#forward control cab over

[carsthatnevermadeitetc]

 Chevrolet Corvair 95 Greenbrier Sportswagon, 1961. The Corvair 95 Greenbrier was a cab-over van based on the rear-engined Corvair. The render from May 11, 1960, shows a design study for a slope roof version that never made it off the drawing board.

[rollerman1]

[endearng]

Tie

Pairing: switch!Spencer Reid x sub!fem!reader Summary: Spencer gets unreasonably jealous of you. You let him take control to comfort and reassure him. That's what loving girlfriends do. WC: 3.6k Warnings: smut - oral (f receiving), edging, overstimulation, kinda softdom!Spencer, reader is compliant to everything he says, he's just as desperate as her, sir kink, creamp1e (i long for a better word), bondage, unprotected pinv, dirty talk (they yap), pet names, pussy slapping. Jealous Spencer deserves a warning of its own. Minors, please, do not interact. A/N: I have no excuse for myself (I'm ovulating). This is pure filth and indulgent because I was being tortured with thoughts of Spencer.

Feedbacks are always welcomed and appreciated <3 Masterlist

Subtle touches from Spencer all night had you going crazy. Well, they weren’t exactly that subtle.

During a particular conversation you were having with Rossi about Italian cuisine (you were an enthusiast, both of cooking and eating Italian dishes like nothing else existed), Spencer, who had an armed slung over the chair you were sitting on, started twirling your hair in his fingers. When you laughed at some remark about how French people are insane for combining dairy with fish, your boyfriend pulled your hair rather crudely. You glared at him from the corner of your eye.

You got somewhat angry because it was uncomfortable for you to be that intimate around others, but his teasing worked wonders on you. Now, you wanted his touch to be bolder, thirstier, needier, just to match your own sinful thoughts and wants. Right now, Spencer was saying goodbye to Rossi, who was waiting for a cab to take him and his wife back home. Spencer's hand rested at the small of your back. The wine you sipped all through the night, combined with Spencer's bratty behavior, was now making your pussy throb with need for your boyfriend. Nevertheless, you wouldn't give him the satisfaction of seeing you all worked up in public. "Goodbye, Krystall, and again, happy birthday. Thank you for including me! It was incredible," you said to the woman, who hugged you warmly and thanked you with a smile on her face. "Looking forward to those cooking sessions you mentioned earlier," you said, a big smile on your face as you gave David Rossi a hug.

"Anytime, bellissima." He said simply as you pulled away, smile gracing his face. You held out your hand to Spencer to walk back to his car.

The nickname had struck a nerve. He wasn't jealous, no, he trusted you with his body and his soul, even if he, as a man of science, didn't believe in the latter — that's how much he loved and trusted you, and it was Rossi, for God's sake... Still, he was just another man. Another stupid, territorial man. He opened the door for you and you entered the car, giving him a peck on the lips, "Thanks, handsome."

"Anytime, bellissima," he said through gritted teeth after he closed the door and as you fastened your seatbelt, out of your earshot. He turned around to enter the car, taking the driver's seat.

You went home silently, but you could sense the heavy atmosphere between you on the way there. As you entered your apartment, he got down on his knees to take off your shoes for you. He always did it, no matter what. Apparently, acting weird was no exception to his care with you. You bit your lip, a little apprehensive to bring up the subject. "Thank you, baby," you said softly instead.

"You're welcome, darling." he said, not looking at you and taking longer than necessary in his task.

You sucked in a breath. "Okay, baby, what was that? We need to talk about it."

"What was what?"

"Just when we left the restaurant. I said thanks and you basically ignored me all the way here," you explained, even if you knew he definitely knew what you were talking about. your hand found the nape of his neck, making him look up at you. He had a guilty look on his face.

Busted.

He sighed, "I'm sorry, baby. I shouldn't have spoken to you like that. I was mean." He apologized, eyes sincerely searching your form and hands reaching up to rest on the sides of your hips.

"Why did you do it, then?"

"Bellissima. You know what it means. I just got... jealous? I should be the only one complimenting you," he said, now standing at full height in front of you. Kissing your lips, hands caressing your waist, touch light as a feather, "telling you how much you mean to me," you sighed as his lips brushed the skin of your neck, "how much it drives me crazy just seeing you," he bit the sweet spot just behind your ear, "my beautiful, gorgeous girlfriend. Mine."

You pulled on his hair so he could see your features. Looking him dead in the eye, with an almost angry look on your face. You wanted him to pay for everything he had done that night. "Baby, you were touching me all night, knowing that you were driving me insane. knowing you're the only one who gets to do that," you leaned in to kiss him softly. "And then throw a tantrum like the spoiled little thing that you are just because someone said a word to me? You know compliments mean nothing when it comes from someone who's not you, baby. Thought you knew better."

Silence. He looked at you like you kicked his dog. 

"Remind me, then," he retorted, looking you in the eye. "Remind me how much you're mine and mine only."

One of your favorite things about your relationship with Spencer was that, in public, your dynamic was totally different from what you were like between four walls. When you were surrounded by people, Spencer acted like a gentleman, always making sure to cater to your every whim, opening car doors, taking off your shoes for you, picking nice places to take you on dates, accepting your suggestions of what to wear — it was no coincidence that he looked a lot more styled lately, but you also loved his usual attires. It was how you met him and how you fell in love with him, after all.

But, in the bedroom (or wherever he decided to have you), it was totally different. You were compliant to everything he said, letting go of the control you had over yourself, over your relationship, over everything so he could take you to fucking heavens. You obeyed everything without so much a "yes, sir", and he fucking loved it.

He unzipped the skin-tight dress after leading you back to your shared room. He sat down on the edge of the bed, you stood before him, whose tie was loosened around his neck. "Is this all for me?" he asked as he saw what you had underneath your dress all night long, absolutely sick with the slightest idea that someone else could have that.

You sighed as he kissed your neck and trailed down to your breasts, easily unclasping your bra. "Yes, sir, all for you."

Just like clockwork, all his attention drifted to your breasts. One of his large, calloused hands held your waist securely and the other played with one of your nipples as he licked the other, his hot tongue circling the nub, making you whimper and sending a rush of wetness through your core. "mmm, always need my mouth full of you, angel."

"nnngh, it feels so good."

