He’s never said a thing about your penchant for staring, so you can only hope that he’s chosen to ignore it.

You’re so busy staring that it takes you by surprise when he grips your jaw with one massive hand and pulls you into a rough kiss.

The sound you make is small and startled, but it’s swallowed by Ghost’s demanding mouth. His lips are dry and a little chapped, but they feel scorching hot against yours. You reach up to grab at his arms – mostly just to ground yourself – but you find yourself almost immediately distracted by the firm bulge of his biceps beneath your hands.

Listen, you’ve kissed people before, plenty times. You’re in your early twenties, and just because you’re inexperienced sexually it doesn’t mean that you’re inexperienced full stop. But this, right now, kissing with Ghost, makes you feel as though you’ve been doing nothing but fumbling your way through all of those encounters, like you’ve been kissing wrong all this time.

It’s slow and deep, at first. All-consuming. It lights a fire in your gut, which expands and spreads throughout your body until you find your fingers grasping desperately at the short cotton sleeves of Ghost’s t-shirt where it’s stretched over his thickly muscled arm.

Ghost doesn’t just kiss with his mouth, either. It’s like a full-body experience with him; he puts his hands, his whole damn body into the kiss. He clutches you to him, holding you close even as the force of his kiss bends you backwards into the pillows beneath you. At the same time, it’s all you can do to concentrate and respond to the kiss itself, your attention stretched and strained by the feeling of Ghost’s hands running over you, stroking you sides and squeezing at your breasts and groping at the soft flesh of your hips and ass. 

 “Hah,” You gasp out when Ghost’s lips slide sideways to find the corner of your jaw. His mouth is hot against your skin, bruising, and you feel yourself grow embarrassingly wetter, just from a little kissing.

“You good?” Ghost grunts into your throat as he nips at the base of your jaw.

“Uh huh.” You manage to get out, still clutching at his meaty arms like they’re a lifeline. “So good.”

His breath is hot on your throat when he rumbles out a deep chuckle, and then his tongue flicks out against your earlobe. It makes you forget how to breathe for a second, and you’re distracted when Ghost’s hand changes course, easing beneath your legs so he can press his fingers against your clit again.

Then he pauses, and his fingers slide lower, lazily hooking back and inside you. You tremble, horny and humiliated as you realise that your arousal is glistening all over your damn thighs, impossible to miss.

“Fuck,” Ghost mutters. “All this for me, sweetheart?”

“Hnng,” You whimper like an idiot as his fingers return to your clit, now slick and slippery. “I’m just–”

He doesn’t wait for you to explain. Instead, he pulls his fingers out of you again and kisses you hard. The soft breathy noises you make are muffled into his mouth, and you wrap your legs around his waist automatically. He’s built like a damn mountain, your thighs stretched wide to accommodate the bulk of him as he settles against the core of you.

He likes that – he presses in close, and you can feel the hard line of his cock pressing up against you through the roughness of his jeans. You’re so sensitive that the coarseness of the fabric is almost unbearable, but you’re able to ignore it because you’re so distracted by the sensation of his erection because holy fucking shit that can’t really be how big he is.

You gasp, the sound high and breathy, and you try to grind against Ghost, but it’s impossible because he’s so fucking heavy and he’s pinning you down on the mattress beneath him. Instead, all you can do is squeeze your legs and pull Ghost in even tighter, increasing the pressure between the two of you.

“I’m gonna ruin you,” Ghost whispers, and it sounds like a promise. He drags his lips up your throat, then talks against the corner of your mouth. “You won’t be able to touch yourself again without wishing it was me.”

The wave of desire that rocks through you almost pulls you under, and you swear you might have actually gotten so horny that you blacked out for a second, because from one second to the next Ghost has somehow managed to muscle his way back down between your thighs so that he’s eye-level with your cunt.

“What are you–” You start to say, but then he loops his forearms under your knees to tug your legs wider, and you realise just how close his face is to your pussy. You swear you’re actually pulsing with arousal, and you wonder a little wildly if he can see that.

“Oh, fuck, yes — please,” You blurt out, before Ghost has even gotten his mouth on you. He chuckles, low and amused. His grin looks predatory, but in this moment you really don’t mind being the prey — not if it means you’ll be devoured by that mouth.

Then Ghost’s mouth is against you, wet and burning hot. You cry out, barely noticing as Ghost throws one of your legs over his shoulders, spreading you open.

It’s just the right side of overwhelming. Ghost’s mouth feels like it’s going to swallow you whole – his tongue is huge and flat and firm as he licks over your clit, making your thighs quake on either side of his head. It’s entirely unlike any of the fumbling masturbatory attempts you’ve ever made – you always enjoy messing around with your various little sex toys, but you’re swiftly beginning to realise that it could never compare to real human contact. Or at least, contact with Ghost.

His hands move from your waist to your asscheeks, his big palms squeezing the plump flesh there before using his grip to pull your body closer so that he can bury his whole face between your legs. The rougher material of his mask presses harshly into the sensitive skin of your inner thighs, but you hardly even notice it.

Your pussy has never been this wet before; it feels like you’ve sprung a goddamn leak. You might have felt embarrassed about it if it weren’t for the way Ghost groans against you, his wide tongue laving flat and rough against the seam of your cunt as he practically gulps down all the sticky arousal you have to give him.

“Oh god– fuck! Sir…” You sigh, spreading your knees farther apart so that Ghost can wedge his head further between your thighs.

Your ears burn as your room is filled with sounds of him tonguing at your cunt, the lewd wet squish of him working you over until you’re keening, your hips twitching clumsily until his hands tighten where he’s gripping the plump flesh of your ass to keep you still. Then all you can do is twitch as he licks over your clit in repetitive lapping motions, working in circles and then dipping down to shove his searingly hot tongue inside you. You can feel his teeth press against your labia even as he sucks at your clit, and the sensation sends hot bolts of pleasure rocketing down your spine.

Though you don’t mean to, you’re pretty sure that you make his job harder. You can’t stop wriggling, tossing your head back against your pillows and squirming on Ghost’s tongue in a wild overstimulated dance, like a fish caught in a net.

Finally, Ghost seems to have enough of your unco-ordinated flailing attempts to grind against his face. He reaches around your thigh with one arm to reach your clit so he can keep it stimulated as he gulps at the sticky sweetness of your cunt like a man possessed – the action also works to keep your hips pinned down and still. You stop your frantic moving, but your spasms and sounds increase tenfold.

You can hardly believe it, but you feel something coming. A sweet, torturous build up starts in your belly, and you sweat and gasp as he licks and suckles at you relentlessly. You’ve never found yourself in this state so quickly before, with your legs trembling and your breathing heavy and shaky. 

“Oh.. oh…” You breathe, beginning to arch your back.

You know this feeling – this is where that sweet climax builds and builds, only to dissipate at the last agonisingly close moment. But this time, with Ghost’s big head between your thighs as his mouth moves against you, sucking, tasting, eating up everything you have to offer, the breath-taking pleasure doesn’t show any sign of slipping out of reach. It feels like for once you might actually reach that peak.

But then, right as you’re certain that you’re about to tip over that long-awaited coveted release, the bastard pulls away.

“No!” You practically shriek, attempting to sit up. “No, I was so close–!”

“Lie back.” Ghost orders, his voice like the crack of a whip. 

You drop back obediently before you can even register that you’re moving, so conditioned to react instantly to that tone of voice coming from Ghost’s deep rumbling baritone. Your eyes are wide and betrayed as you stare at him, admittedly a little baleful.

God, but it’s hard to stay annoyed when he’s staring up at you from between your legs like that. His eyes are dark and hungry beneath the mask, and since it’s all pushed up and rumpled around his nose you get a toe-curlingly good look at his lower face. His chin is wet and smeared with your slick, and his lips are plump and pink and swollen from all the kissing and suckling he’s done to you. In a moment of near-delirium, you think that you understand now why he covers his face – his mouth is pretty in a way that shocks you, in a way that needs to be hidden for decency’s sake.

“You’re gettin’ greedy,” He grunts, turning his head and sinking his teeth into the crease of your thigh just to make you yelp. “Wait for it, love. It’ll be worth the wait.”

You don’t think you have much of a choice, so all you can do is lay back and hold on for the ride. He presses his mouth to you again, and you whimper softly as he tongues at your clit. 

“No one’s ever eaten you out like this?” He asks, the words muffled into the damp curve of your thigh. It’s stupid, because you know he knows the answer to that is a resounding no, but it seems like he just wants to hear you say it out loud.

“No.” You say, your breaths sawing their way out of your chest.

“Hnn.” He makes some kind of grunting sound against you, his tongue flicking out to taste you again. “That’s why you’ve been so tense, huh? So fuckin’ desperate for someone to touch you?”

“That’s not– ‘m not tense,” You manage to get out, your breasts heaving as your thighs tense up where they’re thrown over his shoulders. “Maybe.. Maybe you’re too relaxed.”

Ghost huffs a hot little laugh at your hip because you both know that couldn’t be further from the truth. You doubt anyone has ever accused Ghost of being too relaxed before, but you don’t have time to feel stupid for it – not when Ghost is devoting the full force of his attention on you, deep breaths huffing against the wet skin of your pussy and making you shudder.

“That’s it,” He croons, his voice uncharacteristically soft and lilting. The rumble of it ripples through your limbs like lapping waves, his battle-roughened palm stroking and smoothing down your ass and thigh as he hauls you closer. “Relax, sweetheart. Fuck, such a pretty pussy. Fuckin’ criminal of you to keep this hidden away all to yourself.” And then, quieter, “Fuckin’ Christ, you’re wet.”

You’re not even sure that he’s talking to you. It seems more as though he’s talking to himself, and it just happens to be you he’s talking about. Your cheeks burn as the feeling of vulnerability sets in, but you keep your legs spread wide as he kisses your clit with his swollen pink lips. You want so badly to be good, for him to be pleased with you, that you push past your embarrassment as best you can.

There’s a budding anxiety in your belly that Ghost is wasting his time here. As much as you crave his touch and the build up, you worry that he’s going to get frustrated with you and your inability to actually orgasm.

But Ghost doesn’t seem to be in a rush. He seems perfectly fucking happy between your legs, and even with his mask all clumsily rucked up around his nose he presses his face into your pussy with his eyes heavy-lidded and hazy. Even when you shift a little in an effort to get him to go a little harder or faster, he just pins you still and continues at his own leisurely pace.

When he reintroduces his fingers, pressing inside and stretching you out with a light sting, you hiss and try to lift your hips again. His rough calloused knuckles brush against the inside of your soft inner thighs, making them quiver as he goes three fingers deep.

“Shhh, atta girl.” He mumbles into you, his words coming out wetly muffled since he doesn’t even both pulling his face back. “Fuckin’– shit, so good.”

The praise shoots liquid and molten through you, and you have to bite back a pathetic keen as you pulse around his fingers. You’re sure he must feel it, because he lets out an answering rumble and laps against your clit, then closes his lips and sucks.

“Oh god–”

“Shhh.” Ghost scoots forward so your knee can hoist over his shoulder. Then he angles his chin to kiss the skin on the inside curve of your knee as he pumps into you with slow, slippery fingers and ungodly squelching noises that only sparks you hotter. You can’t even tell if it’s sweat or tears dotting your face anymore.

Though Ghost’s eyes are heavy-lidded and a little fogged over, he hasn’t looked away from you once. The focused intensity of his gaze spears you through, because you’ve never been looked at like that. No one has ever seen you like this, no one has ever put effort into you like this, no one has ever been so determined to please you before. You don’t know how you’re ever going to recover from this; you have a terrifyingly distinct impression that he’s going to live up to his promise to ruin you for anyone else.

It feels as though your blood is boiling beneath your skin, and you nearly sob when Ghost pulls back. You’ve never been so close, and you want to scream when he takes his gorgeous fucking mouth away from your clit.

“Fuck.” You wet your lips, realising you were panting like a dog and your mouth is bone dry. “Fuck, Ghost, just—”

“Quiet, lovie.” His reply is hoarse and firm, his throat working hard to swallow as he peered down between you, his clever thumb delving slick circles over the taut bump of your clit, his other three fingers fucking with easy rhythm and purpose. It’s maddening, it’s infuriating, it makes you feel as though you’re about to break apart.

His fingers are pulled out, and then you feel firm pressure pressing into you yet again. Your head lolls as you attempt to sit up, your eyelids fluttering as you realise that he’s pressing your stupid dildo into you again.

“Oh, you bastard–” You start to complain, but Ghost doesn’t give you the opportunity to speak properly.

The dildo slides into you so easily, your sticky slick mixing with his spit making the slide almost effortless. You sigh, a build-up of pressure making your whole body feel as though you’ve been stretched out and pulled tight. 

Now that you’ve been pushed to the edge, you linger by it. Ghost keeps you on that edge for what feels like hours, until your breaths are burning in your chest and the ligaments in your calves are screaming from all the straining you’ve been doing. Every roll of Ghost’s thumb over your clit sends sparks racing through your nerves, and your breathing is harsh and uneven as Ghost starts fucking you with the stupid vibrating dildo. The rhythm he sets is firm and unrelenting, pushing the silicone toy in and out and visibly relishing the wet squish of your cunt as it takes it deep.

Ghost huffs against the wet skin of your inner thigh, making you shudder. It seems like he’s enjoying this as much as you are, judging by the subtle roll of his hips against your mattress as he absorbs himself in fucking you with the dildo. 

He experiments with the angle, adjusting the dildo until you cry out, jerking against the bedding, and whining “There!”. You needn’t bother telling him, though; Ghost has a sharp eye, and he’s so goddamn attentive. He’s already repeating the stroke, pushing the dildo in and bumping it against the same sensitive spot he had hit before.

It feels good, but it’s not enough. Now that you’ve felt the firm hot pressure of his fingers spreading you wide and the wet hunger of his mouth devouring you, you don’t think anything else will do.

He shifts, you catch the rolls of his hips against your mattress again, and you feel as though you’ve caught fire. You think of the glimpse you had caught of his hard cock, pressing against his jeans and making the fabric stretch taut, and you find yourself speaking without thinking.

Ghost pushes the dildo in once more, and you reach down to grab at his wrist as you ask breathlessly, “Can I try yours?”

He pauses; goes so still that it’s honestly uncanny, his eyes practically boring holes into you as he stares at your face. You grow flustered, your own eyes widening in response to your own words. Just because he’s deigning to touch you with his fingers and his mouth, doesn’t mean he’s actually planning to fuck you. Jesus, he’s your fucking superior officer. What were you thinking?

“I’m sorry,” You squeak. “That wasn’t appropriate. Fuck, forget I said that–”

Even beneath the mask, you can see the bob of Ghost’s Adam's apple as he swallows thickly.

“You sure?” He interrupts your rambling before you can get started. “I don’t... ‘m not good with virgins.”

There’s… there’s so much you could say in response to that. Namely, he certainly doesn’t seem like he’s bad with virgins, as evidenced by the throb of arousal still pulsing through your soaked cunt. He’s just had you sobbing at the mercy of his fingers and mouth, and all he has to say when you ask for more is that he’s not good with virgins?

Instead, what you say is a rather lame, “I’m not technically a virgin.”

Which is true. Sort of. Based on a technicality – you had bullied your damn vibrator through your stupid hymen years ago, and you’ve always thought the idea of virginity was a stupid one, anyway. 

“Plastic cocks don’t count, darlin’.”

Blood rushes to your face so fast you feel light-headed as humiliation burns through you. Jesus, okay. That’s just mortifying. 

“Oh, you think your cock is special, then?” You scoff, attempting nonchalance.

Ghost shifts, letting your legs drop from his shoulders, and kneels up on the mattress so that he’s looming over you. Fuck, every time you get a visceral reminder of how big he is, you feel a little faint. It’s like having a veritable wall of muscle caging you into your bed. Your thighs are spread wide to accommodate the size of him, and you find yourself absolutely captivated by the sight of him with his muscles straining against that stupid tight t-shirt, still panting lightly from his greedy gorging on your cunt.

He reaches out and drags a hand slowly from your cunt up over your belly, between your breasts, up over your sternum, to rest over your collarbones. It’s gentle – he doesn’t put an iota of pressure against your throat – but all you can fucking see is the swell of his bicep and the dark ink of his tattoo and the prominent veins running down the chiselled muscle of his forearm.

Good fucking lord.

“You’ll find out.” He says.

And oh. Okay then. Yeah, you sure fucking will.

He reaches down and unbuttons his jeans, and you can’t help but strain to try and watch. He pushes them down carelessly around his thighs, but doesn’t make any move to strip them off any further. You’re suddenly aware of the fact that you’re laying on the bed completely nude and exposed, while Ghost has only pushed his jeans down far enough to pull his cock out, but you don’t have any time to feel self-conscious about it.

His cock curves up against his belly, red and twitching. He’s fucking rock hard, and bigger than you had been expecting, bigger than any of your stupid little toys. Your mouth goes dry, and your eyes widen comically. Fuck. No wonder he’s confident. He’s not lacking in any way.

“D’you’ve a johnny?” He asks, one big paw of a hand taking his cock and stroking lazily at it until a bead of pearly precum oozes from the angry red head.

You’re distracted for a moment, staring at the way he fists his cock, before you blink back to yourself. “What?”

“A condom.” He enunciates slowly, as though speaking to someone he thinks is a bit thick.

“I know what you meant,” You snap, embarrassed. “But– no. Why would I? I’ve never…”

You can see the way his eyes crease and realise that he’s frowning beneath the mask, and you’re hit with a sudden bolt of panic – is he going to change his mind now? You can see the hesitation in the lines of his shoulders, but you think if he changes his mind about fucking you, you might just die.

“It doesn’t matter,” You blurt, “You don’t need one. I’m on the pill. I’m clean.”

Ghost cocks his head, but remains still. It’s almost unnerving, and you feel your toes curl into the bedsheets as you wait for an answer. He looks fucking predatory, hulking over you like a fucking behemoth as he watches you assessingly. You try your best to look confident, but you have a feeling that you just look desperately hungry.

He reaches up and hooks his fingers into the fabric of his mask and pulls it back down to cover his still slick-shiny mouth and jaw, and you’re gripped with sudden overwhelming panic and dismay that he’s changed his mind, that he’s about to leave you here wet and empty and wanting. In that moment, you throw your dignity into the wind.

“Please,” You beg pathetically, wriggling a little bit against your sweat-damp bedding in an effort to grind yourself against him. “Please, please, it’s fine, I swear, you don’t need one–”

“Fuckin’ hell.” Ghost grinds out, his voice rough and a little hoarse. “How can a virgin be such a fuckin’ slut?”

Some part of you wonders if you should be offended by that, but instead a frisson of heat runs down your spine. You know you’re not a slut – you’ve never searched for any sexual attention, and you’ve never even experienced someone else’s touch – but goddamn you want to be a slut for your lieutenant right now.

Despite his harsh words, when Ghost hooks your legs over his hips and aligns himself with you, he’s gentle. He’s acting like you’re something fragile; he’s so big that your legs are spread wide around his waist, his shoulders so broad that he’s blocking out the dim light from your lamp, and yet his touch is light against you as though he’s afraid to break you.

He’s still gripping his cock hard, and he slides the tip of it against your slick heat. You have a brief moment of alarm; even through the haze of arousal, you can recognise that this is going to be a tight fit. You breathe deeply, then begin to wiggle your hips in an effort to take him inside you.

He hisses, then one of his big hands grabs at your hip. “Fuck, stay still.”

“Put it in.” You beg, your voice coming out thick and stupid-sounding. “Fuck, please, c’mon, c’mon–”

“Kid,” Ghost bites out through clenched teeth, his voice low and gritty. “Need you to shut the fuck up for me.”

You manage to bite down on your lip, but you can’t stop yourself from pouting mopily at him with wide, wet eyes. You don’t understand why he’s making you wait – can’t he see how mean he’s being? You’re so fucking wet, so empty as you clench down on nothing, and your clit is so desperate for any kind of stimulation that it’s throbbing needily. The head of his cock catches at your opening, dipping in for a second before resuming its maddening slide up and down.

Ghost is still watching you closely, his brown eyes flickering from where the head of his cock drags through your sodden folds up to your pleading pouting expression. You can only imagine what kind of a sight you make, because his chest growls with a choked sort of groan.

“I know,” He murmurs, almost mockingly soft with you. “I know, you want it. Gotta give it to you slowly.”

You want to tell him that he doesn’t have to give it to you slowly, that he can go as fast and hard as he wants to, but some sense of self-preservation shuts you up. Instead, you nod clumsily as he rubs his cock over the slick folds of your cunt, lubing himself up with your own arousal. The feeling of his cock dragging over you, iron hard and velvety soft, so close to where you want it, is enough to have your head spinning dizzily.

You want to beg again, but you’re still trying to follow his order to be silent. You shift restlessly, biting back a whimper when he taps his cock thoughtfully against your clit.

Finally, he decides to put you out of your misery. 

The thick crown of his cock pushes against the tight ring of muscle at the entrance of your cunt, and the gasp you let out is positively punched out of you. He goes slow, just like he promised, but you can still hardly believe it. He goes in and in and in, and yet he’s somehow not even halfway inside. 

“Fuck,” You wheeze, punctuated by a strange little yowl. “Oh god, wait–”

You feel stuffed just from the first few inches, drunk already on the quiet little grunts he’s making. The stretch and the sting and the pressure inside you is glorious, so tight that you can barely even flex around him and you can’t even decide if it’s good or if it’s too much. Your eyes are hot and wet as overwhelmed tears begin to overflow, and you find yourself arching in a weak attempt to flex away from him and the devastating stretch.

God, he’s massive. You knew he would be, of course, but his size seems so much more significant when you’re being impaled on the end of his cock. Fuck, you can feel your vision go blurry as your eyes fill with overwhelmed tears. You’re mortified when a sob is ripped from your chest, harsh and thick.

“Shh, shh.” Ghost coos, his deep voice syrupy thick as he leans over you, the enormous bulk of him caging you into the mattress until your whole world consists only of him. “Just a little bit more.”

“Fuck,” You choke out, trying to arch away again but failing because he’s so big that there’s nowhere to go. “It’s not gonna fit!”

“Shh, lovie,” He rumbles, ducking his face down so that the rough cotton of his mask is pressed against the sweaty skin of your neck. “Relax’n let me in.”

“I– ‘m trying–” You whine, clutching at his biceps. “Jesus–”

You blink your eyes open, vision blurry from the tears clumping your lashes together, only to be met with the sight of Ghost’s deep brown eyes staring at you from beneath the black mask. He’s looming above you, his gaze made all the more intense by the fact that it’s the only part of his face you can really see.

“All that messin’ around with those plastic cocks, but you’re still this tight for me,” He says, his voice so deep that you feel it reverberate into your bones. “Deep breath.”

The breath you inhale at his instruction is rough and ragged, and he snorts a low breathless laugh in response.

When he finally drives his cock all the way in with one smooth stroke, all the breath is driven from your lungs. It feels as though his cock has been pressed all the way up into your chest, and the noise you make when you squirm on it is utterly pathetic. 

Ghost’s hands are like steel clamps when they close around the plump flesh of your thighs, holding them up and pressing them back until they’re pressed against your belly. He looms over you, still almost entirely clothed as sweat beads over his thickly muscled neck. It’s like getting pinned down by a mountain, and you whimper as you’re speared open and prone by the weight of Ghost pressing down upon you.

He hasn’t even started to move yet, but you still feel overfull and raw.

“Too big,” You mumble, struggling to catch your breath. You choke on a sob and feel your eyes burn with unshed tears as your back arches. “Ghost–!”

“Shh.” He grunts. “Call me Simon when I fuck you.”

That… that does something to you. Molten heat rockets up your spine and pools in your belly, and you swear your pussy floods. It’s stupid, how being granted permission to call your lieutenant by his first name is somehow so much hotter than anything else he’s done so far.

“Simon,” You try it out. It comes out a little shaky, your voice little more than a weak whisper, but you swear you can see his eyes sharpen. 

Apparently having come to the decision that you’ve adjusted enough, Ghost pulls his hips back only to drive back in. 

“Oh!” You yelp, hips jumping, but there’s nowhere to go. 

All you can do is lie there as he slides out, out, out, slow and careful and long, and then his hips snap forward and he impales you, pressing all the way into him. He does it again, and again, and you try to bite down on your tongue, try to not sound so pathetically wrecked, but you can’t. It’s like Ghost is puncturing your lungs and every time he fucks into you, you let out the most pathetic little mewling ah ah ah sounds.

You’re not quite prepared for how different this feels; it’s nothing like your stupid plastic dildo. Ghost’s cock is bigger, but it’s also hotter and with more give than you expected, and you’ve never been able to fuck yourself like this. Your plastic toys could never compare to the sensation of being pinned by your giant of a lieutenant as he ruts into you.

Ghost reaches up and roughly pushes his mask up so his mouth is exposed again before he leans in deeper, almost folding you cleanly in half, stretching in to claim your mouth in a kiss that’s not quite a kiss, but rather a fierce mash of lips and tongue as his rhythm picks up, riding you down into the mattress until you realised the screaming noise isn’t coming from either one of you, but the cheap standard issue bed frame.

All you can do is gasp with each deep, raw fuck. There are tears tracking lazily down your cheeks, having overflowed from your burning eyes, and you honestly think your lungs might collapse. You’re bent like a fucking pretzel, in a way that’s making the muscles in your thighs scream, as Ghost pounds into you. 

He’s fucking relentless, but also shockingly aware of you beneath him. He doesn’t put too much pressure on you when he holds you, he never goes hard enough to hurt, and he knows just the right amount of weight to pin you down without being too much.

Your pussy is sloppy around him, wet squishing noises getting louder and louder as he finds more rhythm against your tight walls. Your whole world of awareness has been narrowed down to Ghost and Ghost only; his fingers digging into your thighs, your name in his mouth, his sweltering body pressing against yours. 

He’s holding back, you can tell by the way his voice is caught in his throat. He’s keeping all his dangerous muscles at bay as he pulls out and presses in again. Rough, fast, but not enough to break you, just enough to make you scream until you bury your face to the side and try to cover your mouth with your arm.

“Yeah, you needed this,” Ghost grunts, his uncovered mouth nipping at the hinge of your jaw. “This’s why you were so fuckin’ distracted earlier, hm? You thinkin’ about how much you needed to cream around a real cock?”

“Uh huh, yeah,” You slur out, not even sure what you’re agreeing with. Your tongue feels too big for your mouth, every nerve in your body raw and sparking. You must sound so pathetic, but Ghost seems to like it.

“Ain’t gonna be distracted anymore, are ya?” He rumbles, laving his tongue over your jaw in a way that feels filthy. “Just needed your little pussy filled, that’s all.”

You cry out for him because you can’t help it, delight bubbling in your throat every time he plunges into you. He keeps his pace for a bit, all rushed and blazing, transfixed on watching you suck him in, leaving slick trails along his shaft. But gradually he gets bolder, more desperate, big hands squeezing from your thighs to your hips.

You get lost in the feeling of him in your belly, searing and harsh, fat tip rolling against the spongy spot inside of you until you feel like you might snap. You feel him in your ears, your head pounding with every snap of his hips. You swear you even feel him in your toes, lightning zaps of pleasure down your nerves.

Then he leans back, lifting his weight off of you so you can breathe properly. He leaves his hand on your collarbones like a placeholder, his palm spread over the base of your throat like a reminder, a way to keep your attention on him. 

“Fuck,” He grits out, “That’s it, doll.”

You’re vaguely aware of the fact that Ghost’s gaze has shifted, no longer focused on your face but now instead fixed firmly between your legs as he watches the thick shaft of his cock sink into you. He obviously likes how you feel inside; you can hear him cursing and grunting quietly as his free hand grips your hip for leverage. 

With his mask rumpled up around his nose, you’re gifted with an incredible view of the way his teeth are sunk into his lower lip. Each time he sinks his cock into you again, he makes a raspy little groan, eyes fluttering briefly shut. It’s so painfully endearing that your heart quivers in your chest.

Your legs burn from being spread around his thick waist — any attempt for you to lock them around his back is useless, your legs slipping everytime his ass flexes with his thrusts. Every hasty drive of his hips has the ridge of his cock sliding against the spongy spread of your walls, making you feel more stuffed every time he ruts into you. With every sudden movement you feel the entirety of his fat cock; the veins are throbbing, skin heated and silken within you. Part of you marvels how you’re even able to fit him inside you.

“Never seen you look like this,” he grunts. “All fucked-out and perfect.”

Ghost leans in again, grips your legs so he can rearrange them over his shoulders, and you think you might die. The angle is different and somehow, impossibly, Ghost is fucking into you even deeper. You think you might actually be crying. There’s no question as to whether you’re drooling.