He smiled on your skin, biting your nipple afterwards. The sting made you see stars and desperate to feel him in some sort of way, you'd take anything he had to offer you. You just needed to be touched. As he continued your ministrations on your breasts, switching from one to the other, you moaned, your hands finding his hair. "Sir—ah—, can you please—touch me?"

He stopped his movements and looked up at you, laughing mockingly. "Is that all it takes, pretty? A few minutes of my mouth on you and you're already so pliant? So eager for me to touch you?"

"Yes, sir. I need you so bad."

"Tell me, then," he scoffed, "where do you want me to touch you?"

Your incoherent babbles meant nothing, so he just laughed at your poor attempt at an answer.

"You're so good at begging, aren't you?" You nodded, licking your lips with the sight of his wet ones. "Wanna kiss me, baby?"

"Always do. Can I?"

"Yes, you can." No matter how dominant he was, he could never deny you a kiss.

You leaned down to kiss him. The brush of your lips alone made Spencer crazy, craving more and more. He could spend hours just kissing you, never getting tired of the mind numbing sensation it had on him. You deepened the kiss, your tongue caressing his, earning a moan from his end. You smiled. "I love kissing you." You whispered as you barely pulled away, breathless.

"I know you do, pretty."

His hands trailed on the sides of your body, earning a shiver from you. Just as he reached the hem of your panties, they traveled up again, grazing the skin of your arms instead. As he found your hands, he gave them a gentle squeeze. He stood up and looked down at you, in for another kiss. "You have no idea what you do to me," he groaned. His words only spurred you further. "Take off my shirt. Slowly." he commanded. And you complied, taking every chance to brush your fingers against his hot skin, desperate to rake your nails on his chest, to make him shiver for you, too.

Spencer turned you around gently so you could see yourself in the big mirror placed in front of the bed. You watched as he pushed your hair out of his way, resting it on your left shoulder to give him access to your neck, his hands finding your breasts so he could play with them, too. He started with light kisses on your neck, lips barely brushing the area, making goosebumps soon erupt on your skin. His caresses got gradually more aggressive, making you blatantly moan his name when he bit the sweet spot behind your ear and grinded his clothed dick against your ass. You whimpered, overwhelmed with so many stimuli.

Turning you to face him, again, he sat you on the edge of the bed, covered only by your underwear in front of him. You could see the tent in his pants and you were desperate to taste him, to take him in your mouth in order to make him as crazy as he made you. God, the things you'd do to hear him whimper like he knew you loved to hear...

"Thinking about something, angel?" He chuckled, mocking you yet again when he saw what were you looking at and the position you put yourself in: cunt in full display after you placed both feet at the edge of the bed.

You nodded violently. That was how you always found yourself pleading for him. It didn't take much, honestly. "Please, sir, I'll do anything. jus', please, let me feel you,"

Anything...

"Aw, pretty, you're so desperate for me," his tone was condescending. "thought you'd wanted someone else for a moment tonight."

"No! No! Never, sir. Never. I only want you. I only want you to touch me."

Leaning down, his fingers raked over your stomach, ghosting over the fabric of your panties. Spencer groaned as he touched the wet patch on your underwear, glistening, begging for attention.

"'s just how much I want you..."

"Look at you, angel, begging me to have my way with you," he sneered, "so pretty..." he muttered, getting down on his knees.

Through your soaked underwear, Spencer caressed your mound and outer lips, almost as if he was drawing your cunt from scratch, tracing every single feature, making it cling even harder to the garment. Each touch made you feel eager. Want something, say something, right?

He teased you for what felt like hours, but when you were finally able to form a sentence, he pushed your panties to the side and he moaned lowly at the sight of you. "Spence—sir..." You started, but were cut by a breathless grunt that raked through you as he licked a broad stripe on your slit.

"You are soaked, princess, had to have a taste of you... you were sayin'?"

"Please, don't stop, sir," your hands flew to his hair, trying to push him back to what he had started.

"Nuh-uh, princess," he tsked, gathering his tie from the floor, "You don't deserve to touch me after the little show you put up today. I’m gonna have to tie you up, alright?" 

There it was. Your punishment.

One thing about Spencer is that he always made sure to tell you whatever he was planning on doing with you, both so that you could say no if you wanted to and also because it turned you on beyond limits. It made your heart soar, he was so careful with you, making every man on earth seem like straight up Neanderthals. You whined at his plan as he looked at you to see if you were okay with the idea.

You jutted your lip out, brows furrowing, but you couldn't disagree with him. Adorable, he thought. He tied both of your hands behind your back, using his fucking tie. "... Yes, 's alright. I jus' wish I could touch you so badly," you complained.

"I know, pretty," he cooed, "that's why I'm gonna give you a chance to be good for me, and when you prove to me you can do it, you can touch me all you want."

"O-okay," you stuttered as he started placing teasing kisses on your inner thighs. You sighed.

"You smell so good. Want me to taste you too, hm? You're soaked, your pussy is begging me to do something about it."

"Yes, yes, I do!" you almost yelled. "Please, sir, I'll be good for you."

"I know you fucking will." he stated. Just then, he started licking your pussy, delicately at first just so you could get used to the feeling of finally having him the way you wanted. His hands held your hips in place to stop you from moving. He was the one in control, after all.

Then, once he sucked your clit between his lips, he started flicking his tongue against the nub, eliciting moans from you. The taste of you in his tongue was something he could never get used to, every fucking time felt like the first. He felt addicted to the power it had over him. The best he could do was at least try to be in control. You squirmed, almost like you wanted to get away from him, but his firm hands held you in place. "Be good and stay still," he muttered against your core, slapping your pussy once. You nodded, whining, too lost in the feeling after the sting, in the feeling of his tongue punishing you in a rhythm that put you in a frenzy. Spencer's middle finger slowly pushed inside your fluttering walls. "You're dripping all over my fingers. What a messy girl."

Knuckle deep inside your cunt and mouth feverishly and steadily working on your clit, your boyfriend started to feel more and more desperate by the second with the sounds coming from your mouth. You, on the other hand, could almost taste your release, a complete mess on the bed, chants leaving your reddened lips from all the biting, "yes, sir! You make me feel s'good, you're s'deep in me. Fuck! I'm your good g—" as he heard your words tinged with desperation in a high pitched voice and felt the muscles in your pussy tighten, he quickly stopped his actions.

He would bet money that it hurt him more than it did you.