Your hands move to his arms, nails sinking into the hard muscles of his triceps as you cling on for dear life. He doesn’t even seem to notice the sting of your nails scratching him; or perhaps it only urges him on, because his movements take on an edge of desperation.

“Gorgeous girl,” He grits out, jaw clenched. “Squeezin’ so tight. Fuck. Gonna make you cream.”

 You had forgotten about his promise to make you come, too lost in the hazy pleasure of his cock. But now it seems as though he’s been seized by the compulsion to fuck you to the edge; he reaches a hand down so that his thumb can join the fray, and it startles you into moaning breathlessly aloud. 

His thumb is merciless against your clit. You’re vulnerable to his touch, clit spread and on display from the stretch of his thick cock inside of you, and he takes full advantage. His fingers are thick and blistering hot as he rubs at you, and you choke as your toes curl.

“Simon–” You manage to eke out before you lose the weak thread of your thoughts, scattering into nothing as he stimulates the stiff bead of your clit. 

He grunts to show that he’s heard you, but he doesn’t seem any more capable of words than you are as he rocks into the cradle of your hips. You’re practically blinded by your wet eyes, blinking frantically to try and clear your vision as you reach out clumsily to throw your arms around Ghost’s blisteringly hot neck.

It feels as though your skin is stretched too tight over your body, hot and prickly and too much. You’re trembling, your breaths coming in shaky gasps as agonising pressure builds in your lower belly. 

“Fuck, love.” Ghost says, his voice little more than a snarl. “You gonna come?”

No, You think hazily. No, you never come. But even as you think it, part of you recognises that it’s never felt like this before. Your stomach tightens, toes curling, your lungs burning, your eyes rolling. You hardly even know what’s happening.

You recognise that something is building, but it almost seems secondary to the way that Ghost is rutting into you like a man possessed, hitting that spongey spot in the back of your pussy that you’ve never managed to reach yourself and making your legs spasm every time even as his thick thumb rubs frantic circles around the bump of your clit.

“Fuck, fuck–” You wheeze, bucking your hips against him.

It doesn’t grow and dissipate in the way you’re used to. Rather, it creeps up on you almost without you noticing, until you’re whimpering and clinging to Ghost like he’s a lifeline. Your bottom lip trembles as you sob weakly, practically on the brink of diving into an oncoming tidal wave of desire. Then that coil in your stomach snaps like a rubber band, sudden and sharp as a slap to the face. 

Your back arches, your vision whites out, and you cum so hard that the world stops, your ears ring, your body goes limp. Your cunts sucks tight around him, pulsing, feeling every inch of him. It feels so sweet, that white-hot buzzing pleasure rushing over you and wiping your brain completely clean. 

You’re a little delirious from being stuffed with such a fat cock; every thrust just prolongs your pleasure, like his penetration keeps you from squeezing your very first orgasm out right away. It’s mindless ecstasy, your nails burrowing into the skin of his biceps as you desperately clutch at him for some kind of leverage. Ghost doesn’t falter, his hips continuing to work into you, wringing your orgasm out until you feel as though your brain is melting.

You sob – an actual, genuine, wet-sounding sob as your chest heaves for air and your eyes burn with overwhelmed, rapturous tears. Your head is spinning even as your climax subsides, leaving you limp-limbed and weak as Ghost continues rocking into you.

“Look so lovely when you come, sweetheart,” Ghost grunts into your ear, his bulky chest weighing you down as you clutch feebly at his shoulders. “God, that’s a sight. All for me, yeah?”

His praise only makes it worse, makes your eyes sting until there’s tears down your cheeks and stars behind your eyelids. He sounds so smug, but you can’t deny that he has reason to be. He’s the first man to ever touch you, first man to ever fuck you, the first person to ever tip you over the edge and wring an orgasm out of you. Fuck, you think your brain might have been reduced to mush permanently; you wonder wildly if you’ll ever be the same after this.

Despite the sting of Ghost’s punishing thrusts into your already oversensitive cunt, your body sings for him. The rhythm of his hips is getting gradually sloppier, as though he doesn’t care as much for precision now that he’s succeeded in making you come. Soft, guttural little grunts fall from his mouth, and his arms wrap around your waist to reposition you so that he can fuck quick and shallow. It’s almost tender, as though he’s aware of your growing sensitivity as you mewl under him.

There’s a profound, instinctual pleasure in seeing Ghost lose himself in your embrace. His dark eyes are heavy-lidded and his mask is still all rucked up, revealing the way his mouth is lolled softly open as he pants. You find yourself wishing feverishly that he had taken off his clothes too, because you think you would give anything to watch the roiling muscles of his chest and shoulders as he ruts into you.

Then just when you think you’re beginning to recover from the shattering, mind-numbing oversensitivity, Ghost comes inside of you.

He stops rutting to ride out his orgasm, his cock throbbing, pulsing, spurting inside you until you feel fuller than you’ve ever felt. And he comes a lot. 

You’re stuffed so tightly with his cock that his cum has nowhere to go, and ends up leaking thickly from where your cunt grips around him, messy and hot and spilling over your thighs and his. The sound he makes is breathless, all open-mouth and head lolled back as he groans, blissed out as he finds release in your cunt. 

The minutes afterwards are a blur. 

You close your eyes for what feels like only a second, but the next time you blink your eyes open you find yourself feeling miserably, uncomfortably empty and sticky as all that oozy cum leaks out of you. You somehow missed Ghost pulling out of you, and your thoughts are muzzy and embarrassingly slow.

For a moment, you think you’re alone. You’re becoming more aware of yourself, and you realise that you’re shivering weakly alone in your sweat-damp sheets. Where did Ghost go? Part of you, still a little hazy, wonders if he had left you alone as soon as he had come, and you feel your lower lip tremble at the thought. 

God, you feel pathetic. You shift feebly on the sheets, and suck in a sharp breath when you feel the ache inside you, proof that you’re going to feel the shadow of Ghost’s cock for days. You feel drunk off the afterglow, yet you’re swiftly becoming more and more aware of yourself and all the aches and pains that are coming to the fore now.

It feels like you’re too big for your body, and you’re clumsy when you try to sit up. Pushing yourself up makes a whole new set of aches light up, and you let out a quiet keening grumble.

You’re so caught up with trying to ground yourself that you jolt in surprise when big, paw-like hands land on you, pushing you back down onto the bed. “Shh, hey, lay down.” Ghost says, the rough edges of his accent softened. To your bewilderment, he has a damp cloth in his hand; he went to the bathroom, you realise hazily.

Maybe it’s just because you feel raw after your experience with him, pulsing like an open nerve, but you sniffle and blink and then suddenly there are tears dripping down your face.

“Thought you left.” You mumble, trying not to sound like a needy little idiot.

Ghost glances up at you, unblinkingly. His mask is fixed firmly back in place, and he looks annoyingly put-together; it’s an embarrassingly stark contrast to the way you’re still nude and shivery and teary-eyed.

“No.” He says simply.

The damp cloth is warm when it makes contact with your skin, and you relax as he drags it along your sweaty back and over your legs. He’s a little rough about it, but you don’t think it’s on purpose. Gentleness doesn’t come naturally to Simon Riley, and yet you can feel that he’s trying and that makes a warm glow settle in your stomach, replacing the cold anxiety that had settled in when you thought that he had left you alone.

When the cloth reaches the tender skin of your pussy, you hiss and try to pull away. It all feels too sensitive, and you feel your face crumple up as he wipes away the mess of slick and cum between your thighs. He gentles his touch as much as he can, but you still mewl at the electric zaps of oversensitivity that jolt up your spine.

When Ghost pauses and pulls the cloth away from you, you blink your eyes awake. Your vision is still all wet and blurry from tears, but you can still see the shape of Ghost as he stares down at you. You can imagine you look nothing short of ruined right now, even after having been cleaned up, and Ghost’s stare is burning.

You wonder if he’s about to leave now – you can recognise this whole thing had gotten out of hand, and you just about manage to stifle the panic at the creeping realisation that you’ve just fucked your superior officer. Ghost must have realised at this point that the two of you had just ripped through all those fraternisation rules, though it’s always been difficult to tell what he’s thinking. But you trust him – you have to, in your line of work. You have to trust that he’ll handle things.

Ghost tosses aside the cloth, and his big overbearing body climbs back into bed beside you. It’s a standard-issue bunk, and yet it feels comically tiny when Ghost has been added to the mix. He’s surprisingly agile, even despite his big size, and you barely have time to realise that he’s joining you in bed before he’s wrapped a thick arm around your middle, hauling you closer.

You’d love to act chill and cool about the fact that he’s now essentially cuddling you, but you miss the mark by a long mile. You take a breath, and allow yourself to relax into his big burly chest. He’s still fully clothed, and the rough texture of his jeans against your tender bare skin makes you shiver lightly from oversensitivity.

Your hips are sore from being stretched so wide, your joints weak and watery, and you’re perfectly content to close your eyes and forcibly ignore all your concerns about fraternisation or how you’re going to face Ghost in training. It’s a problem for another time.

“You still alive?” Ghost grunts, and his palm coasts down over your back to settle at your ass, his fingers squeezing absent-mindedly into the soft flesh there.

He sounds amused, which makes you grumble in irritation. He takes up so much space, his big body filling up all the free space on the bed and making you feel so fucking small as he holds you so that your back is pressed against his stomach.

“I dunno,” You mumble, words a little garbled. “Think… think you might have fucked me stupid, Lt.”

Lying like this, with his front pressed against your back, you can feel his laugh rumble into you. He’s touchy too in a way that surprises you; his hands are constantly moving, swiping over your sides and groping at any part of you that’s squishy-soft.

“Think I might have,” He agrees, and you can hear the smirk in his voice even if you can’t see it. “But I think you needed it, sweetheart. You were practically cryin’ out for it all day.”

You feel your face heat at the insinuation that he had noticed the arousal you thought you had hidden so well. But you still feel so fuzzy inside, and you can’t manage to drum up any genuine reaction.

Ghost’s roaming hand slips down between your legs, and you hold your breath as he reaches your swollen, tender pussy. His fingers are so big, but he’s aware of his strength and keeps his touch light, cupping rather than groping, his calloused palm catching on your puffy clit.

“Told you a real cock would be better,” He rumbles, and you feel the soft material of his mask rubbing against the back of your sweaty neck. “You’ve got a fussy little cunt – ‘s only gonna be satisfied by the real thing.”

You’d love to jab back at him, but the feeling of him rough palm against your oversensitive clit has your thoughts fizzing out into nothingness. All you can do is let out a quiet little whimper, and rock your hips into his touch. To your utter bewilderment, you feel your arousal, which you had previously considered entirely sated, pulse back to life.

As if Ghost can feel your cunt throb beneath his hand, he snickers. “Yeah. Fussy and greedy.”

He leans down, and you feel his lips brush against the back of your neck through the cotton of his balaclava. You quiver, and part your legs without conscious thought to give his thick fingers more room to work. Despite your exhaustion, and your soreness, and your sensitivity, you find yourself wanting. You wonder, with an edge of hysteria, if your body has somehow managed to rewire itself to only accept pleasure from your commanding officer’s hand.

“Ghost– Simon–” You breathe, your hips jumping as you grind into his palm.

“Yeah,” He says again, as though he knows exactly what you need and want. “One little orgasm wasn’t enough, was it?”

“No.” You choke out, throwing your head back so that it’s resting against Ghost’s broad chest. “No, ‘t wasn’t.”

You can hardly believe that your body is winding up for more, but Ghost’s touch is searing hot against your tender skin, and you can already taste the pleasure he’s going to bring you. This time, without the edge of urgency, you think you might even enjoy it more.

“Gimme five minutes,” He drawls, his voice low and muffled in your ear. “And I’ll give you your second.”

[ddejavvu]

can I request one with Spencer Reid based on the season 4 club scene??? He's there with Morgan and stares at the reader and Morgan shows him how to approach her but the reader doesn't fall for Morgan's approach, then Reid gives it a try and she turns into a giggly blushing mess at how cute he is and his weird facts!! Idk something fluffy??

reader is slightly mean to morgan in this one and i'm so sorry to have dissed the love of my life </333

--

"Don't bother," Morgan catches Spencer's shoulder when the man looks like he's about to give you their 'have you seen this man?' spiel. "I tried to tell her about the unsub, but she's not very impressed by men cornering her in the club. We don't have to worry about her, she won't fall for his bullshit."

"She should know, though." Spencer frowns, watching as you stare lazily at your drink, watching condensation drip down the glass, "I'll tell her."

"Reid, I'm telling you, she's not a potential victim," Morgan squeezes his shoulder, "Listen, if I couldn't get her to talk to me, there's no way the creep we're looking for could win her over. And he's not gonna waste his time on someone who says no to him."

The expression on your face changes from a dark scowl when a man stands a few inches too close to you while ordering a drink, to a soft, disinterested pout when he leaves again and you're able to relax. You don't look resistant, you look hesitant. You don't look like you're refusing to talk to anyone, you look like you're waiting for the right person to talk to you, and Derek Morgan was wrong.

"I'll just be a minute," Spencer slips out from beneath Derek's heavy hand and ignores the agent's groan as he approaches you. He knows Morgan's eyes are heavy on his back while he steps up to your barstool, but he pushes away the pressure of an audience to smile kindly at you.

"Hello," He offers, his voice barely audible over the music. His fingers latch tight around the strap of his messenger bag and the flyer he's holding wrinkles in his firm grip, "I'm Doctor Spencer Reid, with the FBI's Behavioral Analysis Unit, I'm here to warn you about a potential threat."

Maybe it's not the strongest way to start off a conversation with a pretty girl at a bar, but it's the information you need to know. Stuttered flirting and watered-down drinks can come later, if they happen at all; Spencer's priority is your safety.

Your brows raise and you look past Spencer's shoulder hesitantly, "Is it him? He tried trapping me earlier."

Spencer's chest relaxes slightly where it had been tensed, and he lets out a mild laugh, "Well, he's not the main threat I'm worried about. Did he- did he do the thing where he called you sugar?"

"Mm-mm," You shake your head, taking a sip of the sad remains of your drink and speaking after you swallow, "Sweet cheeks."

Even Spencer winces. Where Morgan's strategy is charm first, then the ugly stuff, Spencer thinks it's only fair to let you know why he's there before letting himself get distracted.

"He thinks that's some sort of magic spell," He laments, "Uh- I'm sorry if he made you uncomfortable. Technically, he was just trying to warn you about the same guy I'm warning you about, but we have a very different way of going about business."

"I can tell," You nod, eyes widening slightly for emphasis. Then you glance at the stool beside your own, "Sit down, Doctor. Tell me about this creep. Well- the one on the flyer."

Morgan watches with something ugly rearing in his chest as Spencer takes the seat you've offered him, but he wrestles it down to replace it with pride. Perhaps he'll have to reevaluate his strategy when it comes to disinterested patrons, but as he watches Spencer magically find his business card behind your ear, he's not sure he'll ever have what the young doctor does.

[heavenbarnes]

Million Dollar Baby

Art Donaldson x Fem Reader

Warnings/Contains: this is essentially a series of vignettes, at this point you’re the duncan-donaldson sugar baby, swearing, effective cheating (tashi approved), mild exhibitionism, face slapping (not with hands), unprotected sex, reader is pretty submissive, thee slightest tashi x reader, patrick mention.

Part one

it’s that part two to “i wanna make it (so badly)” that i kept harping on about! just wanted to prove to you all i could make good on something! enjoy! i still crave this man!

Born under a lucky star.

Rabbits foot. Horse shoe. Triple sevens. Four-leaf clover.

Art Donaldson plays tennis very well.

When you're around?

He's better.

O2 Arena, London, England. ATP men's singles finals.

Naturally the only way you'd ever get close to something like this was on her invitation.

Tashi had invited you.

"I beg your pardon?"

"We'll cover your flights and accommodation- it's important that you're there."

Yes, because you were sure you could sweet talk your way into a lesson with Lily at Buckingham Palace.

Obviously, obviously it wasn't about your silly little tennis lessons these days. But that was the front.

Rich neighbourhood, nosey neighbourhood.

"Tashi, I couldn't help but notice Art's Jeep drive past me as I left Pilates. Just who was that pretty young thing in his passenger seat?"

"She's Lily's tennis coach, he drops her off when she's had to stay late."

Yeah,

yeah.

Drops you off because your legs aren't their best when they've been over his shoulders for an hour.

It was a pretty good front.

So you found yourself courtside in a Lacoste skirt you'd never imagine owning. That's why you didn't own it, Tashi had left it on your bed among other items of clothing she expected to see you in.

Dress-up doll.

Her plaything.

Pulled out of your thoughts by the chorus of cheer, it was all directed to the movement you could just and only see out the corner of your eye.

Art Donaldson took the court with a kind of swagger that made your thighs tense under expensive material. His eyes took to the stands- sweeping over adoring eyes looking back at him.

And then he came to rest.

You could tell he looked at Tashi first, the way his shoulders straightened and the grip on his racquet became even tighter.

Miracle it didn't snap.

Then you felt him look at you, his eyes softened and the corner of his mouth turned up.

A smug smirk as he ran his tongue along his teeth.

And you began to think back on everything that lead you here.

-

You had found yourself in many precarious situations with Art.

And you were acutely aware of the fact you hadn't seen it.

You'd felt it- felt it against your thigh, the heat of your cunt,

fuck, you'd even felt it against the sole of your foot.

Ruined numerous pairs of Calvin Klein's in the process.

But you'd never seen it.

And it wasn't a topic of contention, it wasn't a 'you' thing per se.

It was actually the fact that Art about blacks out every time you make him cum, and that's through a good few layers of clothing.

The thought of getting it out and laying it against your bare skin? Putting it in your mouth? Putting it inside-

Even the the idea of it makes his eyes water. Blessing and a curse, really.

On one hand, he's guaranteed a mind-blowing orgasm.

On the other, it might only last a few seconds.

You were just happy to be there.

Art could give you everything or give you nothing and you'd lap it up every time.

Good girl.

Art looked good like this, he always looked good but there was something about this.

Sat on the couch, thighs spread, large hands balled up on his knees. When you were in this position- on your own knees before him, with reverence- he looked good.

He looked all consuming.

If you asked him, it wasn't a sight Art was used to, something something role reversal.

Your hands ran along the coarse hairs of his legs, ever-so-slightly getting closer to the bottom of his shorts.

(Post-tennis, still a little sweaty- heavy musk if you really got your face in there)

"We'll go as slow as you need, Art."

However he wants it, whenever he wants it.

Quarter to midnight on Tuesday, you were meant to be doing an ungodly load of laundry tonight. But then he'd looked at you, then he'd told you he 'needed' you.

Turns out whatever he wants looks a lot like what you want.

Obedience in spades.

He stopped you before your hands could go any further, opting to reach under the waistband himself. You were all the better for it, too focused on not giving up the extent of your excitement.

Was it weird to say you'd spent a lot of time imaging what his cock looked like?

Probably.

You reasoned it with the fact you knew Art spent a lot of time thinking about what happens under your pretty little tennis skirts. That and he'd seen it more times than you could count, these days.

Things always seem to go his way.

Your breath caught in your throat when Art hooked his thumb around the waistband, stretching the elastic so he could get it out.

Of course, of course it was as pretty as the rest of him.

Flushed pink at the tip, pale and creamy down the length of it. Kind of thing you need to get your lips around.

Banked for another day.

One hand cradling the back of your head, the other wrapped around the base- Art slapped his cock once, twice on your outstretched tongue.

"A-ahh, f-uck- okay-"

Nice and slow- can't have him blowing the top off just yet.

He couldn't really say you were helping the point. Sitting there, sitting pretty, primed and ready for whatever he wants next.

The sight along was enough material to tug his cock to for the rest of his life.

Let alone being faced with it.

Which is why he did just that- tugged his cock to it.

Long fingers wrapped around a long cock, twisting along the length of it, rolling the palm over the head. Sticky wetness catching in the centre of his palm as he drags it back along the shaft.

Your tongue stayed permanently outstretched, allowing him to slap the weeping tip right on it. If it wasn't your tongue, it was your cheek- wherever he could gain purchase with your skin without tipping himself over the edge.

Yet.

Eventually, Art came in filthy hot ropes across your face and the most minimal amount actually made it in your mouth.

Majority of it was painted across your cheeks, drawn up and sweet under your shining eyes. Bright smile stretched across your face beneath pearly little drops.

Pretty girl-

perfect girl.

-

"I'm sorry- I just need- oh, oh god- just need-"

Incoherent.

A bleary-eyed, incoherent Art.

Chest pressed tight to your back, shorts around his thighs- your little skirt bunched up tight in his fist.

"I need this- I need this- y'so good to me- I need this-"

Yeah, seems like it.

You'd only managed 15 minutes on the court before it'd come to this. Art had thrown his racquet to the wind and ushered you around the side of their changing shed- the same one where he first,

You know?

Yeah.

You'd actually headed for the door but he couldn't wait that long, pulled you between the wall and the tall fence that circled the court. You were both nestled in beneath an Arabian Gingerbread Palm of sorts- naturally.

Art had slipped your underwear to the side and mounted you like a fucking dog.

Desperate.

The sound of his taut thighs slapping against yours was fucking ludicrous, the sight would’ve managed something worse.

He had a look across his face that said he knew this was pathetic- that there was no way he should’ve been rutting into you in broad fucking daylight.

But it’s not like you could see that look, not when his face was pressed into your neck.

“Ohh, you just- you just feel so good.”

Was he crying?

You looped an arm around the back of his head, slowly stroking your nails against his scalp as you struggled to keep yourself from buckling under the pressure.

Your other arm stretched out in front of you, palm braced on the wall as Art continued the relentless piston of his hips.

Through tears even.

“Feels so good, Art- making me feel so fucking good- just rub my clit, touch me a little.”

In an instant, his fingers were under the front of your skirt as he rubbed haphazard circles around the apex of your cunt.

“Like this? You like this? Tell me I’m doing a good job, please.”

Jesus Christ.

“Yes- doing a good job, you always do so good- gonna’ make me cum.”

And like you’d said the magic word, Art was going rigid. Hips slamming into you with a couple brutal and unyielding thrusts, less precision than you were used to with him.

Til’ he was dripping out of you.

His fingers kept going.

Until your face was pressed was pressed against the changing shed wall, sure to leave a lovely pattern of stucco on your skin.

Until you were babbling and canting your hips back onto his hand as drool ran down the side of your cheek.

Until you even realised that he’d dropped to his knees and was running his tongue through your cunt from the back, massive hands splitting your cheeks.

You reached a hand back to grip his hair, pulling his face even further into the sodden lips of your pussy as you fucked yourself back onto his tongue.

“That’s it- lick my cunt, Art. See how good you taste?”

Your ears stopped ringing long enough for you to hear it.

He makes that noise when he cums.

Again.

Tashi watched you both drag your feet back into the house- a sheen of sweat over you both that could’ve looked post-tennis.

To anyone else but her.

She let you pass without issue, but a fine hand pressed to Art’s chest as he tried to follow you to the showers.

“If I ever see you cum before her again, there will be trouble. Understood?”

There was no use explaining that you didn’t mind, that you kind of liked when you riled him up- made him lose control.

That he probably deserved to feel good.

Instead, you heard him murmur an apology before he finally got you under the monsoon shower head in the enormous guest bathroom.

Three more good ones on his tongue, just for good measure.

-

It was a miracle the Donaldson-Duncan mantelpiece didn't crumble under the immense weight of success.

Trophy, after trophy, after photo, after-

"Did Tashi meet Obama?"

Art chuckles over your shoulder as he watches you cradle the photo, eyes wide with admiration. Devotion?

"She did, he invited her to the White House the year before we got engaged."

"Your invite get lost in the mail?"

"It wasn't about me."

Is anything ever about him?

As you continued your impassioned scan of their family treasures, you came to a complete stop at a 5x7 frame.

"Is this a young Art Donaldson?"

You could feel his eyes on you as you lifted the frame with the same gentle touch as you'd lent to Tashi's photo.

This time, your fingers gingerly brushed over the glass- almost as if you could feel the crop of golden curls beneath your fingertips.

"You've never seen any of my earlier games? Junior doubles at the US Open?"

Taking your eyes off a very-pretty-young Art, you threw him a look that said something like 'be so serious.'

"No, I wasn't much for watching tennis as a- what? Six year old?"

Oh.

That's right.

It was impossible for Art to forget the elephant in the room- call him a dirty old man but Art was always thinking about the pretty young thing that he liked best in his lap.

But sometimes he forgot.

"Well, that's me the day Patrick and I won."

"Who's Patrick?"

Oh.

And just like that he's chubbing up in his pants.

Art Donaldson currently exists in a space and time where he has something that Patrick doesn't.

And you're none the fucking wiser.

How could you be? You're still enamoured with the shaggy golden curls and the unspoken pull of a backwards cap.

"Yeah, you would've driven me wild back in the day."

There's a wry smile that catches on the corner of his mouth, right at the same moment he takes the photo from you. You're forced back to reality, present day-

The one where Art's a few years older but still as devastatingly handsome.

"Would've?"

The hairs on the back of your neck stand up, feeling a firm chest pressing against your shoulder blades. Feeling crowded.

Feeling caught.

"As if I don't already."

Art spends the evening reminding you of your place.

That, despite the age between you, he's still the one that runs rings.

-

Contrary to popular belief, Art Donaldson has bad days.

Unfortunately for just about everyone in the O2 Arena, he chose today.

Well, the fates decided on today.

As he thrashed his racquet through the air, you could've sworn you heard the 'woosh' it was sure to have made from all the way up here.

Tense, you were slumped in your seat as you couldn't escape the voice in your head-

the one that was telling you your luck had run out.

The one that still sounds a lot like Tashi Duncan.

"COME ON!"

Tashi's voice actually sounded from beside you, making you jump out of your skin.

Naturally, you began searching for Art- searching for something to do, someway to fix this. What was left for you if you couldn't be lucky.

Rabbits foot. Horse shoe. Triple sevens. Four-leaf clover.

Nowhere to be found- but you found Art, found his eyes.

Looking at you.

Pleading with you.

Come on.

There was that pathetic little gaze you'd come to know. When he wanted something, when he needed something.

Art Donaldson always gets what he wants.

You jumped a little when you felt Tashi's hand rest on your knee where it crossed over the other. Perfect manicure drumming against your kneecap, gripping once.

Gripping twice.

Gently, prying it away from the other till they were side by side.

Thighs being forced apart.

Suddenly acutely aware that Art's eyes weren't on your face anymore.

They were on Tashi's hand.

Acutely aware that, among all the pretty things she'd laid out on your bed this morning, there wasn't a pair of panties among them.

That same perfect manicure between your spread thighs, patting you once, twice- right where her husband had made a home.

Under a lucky star.

Art Donaldson had a penchant for getting what he wants.

With an unmatched performance, the arena was turned on its head. Neon green blitz across the court, landing right where he wanted it to.

The crowd cheered his name to a tune only he knew;

How to be a winner.

All guts, all glory.

The deafening commotion chewed you up but it was Art that spat you out. Amongst the noise, the fury, you found him stood staring right at you.

Expectantly.

The weight of responsibility on your chest. Your luck hadn't run out, it was only just the beginning.

To the victor go the spoils.

Somewhere, a rabbit was missing it's foot.

[astralis-ortus]

thunders of rage

✱ boyfriend!bc x gn!reader

— even through the worst days, you're still my priority.

w.count → 1.1k genre → fluff, comfort warning → mild cussing, reader had a bad day and lashes out at chan :(, one time jump, kissies, chan referred to as chris, reader referred to as baby and babe a.n → based on this request! tysm for requesting♡ ⋆ see masterlist

the word terrible doesn’t even cover the magnitude of bad luck you’ve been facing for the past 10 hours.

from waking up late for work, buses not operating due to a strike and causing the subway being jam-packed, getting absolutely roasted by your supervisor for someone else’s mishap, having your work ruined by a coworker, to barely surviving the somehow never-ending rush hour while running only on a single piece of toast you had in the morning—you’re absolutely in no condition to socialize, even for the slightest bit.

“hey, babe,” your boyfriend’s cheery voice was the first thing you heard as soon as you stepped inside your shared apartment. noises coming out from the speaker on your living room were the thing you noticed next—and you swear you’re so close to losing your sanity.

“how was your day? i saw you barely ate your breakfast when i got back from the gym. are you okay?” oblivious to your nonexistent reply, chris had his eyes glued to the game while he continued to talk. “i haven’t decided what to make for dinner, by the way. do you—”

“can you decide that on your own?” you finally cut your boyfriend off, tone of your voice catching chris off guard. you’re not one to speak sharply—you know it might offend the other party even when you didn’t mean to, and chris knew that about you.

so when he heard that tone being used against him, chris knew something is absolutely wrong.