"Noooo..." you whined, like a spoiled brat. A breathless, messy, spoiled brat. You knew what you were in for from the moment he took off your shoes. "Please, please, sir. You can f-eel how desperate I am for you," you blabbered, trying to argue. "Can I show you?" You decided to take matters into your own hands. Well, as best as you could.

He stood up. "Let's see what you've got, princess." He gripped his shaft in front of you, making saliva pool in your mouth. "You're not even being fucked yet, and you're already this dumb, baby?" He sneered at you. You looked up at his face, taking in his dilated pupils watching you. You looked like any man's wet dream, perfect pussy on display, chest heaving with anticipation of what was coming next, face contorted in the filthiest expression in the world.

He would be happy just to watch you, but he was actually able to taste, touch, see, smell and hear the whole thing.

He was the luckiest man in the world.

Half sitting on the bed, back against the headboard and already off of his slacks and briefs, he beckoned you over to his lap. You kneeled somewhat awkwardly on the bed to hover on his lap, cunt dripping arousal on his belly as you did so. He groaned, the dominant facade faltering for a moment. He had to be the most indulgent dominant man ever, because he was barely able to resist you and your seducing ways. "See how wet you make me?" You whispered, eyes focused on his, which looked directly at the sheer liquid pooling on his stomach.

"You're such a good girl, baby" in a weakened voice made its way out of his mouth. "Since you asked so nicely and you have proof, why don't you show me how much you love riding me, huh? Come on, pretty, sit on my cock. Ride me." His commanding sentences made your cunt gush yet again.

"Yes, sir!" you exclaimed, ready to obey his commands.

Spencer gripped his base and rubbed his dick against your folds. He groaned, biting his lip and it took every single ounce of self control not to kiss him senseless. After some more teasing, he muttered, "You can do it now."

You sat down on him, slowly, pushing the tip in. "Fuck," hoarse voice, just the way he loved it, "you feel so good, sir. And you're not even fully in yet."

"Come on, nice and slow, princess."

You sank a little further, his girth stretching you out so deliciously that it made you shut your eyes closed as goosebumps erupted on your skin, pure bliss running through you. "Fuck—ah— you're so, so hard, sir," you hissed.

"Yes, that's it," he grabbed your hands in one of his. He felt you clench around him. "Gonna make sure you get off on my cock alone."

Recalling his demand, you obeyed. Nice and slow, savoring the feeling of having him buried to the hilt inside of you. each time you pulled back just to slam his dick inside again made you feel dizzy. Spencer was mesmerized by the sight before him. First, your expression told him how much you enjoyed riding him, mouth agape to let out the dirtiest moans and words, unlike the poised woman he liked to brag about to whoever listened. "Fuck, you're so deep. 's so good, love it when you let me ride you, sir."

Spencer kept silent for a moment, still admiring your form. He watched as the hair on your skin shivered each time he started to meet your thrusts, eager to make you his. his eyes drifted to your breasts, bouncing with every movement of your bodies. It was wanton, watching you get off on top of him, using him to chase your own high, but the sight that got him enthralled was your pussy making his cock glisten with your arousal. "Yeah, pretty? So what do you say? D'you remember you have to be nice?"

"Thank you, sir"

"Thank you for what?" he urged.

“Thank you for letting me sit on your cock. Ah! I'm all yours, sir! Yours."

"That's right. You're taking me so well, princess, fucking hell," he cursed. "Such a tight pussy, baby, so perfect for me."

At this point, Spencer was a goner below you. You rocked your hips and he met you thrusts ruthlessly, focused on chasing your high. You slowed your movements, clit grinding against his pubic bone, dick still rock hard inside of you. You felt the telling signs of your orgasm approaching and, mind filled with thoughts of all the filth you've done with him. You still wanted to do much more. "Fuck, pretty girl—you're so good at taking me."

You leaned down to whisper in his ear, your tits brushing against his skin adding to the whirlwind of sensations. "Can I come, sir? Please! I want to come all over your cock," all your sentences sounded like heavenly, pathetic whines to Spencer's ears.

"You hafta take it, princess," he groaned, hands guiding your movements. "Take. It." He urged, words emphasized by two particularly hard thrusts. “Wanna come inside of you.”

"Yes, please! I'm all yours—Spencer!" You yelled out his name as your orgasm washed over you, still grinding against him.

The sound of his name leaving your lips was enough to follow you not shortly after. “Gonna come—fuck—inside you.” He gritted. After spilling inside you, he kept fucking his cum back inside with a few sloppier thrusts.

You crashed beside him, taking a minute to catch your breath. Spencer quickly reached to undo his tie on your wrists, kissing the soft skin after removing the garment. You chuckled at his care. “Don't ever stop me from touching you again,” you muttered.

“What are you going to do, angel? Stop me?” He laughed softly.

He cleaned you both up and you had your hands free to caress your boyfriend’s skin all night long.

The next morning, Spencer had you on the phone as he walked in the bullpen, saying “yes”, “of course”, and a series of different agreements, gleeful expression on his face.

He heard Derek Morgan chuckle. "Aw, Reid, she already telling you what to do?"

"There's no time for her to start, you know that, Derek," Emily quipped.

They had no idea you were telling him about the wet dream you had about him fucking you in the middle of the bullpen.

[tongue-like-a-razor]

Less Talk | Part X

Jake Seresin x F!Reader

A/N: We're finally here! For a minute there, I didn't think this day would come XD I hope you've enjoyed reading this series as much as I've enjoyed writing it. Thank you so much for all the love and support, I honestly probably would not have otherwise finished it!

Summary: Jake can't stand Bradley's best friend. What's more, he's probably in love with her, which really pisses him off.

CW: Swearing, angst, fluff

WR: ~4900

Masterlist | Part I

Jake leaves his mug on the counter and slowly approaches the kitchen table. He watches Bradley incredulously as the news sinks in. “Where is she going?” he finally says.

“Back to her mom’s.”

Jake’s eyebrows flit up momentarily. “That’s halfway across the country.”

Bradley nods, although he looks somewhat uncomfortable under Jake’s persistent scrutiny.

“Why?”

Bradley sighs. “I got a call from her mom a couple weeks ago.”

“I remember,” Jake says, recalling the party and your unwillingness to speak with your best friend, despite his obvious distress.

“Said she was kicked out of her program,” Bradley continues.

“What?” Jake lowers himself into the seat across from Bradley. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Bradley shrugs. “I didn’t know if she was sharing. Anyway, apparently her boyfriend called her mom and delivered the news.”

Jake’s jaw muscles contract. “I could kill him, I swear.”

“She submitted a plagiarized paper, Jake.”

Jake glances up at his friend fiercely. “Bullshit,” he says immediately.

Bradley nods. “I agree.”

Jake shakes his head. “She wouldn’t. Of all people, she wouldn’t.”

“I tried talking to her about it but, as you know, she’s been avoiding me like the plague.”

“She didn’t dispute it?”

Bradley shakes his head solemnly. “She came by yesterday to tell me that the engagement is off and that she’s leaving. For good.”

Jake glances up at Bradley abruptly, as if roused from a reverie. “The engagement is off? Since when?”

“She didn’t tell you that part either?” Bradley grimaces. “What the fuck did you two even talk about?”

Jake blinks at Bradley a couple of times and then leaps out of his seat. “Let’s go,” he says urgently, grabbing his jacket off the back of a chair. “We can’t let her leave.”

Bradley stands and takes one final gulp of beer before following Jake out of the kitchen. He takes his car keys off the hook by the front door while Jake unplugs the fan and turns off the living room lights. “Shut up,” he mutters on his way out the door when Bradley gives him a knowing smirk.

Jake skips down the porch steps and marches to his truck. “Want me to drive?” Bradley calls after him, holding up the keys to his Bronco.

Jake pulls open the door to his truck. For some reason, he feels like driving might bring him a sense of comfort. “No, I’ll drive,” he says as Bradley approaches the truck. Then, as an afterthought, he adds, looking up at his friend over the cab. “Rooster.”

Bradley glances up at him, his hand over the doorhandle. “Yeah?”

Jake sighs irritably. “I’m in love with her.”

Bradley gives him a look and pulls open the passenger door. “I know,” he replies wryly and gets into the truck.

…

“Still not picking up?” Jake asks, looking over at Bradley who solemnly shakes his head. He sets his phone down over Jake’s, having tried you from both numbers.

Jake pulls up right behind the white mustang in your driveway. Bradley winces as Jake finally yanks on the handbrake about two inches from the pristine car’s sleek bumper. Before Bradley could comment on Jake’s parking job, however, the latter shoots out of the truck and jogs up to your front door.

Bradley, somewhat hesitantly, follows suit. He stops a few feet short of the porch, though, probably deciding that Jake is threatening enough all on his own.

Mustang opens the door a crack and Jake immediately steps forward, like a dog that hasn’t quite mastered the art of impulse control. “Where is she?” he growls, sticking his face between the frame and the door that’s still latched by a chain.

“Go fuck yourself,” Mustang spits out and tries to squeeze Jake out before slamming the door.

Mistake, of course. Because Jake isn’t afraid of getting his paint chipped. He pushes his weight into the door and reaches in through the opening to grab a hold of Mustang’s collar. Then he yanks on him sharply, causing Mustang’s temple to crash into the doorframe. Jake gives Mustang another tug until his wide jaw is wedged into the open space like a door jam.

Bradley clears his throat in the background uncomfortably, but keeps his hands in his pockets for the time being.

Jake holds onto Mustang’s collar tightly while the latter pants in alarm.

“Where is she?” Jake repeats, more quietly and more dangerously than before.

“She left already,” Mustang chokes out.

“Then why are you still here?” Jake hisses.

“I’m just getting my stuff.”

“Hangman,” Bradley says in an appeasing sort of tone. “We’re wasting time.”

Jake still glares at your ex with hatred, his grip tightening around Mustang’s shirt despite his eyes bulging nearly out of their sockets. “What’s her flight number?”

Mustang shakes his head with difficulty and croaks, “Fuck if I know.”

Jake gives him a rough jolt and Bradley, again, says, “Jake, we should go.”

“What time does she take off?” Jake asks. “What airline?”

Mustang’s eyes begin to water. “Fuck that bitch,” he sputters. “She got what she deserved.”

Jake, enraged beyond words, could have probably taken the whole door off its frame in his fury, if not for Bradley coming to haul him off the porch. “We have to go!” Bradley shouts while Jake, still fuming, flares out his chest.

“Come out and fight like a man!” Jake bellows, combatting Bradley’s attempts to restrain him.

“He’s not worth it,” Bradley urges, continuing to push him down the path back to the driveway.

“What’s the matter, Mustang?” Jake jeers. “Scared I’ll put a dent in that fancy mug of yours?” He jerks away from Bradley and heads straight for the white mustang in the driveway. “What’s the point” – he yells, push-kicking the door of the car – “of all that muscle –”

“Jake! Fuck!” Bradley yelps, dragging Jake back, away from the white car, less immaculate now that it’s got a depression in its frame about the size of Jake’s heel.

Jake chuckles and a moment later, Mustang appears in the driveway, gasping in horror when he sees the state of his car. “You piece of fucking –”

“Jake, go, go, go!” Bradley shouts, shoving his friend in the direction of the truck. They hop in before Mustang can orientate himself in his distress and Jake floors the pedal in reverse the moment his engine roars to life. “Ha!” Bradley exclaims, drumming enthusiastically on the dashboard as Jake pulls out of the driveway.

Jake smirks, adrenaline coursing deliciously through his body as he accelerates toward the freeway.

…

“What is this bullshit?” Jake grumbles, smacking his steering wheel in frustration.

Bradley grimaces at the string of red lights ahead of them on the ramp. “There’s another lot farther out,” he suggests.

Jake shakes his head. “I’m not turning around.”

“Okay,” Bradley responds patiently. “I’m sure this’ll be quick,” he adds, although he doesn’t sound very convinced, himself.

Jake lets out a sharp exhale, inching forward slowly. About fifteen minutes later, they finally pull up to the parking garage. Jake peeks up at the clearance bar with a grimace. “Think we’ll make it?”

Bradley glances at the marker and then at Jake. “How big are your tires?” he deadpans.

Jake looks at Bradley with a scowl. “What makes you think they’re big?”

Bradley returns Jake’s scowl twofold. “You got a roof rack on this thing?”

“Of course I’ve got a roof rack. What kind of man doesn’t have a roof rack on his car?” Jake scoffs offendedly. A horn blares from behind them and Bradley sighs, closing his eyes. Jake ignores the sound and leans forward over his steering wheel, staring up at the bar contemptuously.