“let’s get ice cream, then?” chris immediately paused his game and shifted his focus onto you. he sees it now—the seemingly permanent subtle frown on your forehead, the nonexistent glint on the reflection of your eyes, the messy bun on top of your head.

something stresses you out. bad.

“sure.”

chris watched your exhausted trudge head towards the kitchen and grab a glass of water, contemplating the best course of action to get grumpy you to cheer up even just for a little. “and some pizza? or some dimsum? while we wait i’ll run a bath—”

“goddammit, chris!” the loud sound of cup slamming on the countertop startled chris out of his sentence, eyes wide when confusion, irritation, and hurt started to mix in his chest. “i just told you to decide it on your own! stop bothering me! do i need to make every decision for you? god!”

the room fell silent as chris tried to digest the words you aimed at him—but it felt like his head was on static. it only took him a second to get up and grab a hoodie, suppressing any reaction his instinct was telling him to do before he said something he would regret.

“i’m gonna go cool off,” chris quietly said as he headed towards the door, momentarily stopping to look at your tense back. he desperately wanted to stay—but he knows you needed time to be on your own.

“you should cool off too.”

and with that, chris left.

it’s been nearly two hours since chris left, and after a cup of warm tea and a long bath later, guilt finally caught you up in its tight grip.

you knew what you did towards chris was wrong—chris was simply trying to make sure he’s getting something you like because he knows only then your mood would seem to improve, but instead, all you did was accuse him of trying to bother you.

thoughts ran through your head while you stare at your boyfriend’s phone number, thumb hovering over the green button as you try to piece an apology in your head. you’re genuinely worried—it’s getting later in the night, and you still haven’t heard even a single peep from chris. you can’t help but feel worried.

but just as you were about to press the call button, your ears finally picked up the sound of your front door cracking open—chris is home.

“baby, i’m ho—”

chris stopped in his tracks as he felt warmth suddenly enveloping him—you’re hugging him tight, face buried on the span of his chest.

“i’m sorry,” you quickly whispered, barely allowing him time to process what happened within the span of 5 seconds. “i was wrong. i shouldn’t have acted like that. i just really had a terrible day, and—”

“hey, hey, hey,” chris couldn’t help but chuckle, finally wrapping his arm around you after he finally set down the plastic bags on the countertop nearby. “breathe, baby. slow down. you’re okay.”

peering up at chris, your guilt only seemed to dig its claws deeper when you saw his dimpled smile, beautiful eyes gazing right at you even after the sharp words you threw at him.

you felt like crap.

“i’m really sorry,” you croaked another apology, now near tears with the tip of your lips turned down. “i really acted like an ass back there but you still became the bigger person between us. i would’ve understood if you shouted at me, but—”

“baby,” chris shook his head as he gently cradled your face, pads of his thumbs running softly against your cheeks, “i would never forgive myself if i ever raised my voice at you, even during a fight. you’re my girlfriend—you’re someone i need to protect, and that’s what i’ll always try to do.”

the way chris loves you never fails to render you speechless.

some might say you’re the bigger romantic between the two of you—date plans, endless whispers of ‘i love you’s, constantly wrapping yourself around his arm. it’s all what people would see; but you know the nights chris would pull you closer when he notices your tossing and turning, allowing you to settle to the rhythm of his heartbeat. you know the days when he would buy you a single stem of the prettiest sunflower or the loveliest bloom of rose, all because you said you’ve always liked flowers but never the huge bouquet. you know how he would always walk on the side nearest to the road, and the way his arm never left the curve of your waist.

you know the subtle ways he remembers—his ways of saying i love you, and you would never change that for anything in the world.

“kiss me.”

a chuckle rumbles in chris’ chest to your request, beautiful twinkle in his eyes turning you warm and fuzzy. he then gently tipped your chin, whispering a soft ‘i love you’ as he brought his lips onto yours, relishing in the way swarms of butterflies burst under your feverish skin.

©️ astralisortus, 2024. | likes and reblogs are highly appreciated♡

[stayevildarling]

Natasha Romanoff x Reader- In the silence

A/N: This is dangerously close and inspired by the Cordelia Goode version of this that I wrote years ago. I have been enjoying writing for Natasha even though I felt quite anxious about whether I was doing her any justice but the support has been lovely so thank you 🫶🏻

prompt: Natasha and you have always been close, working as avengers beside each other for years. And deep down you both know you love each other. What happens when a mission goes south and you admit your feelings to her?

tags/warnings: female reader, mention of weapons (mild), mention of violence (mild), mention of gunshot wound, mention of blood, angst, fluff at the end

translation: detka= baby

word count: 4.5k

taglist:

@lunaticwhittaker, @billiebeanhoward, @lanawinters-ily, @kenzbro, @minaslittleone, @httpfiftyshadesofgay, @whitelotus00, @ninaahs, @vintagepaulson, @isle-of-earle, @paulsonsratched, @stepintomyworld, @grilledcheeseandguavajelly, @lucyintheskywithxanax, @fanfics4world, @mymiraclewitch, @hazard-to-myself, @awritersometime, @ohrwurm26, @wastdstime, @p1pecleanerwitheyes

Standing by the entrance of the gym inside the avengers compound, you are greeted by warm sunlight coating your cheeks, as well as some music playing loudly in the background. A smile creeps it's way onto your features, as you see Natasha leaning against one of the large glass windows, her breathing heavy as she dives into her protein shake. The gym had always been your safe space, the place you could run to, whether it being one of those days, one of those lonely nights, a mission not going too well or one of the guys annoying you. Most of the other guys would usually use the gym to train, let some anger out on one of the punching bags. To you, it had always been your source of safety and peace and sometimes you question whether it was silly, as after all it was only a gym. However, the only person beside you, treating the place with the same care and feeling the same sense of safety, is currently drinking her protein shake without a care in the world. Natasha.

You watch as she moves from the window back to the equipment, not having noticed your presence yet. Another smile makes it's way onto your features, as you remember seeing her in here for one of the first times, years ago. Her hair used to be shorter, the shade a slightly darker red. The first time you had seen her in here, Natasha for sure intimidated you. Of course knowing about the avengers and Black Widow from reading the stories and seeing her on television, however she undeniably scared you, as she seemed tough both on the inside and out. However, despite some initial holding back on her part, unsure about another woman on the team and also feeling a bit intimidated herself, the two of you quickly got to know each other better, spending many sessions in said gym together, getting to know more about your pasts on missions and sharing the same interests and humour.

She finally turns around, noticing a presence lingering by the door, for a moment she halts, not particularly in the mood for company, as the last few weeks had been filled with missions. However, as she glances up and notices your frame, a smile instantly greets you, the same smile she had reserved specifically for you, even though she wouldn't admit it and you had been too oblivious to notice. You watch as she smiles contently at you for a moment, almost as if she was relieved it’s you and not one of the others. She wasn’t in a talkative mood today, you could tell by her posture and her tense shoulders, that seem to relax when noticing you. Natasha could rely on you, always knowing the two of you can work beside each other without a lot of conversation, if it wasn’t needed. The Black Widow and you had always enjoyed the quiet moments, being in each other’s company, experiencing moments together and words exchanged without speaking. Neither of you needed talking to do that, a little smile an indication or rather a reassurance that either you or Natasha were okay. The smirks exchanged when in company of the others or across the dinner table, either one of you able to judge Steve's stupid jokes or thinking of inside jokes you and Natasha have, without letting the others share or in on your jokes.

Communication has many forms of expressing things, mostly by talking but you and Natasha had always found a different way to communicate. Mostly through mimics, glances and whispered confessions. Of course, that didn’t come naturally and it hasn’t always been this way. But throughout your years with the avengers, Wanda discovering you, finally agreeing to speak to Tony, you had grown close. After walking through the large doors at the compound for the first time, you finally understood Wanda's words and why she spoke so highly of this place. The instant feeling of home and belonging, after sharing a similar fate to Natasha, having been captured and mind controlled half of your life. You quickly became part of the avengers after training with Natasha and Clint, attending sessions at first but they could instantly tell you fit right in with them, your heart in the right place.

From the first training session, Natasha had known that you are destined for this. They allowed you time to arrive there, to get to know everyone, before fully training you to be able to control your abilities and what the organisation had put you through. Eventually, the redhead had asked you whether you wanted to join her on a mission, as she had talked to Tony and thought you were ready. Her offer came as a surprise but she had a feeling about you and it turned out to be right. The first mission was a big success, after all you had done this sorta stuff for your whole life, just playing for the wrong team. And from then on, you would regularly join Natasha and the avengers on missions, after becoming a liable asset to them, the Black Widow even offering you to train newer recruits together and it meant everything, considering you started out that same way.

Once again, you are snapped out of your thoughts, all the memories about joining this place and meeting Natasha slowly pushed into the back of your mind again, as her voice fills the room.

,,Are you just going to stand there?'' she jokes and just with those words, the redhead has your cheeks glowing red as if the sun coating it moments ago, left it burnt.

,,No.. sorry'' you chuckle, finally stepping into the gym, towards her.

,,Penny for your thoughts?'' she speaks again, still a little out of breath as she steps onto treadmill beside you. You simply act as if you didn't hear her, not too keen on sharing what you had gotten lost thinking about, before starting your warm up.

Natasha watches you intently, despite working out herself, having had a feeling lately that something was up with you, as you had been more lost in your thoughts. As she often finds you glancing into nothingness or staring right through her. And it was quite obvious that the redhead cared about you, despite her never admitting it. Natasha was mostly only really nice to you, due to the massive soft spot she has for you. And despite the others, especially Wanda mentioning it a few times, you simply brushed it off, assuming that neither of you could ever be more than friends.

Love had always been a stranger to you, it often felt like a missing piece in your life, seeing couples holding hands or intimate moments shared. However at some point you started to realize that love doesn’t necessary mean being in a relationship with someone or putting labels on something. To you, love had always been about feelings and expressing emotions towards someone, it didn’t need more than that. At some point you realized, that person, your soulmate is closer than you initially thought. For years, Natasha had been your mentor, despite teaching alongside you in the end and always treating you as an equal, however there was something else involved, something almost impossible to put into words.

Both you and Natasha developed a bond, a silent promise that no matter what happens, you would have each others back. Neither of you would let anyone speak bad about the other, often finding either you or Natasha argue with Steve or one of the younger recruits if they dare made a remark about the Black Widow or you. Neither of you would let the other one get hurt, both of you ready to take your last breath’s for one another at any moment given. It had happened once, an unexpected moment, a mission going sideways, the two of you caught in the crossfire before Natasha stepped in front of you, shielding you from the attack.

“How are you feeling?” she asks after a while and your gaze lingers on her, taking your eyes away from the treadmill screen for a moment.

You can’t help but take in her features again, your eyes not able to comprehend her beauty. She is wearing one of your favourite training outfits on her today, completely black, the colour complementing her features and curves perfectly. As you glance into her green eyes, they make you feel calm and at peace, just like they always would. Whether a mission scaring you, one of the guys annoying you, Tony pushing you and demanding too much. Her green eyes are always somewhere to be found, a silent understanding and promise that she had got you.

Of course you had questioned it, after all surely she couldn’t like you, or see you as anything more than being an avenger like her, teaching recruits alongside you and her always being able to rely on you. However throughout all of these years, getting to know Natasha, her dark and troubled past and the scars it had left on her soul, despite her smile and the desire to keep people safe, you realised something. After all, Natasha had given you what you always longed for, those warm smiles, those inside jokes, affection as she always placed a reassuring hand on your shoulder or held you after a tough mission. Her greeting you with a gentle smile or that specific smirk, being enough to make your heart beat faster. Nevertheless, there were nights, those nights where the moonlight would light up your bedroom at the compound, you gazing at the ceiling, wondering what it would feel like to feel her lips on yours, to wake up beside her and to feel her. You would always shake those thoughts away though, grateful to have her in your life, never feeling incomplete but you did wonder sometimes.

,,Out of breath, how about you?'' you joke, noticing her gaze on you, causing for her to shake her head in a playful way before snarkily remarking ,,Same''.

After the two of you finish, you finishing the pre workout and Natasha finishing for the day, she throws you a bottle of water as you sit beside each other, trying to catch your breaths again. Natasha avoids your gaze for a moment, parting her lips as if she wanted to speak. And you could tell, being able to read the redhead like a book at this point. ,,What's on your mind Romanoff?'' you ask, nudging her shoulder a little, to lighten up her serious features. ,,Nothing, I'm fine'' she brushes it off and you accept it, knowing if she was ready she would share what's on her mind.

,,Want some help?'' she asks after a while and you accept gratefully, as she lifts weights with you, impressed after noticing you can bench more and more now since first training you.

,,Natasha?'' you ask gently, after you finish your set with her. Her green eyes meet yours for a second and without words needed you can tell again something is on her mind, the pain and doubt very visible in her green orbs. It tears you apart, hating to see her in any kind of discomfort and knowing something is on her mind, clearly upsetting her. You wish you could fix her, make her smile again, throw silly jokes around, stop the pain, just like the many times she had done the same for you.

“What’s going on? please be honest” you plead, your voice breaking in the second half of your sentence. She averts your gaze again, biting the inside of her mouth as if she was trying to bite the words back, keeping herself from being honest with you.

“You can be honest with me, you know that right?” you try and reassure her, knowing the battle she is fighting in her head currently. She nods at your statement, knowing she can fully rely on you but something is still holding her back, maybe the fact she isn’t sure how to word what she is feeling, as she doesn’t completely understand it herself.

“It’s -” she finally parts her lips, the words trying to spill from her heart but the rational and stubborn Natasha still fighting to be quiet. “I’m here” you whisper, reassuring her yet again. Your hand wanders to her leg, gently swiping your thumb across it in a comforting manner, reassuring her that she can tell you anything, desperately wanting to make her feel better and stop the aching in her heart and your own, seeing her like this.

“Do you ever feel like there is something missing in your life Y/N?” she asks, suddenly the conversation turning more serious, her thoughts slightly trailing off and she allows herself to be honest and vulnerable around you, speaking her mind.

You swallow hard, the only thing to be heard for a moment the beating of your own heart as your mind instantly wanders to that feeling, as you know it too well, despite accepting long ago to be grateful for what you have instead of being upset over what you don’t have.

“Yes I know Tasha” you start “But I learned to understand to be grateful for the things that I have in my life” you explain and yet again your eyes lock, her brows furrowing for a second, before her lips part again.

“But don’t you ever miss anything?” she asks, unable to understand how you could be eternally grateful, without missing anything at all. After thinking about it for a moment you reply “I have everything I need, working here, the avengers, an amazing family here and yo-” you stop yourself, not sure whether naming her of things you need, being too much or too direct in this moment.

“What about love?” she whispers, completely snapping you out of any thoughts, waking you up like a slap from reality. “Lo- love?” you ask, stumbling over your words and locking eyes with the redhead. She nods, a statement of both reassuring you, you heard correctly but also begging you to explain.

“I have love in my life, Nat, it might be a different kind but I’m so grateful” you explain, feeling confident as she started the subject and conversation in the first place and part of you feeling like this being your only chance to ever have an open conversation about this with her.

“But - do you ever wish it wasn’t hidden or silent?” she asks her accent slightly showing, taking you by surprise yet again with her statement. Her eyes haven’t left yours for a second, your hearts beating in synch, as all the silence is finally about to be broken, your feelings open for each other to understand.

“There is still love in the silence Tasha” you reassure her. You watch as her demeanour changes for a moment, as if she just realised what words are being said, for a moment you fear she won’t allow the conversation to go further, maybe getting up and walking out or maybe changing the subject, but yet again the redhead takes you by surprise.

“I just-” you find her stumbling over her words, the usual confident woman faltering under her walls breaking down in front of you. Before you can finish the conversation however, Steve stumbles into the gym, getting both of your attention as he informs you Tony needed you both for an urgent mission. You watch as she grabs her things, before following after you and your eyes don't leave hers for a moment as you wish this conversation could have finished, as you had been so close to finally get there after all these years.

--

Hours later, the quinjet hums softly as it soars through the night sky, carrying the team of Avengers to the next mission. Lately, the missions had been a lot as Tony had been determined to find the base of a secret organisation specialising in the newest weapons and technology. As you glance around the quinjet, you look at their features, being able to tell they had been tired, worn out and in desperate need for a break.

Sitting across from Natasha, the dim light casts shadows that dance across her face. The team was focused, despite the tiredness on their features, also determination, each of them mentally preparing for what lays ahead. However, you couldn't help but steal glances at the redhead. You could tell she was also tired, despite that same expression on her mind from before. And you hate that Steve interrupted you when he did as you wonder where the conversation may have gone. She can't help but give you a reassuring smile as her eyes lock with yours for a brief moment before Tony interrupts the peace and quiet.

,,We are approaching the drop zone'' he announces, standing tall in his Iron Man suit. ,,Everyone ready?'' he confirms before the team nods in unison.

The atmosphere shifts to one of anticipation and readiness, the earlier tiredness quickly vanishing from their determined features. You are quick to check your gear one last time, feeling the familiar rush of adrenaline. This mission was crucial and you all knew the importance of it, this being the last puzzle piece you needed to complete this whole operation and defeat and expose them once and for all. Which also meant, there was no room for error, no room for you to get distracted due to having Natasha by your side or the others after working hard for the last few weeks in a row.

As the moon illuminates the enemy compound, you and the team descend, everything going to plan at first. Tony cleared the way using his technology, allowing you access before you all split up, everyone having their respective individual tasks on this mission. Tony working on hacking into the compounds database and collecting the necessary data. Clint and Natasha working on taking out any guards to clear the way for the others, while Steve and you needed to find out more about the weapons and technology they store here and how they managed to access the materials and resources as Tony had discovered, they certainly didn't come from earth.

As you and the team entered the foreign compound, everything seemed to go according to plan as you communicated over your coms. Until it didn't- alarms blaring loudly, chaos quickly erupting as more enemy forces swarm the area. More than either of you could have seen coming, more than either of you could take on with the amount of people on this mission. Natasha and Clint fight vigorously, clearing the path for Tony and making sure he could access what he needed without interruptions. Steve and you in the meantime fighting the troops that try to keep their secrets hidden and rid you of your presence in their base.

However, the odds are overwhelming, as whenever you manage to fight most of them away, another group of them arrives, keeping you on your tired feet. Eventually, you find yourself separated from the team, pinned down by heavy fire. Your heart pounds as you fire back, but you knew you couldn't hold out much longer. Suddenly, Natasha appears at your side, as if she was able to feel your struggling. Her movements a blur of lethal precision as she dispatches the attackers, making one after one fly to the nearest wall and knocking them unconscious.

,,Tha- Thank y-ou Tasha'' you breathe out, struggling to stay on your feet and keep your breathing under control. Her eyebrows furrow as she watches your struggling state, you never usually one to get tired on these kind of missions. She worries then, whether you may have gotten injured or if one of them hit you too hard after seeing you from a little further away as she tried to make her way to you, seeing some of the heavy hits and blows you had to endure.

,,Woah, are you alright there?'' she asks, her voice filled with a hint of seriousness and concern. ,,All fine'' you reassure, as she places her hand on your shoulder, trying to keep you up on your feet.

For a moment, everything seems to stand still, the attackers finally gone, the mission seemingly complete as you hear Tony mention something about hacking into their data and getting all the important information. As you glance at the attackers on the floor through your blurry vision, you suddenly notice something out of the corner of your eyes, one of them moving his hand to the gun abandoned on the floor, before you can react aiming at Natasha who still stands there, taking in your features and holding you up.

,,Look out'' you shout, freeing yourself from her grasp before using your last strength to push her out the way and throwing yourself in front of the redhead. With a loud sound and a piercing pain, everything goes quiet, Natasha's screams muffling out as she quickly takes him out.

,,Y/N'' she instructs, kneeling over your form. ,,Keep your eyes open for me'' she pleads, as you look up at her through your blurry vision yet again. She calls for backup in an instant, giving them the exact location and keeping pressure on the wound from the bullet that had entered you, the blood pouring and staining your uniform.

,,You need to look at me detka'' she instructs and you try your hardest, battling the fight of unconsciousness taking over before your lips part slightly. ,,Tasha I-'' you try but she quickly shushes you ,,No don't try to speak, you're okay'' she speaks again, her voice now filled with panic as her hands stain in blood, quicker than she can stop the bleeding.

,,I need to- tell you'' you struggle, as you squeeze her hand tighter, ushering her to look at you. ,,Nat- I- I love- you'' you struggle through your words and you can't see her reaction, both the shock and sadness written across her features as your eyes finally close, your strength staying just how long you needed it, to finally tell her what had been on your mind all this time.

,,No Y/N, not like this'' she instructs as the others arrive, quickly taking your form into their arms and carrying you to the quinjet, making sure to speed through the night sky in order to get you back to the compound and to med bay as soon and quickly as possible. Natasha remains by your side the entire time, her features tense as she couldn't be more angry at you, giving your health away for something so stupid, despite her having done the same in the past and your admission finally confirming what she hadn't only been thinking for a while but also feeling for years. You loved her and there was no doubt about her loving you too, especially seeing you on the brink of this thing, telling you over and over again to keep hanging on.

--

The next time your eyes force open, you find yourself in the unfamiliar surroundings of med bay. So far you had actively avoided it, other than your necessary routine checkups. Everything is white and bright and so your eyes quickly close again, before the feeling returns to your body, at first being able to feel a stinging pain, before feeling something holding on tight to your left hand. As you force your eyes open again, trying to determine the source, you find Natasha sitting beside you, her eyes closed as she had been by your side for hours, sleep finally washing over her, her hand still protectively holding yours nevertheless.

You can't help but smile, not quite remembering what happened exactly before passing out. Remaining silent, you simply rest, trying to shuffle a little trying to get comfortable, not wanting to wake her. However, Natasha was awake in an instant, her eyes snapping open and relief washing over her as she sees you awake. ,,Hi there'' she smiles warmly as she finds your eyes on her. ,,Hi'' you mumble, your voice still hoarse from the medication and pain lingering on your body.

,,How are you feeling?'' she asks, her voice serious as she observes you a little further.

,,Bruised'' you smile, causing the redhead to chuckle and roll her eyes playfully.

,,No shit'' she remarks with a raised eyebrow ,,That's what happens when taking a bullet for me'' she speaks, her tone laced in the slightest disapproval.

,,I'll always take a bullet for you Tash'' and she smiles then, being able to tell the drugs are still in your system a little.

,,You're an idiot'' she smiles, letting go off your hand to offer you some water and more painkillers that Bruce had left there for you.

After taking them as instructed, you keep looking at her and it's that same look you had when confessing your love and Natasha can't help but feel the same feeling in her chest, having wanted to tell you since you fell asleep in her arms after the bullet had hit you. ,,I'm sure you won't remember this by tomorrow but just for the record I love you too'' she whispers, barely audible as your eyes keep closing, still feeling tired from the drugs and painkillers.

,,You- love me?'' you ask surprised and she can't help but chuckle before pressing a kiss to your forehead. ,,Yes detka, now sleep'' she instructs. ,,We'll talk about this another time''. And as your eyes force closed yet again, the smile remains lingering on your face, as her words sink in, knowing that now the two of you wouldn't have to keep loving each other in silence. And Natasha looks forward to have you awake again soon, being able to love each other fully.

[moonstruckme]

hi, love! just wanna say first of all that i love your writing and your account. keep up the good work!

second of all, i was wondering if i could put in a sort of specific request? i'm currently on my period and the bloating is making me feel really bad about my body ☹️ so i was hoping maybe you could write a fic where Steve comforts Reader when she's going through something like that?

feel free to disregard this if it's too heavy of a topic, i know it can be triggering to talk about things like this for some people.

wishing you all the best! 🫶🏻

- @honeysuckleharringtons 🍯💛

Thanks so much babe!

cw: period cramps, insecurities arounds stomach/bloating

Steve Harrington x fem!reader ♡ 861 words

You think your favorite place has to be lying between Steve’s legs, with one of his hands clasped in yours and the other on your boob. If you focus really hard, you can hear his heart beating underneath your ear. You’re watching some mindless sitcom, trying to distract yourself from this blessedly mild round of cramps and silently debating whether having chocolate ice cream is worth getting up and going to the store to get it. But if Steve keeps running his thumb over the back of your hand like this, you might melt right into the couch and then the decision would be made for you. 

It happens so gradually you almost don’t even notice. Steve knows to be gentle with you when you’re sensitive like this, his hand massaging the fat of your boob kindly before grazing lower to rub at the skin just beneath it. Then it goes lower still, and you tense when he dips under the hem of your shirt and takes a handful of your stomach in his grasp. 

Your boyfriend doesn’t seem to notice that you’ve stopped breathing, kneading at the supple chub of your middle absentmindedly, but you lower your hand to his, bringing it back up into comfortable territory. Then he looks at you, a questioning glance out of the corner of his eye. You pretend not to see. His hand drifts slowly, tentatively, back towards your stomach. 

“Don’t,” you say softly, taking it again before it can get there. It’s not a reprimand so much as a gentle request, but still, Steve’s eyebrows furrow. 

“What’s the deal?” he asks, echoing your mild tone. “I thought stomach rubs were supposed to help with cramps.” 

You soften. “That’s really sweet of you,” you tell him, “but I’m okay. I just don’t love the idea of my stomach being, like, perceived right now.” 

“Perceived?” Steve angles his head to see you better, hand resting on the flat of your chest. “Why, what’s wrong with it?” 

“It’s just bloated.” You sink a bit further between his legs, avoiding his stare. “It’s like, remember that time I came over without telling you and you didn’t want me to see your hair first thing in the morning?” 

“Yeah, you mean the time you told me to stop being a priss and get over it? That time?” 

You chuckle. “Right, well, I guess it’s kind of like that.” 

Steve hums, playing with your fingers distractedly. “Okay,” he says after a minute, “I just want to preface this by saying that I really like you, and I think you’re smart and cool. Okay?”

He leans over until he can see your face, and you nod warily.

“You’re being stupid.” 

A laugh startles out of you, but Steve doesn't give you a chance for rebuttal. 

“You’re hot, babe.” He says it deadpan, like it’s a fact he had to memorize in school. “Like, smoking hot. The idea that you would give a shit, much less think I would give a shit, about your stomach being bloated is insane. And you trying to keep me from touching it is, like, practically criminal. Aren’t your tits bloated too?” 

“Um,” you hesitate, somehow more self-conscious than you had been when this began, “yeah?” 

“Right,” he says proudly. “And not to be a creep, but I’ve kind of been enjoying the shit out of those for the past couple of hours.” 

“Steve.” You laugh awkwardly, squirming underneath his gaze. “That’s different, and you know it.” 

He shrugs, looking you plain in the face. “Not to me. Listen, babe,” he drops his voice into a more sincere register, “I like you—your stomach, your tits, all of it—all of the time. And I think it’d make you feel better if you let me rub your stomach for you right now, so just let me, and if I start to find you any less hot, I promise to let you know.” The implication in his tone is clear: like, when pigs fly. 

You look at him for a while. Steve can surprise you with his stubbornness sometimes. His eyelashes don’t so much as flicker under your perusal. 

“Okay,” you sigh, getting comfortable again in his lap. “Fine, have at it.” 

“Yes,” he hisses, his hand going back down and taking in a greedy handful of your swollen belly. You start to tense, nerves making your head go staticky, but gradually you’re able to relax. Steve with his hands on you is no foreign thing. He starts to push down tentatively, asking you to coach him on where you need it the most until he’s gently massaging over the ache. You let your eyes slip closed. You honestly hadn’t expected it to bring quite so much relief. 

“Did Robin put you up to this?” you ask quietly. 

Steve’s soft chuckle confirms your theory. “You’ve got her to thank for the chocolate ice cream in the fridge, too.” 

A smile spreads across your face, and you can hear him laugh again at how blissed-out you must look. “Remind me to give her a hug the next time I see her.” 

“You could just give it to me instead," he says. "I’ll pass it along.”

[hauntedhowlett-writes]

the harder the rain, the sweeter the sun

pairing: storm chaser!joel miller x storm chaser!female reader

rating: explicit (18+ MDNI)

word count: 6.5k

summary:

Storm chaser-turned-weatherman Joel Miller hunts down his old crew in an effort to serve his wife with divorce papers. When a storm interrupts his efforts, he finds himself falling back into old routines and old feelings.