“Well, we’ll have to risk it. We can’t park here,” Bradley reasons.

Jake nods but doesn’t move. Several more horns interrupt their conversation and Jake rolls down his window to yell at the car in behind, “Have some patience, asshole!”

Bradley drags a hand over his face wearily. “We really don’t have time for another conflict,” he remarks.

Jake groans grudgingly and slowly releases the brake. They both wince as the truck rolls precariously under the clearance bar and, when it makes it through unscathed, Jake howls excitedly while Bradley lets out an audible sigh of relief.

…

Finding an available spot takes about twenty minutes and about ten years off Jake’s life. Cursing, Jake clambers out of the truck and slams his door aggressively. Bradley extracts his phone from his pocket and takes a photo of their vehicle’s location.

Jake waits for him impatiently to which Bradley replies, “You’ll thank me later.”

“Yeah,” Jake agrees, but walks briskly ahead to look around in search of signs that might point the way to the terminal.

“This way,” Bradley says, pointing to the elevators at the far end of the lot.

“This place is a fucking maze,” Jake grumbles.

“What, you never been to a commercial airport before?” Bradley jokes. Jake gives him a flat look and Bradley snorts and claps Jake on the back. “Relax, man. We’ll find her.”

Jake tries not to show just how anxious he is by giving Bradley a nod and a tight smile. He blazes into the stairwell, ignoring the slowly opening elevator doors, and Bradley follows behind him, jogging up the stairs.

In the terminal, they stop to look up at the flight information board listing all the departures taking place that night.

“Two possible flights she could be on,” Bradley says.

“Two different gates,” Jake comments solemnly.

“The first one is leaving in twenty minutes. She’ll already be on the plane,” Bradley says, “if that’s her flight.”

“Maybe she’ll be on the other one,” Jake says hopefully, starting in the direction of the second gate.

Bradley hurries to catch up with him through the crowded airport.

“Where are all these people going?” Jake mutters under his breath, pushing his way past slower moving, luggage towing individuals.

Bradley eyes him with a small grin. “They have just as much a right to be here as you do, Jake.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Jake says, pushing his way through an excited group of travellers wearing parkas and winter hats. “That’s her gate up there!” He starts for it at a run despite the dense crowd around them.

Bradley follows, albeit less obnoxiously. Then, about ten feet from the gate, Jake stops short and Bradley crashes right into him. “Dude!” he exclaims, rubbing his chest.

“It’s her,” Jake breathes.

Bradley turns his head and it takes him several moments to locate you because you’re already going through security.

“Y/N!” Jake hollers, cupping his hands around his mouth.

You don’t hear him, though, because there’s a glass wall separating you from the checkpoint queue. Bradley, in an effort to help Jake get your attention, also starts calling your name. Meanwhile, Jake starts for the security checkpoint at a run, which sort of worries Bradley. “You need a boarding pass to get through –”

But Jake, completely ignoring Bradley’s warning, hops right over the stanchion behind the security officer’s back.

“Fuck,” Bradley mutters under his breath as the officer turns around in alarm and brings a walkie to his face. Other security personnel rush over in a panic and Bradley, approaching as casually as possible, says, with a wave of his hand, “It’s cool.” He leans nonchalantly on one of the glass panels near the checkpoint, adding, “He’s a pilot.”

Several of the officers look over at him like he’s nuts.

…

Jake makes it all the way to the glass doors before somebody apprehends him, and then he shouts your name again. You turn around just as that somebody throws him to the ground. Jake groans, not too pleased about having to taste this particular carpet.

“What are you doing?” he hears you screech, and he glances up with just his eyes because his face is still being pressed into the ground.

“Hey, how are ya?” he manages to say.

“What the fuck are you doing?” you repeat, more aggressively this time.

Jake winces as someone’s knee digs into his spine. “Baking a cake. What’s it look like I’m doing?” He grunts as he’s finally lifted to his feet.

You are staring at him wildly when he meets your gaze.

“Hey,” he says again, rotating his shoulders to alleviate the cramp in his back.

Behind you, security personnel have started to block off the entire area.

“Sir, we’re going to need you to come with us,” the officer still holding onto Jake says firmly.

“What? Where are you taking him?” you ask.

“You need to come with us too, ma’am,” another officer says.

“No,” Jake groans. “She didn’t do anything.”

“This is a misunderstanding,” you say. “He’s a Navy Lieutenant. Jake, tell them!”

 “No, don’t tell them that.” Jake cringes. He would prefer not to be reprimanded for this incident by his superior officers.

You stare at him as the two of you are led to a holding area near the checkpoint. Meanwhile, Jake can see Bradley scrambling past passersby to keep the two of you in sight as he holds his phone to his ear.

“Didn’t know you were planning on taking a vacation,” Jake says as the officer in charge of detaining him nods for his colleague to open the door. “Going somewhere nice?”

You give him a dirty look as you are walked into the holding room.

“Please wait here until law enforcement arrives.”

You look up at the man in alarm. “Law enforcement? He’s in the military!” you shout.

“Shh,” Jake shushes you. “Don’t yell at the nice officer,” he warns you. “We can wait,” he assures the security team.

The door closes and you look over at Jake furiously. “I’m going to miss my flight!” you scream at him. “Because of you!”

Jake sets his jaw. “Good.”

You glare at him incredulously. “How are you so goddamn selfish?”

“I’m selfish?” he retorts. “I spent all morning with you. We had sex” – Jake takes note that you cringe at the word – “and yet you failed to mention that you’ve moving clear across the fucking country!”

“What do you care? You hate me, remember?” you yell back.

“Oh, I remember,” he snaps. “I also remember your diatribe on the avocado, and how much you loathe everything I stand for. I remember your outrageous appraisal of my truck, and the ridiculous way you hold a pool cue. Your annoying inability to shut the fuck up about the stupidest shit and your equally annoying refusal to tell me about the things that actually matter.”

You blink at him with a scowl and fold your arms over your chest. “This is the worst love confession I’ve ever heard,” you grumble.

Jake exhales forcefully. “I haven’t confessed anything yet.”

You suck in your cheeks and look up at the ceiling impatiently. “I’ll wait.”

Jake releases another irritated sigh. “There isn’t a single thing about you that I’ve been able to successfully forget. Despite my best efforts.”

You meet his gaze half-heartedly but say nothing.

“You just showed up one day, out of nowhere, and I’ve been messed up ever since. Do you get that?” He stares at you wildly, realizing that he’s getting something off his chest that he hadn’t even really known was weighing on him. “You walk around like you don’t owe anybody a goddamn thing. You’re out here pretending like your actions – your decisions – don’t affect people. Well, they do, alright? You affect people! You affect me.”

You lower your gaze mutely, as though you’re lost for words for the first time ever. The very idea is preposterous, however, and Jake is sure that you’re just waiting for the most opportune moment to counter. He decides not to give you the opportunity.

“What do you want out of life?” he says with an edge to his tone because he’s anxious to get to his point.

You glance back up at him curiously.

“Ask me again,” he says. “Ask me the whole thing. Disregarding the fact that we are meaningless or whatever nonsense you spewed. Ask me.”

You gulp and clear your throat. “What do you want, Jake?”

He releases a sharp sigh, deliberately maintaining eye contact. “You,” he responds firmly. “You, you, you.” He takes a step toward you, his eyes searching yours urgently because he’s desperate to be honest for once. To lay it all out so you have the facts before you run. “Whatever the damn question is, okay?” He takes up your hands and holds them to his chest. “My answer is always you.”

You watch him with that same unreadable gaze, the one that Jake has spent months trying to decipher. But he knows that he’s gotten under your skin just as much as you’ve gotten under his. Because he knows you. So, he waits; allows you a moment to gauge his sincerity. As if tracking you down at a civilian airport and getting detained isn’t evidence enough. Your eyes well up suddenly and, unexpectedly, you move away from him. “I’m sorry,” you whisper. “I’m sorry for affecting you.”

Jake lets his hands fall when you withdraw. “I just want you to tell me the truth,” he says. “I want you to stop acting like nothing ever gets to you.”

You glance up at him fiercely and cry, “You get to me, okay? Is that what you want to hear? That I am also affected?” You draw in a sob and lean your back against the wall, hiding your face in your hand.

Jake, both distraught and relieved that you’re finally emoting, approaches you slowly. He puts an arm around your shoulders and brings you into his chest. All he wants is to express just how much you mean to him – just how far he’d go to make you happy – but all that comes out is, “I don’t want you to go,” which is partly muffled anyway because he says it with his mouth on your head.

You sniffle miserably against his shoulder and shift your weight to lean into him. “I can’t stay,” you respond.

Jake, whose entire body is both vibrating and paralyzed at the same time, says quietly. “Tell me why.”

“I got kicked out,” you whimper, as if this is the ‘why’ Jake is after.

“Not that,” he says, taking a step back so that he can look you in the eye. “Tell me why you got engaged. The morning after I – after we… Were you already engaged when you came to the party? When I kissed you?”

“No,” you say. “He proposed that night.”

Jake watches you patiently. “And you said yes?”

“Because he promised he’d confess.”

Jake stares at you. “Confess?”

“He submitted a plagiarized paper on my behalf. Right after we broke up.”

Jake grimaces. “What a fucking nutcase.”

“He was angry. But obviously he didn’t think I’d get kicked out for it.”

“Why didn’t he just come clean when shit hit the fan?”

“And get kicked out himself? He wouldn’t take that chance; his defense is coming up in less than six months.”

“So…you decided to marry him?”

“He told me he was sorry and promised he’d talk to the board as soon as he passed. I figured I’d just agree to the engagement and call it off once he came clean.”

“Why didn’t you tell me this? That day, when he announced the engagement. Why didn’t you just tell me?”

You sigh. “What would you have done?”

“Kicked his ass,” Jake responds without a moment’s thought.

“Exactly,” you say. “You’re about one offense from getting kicked out, yourself.”

Jake has no rebuttal to this because you’re sort of right on the money in this case. His last altercation nearly cost him his wings and he’s not at all looking forward to explaining this airport fiasco to his superiors. “When did you call off the engagement?” he asks.

“This morning,” you say. “Before I came to see you.”

Jake plants his hands on his hips. “So why are you leaving?”

“Well, he’s never going to admit what he did. So, I’m out of the program for good. Why would I stay?”

Jake stares at you. “Are you for real?”

You shrug. “He’s never going to leave me alone.”

“Oh, he’ll leave you alone,” Jake says firmly. “Or I’ll break his legs.”

You give him a reproachful look. “And get arrested? Lose your job?”

“Fine, I’ll break his car.”

You roll your eyes.

“I’m not letting you run,” he says, taking a confident step toward you.

“It’s not up to you.”

He shakes his head. “I don’t care.” He takes your face in his hands.

“Don’t be an ass,” you say, lisping slightly because your cheeks are squished between his palms.

Jake smirks. “But I’m good at it.”

“It’s my decision,” you say, trying to sound firm despite the aforementioned speech impediment.

“Yeah, yeah,” Jake continues. “What do you want for dinner?”

“Jake!”

Jake lets his forehead rest against yours. “You missed your flight anyway,” he mutters. “And I love you,” he adds, casually enough for it to perhaps blend into the conversation unnoticed.

But you notice it. You lift your face to meet his gaze. “You do?” you ask quietly.

“Don’t act all surprised.”

You smile mildly. “Surprised that you can admit it.”

“One of us had to.”

You gaze at him mutely.

And just as Jake is about to spiral in response to your lack of a response, the door opens and someone steps inside.

“C’mon,” Bradley urges, waving his arm impatiently. “I’m busting you out.”

“How –” you begin.

But Jake cuts you off, “Shh, don’t ask questions.” He leads you through the open door after Bradley as he surveys the immediate vicinity in all directions.

“You’re both pieces of work,” you mutter under your breath and Jake, who’s got an arm around your shoulders, squeezes you affectionately.

There is a large crowd just outside of the holding room, and a commotion near the gate. Clearly, Bradley had managed to create some sort of diversion. A subtle craning of his neck allows Jake to see exactly who it is that’s causing a scene.

“Keep you head down!” Bradley whispers hoarsely from behind, smacking Jake’s crown with annoyance.

Jake ducks slightly and looks over his shoulder at Bradley, “Was that Bob?”

“Yep,” Bradley responds. “Apparently, he owed you?”

Jake scrunches up his eyebrows as Bradley continues to jostle the two of you toward the exit. “Owed me?”

“Said he cockblocked you at your party two weeks ago?” Bradley says. “Sorry, ‘my’ party,” he adds, with quotation marks around the ‘my’.