A Twister (1996) AU

author’s note: are you someone, like me, who was fucking obsessed with the movie twister and at one point made it your entire personality (maybe even at too young of an age)? then this fic is for you! this may be one of my favorite fics ever and i hope you enjoy it, too. please consider reblogging or commenting or even dropping into my ask box if you like the fic, i would love to hear from you!

amazing title art by @atinylittlepain

tags/warnings: explicit sexual content (18+ only, minors do not interact), explicit language, undefined age gap, able bodied reader (actions include running, lifting, climbing), no reader physical characteristic descriptions, dual pov, established relationship, estranged marriage, mentions of divorce, alternate universe - movie: twister (1996), not a direct rewrite of the movie but pretty close, storm chaser!joel, storm chaser!reader, natural disaster action scenes, mild angst, mention of reader’s parent’s deaths, praise, dirty talk, pet names, oral (f receiving), unprotected p in v, cum eating, minor character death.

masterlists: all characters | joel miller

support for palestine

The first person to notice Joel’s truck pulling up to the makeshift weather station site is his brother, Tommy.

“Look what the cat dragged in!” He says, hands on his hips. Joel gets out of his truck and Tommy envelops him in a strong hug. “Had no idea you were comin’ out here.”

“I didn’t plan on it,” Joel admits. He waves the envelope in his hand. “But I can’t get her to sign ‘em unless I track her down myself.”

The expression on Tommy’s face drops and he nods, clearing his throat. “She’s around here somewhere.”

“Probably hiding from you,” another voice chimes. Tommy’s wife, Maria, jumps from the back of a nearby pick up truck where she had been fixing a satellite. “Welcome back, Joel.”

“I ain’t back,” he grumbles, giving her a quick hug. “How’re you, Maria?”

“Sweaty,” she replies. “Heard you got yourself a nice channel gig. Must explain the suit.”

Joel looks down at his outfit of tan slacks and a matching suit jacket over a white button up shirt. He tries to think of a response, but another familiar voice calls out his name.

“The prodigal son returns!” Tess shouts. Her short hair has grown out since the last time he’s seen her, but the ever present camera around her neck remains the same. 

He notices movement from the back of one of the vans. You emerge, wiping your hands on a grease stained rag and for a brief moment, a bolt of longing courses through him like a lightning strike. 

“Joel,” you say, a smile on your face that doesn’t reach your eyes. “Wasn’t expecting you out here.”

“You won’t answer any of my calls,” he replies. A tense silence falls over the group until Maria nudges Tommy in the ribs and drags him off while Tess mumbles an excuse about checking the radio and escapes in the other direction. “Have you looked at the papers?”

“Yeah.”

“Is there a reason you haven’t signed them?”

“Been a bit busy,” you say, gesturing to the camp. “I got something you’ll want to see.”

You brush past him and Joel sighs, rubbing a hand across his face in exasperation before turning to follow you to one of the trucks. You pull yourself up into the bed and stand beside a large metal container.

“She’s here, Joel,” you say proudly, hitting one of the buttons. The lid on the unit pops open. “ELLIE.”

“No shit?” Joel asks, climbing onto the truck for a closer look. He picks up one of the spherical sensors, holding it up for inspection. “I’ll be damned. You really did it.”

“We did it,” you respond quietly. The expression on your face is painfully familiar, that combination of pride and sadness that he’s grown accustomed to in the last few years. He murmurs your name, tries to think of something else to say, but a shout interrupts his efforts.

“We’ve got action!” Tess yells. 

The camp explodes into a flurry of movement. Equipment is packed away with speed and efficiency while anything else that isn’t fragile is tossed into the nearest truck or van. Joel watches it all and remembers when he used to be part of this machine, calling out orders and getting on the radio for coordinates as he hit the gas and peeled out in a cloud of dirt and dust.

He’s so caught up in it all that he almost forgets why he was here, and when he remembers you still haven’t signed the papers he curses, running for his truck and taking off after you down the rural roads.

“You comin’ with, brother?” Tommy’s voice crackles over his truck radio. 

“She didn’t sign!” Joel says back. 

“Keep lying to yourself, Joel!” Maria calls back. 

It’s a race against time and God, the storm clouds overhead dark and churning ominously. The air is filled with static, lightning striking in the distance. Joel can feel it all in his veins, the adrenaline thick as he keeps speed with the rest of his former crew. The honk of a horn draws his eyes to the rearview mirror, where a gleaming black Surburban is gaining speed on him.

“Son of a bitch,” he snaps. He grabs the radio. “We got company!”

The Surbuban pulls up beside him, a woman in the passenger seat that refuses to look his way. Marlene, once a lab mate of yours and Joel’s in the early days of your career, is now the face of FEDRA’s corporate sponsorship. Sold out for shiny toys, Joel once said. 

“What’s Marlene doin’ here?” Joel asks. 

“Bet she’s wondering the same thing about you!” You chime in.

The convoy of uniformed vehicles speeds past him, the old trucks his crew still uses no match for them. In his distraction, he narrowly misses a fallen tree limb, careening off the dirt road with a loud bang.

“Fuck!” He shouts. His tire has gone flat.

This is the last thing he needs.

You watch Joel through the window of the little diner you’ve all made a stop at once the storm broke up on the radar as you had been driving to catch it. He’s across the street at the mechanic to get a new tire, having driven in on the spare that Tommy circled back to help him put on. You twist the plain gold band on your finger, lost in thought.

“Hey,” Tess says, sliding onto the stool beside you. “How are you doing?”

“Fine,” you reply quickly. Her keen gaze makes you fold. “Weird. It feels weird.”

“Yeah, I know. He’s in a suit.” She takes a sip of her drink. “Never thought I’d see the day.”

“He looks good.”

“Sure, if you like ‘em with a stick up their—“

“What’s channel four doing here?” You ask, cutting her insult off. The news crew is unloading their gear from their van as the anchor speaks to Marlene, who’s gesturing to a piece of equipment that looks suspiciously similar to the culmination of your life’s work sitting in the bed of your truck. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” you snap, racing for the door. 

“This is ABBY, the first unit of its kind. It’s built to give us a look inside of the funnel, allowing more precise storm prediction that could mean a world of difference for preparation and survival,” Marlene says proudly. “Inside are hundreds of sensors that, once deployed, will spiral inside of the tornado and report back real-time, accurate measurements.”

“Hey!” Joel barks, coming up to the scene from the opposite direction. “What the hell do you think you’re doin’?”

“Cut!” The anchor yells as Joel crowds in close to Marlene.

“You really think you can get away with rippin’ off our idea?” Joel snaps. 

“I only took your idea and made it a reality,” Marlene responds, holding her hands up placatingly. “Face it, Joel. Your team doesn’t have the same resources to get this idea off the ground. Literally.” She laughs. “Besides, what are you doing here? I thought you retired.”

“That’s where you’re wrong. ELLIE isn’t just a dream anymore. We’ve got her here.”

Marlene’s smile falters. “Is that so?”

“Yep,” Joel says. “And she’s going to be the first in the air.”

“We’ll see about that, Joel.” She steps back, addressing her crew. “Pack it up. Let’s hit the road.”

You stand there together watching as they pull out of the parking lot and back onto the two lane highway. When they’ve disappeared from sight, you give Joel’s shoulder a tentative pat. 

“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” you tell him. “Hopefully you’re right.”

The look he gives you is serious, a furrow between his brow that you used to smooth with your thumb, back before things fell apart. You smile at the memory. The tension eases from his shoulders and his lips curl up the slightest bit, as if in response. 

“Sorry to interrupt,” Tommy says, breaking your attention from his brother. “But we got another development on the radar.”

“Alright, let’s get her,” you reply, breaking away from them to get to your truck. Joel is still standing there when you chance a look over your shoulder. “You just gonna stand there, or are you coming?”

“You still haven’t signed the papers!” He shouts back.

“I can sign them in the truck!”

He curses but jogs after you, coming up behind you and beating you to the driver’s door. “I’m drivin’,” he says.

“No,” you argue. “This is my truck.”

“You think I forgot how to drive this thing?”

“I think you’re out of practice!”

“You’re wastin’ time, just get in the fuckin’ truck,” he snaps. You roll your eyes and do as he says.

Some things never really change.

“You have to get ahead of it!” You shout. Hail pelts the roof of the truck and bounces off the windshield as Joel drives down the dirt road. Wind whips through the trees and lightning flashes in the fields while the clouds churn and peak at threatening speed.

“I know!” He shouts back, both hands tight on the wheel. “I can’t fuckin’ see anythin’!”

“Just cut across the field!”

“I can get us further ahead on the road!”

“We’re going to get stuck alongside it!”

“Do you want to drive?!” 

“I’d love to!”

Joel huffs, accelerating faster. The clouds gather more tightly, stretching from the sky towards the earth. He glances out of his window and catches a glimpse of the storm, his heart pounding as he watches the funnel organize. He watches it for a moment before slamming on the breaks, the truck fishtailing as it comes to a screeching halt.

“What are you doing?!”

Marlene’s team speeds by with angry honks of their horns, but Joel’s attention remains fixed on the tornado. “It’s goin’ to shift its path.”

“Are you sure?” You ask, squinting. 

“Look at it, it’s a sidewinder. It’s headin’ left,” he confirms. He throws the truck in reverse, speeding back towards the road they passed. The rest of the team has caught up and follows them down the one lane road. 

“There it goes!” You shout, smacking the dashboard in your excitement. You grab the radio. “Alright, tell us what you’ve got, Maria.”

“F2, shifting south. Repeat, shifting south. This thing is unstable,” she says, voice crackling over the speaker. “You guys have a shot but you’re going to be cutting it real close.”

You look at Joel, and he sees that spark in your eyes, the determination he’s always admired, even loved, and he knows he can’t say no. Not to you.

“Let’s get it.”

“We’re running out of time,” you tell him, binoculars held up to your eyes. “We’re not going to make it.” 

“We will,” he insists. Joel brakes after another half of a mile and you’re out of the cab before the truck even comes to a complete stop. 

The rain immediately drenches you, soaking through your clothes and wrapping you in an icy chill. You’re removing the tethers that hold ELLIE securely to the truck bed and turning the unit on when Joel joins you.

“We have to get it on the ground!” You shout, barely audible over the wind. One of the tethers is stuck, strap not coming loose from the buckle no matter how hard you pull. Joel jumps into the bed and tries to help but with the rain and wind, both of your hands keep slipping.

Joel looks up, eyes going wide. His hand wraps around your bicep, pulling. “We have to get out of here!”

“But ELLIE—“

“Now!” He shouts. 

A sound similar to a freight train reaches your ears and panic courses through your veins. Joel pulls on your arm again and this time you follow, jumping from the truck and running as fast as you can. He reaches an arm back towards you, grabbing your hand and tugging you along. He veers to the left, the two of you sliding down a muddy embankment and landing in a ditch. 

“Get up,” Joel urges, helping you to your feet. “We gotta get down over there by that bridge, come on!”

Together you trudge through the mud, wind picking up speed around you as the cyclone draws closer. You have your arm held up to shield your eyes from debris and your other hand in front of you, gripping Joel’s jacket tightly. 

You make it beneath the cover of the bridge, a slight reprieve from the wind and rain. Joel squeezes his body tightly to yours, pressing you against the dirt and shielding you from the storm. You open your eyes, peering past his shoulder to where you can see the edge of the wide tornado base and the debris it kicks up in its wake. 

Suddenly, the world grows quiet. The air goes still, the rain slows from a downpour to a shower. You can feel Joel’s chest heaving with breath against yours, cadence of it matching the pounding of your heart. He backs away slowly and lifts his hands, gently cupping your face.

“You okay?” Joel breathes, eyes searching. You wrap your hands around his wrists and nod. His thumb strokes across your cheekbone, slowly, before he releases your face. “Good. That’s…good.”

“Hey! You’re alive!” You both look up to find Tess at the top of the embankment, hands on her hips. “Tommy owes me twenty bucks!”

“He should know better than to bet against me,” Joel says. His attention returns to you. “Come on, let’s get out of here.”

Back at street level, you assess the damage. Your truck has been flipped, the ELLIE unit dented but still intact. More notably, the sensors didn’t deploy.

“Fuck,” you curse. “All of that and it didn’t even open.”

“There’s always next time,” Tess assures you.

“You know…we could all use a shower….and a meal,” Tommy says. You shoot him a look.

“No.”

“Come on,” he needles. “You’re covered in mud. We’ll need to get your truck towed somewhere for repairs.”

“I said no.”

“We haven’t had anything but shitty diner food and granola bars for four days,” Maria adds.

“You must really want a hot a meal if you’re willing to face Uncle Bill.”

“That a yes?” Tommy asks. Everyone watches you expectantly.

“Fine,” you sigh. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Joel rides in the van with Tommy and Maria while you go with Tess in her truck. It doesn’t take long to reach the familiar ranch style home that sits on four acres of farmland, complete with a barn that’s become more for show than for function in your Uncle Bill’s older age. 

When the van pulls up to the house, Bill’s husband, Frank, is outside on the porch, sitting in a rocking chair with a drink in hand. He waves as Tommy honks to announce their arrival.

The front door opens, Bill’s large frame filling the doorway. His beard has grown since the last time Joel saw him, and it seems as though his ever present frown has too. Joel watches you run up the porch steps and wrap your arms around both men, though Bill is quick to shove you off when he sees the state you’re in. Despite the reaction, Joel can see the ghost of a smile on his lips.

Joel stays towards the back of the group as they approach. He won’t go so far as to say he’s hiding, but it’s a near thing. Handshakes and hugs are exchanged right up until Bill catches sight of him.

“Joel,” he says, crossing his arms.

“Uncle Bill,” Joel replies.

“Just Bill is fine.”

Joel clears his throat, avoiding the man’s gaze. you appear behind him, breaking the tension. 

“I’m going to take a shower and then I can help you with dinner,” you tell Bill.

“Who said I was feeding you?” 

“Frank did.”

“Sorry, honey!” Frank yells from the kitchen. 

Joel escapes Bill’s attention with your distraction, darting into the kitchen to join the others. He helps Frank peel and dice potatoes while Maria and Tess make biscuits and Tommy helps Bill grill up a towering plate of steaks and burgers. Despite his outward show of annoyance, your Uncle Bill is a good guy who always takes care of the crew when they come rolling into his driveway, half starved and exhausted. 

“Didn’t expect to see you back,” Frank comments, tone light. 

“Didn’t expect to be back,” Joel replies. 

“What brings you here, then?”

“Got tired of waitin’ on her to sign the divorce papers.”

Frank hums in response and Joel braces himself for a speech but a minute passes in silence. Then two minutes. Frank sets his potato peeler down and leans his hip against the counter, facing Joel.

“It’s a real shame,” he says, shaking his head and staring out the window to where Bill and Tommy are laughing together. “You two were really good together.”

Joel doesn’t reply, because what is there to say? Frank is right. You and Joel were good together. Where Joel was hotheaded, you were calm. Where Joel took things too seriously, you were more carefree. But perhaps the greatest difference between you two was where Joel let fear stop him in his tracks, you let it drive you. 

It’s what started the arguments in the first place. He started feeling like he was getting too old, too worn out for chasing storms. He wasn’t as sharp as he used to be, not as quick, and it was starting to hang heavy over his head. Thoughts of retirement came to him more frequently and each time he brought it up, it would ignite an argument until he just didn’t have it in him to fight anymore. It was just easier to walk away.

“Shower’s free,” you announce as you enter the kitchen, no longer caked in mud. 

“My turn,” Joel says. Frank gives him a sideways glance but doesn’t say anything about his silence and swift exit.

Dinner is ready when he's finished with his shower and he takes a seat in the open chair beside you. The whole scene, the normalcy of it, makes Joel feel like a ship returning to port after rough seas. He missed this -- the inside jokes, the playful ribbing, Bill's annoyed huffs and Frank's wide eyed stare as he listens to you recount the events of the day. You even pat his knee when you notice his leg bouncing beneath the table, like the gesture is second nature, even though you haven't done it in the two years since he's left.

He helps with the dishes after everyone has finished eating and puts away what little leftovers remain. Tommy and Maria decide to go to bed in one of the guest rooms while Tess remains in the living room, watching a rerun of Jeopardy with Frank. Joel notices that you're nowhere to be found, but he has a feeling he knows exactly where you've gone.

He leaves the house through the back door, heading through the field towards the barn. The sun is setting, casting everything in an orange glow as the sky begins to turn shades of purple instead of blue. The old wooden doors creak as he pries them open and steps inside the building, the smell of hay hitting him in the face like a wall.

There's a loft, accessible by a ladder, that he knows you've made your own. It's been your escape ever since you were a kid, when you came to live with your Uncle Bill after a storm that destroyed your home and ripped your parents from you. He climbs up to the loft, hoisting himself onto the platform.

You're sitting on the wood floor, a quilt from the house spread out beneath you. You’ve brought a lamp up with you, warm light beating back the rapidly oncoming darkness. You look up when he stands.

“Hey,” he says, stepping closer. He kneels onto the quilt with you.

“Hey.”

You shift your weight until you’re lying on your back and Joel does the same beside you, his shoulder brushing yours. You’re both quiet for a long moment, sounds from the field drifting in through the cracks in the wood. 

“When will it be enough?” Joel finally asks. You sigh.

“Not this again,” you complain. 

“What is it about retirement that scares you so damn much?”

“Retirement doesn’t scare me. I could take the easy way out, too. I could make a pretty little weather woman for some local news channel, but that’s not what I want. It’s never been what I want.” You take a deep breath. “So stop acting surprised that I won’t change for you or anyone else, for that matter. And if that’s something that you can’t love about me—“

“It ain’t about not lovin’ you. I love you. I have always loved you. I will always love you,” he interrupts, lifting himself so that he can look at your face. Your eyes are glassy, streaks of wetness stretching from the corners to your temple. “But I can’t ever be enough for you.”

Your expression changes, shifting from sadness to surprise to anger. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“I’m gettin’ older, I’m not as good at this gig as I used to be.”

“That’s why you left? Because you think you’re…what? Holding us back?”

“Wasn’t I?”

“No! You big fucking idiot,” you snap. “I can’t believe this.” You sit up, shoving his shoulder and knocking him onto his back. You throw your leg over him, settling over his lap. His hands settle on your thighs, a reflex that hasn’t faded. Your expression is stern as you stare down at him. “You will always have a place with us. With me.”

Joel lets your words sink in, the light of them illuminating the dark parts of his mind that had convinced him you were better off without him. He slides a hand up your belly, over your chest, curling it around the back of your neck and urging you forward.

You come to him easily, your lips finding his.

It feels like coming home.

Joel’s mouth is eager as he kisses you, devours you, hands hot on your skin and leaving goosebumps in their wake. You missed this, the feeling of being consumed by him, from your body and down to your soul. 

He rolls the two of you over, easing you down onto your back and hovering over you. You gaze up at him, noting the deeper creases by his eyes and the grey that has started to become more prominent in his hair and the only thought that comes to you is how beautiful he is. 

Joel leaves wet kisses on your neck in three spots — just below your ear, right over your pulse, and just above your clavicle, a pattern he established years ago. The warm air chills the spots he’s left behind as he moves lower, down your chest, pushing up your shirt to give the same attention to your belly. It makes your stomach flip, the way he peeks up at you with dark eyes when he reaches the waist of your jeans. 

Instead of moving lower, his focus returns to your breasts. He moves the cups of your bra down to reveal your tight nipples, warm tongue circling each bud in turn. You squirm beneath his weight, cry out when his teeth scrape the sensitive skin. You can feel the smile that graces his lips.

“Still so sensitive,” he says. You gently whack his head in retaliation. “Quit it. Be a good girl or you won’t get your reward.”

“Yes, sir,” you murmur. 

“That’s it, knew you could be good for me.” He squeezes your breast in one large hand. “Just needed the right motivation.”

He sits back on his heels and makes quick work of unbuttoning your pants, tugging the zipper down before curling his fingers into the waistband and dragging them down your thighs along with your underwear. Barrier discarded, he settles on his belly between your thighs, face close enough to your core that you can feel the quick brush of his breath on your needy cunt. You wiggle your hips, hoping to spur him into action, but a strong arm holds you still and you let out a low whine.

“What’s the matter, pretty girl?” Joel asks, fingers lightly tracing your skin. “Somethin’ you want? Somethin’ you need?”

“You,” you mumble.

“Louder.”

“You, Joel.”

He kisses your inner thigh, stubble scratching the sensitive skin and making you shiver. Your breath catches in anticipation as he draws nearer to your heat. 

The first swipe of his tongue through your folds is like a bolt of lightning to your system, every nerve ending lighting up and your blood coursing hot in your veins. He starts off slow, just the way you like it, broad circles over your clit until you’re squirming in his hold. Then he dips lower, thrusting the tip of his tongue inside of you while his nose continues to nudge your aching clit. 

He brings you to the very edge of release before backing off, just enough that you don’t tip over before he’s ready for you to. It drives you crazy, has you cursing his name and begging for him in equal measure, but he’s nothing if not stubborn, generous yet greedy.

“Joel,” you cry, his name a plea. “Are you going to let me come?”

“Of course, sweetheart,” he says. His chin is shiny with with spit and slick when he looks up, eyes a little wild and hair messy from your fingers. “But not yet.”

“Fuck!” You snap, head dropping to the wood floor with a thud as he presses two thick fingers inside of you, curling them with each drag from your body.  His mouth rejoins the effort, lips wrapping around your clit. It’s too much and so good, that wave of pleasure finally coursing through you as you shatter from his ministrations.

He works you through it, tongue gentle and fingers stilling inside of you, your cunt pulsing around them. When your muscles finally relax, he sits up, holding his hand up to your face and pressing his fingers to your lips. You open your mouth obediently, the earthy taste of your release exploding across your taste buds as you lick the digits clean.

“Missed this,” Joel murmurs, watching you intently. “Missed you.”

“Missed you,” you reply. You reach your hand up, running it down his chest until you’re cupping the prominent bulge in his jeans. “Missed this, too.”

He laughs, shoulders shaking with the force of it. It pulls a smile from you, your beautiful man so carefree, no sign of that troubled wrinkle between his brows and his cheeks flushed with life, the same way they are when he’s coming down from the adrenaline of a chase. He unbuttons his jeans, shimmies the denim down just enough to free his cock.

Joel grips himself at the base, flushed head peeking from his fist. He teases your entrance, slipping his length through your wetness and bumping your still sensitive clit. Your back arches and a moan escapes your lips, one that Joel echoes himself as he slowly, slowly, slowly pushes inside of your tight heat.

“Joel,” you whisper, fingers curling tight into the quilt beneath you. “Joel.”

“I know,” he says. “God, I know.”

When his hips are flush with yours, he leans forward, elbows on either side of your head propping himself up. His cock fills you so perfectly, the stretch almost too much to bear as he starts to move. Each purposeful thrust has you seeing stars, has you gasping and moaning his name. He silences you with his lips, so messy and uncoordinated it can hardly be called a kiss. You clench around him, desperate to keep him inside of you with each drag from your body. 

“Feel so fuckin’ good,” Joel groans. “Can you come for me, baby? One more time?”

“Mhm,” you hum. He picks up the pace, quick strokes that hit your g-spot with impressive precision. You feel the knot of your release grow tighter, tighter, until it finally unravels, every nerve ending lighting up like you’ve been struck by lightning. You wrap your arms around his shoulders, holding him close as he presses deep, cock twitching and spilling inside of you.

Joel presses his forehead to yours as you both catch your breath, sweat cooling on your skin as minutes pass. When he lifts his head and stares down at you, it’s with a smile on his face.

“That was—“

“Yeah,” you agree. “See? You still got it, old man.”

“Nevermind, I still want a divorce.”

You laugh, loud and carefree. For the first time in years, you feel a sense of peace.

A sense of home.

The two of you get caught in an unexpected downpour as you leave the barn and Joel follows the sound of your laughter as you run through the field back to the main house. Inside, you press a kiss to Joel’s lips, water dripping to the floor beneath you. You’re smiling and he swears he’s never felt more alive, even when chasing the biggest storm.

When you break apart, you whisper that you’re going to take another shower and change. Joel tells you he’s going to clean up the mess to avoid Bill’s wrath. Another kiss, and another, until you finally break away and shut yourself in the bathroom down the hall. He stands there for a moment, lost in thought, until the sound of the shower running spurs him into motion and he goes to search for a towel to clean up the water that’s pooled in the hallway.

As he passes by the living room, heading for the linen closet, he notices the TV is on, the room illuminated in its flickering glow. He stops in the doorway and Frank looks up at him, a knowing smile on his face.

Joel smiles back.

For now, it’s their little secret.

The next day, Bill deems your truck operational. It has a fresh new set of dents and scratches, but it’ll otherwise drive despite the abuse. You spend some time inspecting the unit and determine the lid latch is a little too secure, which explains why the sensors couldn’t deploy. Joel helps you loosen the bolts, the simple task taking twice as long with how often he distracts you when your crew members aren’t looking. You replace the latch with another tether strap that can be quickly released on deployment.

When all is said and done, everyone takes turns saying goodbye to your uncles. Frank tells you to be safe and Bill tells you to not be stupid, which is essentially the same thing. You watch as Joel receives a handshake from Bill that’s a tad too firm, if the grimace on his face is anything to go by. 

“Alright, let’s head out,” Maria says, eyes scanning a computer screen. “Radar’s got something forming about twenty miles north of here.”

“What kind of something?” You ask.

“A big something.”

Joel catches your eye and gives you a wink. 

“Let’s go get ELLIE into the air.”

The sky ahead of you is pitch black, clouds churning ominously. There’s a certain liminality when you’re driving into a storm that never ceases to amaze you, the image in the rearview mirror bright with sunlight but a foreboding darkness ahead of you. 

“You okay?” Joel asks, drawing your attention. His hand rests on your thigh, fingers tapping against your knee. “Not gettin’ cold feet, are you?”

“About this?” You nod towards the sky. “Never.”

“That’s my girl.”

“Guys? You won’t believe this,” Maria says over the radio. You grab the transmitter.

“What is it?” You ask.

“There’s two cells. Radar maxed out.” 

“They’re funneling back,” Tess adds. “This isn’t looking good.”

“You saying we can’t do it?” You ask.

The radio is quiet for a moment before Tommy says, “If anyone can, it’s you two.”

“What are we up against?” Joel asks.

“Cell one is measuring at the cusp of a three, cell two is reaching four,” Maria continues.

“Joel.” You tap his arm. “Look.”

A funnel has formed ahead of you, still teetering in the air and not quite making contact with the ground. It’s only a few miles ahead and Joel hits the brakes as he takes it in. 

“What’s the trajectory of this?” He asks.

“Northeast.”

It’s heading your way. You both scramble from the truck, climbing into the bed to prepare ELLIE — Joel removing the tethers while you turn the unity on. The wind picks up speed as you work, dust from the road whipping around you and making it difficult to see.

“Let’s get her down!” Joel shouts. He jumps to the ground and together you ease the equipment onto the ground, removing the lid tether. After what feels like ages, ELLIE is ready and you both return to the truck.

Joel turns the truck around and drives in the opposite direction of the cyclone’s path. He stops and you can hardly breath as you watch the storm tear across the landscape.

“This is it!” Tess shouts through the radio. 

You grab Joel’s hand as the funnel nears ELLIE, the wind making the unit shift and sway. You swallow nervously.

“It’s too light,” you murmur. 

“No it’s not,” Joel says confidently. 

Closer and closer the funnel moves, but ELLIE doesn’t lift from the ground. You’re biting your lip so hard that the taste of copper blooms across your tongue.

“We’ve got a shift!” Maria says. “We’ve got a shift, due north. Due north.”

“Fuck!” Joel shouts, slamming a hand on the steering wheel.

“Guess who just showed up?” Tommy adds.

Far across the field, a familiar caravan of black vehicles speeds towards the cyclone. 

“What channel are they using?” You ask. There’s a brief silence until Tess calls back, “Six. Why?”

You switch the channel. “Marlene, you have to anchor the unit.”

“I’m a little busy right now,” she calls back. “Trying to make history over here.”

“Listen to me. Unless you manage to position your unit right under a touchdown, it’s not going to get picked up. And if it doesn’t pick up, it doesn’t deploy.”

“Maybe that’s just an issue with your unit. I can assure you ABBY will succeed where ELLIE failed.”

“Goddamnit,” you snap, tossing the transmitter down. 

“Can’t fix stupid,” Joel says. He hits the gas, bringing the truck back to ELLIE. “Let’s load her back up, maybe we can catch the second cell.”

Pack loaded once more, you return to the cab. Joel is about to put the park in drive when you place a hand over his chest. 

“Do you see what I see?” You ask.