You glance between Bradley and Jake with a smirk as the latter raises his eyebrows. “He remembers that night?”

Bradley nods, finally walking out into the sunlight. “He’s felt bad about it ever since.”

Jake glances down at you, wondering if things would have been different had Bob not shown up that fated night, blasted out of his mind. Would you have spent the night? Not gotten engaged to Mustang? Would you have told him the big secret you were keeping, thereby avoiding the whole debacle entirely? Perhaps Bob does owe him.

“Anyway, I called up the cavalry and Bob immediately volunteered,” Bradley continues, making his way to the parking garage.

Suddenly, you stop, and Bradley and Jake come to a halt and look back at you in confusion.

“Here’s the thing about a quick getaway, princess,” says Jake, approaching you to take your hand. “You have to get away quickly.”

You pull your hand out of his. “When did I agree to staying?”

“Lord, give me strength,” Jake mutters, throwing his head back to look up at the sky with a sigh.

“Maybe you can decide this at a safer distance away from where you nearly just got arrested,” Bradley suggests.

“I don’t understand the issue here,” Jake says. “I beat Mustang to a pulp until he confesses. Problem solved.”

Bradley grimaces. “I can see why she might not be on board.”

“Guys, my luggage has already been checked.”

Jake places his hands on his hips and stares you down. “What goes up must come down.”

You roll your eyes. “My mom is expecting me,” you continue.

Jake takes a phone out of his pocket and holds it out. “Simple enough to fix.”

You exhale sharply. “This has to be my decision,” you declare.

Jake shifts his jaw, his face forming a frown without his consent. He locks eyes with you and nods. “Make it, then.”

You swallow uncomfortably without breaking eye contact and Bradley retreats a few steps in the background.

“I don’t know if you know this,” you begin quietly, and Jake dares not move lest he miss a single syllable of your speech. Who knew that a day would come when he’d pretty much give anything just to keep you talking? “But I liked you probably before I even started to hate you.”

Jake gives you a cautious smile. “Probably?”

“Don’t push it,” you retort.

“Sorry, I’ll shut up,” he responds, fighting to keep a straight face. “Go on, tell me how much I mean to you.”

You sigh. “Can you refrain from being an ass for at least a minute?”

Jake makes a face. “Doubtful.”

“Uh, I can attest to that,” Bradley chimes in from behind.

“Rooster, we’re having a moment here,” Jake calls over his shoulder.

“Are you sure about that?” Bradley counters, in response to which Jake just shakes his head.

“Continue,” Jake says to you. “Please.”

You let out an irritable sigh, “I can’t tell you why I liked you, I’m still trying to figure that one out.”

Jake plants his hands on his hips. “Liar.”

You stare at him rather uncomfortably. “I had a boyfriend, remember? I had no business liking you.”

Jake narrows his eyes but stays silent.

“I think it’s because…” you voice trails off and you let out a grudging sigh.

“It’s the truck, isn’t it?” Jake asks pompously. “One ride was all it took.”

You snort out a chuckle and shake your head. “No,” you say. “It’s that.” You gesture at him and he knits his eyebrows together, intrigued. “That ‘sharp sense of humor’,” you say, mockingly repeating the first ever compliment he made you all those moons ago. “No matter how mad you make me, or how pissed I am at the world, you somehow can always make me laugh.”

Jake watches you soberly now, touched that you were finally able to express your feelings. “Don’t tell the truck that,” he mutters.

“Why?” You grin, taking a step toward him. “Does the truck have an ego problem?”

Jake’s lips form a tight, guilt-ridden smirk as you approach. “The truck might have an ego problem.”

You’re standing so close to him now that you have to lift your chin to maintain eye contact. “I might have another confession to make,” you say softly, so that your voice nearly gets swept away in the small breeze filtering through the tunnel.

Jake gulps, not sure he could handle standing at this proximity without getting a little stupid. He’ll have to keep his mouth shut because his brain isn’t the organ being prioritized at the moment.

“I think about the truck a lot,” you whisper, your eyes flitting slowly between his.

“You do?” Jake croaks, and then, clearing his throat, repeats, “You do?”

You nod. “I like how it handles the bumps in the road.”

“Well, yeah, it’s got some heavy-duty shocks, plus the ground clearance –”

“Jake,” you cut him off, unimpressed.

Jake grins. “It’s pretty well-equipped for off-roading, was what I meant to say.”

You gaze at him in amusement. “Perhaps we could try to navigate away from the uneven terrain.”

“Where’s the fun in that?”

You lower your gaze with a small chuckle but, despite the smile, you look uneasy. “I need to know that you’re not going to do anything reckless.”

Jake considers your words for a moment. “Define reckless.”

You glance up at him impatiently. “Check the dictionary.”

He grins. “Fine,” he agrees. “But I can’t vouch for the truck.”

You chuckle again, rolling your eyes. “Shut up and take me home, Jake.”

“Does that mean you’re staying?”

You smile at him and start walking.

“Finally,” Bradley exclaims as the two of you catch up to him. “You guys talk way too much. We’re still fugitives, you know?”

“Sorry, I just needed Jake to know how much I love his truck,” you say with a giggle.

Bradley gives you a confused look while Jake does a double take. “You love my truck?”

You stare at him. “I thought that was obvious.”

“No.” He furiously shakes his head. “No, that was not at all obvious.” Jake steps around Bradley and stops you in your tracks.

Bradley groans in frustration, throwing up his hands. “Guys!”

“You love…” Jake say, “my truck. You love my truck. You love my truck?”

You blink at him innocently and nod. “Uh-huh,” you acknowledge and then walk around him to continue on your merry way.

Jake takes your wrist and you turn back to look at him. He clears his throat uncomfortably. “Just to clarify – so that I know we’re on the same page – I’m the truck, right?”

You press your lips together to keep your growing grin at bay and lower your gaze. “You’re the truck, Jake,” you respond coyly.

“I’m the truck,” Jake repeats stupidly. Hadn’t he earlier meant to stay quiet?

You catch his gaze and smile more freely now. “Right,” you say. “And I could really go for another ride.”

Jake stares at you for a moment, lost for words. Then he slides his arms under your butt and scoops you up so that you’re looking down at him, your feet dangling a foot off the ground.

“Way to remain inconspicuous, you two,” Bradley remarks in the background.