Joel watches the twister, then Marlene’s team. He grabs the radio. 

“Marlene, listen to me. That monster is going to shift and if it does, you’re in the path of destruction and that base is too wide for you to get out of there. You have to hang back now.”

“Radar isn’t showing a shift. I’m not missing this chance,” Marlene replies.

“You gotta look at the funnel action, too. Not just the radar. You’re goin’ to get yourself killed!”

“Clear this channel, Joel. I’ve got work to do.”

“Fuck!” Joel snaps. 

Sure enough, the cyclone shifts its path, a minute change with dire consequences for Marlene and her team. The twister barrels toward the caravan, vehicles lifting from the ground. 

“Oh my god,” you whisper, bringing a hand up to cover your mouth. 

“I know,” he says. His throat bobs around a pained swallow. “We did what we could.”

Joel switches the radio back to your team’s channel, a flurry of panicked voices filling the cab. Maria’s voice snaps your name.

“Do you read me? The second cell has organized, five miles east moving north along 80.”

“Copy that,” you say as Joel drives in her suggested direction. “What’s it looking like?”

“Too soon to tell but the cloud base is massive.”

Joel drives parallel to Maria’s path suggestion, racing to get ahead of the storm. The funnel begins to form, dropping down from the restless clouds. It’s one of the biggest you’ve seen, more of a column of wind than a tapered cyclone. The strength of it grows as it hits the warm air, touching down with a contact point as wide as the funnel base.

“Wind speed is measuring at an estimated 270 miles per hour. We’ve found ourselves an F5,,” Maria says. “She’s slow, but strong. Movement only measuring at ten miles per hour, still heading east.”

Joel changes direction, heading towards the storm from the back, rather than trying to get ahead of it. 

“ELLIE needs an anchor,” you remind him.

“I know,” he says, looking over at you. “I’m giving her one.”

“We’re using the truck?”

“You got a better idea?”

“No, no, go ahead. Can’t wait to explain this one to insurance.” You unbuckle your seatbelt and take the radio one more time. “We’re sending the truck up with ELLIE. If this works, get ready for the best data in history.”

“Roger that,” Tess replies. “Ready for the feed.”

Another mile ahead, Joel gets the truck speed up to fifty miles per hour before setting the cruise control. He unbuckles his seat belt and you follow suit, throwing the passenger door open and holding onto the grab handle.

“One,” Joel shouts. “Two!”

“Three!” You finish, jumping from the cab. You hit the ground hard, rolling through your landing, the air punched from your lungs. When you’ve caught your breath, you get yourself on your hands and knees, frantically searching for Joel.

He’s kneeling in the road, watching as the truck continues to barrel towards the twister. You crawl to him and he pulls you close, an arm around your waist to hold you up beside him.

“Go, go, go!” He shouts. 

The sound of brakes squealing has you looking back over your shoulder to see your team has arrived. They gather behind you, Tess snapping photos at rapid speeds, Tommy recording video, and Maria’s eyes glued to her computer. You look ahead, just in time to watch the truck disappear into the swirling mass of debris.

Everyone is silent for a long moment, waiting. Watching. Hoping.

“I’m getting a read!” Maria shouts. “She’s up! ELLIE is flying!”

“Oh my god,” you murmur. “Joel, we did it.”

“You did it, baby,” he says. 

The twister doesn’t last long. Its power wanes, the cyclone breaking up and retreating back into the sky. You have no idea where your truck has landed, but you don’t care. You and Joel stand up, your legs shaky from the rush of adrenaline. He takes your face in his hands, pulling you into a kiss.

“You owe me one hundred dollars, Tommy!” Tess shouts.

Joel pulls away with a laugh. “What did I tell you about bettin’ against me?”

“Does this mean you’re back?” Maria asks.

The arm around your waist tightens, pulling you closer.

“Yeah,” he says, smiling. “I’m back.”

[makeyoumine69]

Till Death Do Us Part (Chapter One)

PAIRING: Patrick Bateman x Innocent!Fem!Reader; [no y/n]

SUMMARY: After moving in with Patrick Bateman in his luxurious Upper Manhattan apartment, it didn't take long for you to get into trouble, as your future husband couldn't stand anyone being bossy in his own home.

CONTAINS: Arranged marriage & enemies to lovers trope, explicit sexual content, violence, mild gore, dub-con, Patrick being a dick, drugging, toxic behavior, dirty talk.

WORDS: 3.3k

A/N: Here's the first chapter of the writing project I've been working on for the past few months! I hope you enjoy the journey!

LINKS: [MASTERLIST]; [SERIES MASTERLIST]; [AO3].

Life is such an amazing thing.

Sometimes it can bring us challenges that seem impossible, but what doesn't kill us makes us stronger. Do people always say things like that? Well, maybe they do, but in your case, that was exactly what your family told you the day you found out that you had to marry Patrick Bateman—a ghost from your past, a boy who used to bully you, then an arrogant Harvard student best known for the number of girls he fucked.

Not to mention how much you hated him and everything associated with him whenever your mother tried to start a conversation about the good old days when you were a kid playing with Patty, ah, the childhood nickname you used to call him. It all felt like memories from your past life, not your present one.

How you were going to survive it all now, only God knew.

1987, New York.

Patrick stared down at your sleeping form on his couch, a plastic cover over the expensive fabric you slept on. It had been a few days since you had moved into his apartment. The man remembered clearly when his mother told him about the arranged marriage. It had happened a few days after she had told him about his breakup with Evelyn. The whole situation made him angry. Patrick never wanted to get married, and if he had to, it certainly wouldn't be to a girl like you. Memories of your moments together during childhood and high school flashed through his mind. They were pretty blurry—just like any other memory of his, but he knew that there weren't any positive memories. 

Patrick ran his hand over his face, an exasperated sigh escaping his lips. He tore his eyes away from you and moved quickly into the kitchen, tying his robe tighter around his waist. 'She's not even blonde,' he thought bitterly as he began his routine of brewing a fresh pot of expensive coffee.

The sudden sound of the coffee maker made you jerk back onto the couch, but the moment you opened your eyes, a bitter realization washed over you like a tidal wave—this was not a dream and you were really in Patrick Bateman's apartment. And you were about to marry him, which was actually the worst thing that could happen to you.

Carefully, you got up from the soft furniture and went to the kitchen to check on your future husband, trying to pretend to be a good fiancée, just like your family wanted you to be. "Good morning," you mumbled as you watched him take the ice mask out of the fridge. "Did you sleep well?"

You bet he did, because unlike you, he slept in the big comfortable bed while you slept on the couch, although it was your choice, but at least you expected him to be a gentleman and offered to take his bed, which never happened.

Slightly annoyed, Patrick kept his focus on the coffee pot, his gaze fixed on the way the coffee grounds turned to liquid. He tensed noticeably when he heard a second voice and turned to look at his future wife. Blegh. 'Actually, I didn't sleep at all, Rebecca. I spent all night chopping up a hard body in the back alley of Barcadia,' he thought to himself, his face stoic. "I slept well." He spoke, his voice steady with a hint of annoyance. 

The pot banged, letting him know it was ready. He mechanically grabbed a mug from the cupboard and poured himself one, dropping two Xanax pills into it before taking a sip. The bitter liquid slid down his throat, calming his nerves and replacing the usual mask he wore. The man spun around to face you. "There should be some oat bran in the top cupboard…but I think you could stand to skip a few meals." He smiled, his eyes remaining empty as they bored into you.

Frowning, you rolled your eyes at his comment and turned to leave the kitchen. "I'm not hungry."

‘What a fucking arrogant bastard,’ you cursed and went back to the living room where you noticed a magazine with wedding dresses. God, now you remembered that you probably fell asleep reading that stupid magazine with the ugly dresses—they really were ugly and you didn't care if they were high fashion.

When you saw him join you in the living room, you tried to ignore him at first, but then you heard the sound of clothes being taken off—the sight of Bateman's perfect body clad only in white underwear embarrassed you, but you still didn't move.

"I had a thought—maybe we can postpone our wedding a little?" You asked suddenly, looking at him as he began to stretch out on the floor. "I have exams in my internship and I need to prepare for them."

For a while, the only sound in the room was Patrick's heavy panting as he began to do crunches, the way his muscles tensed with each movement, stirring something strange in your core that made you claw at your skin to distract yourself.

"No, negative." Bateman spoke, not bothering to look at you. "Your family and my family were very specific about the date," the man said before moving onto his back and doing crunches. He huffed as he moved, his abdominal muscles tensing and flexing. As he worked himself up, he suddenly stopped and huffed, moving to sit on the floor. "Why don't you make yourself useful and put in that Texas Chainsaw Massacre tape?" He asked, pointing at the TV; his eyes then drifted to the magazine. "You might as well pick something. If you don't, we'll just dress you in a cinched garbage bag. An expensive garbage bag."

With a wry smile, you scoffed at his statement about the wedding and dressing up in an expensive garbage bag. But the last thing you wanted to do was argue with him when you had to work and study today.

"Garbage bag doesn't sound bad from what I've seen in this magazine," you commented briefly, getting up to turn on the TV. "I don't understand why this wedding is even necessary. I'll survive if I don't get my picture on the front page of the Times." Your muttering was soon interrupted by the sound of the movie.

You looked at the cover of the Texas Chainsaw Massacre tape for a while—it looked pretty scary, but cool, and you were genuinely curious why Bateman was so obsessed with movies like that.

"Do you watch anything else besides horror movies?" Your tone was artificially friendly because inside you didn't really care. "I mean…I don't think it's weird, just…asking."

Bateman watched you move before quickly grabbing the remote from the table. He started tapping the forward button and watched as the scenes on the TV flashed by. Frowning, the man sighed when you started complaining again. "The wedding is necessary because both our families want it. Why is that so hard for you to understand?" He asked condescendingly, his focus shifting from the TV to you. You were attractive, he supposed—nice tits, a full ass, an…okay face. But he knew he could do better. 

Patrick looked back at the TV before it played his favorite scene—near the end of the movie where the final girl screamed bloody murder as Leatherface wielded a chainsaw over her head. The sound was like music to him. He paused the tape to answer your question. 'Porn,' he wanted to say, but instead he said, "I don't know…maybe…not really." Then he turned off the TV and got back on the floor. 

Something about the scene seemed to rile him up, because he started doing his stomach crunches much faster. Small beads of sweat ran down his temples as he groaned softly until he finished—doing 50 in just one minute. Then Bateman moved over to start doing push-ups, the muscles in his back rippling through his skin. He paused for a moment before sighing and stopping his routine. "Price and Daisy," he paused again, unsure if that was the name of Price's new girlfriend. Maybe it was Carmen? Dalila? He couldn't remember and frankly, he didn't give a shit. "Um, they have reservations for four at Barcadia…tonight at 7:00. So…you know…try to wear something nice."

Abashed, you almost dropped the pencil at your fiancé's request. "Something nice?" You repeated, looking down at your medical book. "You mean wear something that makes me look like a slut?"

With a muffled chuckle, you put the book down on the coffee table and lay back on the white couch. You were completely indifferent to social life, in your opinion it was just a waste of time and money, and you never understood why your family was so obsessed with it.

"Who is Price? I don't even remember all your 'friends'," you grimaced at the last word and kicked your legs in the air. "You can take Courtney instead of me or any of those other chicks you always hung out with."

Memories of the Harvard years flooded your mind without permission. Patrick, surrounded by an endless number of girls, walking in front of the main building. Damn it! Why did you even remember all that shit? But then another memory came to your mind, there was a charity banquet your family attended where you finally met Bethany, the girl Patrick had been dating since they were at Harvard. Bethany was so beautiful and slim, just like the model. 

Caught up in your thoughts, you seemed to miss what Bateman was saying. "If you said something, could you please repeat it?"

Patrick furrowed his brow, the lines in his face creasing slightly as he frowned. "I'd rather have a slutty wife than someone who looks homeless." He scoffed and stopped working out, deciding that he was done with his exercise routine. His face suddenly felt very heavy, as if the small amount of oil was wearing him down. He had to wash up immediately.

"Timothy Price-" Bateman spoke as he quickly walked into the bathroom, leaving the door open to answer any more tedious questions you might have. He casually opened his medicine cabinet and began to scrub his face with his expensive ointments. "A dress will be here in a few hours. I want you to try it on. If it doesn't fit, call my tailor. His number is on my nightstand." The man shouted, put the mask on his face and let it sit for a few minutes. 

When Patrick heard your ranting again, he groaned in exasperation. He quickly stormed out of the bathroom, the shiny mask still on his face. Bateman grabbed your hair in his fist and pulled it, tugging your head back so you could make eye contact with him. "You…get…dressed." He spoke slowly, slowing it down for you. "If the dress doesn't fit, call a tailor." Patrick pointed to his bedroom door and let go of your hair.

Bateman's sudden anger scared you to death, but you didn't even make a sound. It was only after he released you and returned to the bathroom that you allowed yourself to sob barely audibly, covering your face with your hands.

‘I don't want this marriage. Fuck, I should have accepted to marry Vincent when I had the chance, but my stupid family would never allow me to marry an ordinary man, not a fucking billionaire.’

Crying, you stood up on shaky legs, wanting to wait for Patrick to leave and call your ex-boyfriend or maybe your brother. You hugged yourself before slowly sneaking into the kitchen to get a glass of water. Unfortunately, your hands were shaking so badly that you splashed water all over the kitchen counter and floor. A paralyzing fear of his rage made you panic, and you had to quickly find something to clean up. When you couldn't find anything and heard his approaching footsteps, you decided to act desperately and before you knew it, you took off your top, leaving yourself exposed as you were not wearing a bra. Then, you crouched down to clean the floor with your fucking shirt. You didn't care because it was just a piece of cloth; his anger was much more frightening.

Irritated as hell, Patrick went back to the bathroom, his angry expression returning to his stoic one. He hardly thought about his sudden act of violence. It was the only way to get you to listen, but he couldn't deny that he got a little thrill out of it. 

As the man peeled off the mask, he thought about what would happen if he pulled a little harder. If he broke your fucking neck and chopped you up and threw your parts in a river. Or maybe he could nail you to the ground and let a bunch of hungry wild pigs eat you until there was nothing left. He soon finished peeling off the mask, crumpled it up in his hand, and threw it away. 

A short time later, Bateman came out of the bathroom and made a beeline for the kitchen. He noticed that you were no longer on the couch, which annoyed him. The thing that annoyed him most about you living with him was the lack of control he had. You could just do whatever you wanted and go into any room. Touch all his possessions. Patrick stopped in the doorway, his eyes widening slightly at the sight; his eyes trailed down your body, your curves. The man felt a sudden heat between his legs, his boxers suddenly feeling tighter. 'Damn it,' he thought. Aroused, Patrick ran his fingers through his disheveled hair, deciding what to do. A small smile tugged at the corner of his lips as he had an idea. Maybe now he could show you who was really in control. Smirking, he stepped closer to you, his crotch in your line of sight. He stepped on your shirt, stopping your movements. "Worry about that later…if you're going to strip in my house, you should do it in the bedroom." Bateman spoke quietly, pulling up his boxers. "Go." He pointed to his bedroom again.

As soon as you heard his voice, you instinctively covered your breasts and glanced up at his almost naked form—he looked even bigger from that angle.

"Don't touch me," you whimpered suddenly, crawling back a little. "Say what you want, but please don't touch me." You used Bateman's confusion to slowly get to your feet, leaving your wet top on the floor as you didn't dare ask him to let you take it. 

'Gosh, his eyes are literally glowing with rage. Or maybe it's not anger?' A brief thought flashed through your mind as you retreated into his bedroom without turning around.

In the bedroom, you sat carefully on the edge of his large bed, picked up a random robe and tried not to think about how many women had been fucked here, as you were about to throw up from such a realization. Patrick didn't follow, so you sighed with relief, thinking that he would probably leave you alone—finally. And that meant that your plan to call her ex-boyfriend was still relevant.

Meanwhile, after watching you leave, Bateman quickly opened his cupboard, grumbling as he shoved food away. "Where's that…" he muttered before grabbing the drugs he was looking for. Ecstasy. Perfect. Patrick then took out a flute-shaped wine glass and poured his most expensive champagne, placing two pills inside and watching them dissolve. The man knew that you probably wouldn't be very… willing with what he wanted to do—not without help. 

Soon Bateman walked into the bedroom and saw you on the bed. With an artificial affection, he handed you the glass, a warm smile on his face. "Here. It's my most expensive brand. It's a... peace offering for what I did to your hair." The man purred, touched one of your locks, twisted it around his finger and pulled away. "My behavior can be…erratic at times." 

There was something strange about his sudden tenderness, but you felt too upset to think clearly. Scared of his recent rage, you took the glass and before you decided to try it, you gazed at him, knowing that something bad was going to happen, but you didn't really have a choice.

"It's very…very sweet," you commented, looking at the glass and licking your lips. "Is it supposed to be that sweet?" Frowning, you studied him with your big doe eyes before closing them for a moment. The taste of this chapmange was very strange, even after you drank more. "Aren't you going to drink as well?" You asked, feeling your head start to spin.

Snickering mischievously, Bateman watched you drink and nodded. "Of course, but I'm sure you've never had this brand. It's quite high-end." He confidently turned away from you and walked over to the camera on the tripod, pointed directly at the bed. The man pressed the record button, a tradition he had for every session. It didn't matter if it was a random prostitute or his future wife. 

Then he moved to a dresser on the other side of the room and opened the drawer. His finger brushed against the objects inside: three different knives, a bent coat hanger, matchsticks, dildos, vibrators, lube, and a box of condoms. He took the box out, leaving the drawer open for later. "I'm not thirsty," Patrick remarked. "Besides, I have to be at work in a few hours. I really can't get drunk." He smiled and sat down beside you again, running his fingers down your back, feeling your spine through your skin. "You have a really nice body."

Stunned, you shivered at his sudden touch. "W-what are you doing?" You asked, but didn't flinch.

'God, how many times did I imagine us like this in college? How many times had I imagined being his wife? And now my life had decided to punish me in such a cruel way because the boy I'd fallen in love with since childhood was a completely different man, and now I had to marry him.'

Bateman sneered suddenly, his warm expression turning to one of annoyance. "Nothing. Can't I touch my fiancé? Or are you one of those…after-marriage women?" Patrick smiled again. He didn't think he'd ever want to be intimate with you, but you really did have a nice body. Besides, he'd have to get used to it.

"Mmh, I shouldn't drink too, because I have to go to the hospital today…" you mumbled and turned to face him, only to gasp at how close he was. "Patrick…what's in that box?" You pointed at the small box in his hands.

The man laughed and jabbed his finger at the glass in her hand. "You've already drunk half of it!" Patrick murmured in an amused tone. "I'll call for you. I'll tell them you have a cold. Then he looked down at the box in his hand and shook it. "Condoms. You probably don't want to look pregnant at the wedding. It'll ruin the photos and stretch out your dress." Bateman leaned closer to you. "I think you and I should…you know…get it on. What do you think? If you're going to marry me, you might as well get used to my cock."

"Did you say…cock?" You almost choked on your drink. "We...we didn't even share a bed, and you're suggesting we have...sex?"

The champagne seemed to begin to cloud your mind and you didn't even notice that you had finished your glass. Then, all of a sudden, you tried to get up, but almost fell to the floor.

It was over. It was so fucking over.

P.S. Thank you for reading until the end! I don’t have a taglist. You can follow my side blog @makeyoumineagain and turn on notifications to know when I update!

[tarjapearce]

Unfit

Warning: Just fluffin' and mild angst.

Summary: Mama isn't feeling well. Comfort ensues.

A/N: Was under the seasonal blues and wrote this. ~ Hugs if you're not doing that good as well. ❤️

Rain had been waning through the day only to return full force on bed time. Sometimes you wished to have Rosie's or Benjamin's deep sleep. Even Gabriella's. But all you could muster was to sit on the bed's edge and let the heavy emotional toll that had crept like a crawler in your head, to hang. Just like your head and your slumping shoulders.

Be it the weather or your recurrent thoughts about the many things that had transpired in your life to sit before you, in half a circle. Ready to throw their worst at your mind. You felt like being the object of their judging and scrutinizing gaze.

Family, followed by fears, next to it anxiety, and in the last seat, insecurities. Their presence alone had made you grip the bed's edge with such force you could feel the sturdy springs.

A shaky breath gave a green flag to your tears, allowing them to slid down your flushed cheeks. The past few days had been rough on your head, if not the whole week. But motherhood had grope you by the neck so tightly and kept you as busy as ever, you had forgotten on how to process your emotions correctly.

Ironic as it was you were always encouraging your own children and even Miguel to do so. And sometimes, like right now, your emotional needs were too loud to be neglected any further.

The rain's tempo increased, letting a rumble tear through the sky and light it up with a lightning. Miguel entered the room, slipping into a red flannel, his favorite, but stopped in his tracks upon seeing you.

Wobbly shoulders, silent sobs and sniffs and the sheets crumpled underneath your fisted hands on the mattress.

"Mi amor?"

His voice forced to wipe the tears instantly, allowing the cushioned surface to breath for a moment, and still you were unable to face him. The bed dipped behind you under his weight, his hand reached for your defeated shoulders, maneuvering you with such care and gentleness that had you at the brink of breaking again.

It was only when you were embraced by him, smothered in his arms and chest that you broke. His muscles tensed for a second upon hearing you so distressed. Had he done something? No. It wasn't him. It was something more complex than that.

He shushed you while his hands ran through your hair, reassuring, comfortingly smooth. His lips kissed your forehead, making the silent affirmation of being there for you. His other hands rubbed small circles on your back, coaxing the calm that had hid behind your surfacing messy feelings.

"Wanna talk about it?"

His voice a soft murmur. You nodded.

A few more tears were shed before you tried to settle the shaky and brokenness in your own voice at bay. Your nose sniffled as your lip quivered.

"I... I feel overwhelmed. Afraid and tired."

His thumbs wiped away the fresh tears and looked at you, coaxing you to continue.

"I feel so unfit in so many levels it's ridiculous." You heaved, trying to ease the knot in your throat, "I feel like I'm not being a good mother, that... Im not a good person to be around sometimes, so unfit for you."

He frowned but listened. Bloodshot eyes turning glossy once more

"I know you love me to death but... sometimes my head play such dirty tricks on me is stupid how easy I let them win." Your lids dropped for a moment before let your eyes resume their stare on him.

"I feel so overwhelmed at little things, that shouldn't have that effect on me. Cause you're always there, reminding me  of how amazing I am, but my brain it's simply unable to grasp around it."

The lump in your throat engorged, making it difficult to breath.

" I feel unfit for being a mother cause it's hard. I love my babies to death, but I can't help but feel that I'm slacking at something and... and...-"

His arms squeezed you gently and held you closer, hiding for a second your trembling face in the crook of his neck.

"I'm so sorry to be just bawling over stupid thoughts and making you stay up later than usual."

"Mi reina." His tone was firm, yet soft, fingers reached for your chin making you to gaze at him once more, "You have nothing to apologize for."

He sighed and removed an unruly strand out of your face.

"I sometimes feel this exact way too. I feel a shitty husband, that I'm not properly taking my role as your friend, and so many other similar things. But"

He inhaled, making you mimick him.

"By the end of the day they are nothing but thoughts. I know it's hard to fight them. Hell, feel kinda hypocritical right now by saying this but-" He smooched you.

"You are not your thoughts, cariño."

His words were the balm your broken spirit craved. And it craved it badly.

"I can't help but feel like every day is a bad day. Gabi has grown so fast I'm... starting to dread her teenage phase."

"We all have bad days. Today is one of them too, nothing wrong in that. And she'll be good. We've raised her well."

Your head was shaken with a weak nod.

"As for being a bad mother, cómo es que dicen los jovenes?" (How do youngsters say it?)

His bushy eyebrows squinted as he tried to remember to then lit up at getting it, "You... Uh... You tripping?"

That earned him a little giggle from you, his eyes softened at the gesture.

"Dios mío, don't say that again." You couldn't hold back an ugly snort.

"No Cap. Just fax."

You cringed and giggled in between little hiccups.

"Fax? What are you even talking about?"

He spoke in between titters and silent laughs, but the idiocy of it all had made you laugh and curl up closer.

"You gotta slay my queen."

"Stop, oh my god"

"Pero ya, hablando en serio." (But hey, talking in all seriousness) He cleared his throat and cupped your cheeks.

"You're the best mom, wife, woman and best friend I could ever have. And I'm a blessed man to have you and my little spiders."

"Even if they are so..."

"Annoying at times? yeah. They are. No judgement here. Parenting is hard."

You nodded a bit too enthusiastically.

"Nothing wrong with admitting we get tired from time to time."

"I wished we could have vacations from it."

Your tears had been long dry, but your face remained on his chest.

"We will, once Rosie is a bit more grown. How about that?"

"I'd love to, yeah."

"Go to a girl's night with Jessica and MJ in the meantime. I'll handle the kids."

"Really?"

"Claro. Can't have my wife feeling shitty and do nothing about it."

Miguel kissed your forehead once more and squeezed you in his arms.

"You're always taking care of us that you often tend to forget about yourself."

"Learned that from you" You half chuckled and he swatted your head gently.

"No aprendas mañas." (Don't learn the bad things)

You giggled and he caressed your cheek gently. Eyes softening at you

"Feeling better?"

"Kinda. Gimme a kiss"

He did and smothered you closer.

"Anything else you wanna talk about?"

"Not really."

"Segura?" (You sure)

"Yeah"

"C'mere." He hooked his leg on yours, trapping your body underneath it and part of his torso. You didn't squeal like other times, rather relished in his warmth.

"Te amo, Miguel."

"También te amo."

[randomshyperson]

Like Real People Do - Milf!Wanda Maximoff x Reader

Summary: Wanda Maximoff is known to be a strict mother - the opposite of you. When a school incident involves your children, you two will need to learn to get along with each other. [Requested]

Warnings: General Fluff, attempted romantic comedy with opposites attract, mild making out at the end, milf wanda being adorable, brief angst for past relationships, found family. | Words: 5.733k

A/N-> My first fic of the year will be Milf!Wanda without smut? What happened to this blog, huh? I was so busy in December that I couldn't post anything, I hope you guys didn't forget about me. This is a very old request that I finished some time ago and never posted, here it is then. Good reading you all!

General Masterlist || AO3 || Wattpad

--//--

It started with a bloody nose.

It was Wednesday, which meant that you had painting class from ten to eleven in the morning, so when your cell phone rang and Principal Fury's angry voice demanded you not to be late, you could barely think of a decent excuse for your students.

The way to the municipal school was quick and even perilous - you never learned how to drive Natasha's truck properly no matter how hard you tried - but you arrived quickly at least.

America was standing with her arms crossed at the door to the principal's office - the jeans jacket with buttons you took her to buy last year had a bloodstain on the front that made your heart miss a beat. 

"Mom!" Her sulky expression lit up the second she saw you - the girl uncrossed her arms and ran to catch up with you, talking too fast about the mess while you searched her face for bruises. You sighed in relief at not finding any.

"Honey, slow down, I'm not catching any words." You warn her gently, and America giggles awkwardly, taking a deep breath to speak again.

"It wasn't my fault, Mom! It was those idiots who came at us, Billy wasn't doing anything, and when they called him bad names and I just lost my temper and-"

You frown in confusion, but America shuts up because the boardroom door opens and other people come out.

The blood is not America's you realize. It's the boy with ice on his face, accompanied by an equally grumpy adult. The boy also has blood all over the front of his shirt, and from the way, America tenses up and he flinches, you understand that he has been beaten.

"Come on, don't give me any more trouble." Warned the man to the boy who practically ran out. The man waved goodbye politely, and you turned to America, ready to ask, but you heard Mr.Fury call your name.

The room was not empty. There were two boys and a woman in a suit so impeccable that you became very aware of the ink stains on your work overalls. Or maybe it was the way she looked you up and down, with an indecipherable expression.

"Mrs.Romanoff, how nice that you could join us at last." Fury pinned on your lateness, and you smiled awkwardly.

"Sorry, I was in class and my cell phone was off." You mumbled, but he didn't seem to care much, signaling for you to sit down.

America stood beside you but smiled at the boys, who smiled back immediately.

"As I explained to Mrs.Maximoff, something rather unpleasant happened this morning. Your children got into a fight with another group of classmates..."

"And where is the rest of the gang?" You asked curiously, looking around. Fury frowned.

"Excuse me?"

"Well, you said they got into a fight. Nobody fights alone. Where are the other children? I saw the other little boy who went outside looking like he got punched right in the nose, and if you told me it was three against one, then yes, we have a problem."

Fury exchanges a look with Mrs.Maximoff, but the redhead is straightening up in her chair, looking at you curiously.

The principal lets out a short laugh. "Miss Romanoff, the confusion started at recess, where America assaulted five classmates. The other four are in the infirmary and-"

You cut Fury off with excitement, turning to your daughter beside you. "Five? Kid, you've been practicing, haven't you? Damn, your mother would be impressed. "

America laughs shyly, but Fury exclaims indignantly. "Excuse me, Mrs.Romanoff, are you really encouraging violent behavior in your 13-year-old daughter?"

 "It depends on what the fight is about." You mutter, but Fury sighs indignantly.

"Violence is never the answer!" Retorts the principal seriously, but his line makes the boys exclaim indignantly.

"They were the ones who attacked us first! America was only defending my brother!" Reported one of them, and you and Mrs.Maximoff exchanged quick glances at the confusion.

"That's right, we were just standing there, and those idiots came at us with curses! If it wasn't for America-"

"Quiet, all of you!" Fury cut in angrily, and the children grumbled but obeyed. He massaged his forehead. "It's clear that the fight started with America, so please could you tell me exactly why you assaulted your colleagues, Miss?"

But America hesitates and looks at the boys, who bow their heads. She sighs.

"It was something silly about grades." She lies - You can see it’s not true because whenever she tells a lie, her forehead frowns slightly and Natasha taught you to recognize everything about little Miss Chavez. You don’t understand why she’s lying though. 

Fury sighs wearily. "Are you sure that's all it was, miss?"

She looks down at the floor and nods. You lick your lips.

"Fury, I wonder if we could talk alone. Just me, Miss Maximoff, and you? They shouldn't be missing class."

Fury hesitates but eventually agrees. Once the children leave, you clear your throat.

"I want to know what will be done with the group that attacked them, Fury."  You state without waiting any longer, surprising a little. Nick clears his throat.

"Your daughter just clarified that it was a silly argument over notes, Miss Romanoff, you don't expect me to-"

"You know it wasn't just that." To his surprise, Wanda intervenes, sounding irritated and tired. She takes a deep breath. "It wouldn't be the first time Billy experienced bullying in his school environment, but you promised me that this school was a safe space when I came to enroll them, Mr.Fury."

Nick clears his throat clumsily, adjusting his tie. "Mrs.Maximoff, at no time-"

"America told me they insulted him." You cut in, exchanging a look with the redhead. "The kids who attacked them came in cursing Billy. That's unacceptable, Fury. You say I encourage violent behavior? No. Natasha and I taught America to stand up for herself and for the people important to her. Nat was in the military and taught her how to fight. You can't expect her to listen to someone use low insults with her friends and do nothing."

"You cannot teach your daughter to punch anyone who irritates her, Miss Romanoff." Fury retorts seriously, before turning his face to the other, "And this is a safe environment, Wanda. We have anti-bullying programs, and when the other boys leave the infirmary, they will answer for this event as well. But for now, it's your kids who need to understand that fighting doesn't go unpunished."

"That doesn't seem very fair." You mutter but Fury casts you a serious look. 

"Because they insulted them? Tell me what happens when they're adults, then." You open your mouth but Fury holds up his hand, rhetorical question. "I tell you, at the very least a lawsuit for assault. I understand it's important to tell them to defend themselves, but they also need to understand how the world works. They are children, by god. You can't tell them to go out punching their way whenever someone wrongs them."

"I guess that's easy to say when we're not the ones experiencing the aggression." Wanda mutters, and Fury gives a short laugh.

"Wanda, I assure you I know the feeling of hearing horrible offenses and having to put my head down and keep walking because the punishments would be worse for me than for those who offended me." Says Nick. "Billy is only twelve, he should learn to respond to things like that in a healthy and safe way. Teaching any of these kids to respond violence with violence puts them at risk, and I'm sure you understand that." Wanda sighs but nods in defeat. Nick clears his throat. "I believe detention for a month is a good punishment."

You sigh, but Wanda hesitates. "They'd be out by three, wouldn't they? Couldn't you do it earlier or between classes? I work office hours on Tuesdays and Wednesdays..."

Nick opens his mouth but you speak first. "I can pick them up." You say casually. "They're friends with America, right? They can stay over if you need."

The redhead blinks in surprise. "Wouldn't that be inconvenient?"

You laugh shrugging your shoulders. "Not at all. America is usually alone in the afternoon while I'm in the studio. It would be nice if she had some company."

Wanda smiles at you and your stomach does a complete turn. Nick claps his hands together.

"I guess we have a deal then. Thank you both for attending, even though it was not the most pleasant of reasons... I'll keep in touch, Miss Maximoff, Miss Romanoff."

You got up first but opened the door for Wanda to pass. Outside, she seemed in a hurry, checking her cell phone, and you didn't want to hold her any longer. Surprisingly, she called you before you left for your car.

"I want your number." She declares, and you can't help the teasing expression that appears on your face. Wanda corrects herself immediately, "B-because of the ride, so I can confirm that everything is okay..."

"I know, I get it." You assure her with a laugh, accepting the cell phone she holds out to put your number in. As you type, you take the opportunity to introduce yourself properly since you haven't had the chance to do so before. Wanda smiles before doing the same. "Here you go, Miss Maximoff."

"Just Wanda is fine." She says gently, accepting the cell phone back. "Thank you again, for the favor."

"You can return it by joining me for coffee." You have no idea where that came from. And it seems to surprise Wanda as much as you surprised yourself. But there's no going back because she smiles and you know you meant it. "Or a tea, or juice. Maybe vitamin?"

Wanda giggles, and it's a charm. You glare at her but she looks at her cell phone again.

"Sorry, I have to go." She looks really disappointed, and you notice that her phone has started vibrating on a call. She looks at you again. "I'll text you about that coffee."

"I'll wait." You mumble, knowing she heard just by the soft smile she still holds as she answers the phone before waving goodbye and turning in the opposite direction of the parking lot.

You sigh loudly as you are left alone, trying to figure out where to see the strange feeling in your stomach that you think you haven't felt in years.

–//–

Wanda probably forgot about the coffee. You don't blame her, because America has every social network possible, and through her friendship with Billy Maximoff on Facebook, you are able to find Wanda Maximoff's only two social networks. 

Her professional profile is impeccable. She is an important figure in a major New York company, but you are not too sure whether she is a writer or a manager, or both. Either way, with so many meetings and lectures in her feed, she is probably the busiest person you have ever met. 

The only personal profile she has is a Facebook profile that hasn't been updated in almost three years. It is public, and has family photos - the vast majority with the twins - but what attracts attention is the tall man next to her. If the photos were tagged, it was removed today. There was no link to his profile. You also noticed that the relationship status was still Married, and tried to ignore the burning in your strangers with this information. 

There should be no problem with Wanda being a married woman. You should have expected this, actually. In fact, you shouldn't expect anything at all. Losing Natasha wasn't exactly recent, but you weren't looking for someone to take her place. Ever.

Calling Wanda for coffee was a kind act in the interest of friendship, you convinced yourself. After all, with your antisocial nature, you didn't have many friends in New York. 

America found you stalking Wanda's Facebook, however, and had a very different idea.

"She's a total milf, huh?"

You closed the laptop hard, looking at your daughter with indignation. "Excuse me, young lady?"

America shrugged. "Miss Maximoff, mom. She's so gorgeous, like a movie star. Everyone keeps staring when she comes to pick up the twins."

You grimace, hugging the laptop against your chest. "America, I don't think it's very appropriate for you to say such things to me, don't you agree?"

Your daughter laughs confusedly. "But you thought so too. You're just there stalking her on the Internet..."

"That's it, out." You stand up embarrassed, ignoring America's mischievous laughter in the hallway as you close the door. You grunt red-faced, putting your hands over your face and trying to get the image of Wanda out of your head. America shouts from the hallway:

"I'll order Enchiladas for dinner!" - You open the door just to say thanks.

To your surprise, Wanda texts you the next day. 

It shouldn't really be a surprise, since the children's detention would start now, but still, you were so busy delivering some paintings that you almost completely forgot about it.

Hey Miss Romanoff, it's Wanda. Is everything okay for the kids to stay at your place this afternoon as we agreed? After detention? 

You are listening to music, so you ask the virtual assistant to read the message while you continue painting one of the higher boards. When you realize who it is from, you almost fall down the stairs you are on.

Your cell phone screen smears blue paint when you pick it up in one go, having forgotten your dirty hands, and you curse softly. 

Trying to sound casual, you decide on a voice message.

"Hey, Miss Max-Wanda, hey." Great start. "Sure, don't worry, I'll send you my address to come to pick them up later. And just Y/N is fine."

Wanda replies with an emoji heart, and you try to understand why yours is racing so fast.

–//–

Thomas and William Maximoff are two little devils. And America loves them, so you do too.

They play in the backyard and in the living room, surprisingly in harmony over sharing the video game after detention. You go back to work in the studio and keep the music down so you can hear them, and before you know it, the hours have passed and a red pickup truck is pulling up outside your house.

Wanda, on the other hand, doesn't seem too pleased to see that none of the children have had a decent meal after school, or done their homework. And you showing up with a dirty paint apron doesn't seem to help her judgment much.

"I don't usually cook, for the safety of the kitchen."  You try to joke to ease the tension and get giggles from the smaller ones, but only a forced smile from the other, who continues with her arms crossed. "They're not hungry, you know. There were snacks and cookies..."

"Very healthy." Wanda interrupts wryly. "Get your backpacks boys, and thank them for having you. Let's go home before it gets later."

You and America watch Maximoff's hurried exit until Wanda's car disappears at the end of the street, and it is your daughter who speaks first.

"I think she likes you."

You chuckle incredulously, turning your face to America. "What gives you that idea? The deadly stare?"

The smaller girl rolls her eyes amused. "No, Mom! She didn't say she wasn't coming here anymore. And besides, Tommy told me she's kind of too straitlaced... he may have used the word crazy, but I don't think that's very appropriate for me to say."

You chuckle through your nose, ruffling America's hair as you pull her into the house with you. 

"Well, the boys are your friends, so Wanda is going to have to get used to me because if there's one thing we take seriously in this family it's loyalty to our friends, isn't it, little Chavez?" 

America smiles warmly, stealing a glance at Nat's painting on the wall before nodding in agreement. You check your watch.

"Maybe Wanda is right, though. What do you want for dinner? Real food. I can prepare something-"

America grimaces. "I want pizza!"

"But kiddo-"

"With plenty of pepperonis!"

You roll your eyes, unable to say no to that lovely girl.

–//–

The next day, when Billy and Tommy take out lunch boxes from their backpacks, you want to chuckle. It's so... you don't even know what to call that.

"What is that supposed to be?" America asks in a mixture of indignation and disgust, standing behind the boys sitting at the table. Tommy and Billy exchange sighs.

"It's called Zucchini Boats." Says William, poking at the snack with his fork - which Wanda also sent in her purse - "Mom is a vegetarian and so are we."

"That's what she thinks," Tommy mutters mischievously, receiving an elbow from his brother. "It's good, America. Want some?"

"No, I'm fine." Your daughter says quickly, exchanging a look with you before leaving the twins to grab some of the juice you are bringing them on a tray. 

"Wow, that looks ... grown up." You comment with an impressed laugh as soon as you see the food the twins are pinching half-heartedly. "Do you guys always eat so fancy?"

"Yeah, all the time." Tommy replies grumpily. "Mom pays for vegetarian snacks at school, and it's always this kind of expensive food at the work parties she brings us to."

"Tommy, I don't think you should talk like that..." Billy whispers uncertainly but is cut off by the other.

"I can't stand eating asparagus or cabbage anymore! And I hate Lentils!" Challenges the twin, pushing the lunchbox onto the table.

America sips her juice in silence, and you sigh.

"Well, here's what we'll do then, little Maximoff." You say, picking up the bowl and some of the food that has fallen on the table. "I'll order hamburger and fries, and leave it on the counter. And you guys choose what you want to eat if you feel hungry."

Tommy loved the idea. Billy thanked him, but said he would stick with what his mother prepared. In any case, you ordered enough for everyone.

When the food arrived, you, America, and Tommy ate first. The Maximoff was very excited about eating meat - He eventually told you between bites that vegetarianism, as well as a dozen other habits, came to his family after his father passed away, and you were so surprised by the information that you could hardly nod in agreement. So Wanda was a widow like you? What a heartbreaking coincidence.

After you finished eating, you needed to continue working, and you left the children to do it. When you came back for some keys about ten minutes later, Tommy and America were playing video games in the living room and little Billy was eating French fries on the counter and having the time of his life. You didn't dare bother him.

The whole plot of Wanda and her vegetarian lunch boxes for 12-year-olds that were half going to waste - you insisted that they at least take a few bites out of respect for their mother's work - went on for three whole weeks.

It was on the penultimate day of detention when Wanda was already smiling as she came to pick up the kids, that she found out and showed up at your door during school hours.

"Sorry for the wait, I'm teaching a class." You tell her clumsily as you welcome her into the small makeshift office, while your students take a break in the studio in the other room. 

Wanda hasn't even taken off her coat and is still holding her keys in her hands. "Don't worry, I'll be quick." She says. "I appreciate the favor of picking up the boys and letting them stay here, but it has come to my attention your inappropriate behavior, and I-"

"Wow, what are you talking about?" You interrupt in confusion. 

Wanda doesn't hesitate, adjusting her posture. "The food I prepare for my children is properly planned with a nutritionist, and William has told me about your interference in their diet." You stare at her without reaction, and she takes advantage of your shock to continue speaking. "I respect that you are raising your daughter without any attention to a healthy diet, but I cannot allow you to do the same-"

"No, wait a second there." You cut her off with a short laugh, gesturing a little and without realizing it, moving closer, which makes Wanda take a step backward in that small office. "I never told them to stop eating your fancy food."

She grimaces. "But you bought junk food!" She rations angrily. "What do you expect children to choose?"

You chuckle. "Exactly, Wanda! They are children! You're the one who's feeding them like they're 60-year-old culinary critics!"

"A healthy diet is essential for their development-"

"Billy has never eaten pizza before! Do you understand how insane that sounds?"

Wanda feels her blood boil, much like you. And she doesn't realize she's screaming, much the same as you. 

"Oh, what a crime not to want to give my two children a fat bomb! Arrest me for preventing cardiovascular disease when they are adults!

"What the hell are you talking about?" You retort with an indignant chuckle, but Wanda steps forward, her gaze deadly.

"I don't tell you how to raise your daughter, so don't you dare do it to me." She says seriously, and you swallow dryly. 

"I never said anything like that." You retort. "It's not a crime to offer actual good food to a child."

Wanda frowns. "My food is good!" She defends herself almost offended, but you sigh wearily.

"For the adult palate? Yes, it is. I've tasted it, you have talent I admit." You say, surprising her a little by the compliment. Her posture almost breaks. "But for the boys? I'm sorry, I don't mean to pry, but they don't like it, okay? Especially Thomas. I didn't want you to find out like this, but he hasn't followed your all-important eating schedule in months, Miss Maximoff. He keeps buying candy and junk food around-"

"What?" she exclaims indignantly, turning away to walk around the room. You sigh. "Where does he get the money for that?"

You shrug casually. "I don't know, isn't he kind of pretty popular? Maybe he sells some toys or homework. I used to do that when I was young. And well, I give America an allowance and they hang out together a lot and-

"So you're the problem! Again!" Wanda suddenly accuses you, leaving you in shock. "You and your daughter, stay away from my boys!"

"Wanda, what...?"

But she turned her back on you and slammed the door hard on her way out. You huffed loudly, pressing your face between your hands for a long moment. Complete confusion in your mind. 

–//–

You're not sure what you expected for the last day of detention, but it sure wasn't the call from the secretary about America skipping class. 

You called her immediately, and to add to your despair, she didn't answer until an hour later, when you had already taken the car and were driving around town after her.

The arcade parking lot was empty because all the kids were in school. Except for a few.

You got down from the truck, and this time, you knew the blood was Billy's.

"Have you gone crazy? I drove all over town after you, America! Where-"

But she ran up to you, hugging you tightly, and you fell silent, worried. "I'm sorry, Mom!"

After massaging her back gently, you turned away to the boys sitting on the sidewalk. Bending down to Billy's height, you grabbed from the other twin the ice pack he held over his brother's bruised forehead.

"What happened, guys?" You asked, and all three of them started talking together. With a sigh, you shushed them. "Just one at a time, please."

America stepped forward. "We weren't going to skip the whole day, Mom, I promise! It's just that Tommy forgot to do his chemistry homework, so we were going to skip it so he wouldn't get in trouble!"

Tommy nods immediately. "We came here because we weren't going to hang around the school at the risk of getting caught." Continues the boy. "We were going to play and come back as soon as the next class time started."

Billy complains softly about the pain and you try to press more gently. "So?" You ask them to continue, but they don't, exchanging hesitant glances. 

It is William who continues the story, his gaze in his lap. "It was the idiot brother of a classmate of ours. He was at the arcade, and he recognized me. He said he was furious that I got his brother in trouble. And he said... He said there's no place in this town for a faggy like me."

You sigh immediately, putting down the ice to hold his shoulder with your other hand. "Oh, Billy, I'm sorry."

He sniffles lightly, shrugging. "It's okay, I'm used to it. America and Tommy were buying soda, so the jerk threw me out here. As soon as they came, the guy ran off."

"It was the arcade owner who gave us the ice." America clarifies, coming over to sit down on the sidewalk across from Billy, and slipping an arm over his. "Sorry for taking so long, buddy. Next time I'm going to break his leg-"

"Hey, listen up here you three." You interrupt, looking at them seriously. "Violence is never the solution."

"But, Mom, they-"

"I know." You cut her off with a nod. "And it's unfair that it happened. And all we want to do is return that anger, but we can't be like that. Billy, I'm really sorry that you've heard cruel things. There's a place for you wherever you choose, that boy is just being an ignorant fool. Don't listen to him." You assure holding the hand of the boy in front of you. "You three are going back to school, and I'll take care of it the right way, okay?"

At first, they don't seem very willing, but eventually, they agree. You direct them back to school, and are not surprised at the increased detention Fury gives them for skipping class. Nick, however, is the one who provides the numbers of the parents of the kids who attacked them, and of a lawyer. 

He comments something about having called Miss Maximoff but to no avail before thanking you for bringing the children back safely and saying goodbye.

You are walking back to your car when Wanda parks as if in a race movie.

"I'm glad you're here, Wanda, we need to talk." You announce loudly, walking to her car. She turns it off, takes out the key, and gets down, slamming the door. 

"I don't have time, the director called me during a meeting, and I-"

"I know." You cut her off, and make no mention of moving out of her way, trapping her between cars. "Our kids were skipping class."

She chuckles dryly. "That's what I'm talking about, your daughter is a terrible influence. I wasn't wrong when-"

"She was helping Tommy." You cut in again, crossing your arms. "Yeah. He didn't do his chemistry homework or something, and they decided to skip the first period so he wouldn't get a scolding. Because, yes, he'd rather take his chances on the street than smear the perfect record mommy wants for him."

Wanda tilts her head. "Watch your mouth." She warns between teeth, and you roll your eyes.

"Billy got punched." You declare, and Wanda's posture breaks completely. Desperation fills her expression.

"W-what... Excuse me, I have-" 

"It's taken care of, it was just a scratch I looked at it myself." You interrupt, steadying your feet in her path, and ignoring the way she looks you up and down. "But these assaults, Wanda, we need to get a handle on this."

She is surprised, in a good way. And she swallows dryly, trying to adjust her posture. "That's not your problem."

You don't care, pulling out of your pocket the lawyer's paper Fury gave you to hand to her 

as you quickly explain the whole story. Wanda is unresponsive until she sniffles slightly, and this breaks your posture.

Your natural instinct is to touch her, but you hold back, clenching your hands, and Wanda turns her face away, hugging her own body as she controls her crying.

"Forgive me, I just..." She takes a deep breath. "They're all I have. And they're perfect, just the way they are. I just wanted to...do the best for them. Keep them safe, and happy. But apparently, New York is even worse than Westview."

"Hey, I understand that." You can't resist, raising a hand to her back, and thanking the gods that Wanda leans into the touch instead of backing away. "Some things are beyond our control. But I think you're doing a damn fine job, Wanda."

She raises her eyes at you. "Really?"

"Yeah." You assure her with a smile. "Your kids are great. Smart, so independent, and good-natured. Very united and loyal. You've done a really good job with them-"

Wanda hugs you tightly around the neck, cutting off your sentence. You smile, putting your arms around her just as the surprise fades. She sighs. "Thank you." She whispers, and you squeeze tighter before letting go.

"Call Jen Walters about this. Nick said she's a good lawyer." You remind her, and Wanda nods. You put your hands in your pockets and stare at her for a moment. "Were you at some fancy event? You look good."

She blushes, smiling shyly and adjusting her suit. "Something like that. Just a new book launch, so phone off. As soon as I saw the missed calls, I ran here..."

You chuckle lightly. "Yeah, I noticed the Fast and Furious you pulled out." You joke getting a laugh and a slap on the arm.

As the laughter dies down, you face each other. And Wanda is the first to swallow dryly and shift her gaze away.

"I should go there... just to make sure everything is okay." She says pointing to the school. You clear your throat and finally give her space to walk through.

"Sure, sure. I see you...?"

Wanda looks at you over her shoulder, a soft smile on her lips. "Over coffee." She invites, her smile widening with your surprise. "It's about time, don't you think?"

You nod, swallowing your anxiety. "I can’t wait." You guarantee, and when she leaves, your cheeks are flushed like hers.

–//–

Wanda doesn't call. But she doesn't have to.

The detentions are over; you're pretty sure she threatened Nick Fury on her way back to the office, but whatever she said, she made sure that the victims of the story stopped being punished. Tommy received a short warning for his duty, but the matter was soon forgotten.

You were surprised that even with the end of the detention, the Maximoff twins were on your doorstep on Tuesday. And next to them, Wanda.

"If you're not busy, I was thinking we could all have lunch together. I got some free time at the office." Clarified the matriarch, and well, you had a dozen or so orders to make and they would all have to wait because no chance at all of you dismissing going out with Wanda.

She is infinitely more pleasant company than the impression you got during your fights. She is a fierce mother, but she is so much more than that. She's brilliant, passionate, and generous. You find yourself captured by her like a work of art, which you can stare at for hours and hours, trying to absorb every detail and discover others.

Lunch turns into afternoon snacks, and into dinners. The Maximoffs show up at your house on a weekly basis, Wanda cooks for you sometimes, and at other times allows herself to eat junk food with everyone else.

And family dates become the two of you dates when she kisses you.

It takes you completely by surprise, honestly. 

You have been dancing into a family routine for amazing weeks, and after one of the dinners, it gets late enough to insist that they sleep over at your place. 

The boys stay in America's room, and you take over the living room so that Wanda is comfortable in her room.

When she shows up at dawn in the kitchen while you're making tea, the first thing she says is "I feel terrible about making you sleep on the couch. I can't sleep because of it."

You smile and separate a mug of tea for her too.

"I think we finally had that drink." You comment a long moment later, as you pour the tea for yourselves.

Wanda smiles mischievously. "I don't think it counts." She murmurs mysteriously, and you raise an eyebrow.

"No?"

Wanda hums in the negative. "We've drunk together a dozen times now, Y/N." She retorts, holding the cup close to her mouth. "If you want to take me out, you need to genuinely ask."

She sips her tea, and you swallow dryly as you stare into her lips. Blinking away when you notice her naughty smile, you ignore your nervousness, and retort, "I asked, you're the one who didn't call me." 

Wanda raises her eyebrow, taken aback that you brought back this information from so many weeks later. She doesn't lose her composure, however. "I thought it wouldn't be appropriate when given a second thought about it."

You sip some tea. "And what do you think of us now?"

Instead of answering, she leans over the countertop. She grabs the collar of your shirt and kisses you hard. Your whole body vibrates, and you gasp. But she lets you go before you have the chance to respond properly.

"I think if you don't ask me out soon, I'll have to do it myself." She teases affectedly, breathing out of breath as you do. You laugh, nodding.

"Go out with me." 

She raises an eyebrow. "Is that an order?" She teases, and you grunt.

"God, Wanda, come here." That's what you say before pulling her back to you, mouth to mouth.

[nothomegal]

Mmm, this isnt a fic request (or maybe yes) but i NEED for reader to break and finally give in for their cuddle session with Danny, oh! And finally start to fall in love with him

Aww you're right anon! I guess it's only the matter of time for the reader to eventually give in and accept the weird ghost guy that keeps sneaking into their life (and house).

And I know it took me way too long to do your request, I apologize for the wait, had some trouble writing this since I never liked how it turned out -.-' Luckily though, I think I finally got something decent!

"Favorite person"

(Ghostface x GN Reader)

Summary: everyone has a limit, and unfortunately today is the day you reached yours as life wasn't all too kind to you for the last 24 hours... But hey, at least your dear intruder has your back, so not everything is that bad! Right, doll?

Warnings: mild example of unhealthy and obsessive behavior, the rest it's all fluff.

Word count: 2.2k

The grip around (Y/N) remained tight. The intruder kept holding their tied form closely in complete silence, something very out of his character.

But such oddness didn’t come from nowhere, and (Y/N) was the one who indirectly caused it. Today was probably the worst day of their life, everything that could’ve gone wrong, went wrong. It's honestly incredible they still had the emotional strength to return home without bursting into tears on their way.

They’re not quite sure how or when they fell asleep, their mind been a mush of blur since they entered their home. All they can remember is waking up already laying in bed with their arms tied behind their back and their body pressed against the chest of the masked man, the same one that would often come to mess with them.

Sometimes he would reveal himself willingly and others just stay in the shadows and observe them from afar or straight from the corner while they’re in a deep sleep.

This night however, apart from tying their hands, he haven't done anything from his previous visits. No cheeky remarks about anything specific they did that day, no rants about some random topic and no attempts to scare or tease them... Heck, he didn't even run his hand through their hair or body. Absolutely no additional touches beside holding them close.

This really threw (Y/N) off. Ghostface, who's been a huge pain for them, the authorities and basically everyone in the town, was... Acting so thoughtful, nothing like the selfish villain he's been portraying himself as for the past numerous nights.

It's not the first time he hugs and holds them in his arms, he's actually super touchy with them and never fails to express his amusement of how helpless they always look. But now?... Now it doesn't feel like any of his shenanigans, but a genuine attempt to comfort them while not pushing too much, though the effectiveness of said attempt remains questionable.

Their thoughts and wonders were interrupted when they feel movement and then something grab their chin to then gently move their head up until they're face to face with that unsettling mask that resembled a ghost.

—“Feeling better?"—

They don't make a sound, quite the opposite, they press their lips in a thin line as they stare into the dark eyes of his mask.

—"If I take off the tape, will you talk to me?"—

Their body tensed at such question. Is he... Is he actually going to?...

—"Of course as long as you don't try anything funny... But you know better."— he leans closer to your face. —"Right, (Y/N)?"—

They gulp nervously, but Ghostface is right, they do know better than to gamble with their luck. Besides, they have no energy to fight or struggle anyways, so of course they'll play along... For now, at least.

With a more defeated look, they slowly nod.

The man releases a pleased hum and without a warning yanks the tape off of their moth, making them yelp from the pain and surprise.

—“There you go, hope it didn’t hurt too much.”— he snorts at your cringed expression.

—“It… It did… A bit.”— you mutter quietly. —“But not as much as a stab would…”—

The killer paused at the sound of their voice, but the calm was short as out the sudden he grabbed them by the chin again and squeezed their face a bit.

—"Aww, look, your first words.”— he remarks playfully before tilting his head. —“Well? Isn’t it just sweet to finally be able to talk, hmm?”—

(Y/N) remains quiet for a couple of seconds, unsure if they should speak again or not. But when It became clear that the interaction wouldn't progress without their contribution, they force themselves to talk.

—"I… Y-Yeah… It is nice."— you answer while studying his masked face. —"But… Please, don’t get too mad at me for replying slow... I'm not used to talk to... Killers, after all. {Or people in general...}”—

—"...Mad? At you? Oh silly..."—

His head then straightened and he squeezed their face a bit tighter.

—"You're so comically shy that I wish I could just cut you up and pull out some confidence out of your body."— he says in a playful tone, though it sounded way more sinister than intended. —"But it's not that you aren't good at speaking, it's the people you call 'friends' that made you believe that..."—

His tone then became significantly colder at the last part, which made (Y/N) tense and go quiet. But despite the dread, they couldn't help but agree with the killer, their friends indeed aren't as good as they thought.

It's another of the many bad things that happened to them today. They weren't supposed to discover it, they just got in the wrong place at the wrong time and ended up overhearing the few people they thought they were close with talk about them. Nasty comment after comment, disgust and disrespect lingering in their tones as they said their name between insults and cruel jokes…

They didn't even bother to listen to the end of the conversation, they just fled the scene and did their best to not cry until they arrived home. And in the entire day, in this whole period of time they looked so pathetic and miserable, none of their other ‘friends’ bothered to see if they're alright or help with any other issue. Absolutely no one took a moment to even say 'hello', and that made (Y/N) feel the loneliest, like they're just a ghost in other people's life, being acknowledged only when they announce their presence.

They get pulled back to reality when the hand lets go of their face and their body is pressed closer to the masked man, making the embrace feel more intimate.

—"...Sorry I can't take the angst as easily as I take people out."— he mutters, his hand slowly traveling up and down your head. —"But I can prevent said angst in the future. These assholes will not disturb you again, I made sure they won't..."— his grip tightens, turning almost possessive.

A shiver traveled down their spine at his words.

They should be afraid, panic that this stranger so deliberately admitted of harming, and most likely murdering, their friends like it’s the most mundane thing to do. They definitely should at least freak out or give any other kind of distressed reaction, they should… But they don’t.

To be completely honest, they weren't even upset at what Ghostface did. After today's interaction their view on his character changed quite drastically. Though he still had that playful and cocky behavior, they now know that whenever he says or shows them care... It's genuine, or so they think. Could this be a trick to make them let their guard down? Definitely. Does it make sense? Uh... Not really, but this man likes to do odd things to throw off any bystander with his shenanigans.

But even if their strange relationship is just a game to him, then damn he's good at it. They almost feel like them matter, like they can be loved and it's just bad luck people around them can't see or appreciate them... Unfortunately though... They know it's not true, it can't be true, they're too pathetic for that, so much that even a psycho killer had pity over them to pretend-

A surprised gasp escaped (Y/N) when their body was suddenly flipped and tackled against the mattress, with Ghostface now looming over them.

They didn't even need to see his face to know what type of expression he had, the atmosphere was all it took to know he was upset.

—"I am not pleased with how you keep viewing yourself, (Y/N)."— he finally says after a pause. —"And I am certainly pissed that you're doing it around me."—

All (Y/N) could do is stare at the ghastly mask in dead silence. Despite having their mouth untapped, they couldn't bring themselves to make a sound, as if paralyzed from fear and anticipation of what he would do if they happen to upset him more.

When the killer began to lean down lowly, they held their breath by instinct.

—"I'll say this one time, and you better not force me to repeat it."— he said in a low and slow tone. —"You are my favorite person in this whole cursed world. And I swear if you dare to think badly about yourself again, I'll fucking stab you."—

He pauses, either letting his words sink in or re-evaluating what he just said or is about to say.

After not coming to a clear conclusion, he sighs with mild frustration.

—"I... Look. I'm aware of my reputation and the image you have of me. And though I do like to amuse myself with these visits of mine, not ones I did it to mess with you, not in the way you think..."—

He pauses again, the eyes of his mask staring directly into theirs, either studying their expression or thinking.

—"I wanted to end you ones..."—

As he speaks again in a lower voice as he extends his hand, aiming for their neck.

—"...But I don’t want it anymore."—

The hand was drastically redirected towards their face, covering their eyes in a quick movement. Whatever sound of surprise or confusion (Y/N) was about to make is shushed when something soft and warm was pressed against their lips, the sensation sending shivers through their body.

—"{Or ever again.}"—

That's all they heard before their eyes were uncovered and Ghostface plopped on the mattress right next to them, his head placed on his hand as he waits for their reaction.

(Y/N) can only cluelessly blink while staring at the ceiling, wondering if the warm sensation they just felt on their lips was actually Ghostface-...

Their face starts to get progressively redder as the realization kicks in. My god. Ghostface, from all people, actually!-

Their head snaps at his direction when that famous deep raspy chuckle left him, clearly entertained by the fifty shades of red their face is going through.

—"What? Never had a kiss stolen before?"— he teases.

—"I- Uh... No. Not really..."— you answer as you look away, face even redder.

—"Good, all for me then."—

Now it's (Y/N) who lets out a snort, finding his behavior silly yet quite charming. Huh, strange how quickly they moved on, the previous dread and fear they felt when he pinned them was now like a long forgotten dream...

Is the famous Stockholm syndrome affecting them already? Why are they suddenly so okay with his presence? Even when knowing about his mood swings they can't shake off this strange sensation of comfort...

Is it because his actions and intentions are now confirmed to be genuine? Because he really seems to like and cherish their company? Cherish them?...

...

...You know?

Fuck everything.

They're too tired for this 'BS' about morality and shit. It will be a tomorrow problem to overthink, now they should just give in and take this night to relax and... Well, maybe even put into use this little freedom of speech they got and actually chat to the man, maybe even get to know more about him.

They look at killer again, the dark eyes of his mask still fixated on their form as he observes them in silence, almost like he's looking at a piece of art rather than another person.

—"So... Are you going to stay here all night?"— you finally ask.

He's silent for a little while.

—"You want me to?"—

—"Kinda. You... You're not too bad of a company, I guess."— you shoot him a timid smile. —"And even if I didn't I doubt you would've leave."—

He lets out a snort at their last comment and then lies down, a bit closer to them.

—"You're right, you're now haunted by me either you want it or not."—

There is a small pause between them, both just laying and looking at each other, a strange atmosphere of calm now lingered in the room, making this moment feel oddly right.

Out of the sudden, they feel a pair of arms snake around their form and bring them ones again into that warm and intimate hug. And this time, they welcome the gesture by snuggling closer to the man and letting out a content sigh.

—"So."— he then says as he tilts his head to look at you, now in his arms. —"What's your favorite scary movie? I never got an answer to this question."—

—"Huh? Aren't you supposed to know that?"— you arch your brow. —"Y'know cuz of the whole stalker thing and all..."—

—"Yes, but want to hear you tell me that. I just really like the sound of your voice."—

They can feel their cheeks warm up, and they can't avoid to get even shyer when the man chuckles at their expression.

—"W-Well... I have a couple."—

At first they sounded awkward while speaking, as if expecting him to interrupt them or laugh at their preferences. Nevertheless, he never made a sound and seemed to pay close attention to what they're saying, sometimes even asking more things about the movies when given the opportunity. Overall, Ghostface is a very nice guy to talk about any kind of nerdy horror stuff!

At some point, they even forgot that the man holding them was a serial murder. It actually felt like talking to an old dear friend rather than a criminal.

And as they talk through the night, (Y/N) finally understands why Ghostface always became so touchy and clingy whenever he had a bad day.

Cuddles and rants indeed help, especially if done with your favorite person.

And though they're certain he's not one yet... Just by seeing how the night progresses.

They wouldn't be too surprised if he somehow sneaks his way into such spot.

[tragedy-of-commons]

nightshade's embrace

various genshin & gn!reader | ~4k

In which you face danger, fear, doubt, and eerie silence.

tags/warnings: horror, unreliable narrator, character death (la signora), canon divergence (la signora), mild depiction of blood (rosaria), depictions of karmic debt and insanity (xiao), uncertainty, mild body horror/grisly imagery, alternating past and present tense, not yandere so plz don't tag as that ty

notes: here is the genshin thing i was working on! it's by far my longest post, so i do hope you enjoy. basically me trying to make them scary in some capacity lol

Kazuha’s eyes are beautiful.

This is a popular sentiment shared amongst anyone who has the pleasure of meeting him. The ronin not only has a way with words, but with emotion itself; he can regale any folktale with ease, communicating the feelings and depth behind them effortlessly. His cherry eyes often light up with joy, close daintily with grief, and widen marginally whenever he weaves an unexpected twist into the story. Suffice it to say, he is a poet through and through.

You’ve always known him to put on a good show. Like every listener before you, you found solace in his presence, giving him more and more of your coveted attention each time he passed through. A wanderer like him has a near endless supply of material, his tongue not as ostentatious as silver but as something more humble, like copper. Ever genteel, ever open-minded, ever pleasant and welcome in your life.

You don’t know when your perception of him started shifting. You’re busy like every other participant in the game of life; work and your close relationships dominate the forefront of your mind, leaving little room for you to think of Kazuha in the way you do now. If you had to place the shift at any point, you’d err towards one of his visits as the catalyst.

Turns out if you tune out long enough during one of his stories, your attention can wander to the littlest nuances - a prime example being his eyes. They’ve always been gorgeous, reactive. Every gentle rise and fall of his chest is followed by a perfect change - a sequence of events that does not naturally stutter or stumble, like every imperfection of his has been painstakingly trimmed away for your viewing pleasure. Shallow breath in, flutter the eyelashes. Shallow breath out, squint in junction with the meter.

Your poker face is unimpressive, to say the least. Kazuha began to zero in on your lackluster reactions. He’d put talking on the backburner to address you in the crowd specifically, catering and attentive. He’d clear his throat (not like it was needed), and ask you if everything’s okay, or if the story was making you uncomfortable. Carmine irises searched and searched after, a smoothly downturned frown pulling his visage together. You’ve likened them to searchlights sweeping the ground for escaped convicts, rolling around in his skull like polished marbles.

This curried the eyes of your fellow spectators, putting you on absolute blast. No one else feels as if something’s off, probably being disappointed that their entertainment is being put on hold for someone who clearly can’t appreciate it in the way that they can. You’d surely feel the same way a few months ago, had another person in the crowd been unable to hide their displeasure; after all, who doesn’t like Kazuha? He’s charming and kind with a heart of gold. Any tale of his exploits is framed in such a way that you’d have to actively be looking for flaws to dislike them. 

…which is to say you’ve been doing exactly that. Your scant downtime became occupied with asking around about the dual-haired ronin, desperate for another perspective. Even if he puts you off in some way, you’d hate to be right, no matter how intrusive your gut feelings are. Most of what you pry out of people familiar with him are things like he’s such a doll, or he kindly saved me from a group of Nobushi during my travels! Not what you’re looking for. After all of that prodding, an uneasy feeling tickled your insides; if no one else has anything negative to say, why are you still worried? Why does something still feel so undeniably… wrong?

That feeling kept you pressing onward, in search of another answer. Your endeavors were rewarded with such after asking some of the older, wiser, and influential people you could track down. His surname, Kaedehara, apparently has some history left almost forgotten - a clan fallen from infamy. You’re reminded of the genuine longing in Kazuha’s voice, struck with a hollowness. It’s reminiscent of pounding on a wall like they do in the light novels, listening for the telling echoes of a secret room. Though he may have a disgraced or muddied past, that does not entirely satisfy you. That does not mean he is guilty of any wrongdoing. 

If anything, it endears him to you - frustrating. Are you just looking for reasons to hate someone who does not deserve it? Someone who can spin gold from nothing but meager goodwill? Are you trying to hate Kazuha just for the sake of doing so? What does that make you? All of your thoughts will not be consumed by something as dumb as this. Maybe it is because you live in Inazuma, where superstition often overlaps with reality - where yokai readily exist and where gut feelings could mean something beyond jealous paranoia. That must be it, you decide. You’ve gotten so bored with your own life that you’re wading through the already enigmatic waters and gawking at anything strange you find.

If there is something wrong with Kazuha, there has to be something wrong with you.

He starts seeking you out. In his words, he wishes to clear up any misunderstanding between you two; he’s seen you become uncomfortable in his presence over time, beginning to avoid his visits, beginning to ignore his greetings. Of course, he remains concerned throughout it all, trying to bury the hatchet. Nothing is off the table, whether it be paying for your lunch at food stalls, offering to be your protection should you venture into a perilous area, things like that. It’s unsurprising, given his charitable streak that you hear so much about.

You say yes each time. He makes good company, even if looking into eyes unnerves you and every protective measure your body offers screams at you to run away. However, you are the outlier, meaning that you must be the problem. 

This is the conclusion you will choose to stick to, if not just to sleep at night.

Kazuha’s eyes are beautiful. They do not remind you of dried blood, rust, or sweet rot. They do not remind you of harrowing loss or the pointless nature of digging holes just to fill them up again. They do not remind you of placating lies or scuffed carnelian.

They do not remind you of anything, you decide.

Sister Rosaria has always been something of a mystery. 

If you ignore the brusque attitude she boasts to the right people in certain taverns, there’s little you can glean from her. The little in question comes in the form of rumors that reach your ears through the grapevine that carefully connects each Mondstadter to one another; gossip circles galore that have nothing better to do than invent things close to ghost stories.

One you’ve heard more than once is that Sister Rosaria is something of a specter herself. 

You believe yourself to be rational. Despite how ridiculous the notion sounds, you understand where it stems from. Her corpse-esque pallor does her no favors, only accentuating her eyebags that would be fitting of a restless soul wandering the cavernous hallways of the Favonius Cathedral. She is striking, to say the least, and you don’t forget her face once you’ve seen it. Visiting the church for prayer as one does, you’ve spotted her loitering outside a few times, smoking and wallflowering and whatever it is that actually does.

These glimpses of Rosaria are a slippery slope. You’ve caught yourself wanting to go over and introduce yourself - feet moving on their own like she has her own unique type of orbit. Needless to say, the conversation that she allows you to hold with her is sparse. If you ask her about work, she scowls like you’ve personally slighted her. If you fill the silence with something she doesn’t want to hear, she doesn’t listen. Trying to be her friend started as a fruitless endeavor, leaving you bereft of reward in any capacity.

Sister Rosaria is not a specter, ghoul, ghost, or phantom. You think she is a misunderstood woman that keeps to herself too much, and that’s that. The only times you actually get through to her would consist of your ramblings about life; your passionate and animated love for your nation, your plans for the future, everything that you’d think she’d hate, given her attitude. But she listens attentively then, no drags taken, no barbs or jabs at your expense.

That’s something you can work with. Her company becomes something you cherish, and you like to think of yourself as her friend - with you hoping she thinks of you the same way. Camaraderie that goes beyond banter with drunkards and halfhearted arguments with her fellow Sisters. Connection that’s a bit more than what she has with Barbatos, which… isn’t saying much.

Even with these new developments, whispers still reach your ears. These are different from the ones before, going from rumors that anyone would shrug off after a few days to something that would persistently stick to you like glue - a thorn in your side that only wedges itself deeper when you try to dig it out. Things like I saw her sucking someone’s blood after service, and our church is no place for her nighttime activities. 

At first, it’s a bit laughable. Just because she can be a bit uncanny under specific lighting does not mean that she’s a vampire. It makes sense that the narrative surrounding her would shift over time. Those types of creatures aren’t even real. Just because Mondstadt is home to a selection of fantastical creatures doesn’t mean that these rumors have any basis in reality. You are better than to think that of somebody you consider close.

…until you aren’t, that is.

When the maw of the Cathedral swallows you whole, you feel regret crawl and prickle up the path of your spine. The curiosity that leads people astray has certainly maintained its grip on you, steps echoing throughout the building after you hauled the heavy doors open with trepidation. It’s true that the church is open to all, even at odd hours (in case someone requires emergency healing, you believe), but that doesn’t mean that it’s welcoming.

The alluring light that normally illuminates the windows from the outside is absent, leaving you to stop in your tracks a few steps down the nave - which seems to stretch on endlessly. If there’s one positive emotion you feel, you’d name it as relief; the rumored vampire herself is nowhere in sight. Leave it to you to investigate silly gossip, huh?

That means you could leave right now. You could pivot on your heel and go home to get some much-needed rest. The idea isn’t as appealing as you’d like it to be, given that your head keeps swiveling about in search of something to substantiate the cold sweat beading on your forehead. Damn it all. 

The moonlight always makes for a beautiful sight in the plaza, but without the buzz of the Sisters and nocturnal church-goers, it’s watching you with eyes of speckled dust floating between the eaves of the ornate ceiling. It doesn’t take long after that for you to make your decision - home is safer. You suck in a breath and prepare to all but run back out onto the streets of Mond, but something just has to bait your eye.

Far into the crossing (too far), there are flecks of black spattered in a trail leading all the way to the altar. They almost blend into the floorboards, but they are distinctly a shade darker—

You spin around to leave, footsteps reverberating harshly off the various partitions and panels. You have seen too little but still not enough. Was this a trap of some kind? A trap to lure you in here? By the looks of it, someone has already fallen victim to curiosity, and you may be next—

Your running is shadowed - dwarfed, even - by a large silhouette that looks an awful lot like a jagged habit and tiara, canvasing the entire expanse of the stained glass window closest to your exit. The colors are dulled by the imposing outline of what you’re sure is Rosaria. This was the trap, it has to be. What else would you call this? Her head, as much as it bleeds into the rest of her body, looks to be sat on her thin neck with little stopping it from rolling off into the grass outside.

She’s out there waiting for you.

…you think.

Adeptus Xiao is as duty-bound as they come.

If you already didn’t hear a lot about him, you’d seen him around even less. Such is the nature of immortal pillars like him. Where is the mystique and reason in being ever-present when you’re deemed a silent protector by Rex Lapis himself?

But you’d like to think you know a bit more about him than the average citizen of Liyue. You’ve seen him a total of three times, and each instance has left a cataclysmic impact in their wake. Putting it into thought sounds ridiculous, which you’re aware of - but in the Nation of Contracts, your words are your forte that will lay as the reliable foundation to aid you in all of your pursuits.

The first time, you saw him in a dream.

It was cinematic in nature, but you weren’t in it at all; from what you remember, you were shown an aerial view of the many terrains of Liyue. They all melded together into something vaguely recognizable, legs of discolored land stitched together into one large mountain-plain-hill patchwork quilt. You couldn’t shift your view elsewhere, as if being bid to wait patiently for some big reveal.

At first, you wouldn’t call the reveal big. A hazy figure began to stalk across the ground, akin to a fly aimlessly buzzing about, trying to escape towards somewhere greater than where it’s trapped; what you remember most clearly about the scene is that he was enveloped in this dark miasma that weighed down his every step. There was little sound in this dream, but you recall a guttural growl torn from his throat.

He was struggling. You don’t know what with, but something as simple as walking seemed to be too much. He passed directly under your vantage point, top of his head somewhat visible under the wisps of shadow clinging to his form. A polearm was clutched in his grasp as he hauled himself up a steep incline and began looking around, body heaving like he was about to cough up a vital organ.

You knew then that he was not human. You’d never seen anything like it. A thing so predatory yet wounded. You didn’t even get a good look at his face. Maybe there was a mask in place, but then again, that stuff sticking to him did a pretty good job of impeding your immediate judgment.

When you woke up, your chest rose and fell at a pace comparable to his. It stuck with you.

The second time, you saw him at Wangshu Inn.

A lone figure perched on the balcony railing, entirely similar but also entirely different. There was no parasitic evil hanging off his back, so his normalcy was on full display. Impressionable teal-streaked hair, glowing eyes of amber, and a polearm standing tall in his grasp. You’d heard rumors about the inn, of course, and who lives there, but the reality was just sinking in at that point. 

He, vigilant and regal, quickly snapped his head in your direction when you were caught staring up at him from the ground, your back to the breathtaking scenery. He scrutinized you with his lips pressed into a thin line before swiftly vanishing into smoke. He, Adeptus Xiao, was the one from your dream.

A chat with the owner confirmed this. Armed with this information, you, in truth, had no idea what to do. Verr Goldet made a point of mentioning that he’s reserved, actively avoiding crowds and anything he deems a nuisance. Pestering an Adeptus of all things is the last thing you wanted to do, so you opted to move on with your life. The dreams of Xiao frequented most of your sleepless nights, an omen of what, you weren’t certain.

The third time, you saw him in the mirror.

…well, something like him. You see the dark circles pressed into the skin below your eyes from lack of rest. You see your chapped lips (when did you start picking them?) and you definitely see the tremble of your shoulders staring back at you. You think of Xiao, slogging through your nation in search of miscreant fowl to punish - any threat to Liyuean citizens silenced under the tip of his spear. A sense of foreboding washes over you, numbing the tips of your fingers.

Serving as a protector of this nation may be the only thing saving him from ruin by his own hand. After all, a soldier burdened by karmic debt is far better than a potential enemy wracked with bloodlust. 

You look like him. You feel like him. If Adeptus Xiao is trying to share his burden with you, for whatever reason, you aren’t noble enough to be a part of it. There are voices of old whispering in your ears, taunting and angry and vengeful. Sometimes they peter off into screams that only you can hear. It’s too much, causing you to stumble back from the sink, head thudding against the wall.

That does you no favors. There’s no pain yet, but spots plague your vision, blotting out the familiar sight of your home. If you’re concussed, then you need to seek medical attention, but there’s more to it than that. The disembodied spirits are still here, crooning at your form - were they always there? There’s a small part of you that agrees with the notion, even as you fight the ailments. Maybe this has always plagued you—

No, no, no, no.

…you need to do something. Through the fog, you squint at your reflection to make out tendrils of smoke swimming in lazy circles like sharks. You slide your back against the wall, effectively crumpling against the bathroom floor.

Pleading, you whisper his name.

If he answers, you are not conscious to realize it.

La Signora is feared by anyone that possesses even the smallest iota of self-preservation.

You don’t know what that says about you. You know that if you keep flanking to her side (and if she keeps letting you), it would spell out your downfall in elegant calligraphy. Her attention is boiling at times; you feel yourself being choked out by the flames of her passion. If this surge of heat comes from her love, you don’t want to imagine what her wrath looks like, hurtling towards her enemies.

You think that the heat is unpleasant for her, too. Rosalyne kisses you each time like it will be the last, smooth palms coveting the apples of your cheeks. If it were not for the biting cold of Zapolyarny Palace, something like a cliche rendezvous point - you’d turn to ash in her hands. She knows this, because Rosalyne has had many years pass her by. Everything that burns will someday extinguish, she tells you, whispered between stolen kisses and hushed conversations.

You wouldn’t mind fizzling out if it meant you could have more of her, but she’s always refused you. The eighth harbinger is known for being lethal, but with you, she’s deceptively gentle. Cautious. You have a suspicion you’ve worsened the effects of her power, stoking a Pyro magic that can only be pacified by a pernicious Cryo.

The chill following your intrigues is unbearable. The stretches without Rosalyne are just as tortuous as the stretches with her, yet you still wouldn’t trade it for anything. You wouldn’t trade her, even if she stares gaping holes through you after pulling away, wishing you were someone else. Fine by you. If you are to be undone, you hope it is grand. You hope it’s grand to be stomped out by the consequences of her loving again.

…but it doesn’t come. It may be wrong to let your guard down, but pretending like the nature of your relationship is normal is addicting. She sends you gifts wrapped in red tissue paper and signed with her initial - her real one, which you’re actually given the privilege of knowing. She lays her head in your lap and begrudgingly lets you thread your fingers through her hair. She only tells you about her day if you ask. Rosalyne is a private person, when it comes down to it. You know better than to pry, that she loves you in her own way; it makes sense you’re comfortable enough to forget the stakes at hand. Anyone would do the same.

However, you can only go so long without being reminded, if the sight of your clandestine lover thrashing on the ground is anything to go by. It aches. It aches like you’ve been punctured by a dagger, stabbed and gutted and horrified that she’s been reduced to…

Rosalyne has been described as monstrous by underlings before, but this is a bit on the nose. There are six-phased stakes of ice plunged deep in her eye sockets, the noise of her manicured nails clawing at the floorboards accompanied by a terrible shriek. Frost hisses and crackles, accumulating in clusters against the underside of her jaw. Bile begins to climb up your throat because it looks and sounds to be unimaginably painful. You want, no, need to move, but—

You don’t know what’s happening. You’ve screamed and screamed for help, paralyzed and helpless at her side while she struggles in futility. It seems that your meeting spot came back to bite you, because there is no one around to help; you’re not sure what could even stop this. Your heart clenches painfully when she looks at you (as well as she can), head sloping upward, stiff and weighed down by the ice that’s hellbent on consuming her whole.

Tears roll down your cheeks. The hysteria is unforgiving, you can’t even move your legs—

The freeze nips at your heels. That’s why you’re rooted to the ground, you realize, seconds too late; it’s also creeping up your legs with a vengeance. Is this a product of her Delusion? You’ve heard stories about corruption, but nothing like this. Nothing ever like this. Rosalyne’s teeth gnash as they’re blanketed and then smothered by the ice, breaths coming out in frigid plumes. You can only scream more as you’re sinewed together, closer than ever before.

She’s the furthest thing from Rosalyne, La Signora, The Fair Lady - whatever you want to call her. Dread crystallizes the tears now plastered to your cheeks, thinking that you’re next, and that she is already gone. Is it punishment that binds you together in this embrace of stinging frost? Your penance for breaking the rules?

Yes. You’re being made examples of; sculptures erected for naive souls to gawk at, warning them about the dangers of loving someone you’re not supposed to. Your joints creak and groan, protesting your movements and becoming less responsive as you get even colder. It takes your eyes next. You cannot see as you once could, but you can hear the circulation of your blood and your rabbiting pulse, stunted as you are.

You are not to be stomped out - no, that would be too merciful. 

Whatever left of you and Rosalyne will serve as a reminder: Love is not for the faint of heart.

taglist: @flower-yi, @moineauz, @aphrodict, @nomazee, @singularity-sam, @harque, @thestarswhisper

[meowzfordayz]

when you wear baggy clothing — kyojuro, sanemi, muichiro

Author’s Note: friendly reminder to be kind toward yourself. 💓 Easier said than done, ofc, but you deserve it❣️

when you wear baggy clothing — kyojuro, sanemi, muichiro

Rengoku Kyojuro x Reader, Shinazugawa Sanemi x Reader, Tokito Muichiro x Reader

Word Count: ~1,000

CW: implied body insecurity, mild sexual content

Emergency Request Fulfilled: Hey, so I'd like to ask for a Emergency Request of Sanemi, Rengoku and Muichiro (if you want you can add anyone else) with an S/o that is very Insecure of their thighs and always wear baggy things on their legs no matter how hot it is because they just don't like them.

~faqs, image~

“Would you like to change?” Kyojuro asks, “It is quite hot out today!”

“Is there something wrong with my outfit?” you raise an eyebrow, quickly backtracking as alarm races across his expression, “I’m just teasing!” shaking your head with a fond smile, “I know what you meant.”

“I am relieved!” he exhales loudly, almost pouting as he watches you put on your shoes, “I would never ask you to change like that.”

Chuckling patiently, you pucker your lips, giggling as he squats down to kiss you, “I know, Kyo. I love you.”

“Let me,” he hums contently, gently nudging your hands aside to finish tying your laces, “Your outfit is wonderful, by the way.”

“As is yours,” you wink.

“I really am fine with waiting,” he tries again, “If you feel like changing,” standing up with a soft grunt, “Your comfort is my priority.”

“I’m comfortable,” you answer simply, “Thank you though.”

“If something else is on your mind,” he says abruptly, hesitant to approach the aching suspicion in his chest, “Then,” sighing as he mentally shelves the subject for later, “Then please remember that I care about you.”

“How could I forget?” you murmur, linking your pinky with his, using him as a counterweight to stand up beside him, “I’ll be alright.”

And though Kyojuro ultimately believes you, he still finds himself silently promising to love you better — to press your perfections into your skin, fingertips warm and trembling, until even you can no longer doubt their truth.

“You’re going out in that?” Sanemi scoffs.

“Piss off,” you snort, smacking his bicep, “I like this dress.”

“Aren’t you afraid of tripping on the hem?” he smirks, “You might need taller shoes.”

“My shoes are just fine.”

“And if you trip?” he drawls.

Blinking pointedly at him, you shrug, “You’ll catch me.”

“But watching you fall on your face would be much funnier,” he promptly quips.

“Are we done talking about my outfit?” you scowl, “We’re missing all the sunshine bickering in here.”

“So let’s bicker outside,” he winks, “Maybe I’ll toss in a compliment once I’m warm enough.”

“Oh yes, because you’re a plant who becomes much more agreeable after soaking in X amount of sunlight.”

“Your legs aren’t gonna tan,” he quips, opening the front door for you.

Eyes rolling, you pat his chest in thanks as you walk past him, exhaling softly as summer air caresses your face, “Sanemi, the last thing I’m worried about is tanning my legs.”

“And the first thing?”

“None of your business,” you retort without thinking, delayed panic setting in as you realize There’s no way he’s letting that slide.

“My love.”

You nearly wince at his lowered, serious tone, refusing to turn around, almost certain he’s glaring thoughtfully—or worse, staring softly—at you.

“What are you worried about?”

“This doesn’t feel like bickering,” you mutter weakly.

“You can always wear sunscreen,” he says slowly, “No need to resort to tripping hazards.”

Relief floods your lungs at the delicate humor in his voice, dress twirling gently as you carefully meet his inquiring gaze.

“Maybe I want you to catch me.”

“I already warned you, watching you fall on your face would be much funnier,” arms crossing as his jaw tenses slightly, “Whenever you’re ready, I’m here to listen,” continuing smoothly before your panic can flare again, “For now, know that you look amazing,” cracking a wry smile, “And I’m grateful I get to enjoy your beautiful, untanned legs.”

“Would you actually let me trip and die?” you answer breathlessly, tears pricking the corners of your eyes at his intuition and patience.

Laughing roughly, he waves a nonchalant hand, “If it looked like you were gonna die, then of course I’d catch you,” raising a smug eyebrow, “But chances are you wouldn’t die, so who knows…”

Despite his teasing reply, the moment he offers you his elbow, a sarcastic yet attentive glint in his eyes, you know better  — Shinazugawa Sanemi will always catch you.

“Why are you wearing those?” you raise an eyebrow, gesturing at Muichiro’s grey sweatpants, “It’s like, a hundred degrees outside.”

“Because you are,” he shrugs, offering you a faint smile, “We’re cute when we’re matching.”

You poke his shoulder with a snort. He doesn’t budge.

“Y’know what’s not cute?”

“What?” he deadpans.

“Both of us melting into puddles.”

“So you’re allowed to be a puddle, and I’m not?” his head tilts.

“I don’t want to be a puddle,” you huff, arms crossing good naturedly, “But it’s better like this.”

Nodding slowly, his eyes narrow with confusion, “What’s better like this?”

“Never mind,” you sigh, reaching for his hand, nose scrunching happily as his fingers immediately intertwine with yours, “We’re gonna be late.”

“I’d like to resolve this first,” he replies, tone frustratingly smooth, “I don’t understand.”

“You don’t have to change,” you explain patiently, nudging him with your elbow, “After all, we are cute when we’re matching.”

“But I feel like you don’t want to wear sweatpants,” Muichiro retorts, stubborn as ever, “So why don’t we match in shorts instead?”

“Don’t like them,” you mutter quickly.

“You could wear mine? They’re longer, more baggy, more comfortable,” he assures you, brow furrowing, “Because I’m absolutely not putting on booty shorts.”

Giggling quietly, the tension between your shoulders lessens, his oblivious consideration easing your nerves, “We don’t have to match.”

“But I want to.”

“Fine!” you exclaim, eyes rolling playfully, “Let’s go change into shorts, your, shorts.”

“And for the record,” he murmurs, dutifully following you as you tug him toward the bedroom, “Just because I refuse to wear booty shorts doesn’t mean you can’t.”

“I know.”

“And I know we don’t have to match,” he pauses, affection warming the back of your head as he gazes fondly at you leading the way, “But I want you to know that I support you and your fashion choices, no matter what.”

He might be somewhat off the mark, but his sentiment calms the butterflies in your stomach nonetheless, voice soft as you respond carefully, “Thank you Muichiro. Me and my fashion choices appreciate you very much.”

“Love you.”

“Love you too. Now let’s put on some long, baggy, comfortable shorts!”

[lovelyyandereaddictionpoint]

How would the twisted boys of your choosing react to a weapon mc whose dad is stein from soul eater? Talk about a ruff family reunion.

Stein’s Weapon Reader | Yandere Twisted Wonderland

Not only is being a weapon making you different enough but your dad somehow sciencing his way to Twisted Wonderland makes this even worse. Your relationship before disappearing from the world you two hailed wasn’t necessarily bad but having a father who too often stuttered on the line of madness made things tense. Madness aside he unmeaningly shadows your accomplishments whether by his own expertise or his constructive criticism instead of mild praise. If only to make things worse he’s unexpectedly overprotective of you when he accurately dictates when you are in over your head. 

When he arrives he no doubt comes out swinging with his soul wavelengths leaving immediate staff and students paralyzed. Leaving you to push past your friends as you transform to go stop his mad-induced frenzy. 

“Dad, chill out!”

“Widget!? Are you okay?”

“I will be when you stop trying to kill my friends!” 

He’s less than fond to know you’re in a world with magic but his own desire to dissect it and learn about it will ease him…for now. He’s irritable as he observes the obsessive exceeding interest the boys at Night Raven have in you. Angrily twisting his screw as he debates how badly to mess up their soul wavelengths.

“I’m not fond of you hanging around my kid…but I’m curious how you plan to go against that.”

Leona Kingscholar

“You’re right. It doesn’t matter really. I’ll make them mine anyway.”

He’s working overtime 

Attempting to bother your father while also avoiding his attempts to dissect him

Not only as a lion beast man 

but as a lazy pursuer that doesn’t seem capable of even beating you as a weapon

Stein is bothered by him

He claims that’s the only reason he doesn’t like them 

But with him, it's hard to say

They both tend to underestimate one another 

Where Stein doesn’t fully register the height of his obsession

And Leona trying to threaten him without getting experimented on

It's messy 

And it will continue to be as Leona spies the underlying attempt to send you both home

“I’m not letting them leave but if you do we won’t have a problem.”

Idia Shroud

“Heheh from one genius to another I’m not letting them go so easily.”

Both take each other on in a fueled mad-scientist feud

Its the best and worse time for them

With them spending plenty of their smarts dissecting and studying one another

It acts as a distraction until Idia runs off to your side

Who is following up on some experiments you agreed to 

Which include gaming for hours, binge-watching anime, and maybe kissing

Which has Stein working to create little gadgets to sabotage or at least surveil his experiments

Stein gets more invested in thwarting him because he understands his interest in you better

But Idia’s not giving up 

Not in this game 

You were his prize and Stein, while fun, was just a minor antagonist in his romance with you

“This is great! I’ll get the love interest and defeat the villain! This would make a wild otome!”

[yeowangies]

mutual understanding

Chapter I | Chapter II: Time for a little truth | III | IV | V

PAIRING: Kenpachi/AFAB!Reader CONTENTS: AU - Fantasy, Medieval, Royalty, Arranged Marriage, Misunderstandings, Miscommunication, Pining, Explicit Sexual Content in later chapters. WARNING FOR THIS CHAPTER: Mentions of mild blood and minor violence. WORDCOUNT: 3404

Summary:

Despite your first hand experience, it was getting difficult to admit to yourself that Kenpachi wasn’t actually as bad as he initially seemed. He was violent and obsessed with fighting, that was obvious and even more so when you started living there, but he had never treated you roughly. Not even a single word out of place towards you, less alone one threatening action. 

Notes:

I struggle writing this chapter a bit, confrontations are hard lmao but they are always necessary and i'm glad we can move on to sexier parts now!

Let me know if you wanna be tagged!

header by me, divider by @/saradika

taglist: @actuallysaiyan @lol-ktr @vrgelivvvv

The night was beautiful. It had been raining days prior, and you couldn’t wait to go for a walk in the garden that night. It was the only alone time you had, with no maids trailing behind your every move, not when they didn’t notice you sneaking off.

You rarely went past the trees signaling the limit of the palace. The forest was on the other side, and people rarely went too deep into it, knowing what kind of magical creatures existed was enough to ward anyone off. 

You only wanted to explore a little, not enter the woods completely, but as soon as you took two steps into it, something felt off. 

The first thing you heard was a distant howl, before a gust of air threw you down onto the ground. Your vision got blurry, heat covering your body as claws tightly held onto your arm, digging into your flesh. You couldn’t even scream, completely confused as to what was even happening, and who or what was even attacking you. Blood trickled down your arm, and that was when you could finally let out a shaky cry. 

Whatever was holding you suddenly dropped you, and you fell with your back against the dirt, breathing heavily as the world stopped spinning rapidly enough so you could open your eyes and focus. 

You gasped loudly at the sight above you; an enormous man with an eyepatch and a scar across his face standing in front of you, holding a sword. Half his face covered in blood, making your body shiver in fear.

You barely crawled away before feeling too weak to keep moving, heart beating fast inside your ribcage, and you kept your eyes on the man in front of you, holding onto what was left of your consciousness as you heard far away voices resonating around you.

“Captain Zaraki just saved a girl!”

“Was that a werewolf?!”

“That’s the princess!”

“We need to get her back to the castle!”

You woke up, feeling hot and sweaty under the blankets, gasping for air at the flashback you had for a dream. 

That was the day Kenpachi saved you, the day you met him for the first time. It was embarrassing to even remember, as you had been more afraid of him than you had been of the actual creature that had harmed you. Albeit you hadn’t actually seen the werewolf. You only found that Kenpachi had sliced him in two once you woke up a few days later and one of the maids informed you about it.

You still didn’t know what to think of that experience, only that it made your blood run cold at times.

It has been a couple of weeks since you had moved to the castle, and the days passed by easily. You didn’t feel as tense as the first few days, when you were still testing the waters of the place.

Yachiru was actually a good company, despite her short age. She was vivacious and gave you strength and hope with her every move. You even met Ikkaku and Yumichika one night while you took a walk through the gardens, and even though they weren’t as strong as Kenpachi (not that you cared, but they let you know the fact nonetheless), they were much easier to talk to than your husband was. 

Once Kenpachi had given you permission to reorganize the garden (his exact words were ‘do whatever you want’), you focused solely on that, and as the early weeks of fall began, the weeds and overgrown grass had been removed completely. You knew it was a bad time to start planting seeds; if the cold in the first few days didn’t kill the plants, the snow might do that job once winter arrived. But you couldn’t wait; it was the only thing that kept you occupied. 

As soon as you became more familiar with the castle, you realized there wasn’t a library or a banquet hall. Why would there be any of those rooms if Kenpachi did not seem like the type to enjoy those things? Nevertheless, you wanted to fix that, but in order to do that, you had to ask your husband about it, and you felt like you might be overstepping with such an expensive and ambitious project. The garden will have to be done for now, and once that part was done, you could move on to something bigger.

Yachiru was helping you a lot in her own way, spreading the seeds across the soil of the garden (and though you specifically told her not to mix them you knew she was doing it), and once you were done for the day, you headed back into the castle. 

“Are we gonna do that again tomorrow?” She asked cheerfully, running across the entrance. 

“Tomorrow we have another task for the garden, we have to water the soil, remember?” You said, looking at her with a smile. “We have to do that everyday, and hopefully flowers will bloom by spring!”

“We’ll have flowers by spring?” Yumichika asked, walking through the entrance along with Ikkaku. 

“I am planning for that, however it does depend on the weather, and how crude these colder months are.” You replied with a soft smile. “I have faith that they will bloom!”

“Flowers never really grew in that place,” Ikkaku commented, looking at the still brand new garden through the window. “It was always full of weed, nobody really cared for it.”

“My mission is to make this place nicer! Once the garden is done, I wish to create a ballroom!”

“You want a ballroom?” Kenpachi's deep voice resonated from behind you, making you jump. “Why?”

“Well… So people can come over…” You replied quietly, turning around to face him with unsure eyes. 

“Come over for what?” His frown got deeper and it only made you more nervous.

“For socializing! Dancing and eating, mostly.” You replied, confused and slightly irritated. “Is that not to your taste?”

“We never had dances!” Yachiru replied, loud and joyful. “I bet it’s super fun!”

It was your turn to frown when you heard him sigh like he was annoyed before he spoke. 

“I will never understand women.”

An uncomfortable feeling raised inside you, more rapidly than you expected when you noticed from the corner of your eye that Ikkaku was looking at the both of you with eyes wide open, and Yumichika had covered his face with his palm. 

Embarrassed and frustrated, you couldn’t contain it even if you tried. 

“And I do not understand you.” You spat, looking up at Kenpachi as if he wasn’t twice your size. “Are you going to deny this to me? It is your right to do so, but this would not even be an issue if we were not married. You could have vehemently said no to this union, even escape from it! So I might as well enquire why exactly did you accept it? I was the one who had no choice!”

You kept your eyes on his for a moment as he stared at you, wide eyed, as if you had sprouted another head.

Not interested in listening to whatever that could have been said, you ran out of the castle towards the garden.

*

Kenpachi stood there looking at you as you got smaller the further you ran, and was only brought back to the present time by Yachiru’s voice.

“Dumb Kenny.” Yachiru commented, way too loud for Kenpachi’s taste, but he only turned to look at her, confused and annoyed. She paid him no mind and only ran up down the hall towards the kitchen. 

“What in the hell…” He grunted, unsure of what to do. Under any circumstances, he would start a fight, but even he knew that was a terrible idea. 

“Captain,” Yumichika called for him, making Kenpachi turn to him. “With all due respect, you are an idiot.”

“What?” Kenpachi practically growled, but Yumichika went on despite the threatening tone. 

“This girl is alone here, with no friends, no one she can confide in, and you just made her feel more alienated than ever. She had no choice in coming here, and she cannot leave at her own free will either. I suggest you actually tell her the truth.” 

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“You have affection for her, don’t you?” Yumichika asked softly, not really expecting an answer. “Go talk to her and tell her the truth. She will say she doesn’t want to talk, but pay it no mind. She’ll want to know.”

“How do you even know that?” Ikkaku asked, arching an eyebrow. 

“I actually have the emotional range of a human being.” Yumichika rolled his eyes. 

“Shut up.” Kenpachi grumbled, pondering on the idea of actually telling you how he was feeling for a while before deciding it was the right thing to do. “Fine, whatever.”

Walking out the entrance and towards the garden, he tried to organize his thoughts. It wasn’t like he was a complete prick; he knew what could be insulting to say, he simply didn’t care for those things. But apparently you had been uncomfortable since the moment you’ve been declared husband and wife. 

Kenpachi hadn’t actually thought about anything regarding your life and feelings, simply because he hadn’t paid too much attention to details beyond what you had shown him. He had even let you have the bedroom all for yourself because he assumed you were terrified of him; the way you looked at him the first time you met spoke volumes. And even occasionally you seemed petrified whenever he was around, even after you’ve been in the castle for weeks. 

It had pissed him off to hear you talk about him behind his back the way you had, though it probably came from a place of fear rather than arrogance, no matter that you moved around like the princess you were. That lovely bit of confidence he saw in you when you still lived in the palace diminished terribly when you moved to his castle, or at least around him it did, and he wasn’t going to keep contributing to it. 

Out in the garden, Kenpachi spotted you underneath a tree, sitting on the ground with your knees to your chest. 

It was time for a little truth. 

“I do not wish to speak to you.” You said, voice shaky, as soon as you noticed he was nearby. 

Kenpachi didn’t get any closer, but he spoke, regardless of what you said. 

“Just shut up and listen.” He sentenced, making you turn your head slightly to the side, enough so he could see your glossy eyes. Trying to pay it no mind, he went on. “I know marrying me wasn’t your choice. I was greedy. I didn’t want to refuse that opportunity so I didn’t really put up a fight when your father told me to marry you, even when you made it clear that you think I’m a barbarian. I didn’t care.”

Your frown and sniffle distracted him momentarily, especially when your eyes kept avoiding his. You had turned to face him, but you weren’t actually looking at him at all. 

“I hate how you keep looking at me, like I’m going to kill you at any given chance.” Kenpachi admitted through gritted teeth. “I didn’t really think about how this marriage would affect you so if you wish to leave and go back to the palace, I’ll make it happen.”

He spared you one last glance at you before turning away, when it was clear you wouldn’t respond to his words. You seemed even smaller, and the way you briefly looked at him before he left made you look powerless. 

*

You stared at Kenpachi as he walked away, surprised and confused, trying to focus on one of the things that he said at a time. 

He was being greedy? About what, exactly? It wasn’t like was using the dowry money to expand his fief. He didn’t even want you to expand the castle at all. His greediness did not involve money, so why did he say that?

You didn’t think it was so noticeable how afraid of him you were, even if it was a fleeting feeling at times. You couldn’t help it; he was imposing and his constant aggressive expression made it impossible for you to see him differently. It had a lot to do with that night when you first met, when he saved you. He hasn’t been the one who hurt you, but your mind just couldn’t fully dissociate what actually happened with the bloodlust he had in his eyes when he looked at you. On top of it all, he heard you calling him a ‘barbarian’ when you were trying to talk your father out of this marriage. 

However, despite your first hand experience, it was getting difficult to admit to yourself that Kenpachi wasn’t actually as bad as he initially seemed. He was violent and obsessed with fighting, that was obvious and even more so when you started living there, but he had never treated you roughly. Not even a single word out of place towards you, less alone one threatening action. 

Not to mention the fact that he adopted a small girl he found in the woods, and the undying loyalty of his men revealed a lot about what kind of person he was. And he had even let you sleep by yourself every night since you got there, knowing your discomfort. 

Maybe it was time to make amends. 

Waiting for Kenpachi that night, you paced around in your nightgown, hoping he’d come to the room after dinner. He usually did even if he didn’t spend the night, so you were ready to talk to him once he got there. 

When the door opened, you looked at him, feeling slightly intimidated. He had the same hard expression he usually wears, but it was starting to feel natural to see him that way, so you immediately relaxed. 

“I do not wish to go back to the palace.” You started promptly once the door was closed. Kenpachi remained impassive, only keeping his eyes on you once he removed the eyepatch. You gulped before going on. “I’m very comfortable here. I have to confess, you’ve treated me more like a person than anyone else might have done before, and I’m very thankful for that. And I’m… sorry, too.”

It was hard to read him at all, he only stared at you without moving a single muscle on his face, but somehow that was helpful enough to keep you talking.

“You saved my life, and I judged you horribly, without even attempting to know you. I insulted you and hurt your pride, so I must ask for your forgiveness.” 

Looking down, you bowed at a ninety degree angle, staying still for a moment before returning to an upright position. You kept your eyes on the floor, waiting for him to say something, hopefully words of encouragement that would mean he accepted your apology, and that you could stay.

“You hurt my pride, huh?” Kenpachi’s gruff voice brought your eyes back up to meet his as he made his way towards you; it surprised you that he was smirking. “Is that what you think you did?”

“I think so… Weren’t my words insulting?”

“For reasons you’re not seeing.” He paused, eying you up and down quickly as his smirk faded. “I didn’t care that I was probably offending you when I accepted your hand. Your father threatened me with my past, saying he would hand me over to another kingdom for the nobles I’ve killed when I was a mercenary.”

Your eyes opened wide at his words. You knew your father was a politician and a strategist before even being a father, but you couldn’t believe your ears. It was startling, but not unrealistic, that he had basically sold you to a murderer. 

“But I couldn’t care less about that, he could have done it and I would have managed to get away anyway.” Kenpachi went on nonchalantly, looking to the side as if he hadn’t given any of the things he was saying a lot of thought. “The reason I ended up accepting your hand, the reason I was greedy, was you.”

“I don’t understand.” 

“Your father offered you to me on a silver plate in exchange for my loyalty, and I accepted, just because I wanted to have you.”

You stared at him, bewildered. 

Kenpachi wanted you? You had seen him for the first time that night you had been attacked in the woods, and you weren’t so vain as to think of yourself so charming that one look would suffice to capture a man’s heart, especially a man like Kenpachi, who seemed so ruthless and aggressive to even care about those kind of things. Even more so when you looked terrified at that moment.

If anything, you were sure that you couldn’t actually judge him based on his expressions if he was telling you he wanted you with such a stoic look. 

His eyes were on you for a while, obviously awaiting a reaction, but as moments passed by in silence, he turned to leave, at which point you decided to speak.

“Wait!” You called for him, and Kenpachi turned to look at you. “Please stay. We’re husband and wife, we should sleep in the same bed, yes?”

“Aren’t you afraid of me?” 

“I’m not-” Kenpachi snorted in disbelief, making you jolt in surprise. You slapped yourself mentally for the slip but went on. “I mean, I was, I won’t deny it! Nevertheless, you’ve been nothing but nice and considerate since I got here.”

His eyes stayed on you to the point where you started to feel self conscious, until he finally sighed and took long steps to approach you. 

Everything about Kenpachi was intimidating; it was inevitable due to his size and expression. But after everything he had told you that day, nothing inside you made you anxious about him. If anything, you could see features that you might consider attractive (not that you didn’t notice them before, but fear and trepidation always won those battles). There was a rugged charm about him. 

“You’re asking me to share a bed with you after everything I told you?” Kenpachi asked with a smirk. “Are you doing it on purpose?”

“You can do whatever you want with me, nothing I say could stop you,” You said, staring back at him, straining your neck in the process. “But you've been attentive enough to make me trust you.”

When his hand slid up your shoulder and into the hair in the back of your neck, it surprised you but not enough to make you react. You were curious about his intentions since he made it clear he desired you for a while. 

“You have a lot of confidence for a tiny woman,” Kenpachi’s grin only grew, making you smile in return. 

“It comes with the royalty title.” You shrugged. “It won’t change anytime soon.”

“I don’t want you to change.”

With a firm grip on your hair, Kenpachi leaned down and kissed you. You made a noise in surprise; he had practically pressed his face against yours, bumping your noses and roughly crashing your lips together. You held onto him, gripping the front of his shirt tightly, when he slid his tongue past your lips and into your mouth. 

You could barely keep your legs from collapsing as he tasted every corner and every inch of your cavity. His desperation for you was palpable, and it made you all the more dizzy. It was difficult to even keep up with him, you were reduced to trembling legs and occasional gasps that left your mouth as you ran out of air. 

If it wasn’t for the arm Kenpachi had slid around your waist, you would have fallen down once he pulled away. The lack of air had made you lightheaded, and your face felt impossibly hot. 

Were kisses supposed to feel that good?

“Another.” You demanded once you’ve caught your breath, gazing at him with pleading eyes as you ran your hands up his tunic to bring him down again. “I demand another.”

With his usual cocky smirk, Kenpachi leaned down to kiss your lips once more. This time a little slower and gentler, but still just as eager. 

[artists-ally]

I have a Harvey request if you’re taking them! He’s dating an UES socialite who actually cares about the world and people and isn’t the stereotypical aloof type. He tries to buy her a fancy gift (jewelry/bag/whatever) and she tells him to return it and he gets upset. Thank you!!!! 🩷🩷🩷

{Affection} Harvey Specter x Reader

Hey babes!!! Yes I am always taking Harvey requests!!! NGL I had to google what that meant and I hope I did this right 😭 Enjoy!! Title from this song.

Word Count: 1,400

Warnings: language, mild angst, fluff

Tagging: @rosedpetal @bbyanarchist

~~~~~

For the past six months, ever since Harvey closed that deal with Smith and Klein, he has had a crush on their public representative, Yn. She is just… she is so pretty. And damn good at her job. She was responsible for representing his client and spreading word about their business on social media. 

But she was just different from the other upper east side assholes in New York. The way she talked and carried herself was enough to catch Harvey’s eye. 

In the last few weeks she’s been at the firm, trying to renegotiate the deal. Harvey took the opportunity to ask her out. To his surprise, she actually said yes. And their date that night had been lovely. At a quiet, riverfront steakhouse closer to where she lived. It was intimate and was a night filled with laughter. 

But there was just one problem. 

She never kept any of the gifts he gave her.

____

READER POV

I scoffed. Was he serious? The blue Tiffany box sat on my desk, its obnoxious blue bow staring right at me. I flicked open the note.

Yn, maybe these are more your style. See you tonight for dinner – Harvey.

What a shallow dude. Was his ego bruised so badly by my three other rejected gifts that he had to send me a fourth? How did one of the smartest men in the world not get the hint? He was good at his job, at closing deals and stirring up trouble, but he seriously couldn’t accept the fact that I didn’t want any presents?

I just sighed, sliding it in the drawer in my desk until later. 

It was annoying enough when he bought me the first set of earrings, giving them to me on our second date. Way too early for jewelry, for one. Second, what was I supposed to do with them? To me it was nothing but a gesture of utter disrespect. Did my time mean so little to him that all he thought to get me were earrings? 

The watch was way worse. And the necklace with matching earrings was just horrendous. Sure, that does it for some girls, but I am not the type to wear it just to make him happy to see it around my neck. Diamonds and glitter can only do so much.

It was nearing our anniversary and clearly we were still not on the same page. Sure, were they pretty? Yes, but that wasn’t the point. 

After I sent my last email for the day, I wrapped my jacket around my shoulders and headed out of the office, tiny blue box in my hand. 

_____

“Don’t you look lovely,” Harvey grinned, accepting my kiss with more than a little enthusiasm. “I missed you.”

“I missed you too,” I smiled, stepping through the door as he held it open for me. “Thank you.” “Of course.”

We were seated at our regular table immediately, the box, which I had stuffed in my purse now burning a hole through it. I caught Harvey looking at my ears, and anyone else would’ve missed the way his eyes dimmed. 

“Good evening, what can I grab you guys to drink?” The perky waitress asked, flipping open a notepad. 

“Just water for me,” Harvey said, scouring the menu.

“I’ll do an iced tea, no lemon please,” I decided. 

“Okay, I will bring those out for you in a few minutes. Take all the time you need to look at the menus.”

She bounded away and I took a deep breath. Any second now.

Harvey tapped his fingers on the tablecloth. He looked… tense. Then again he always looked tense. But this was a different type of discomfort. 

“You’re not wearing the earrings I gave you.”

Here we go. 

I just sighed, “Look Harvey, I-”

“You don’t have to be condescending.”

I paused. “What?”

“I think you’ve been planning on breaking up with me for a while now so just get it over with.”

I couldn't do anything but blink at him. My brain might’ve actually disconnected from my mouth. “Harvey, where on earth did you get that idea?”

“Well, what the hell else am I supposed to think?” Harvey’s eyes were wide, voice barely below shouting. “You don’t ever want to come to events with me, you’re hardly willing to go on dates. You clearly don’t want any of the gifts I keep giving you since you’ve given every single one of them back over the past few months. But you also won’t tell me what to get you so every time I go shopping, I feel like I’m blind. I have no god damn clue what it is that you like.”

“Because you don’t ask,” I shrugged, looking at the menu again. 

“What are you talking about?”

“If you ever bothered to ask, you’d know the answer."

“Well, I do ask. And every time you give me the same response.”

“Have you ever asked me why?” Harvey just stared at me, brows furrowed together. “As I was trying to say before, it’s not that I don’t think the jewelry is pretty-”

“Then what is it, Yn? Because clearly I am doing something wrong or you’re just fucking with me,” Harvey sighed, and that sad, defeated look crept into his eyes. 

Guess I'm just going to have to be blunt.

“I don’t give a shit for the jewelry,” I said honestly.

“But- but why?” Harvey threw his hands in the air. “It’s some of the best money can buy.”

“Which is precisely why it bores me. You can only say so much with a pair of earrings and a necklace, Harvey. To me, it screams lazy and mindless. Anyone can get anyone a pair of earrings.”

“Well, what do you want? Anklets? Ear cuffs? How about-”

“I want conversation,” I explained, setting down the menu and really taking him in. He was still. “I want good, meaningful conversation. I want thoughtful gifts like a new bookmark or a little porcelain cat you saw in a window and thought it looked like mine so you bought it for me.”

“You don’t have a cat.”

I couldn’t suppress my glare. “That’s not the point. Harvey, I like you a lot. And I do think you’re great, but you aren’t seeing me. You aren’t looking beneath the surface, you’re just going off your past instincts of what girls like. I’m not those girls.

“I am not a complicated person. Surprise visits and late night drives me more to me than anything you could ever buy in a store. I like being spontaneous and going to new places. And before you even think about it, no, I do not mean booking an all exclusive resort in Jamaica and flying first class. I want to go to museums and grab lunch on the way at a little cafe. To discover hidden gems in this city and make actual memories, not collect material ones. 

“I like authenticity. And I don’t know anyone who is more themself than you are, Harvey. That is what I like about you. You are not afraid to show your personality. You are unapologetically yourself, and I love that about you. But you haven't given me the chance to show that side of myself."

Harvey took in a big breath, nodding in understanding. 

“I am looking for something real. For you to really understand me and what makes me happy.”

“I get it, and I’m sorry I never thought of it that way. Most of the women who I’ve dated in the past tend to go for the biggest, boldest, baddest diamond on the shelf. I started getting offended when you kept sending the jewelry back. I couldn’t figure it out no matter how much I thought about what to get next.”

I smiled, reaching for his hand. He placed his fingers in my palm. “I am not a materialistic person. Earrings and necklaces mean nothing to me. Just a piece of sparkly rock that I’ll probably lose at some point. Or break.”

“So what you’re saying is I should just never buy you anything expensive ever again? Perfect, saves me more money to take you on all those vocations you don’t want to go on.” “Oh hush,” I giggled, easing at the sight of his smile. “Not that those things aren’t nice, I just don’t appreciate them the same way others do.”

“I understand,” Harvey said. “So, would you like to get out of here and go do something spontaneous?”

My heart swelled. “I’d love to.”