But Jake ignores his best friend and cranes his neck as you lower your lips to his. And he lets you cradle his face in your delicate hands and kiss him. Because, damnit, it’s high time for some action.

A/N: THE END!!! Thank you guys so much for reading! xoxo

Tag List:

I'll try my best to put the rest of the tag list in the comments but it's gotten a little messy over the years so I might not get everyone.

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@imnotcreativeenoughforthisblog

@maeleeme

[loonylupinblack3]

Aftermath

Pairing: Lando Norris x Reader

Summary: the aftermath of Lando's race win

Warning: SMUT! breast play, oral (f!receiving) unprotected P in V (wrap it before you tap it silly)

Word Count: 1.6k

Lando was fucking horny.

You could tell from the way he stared at you across the room, eyes darkening with every sway of your hips to the music. It was his night, the party after his first ever win, yet that couldn’t stop you from teasing him slightly. His hands clenched into fists, stopping himself from stalking over to you and dragging you into the club’s bathroom where he’d finally have his way with you.

The thought sent a shiver down your spine, so you continued dancing, begging your fantasy to become a reality. Lando, unfortunately, had more self control than you bargained for, or he didn’t want to fuck you in the dirty bathroom, because he spent the rest of the night away from you, as far as humanly possible, though his eyes never left you for a second.

As soon as you entered the cab his mouth was on yours, lips pressing unforgivingly against you, moving with a fevered rush only a night of built up tension could create. You had to stop yourself from moaning into his mouth, sending a nervous glance at the cab driver. Lando, noticing your hesitance, sent the driver the dirtiest glare known to man, like it was his fault he was there.

So he pulled away from you again, sitting stiffly as possible, hands once again fisted, jaw clenched and eyes fixed ahead. He stayed like that for the rest of the ride, refusing to even acknowledge you until the cab stopped. At his apartment, you noted, but didn’t say anything as Lando grabbed your arm and practically dragged you into the building and in the elevator.

The doors hadn't even finished closing before he was upon you again, hands on your hips, your neck, your ass, anywhere and everywhere he could as he kissed you. He didn’t even break the kiss as the elevators opened, just took you, stumbling to his door and scavenging his pockets for his keys, his kisses becoming sloppy and distracted.

When he managed to open the door he removed his lips from yours, taking your hand and leading you to his room. Neither of you spoke, the tension between you too palpable. Entering the room, Lando let go of your hand and looked at you.

“Get on the bed.”

You swallowed thickly in anticipation, doing as he said. You sat with your back facing the wall, staring at Lando in all his glory as he took his shirt off, showing off those abs he worked so hard for. Your mouth watered slightly, and Lando picked up on your awed state.

“See something you like?”

You couldn't help but smirk slightly, the playful demeanour Lando always seems to bring with him falling over the two of you.

Lando returned your grin, crawling onto the bed until he was hovering over you, his curls drooping forward. You lifted your hands and cupped his face, bringing him down to your own, kissing him softly.

This kiss was calmer, gentler, Lando’s fever seeming to have lessened now that he had you on his bed, at his mercy. He was still insatiable, his tongue exploring your mouth with a keenness akin to a starving man who just found a feast, but he was softer. More tender, like he was desperate for this, but he also wanted it to last.

With one hand supporting his weight his other hand started tugging your dress off, and you broke the kiss to pull it all the way off before returning to Lando’s lips. His hands trailed your body eagerly, groaning when he realised you weren’t wearing a bra. His lips left your mouth to pay attention to your tits instead, pressing open mouthed kisses to your breasts before taking your nipple into his mouth.

You let out a breathy moan as he sucked and nibbled on it, squirming beneath him. He laid on top of you, putting his full weight on you so you couldn’t escape and so he could use his other hand to play with your other breast, twisting your nipple between his fingers, walking the thin line between pain and pleasure with expertise.

“Lando,” you whined, clenching your thighs together.

At the sound of your whine his impatience was activated again and he left your breasts, travelling to your stomach, leaving kisses down there as he trailed all the way to your panties, eyes flicking up to you with a devious grin.

You let out a gasp as he pulled your panties down by his teeth, dragging them along your legs and only using his hands when they were at your ankles to get them fully off and discard them somewhere in the room.

He crawled back up, pressing kisses to your legs, your thighs, your inner thighs, before hovering over your core, his warm breath on your cunt sending pleasing shivers up your spine.

You squirmed and he put one of his hands on your lower stomach, keeping you there. He took his time with you, giving a long, languid stroke of his tongue over your cunt making you gasp out in surprise. 

He kept his hand firmly on your stomach as he started lapping your cunt, your wetness spreading across his face, on his chin. You moaned, hands gripping the sheets as his tongue played with your pussy, flicking your clit every now and then and making your eyes roll back.

When you felt one of his fingers enter your cunt you moaned, hands moving to grip his curls instead of the sheets. He started an abusing rhythm, pumping his finger in and out fast and hard. The pleasure made your thighs clench, closing around Lando’s head. He groaned at the feeling and added a second finger, stretching you out as he sucked your pussy.

“Fuck, Lando!” You cried, writhing underneath his hand. He kept a heavy palm on you, keeping you where you were regardless of your floundering.

He ate you out with more vigour, his fingers constantly thrusting, pushing you closer and closer to the edge. It was when he curled his fingers, hitting that spot inside you that you fell, letting out a string of moans and curses as you did so.

You pulled Lando’s hair, pushing your cunt further onto his face and grinding against it as you rode out your high, Lando still pumping his fingers into you. It was only when your thighs stopped shaking, loosening around his head, that he took his fingers out of your pussy, making eye contact with you as he placed them in his mouth and sucked.

Your gaze clouded with lust at the sight and you bit your lip subconsciously. Lando’s gaze darkened and he moved forward till he was the one biting your lip, catching you in a bruising kiss. You could taste yourself on him and let out a breathy sigh, letting his lips abuse yours as his hands roamed your body.

He started unbuckling his belt, still kissing you albeit a little more sloppily. He only pulled away to take his pants and boxers off completely, then he was back on you, kissing your neck with fevor as he aligned his tip with your entrance.

He pushed in, a sharp gasp leaving your lips at the feeling. Lando groaned at the feeling of your walls squeezing around him, pressing his head into the crook of your neck. He went in slowly, not stopping until he was fully in, pausing for a moment to let you get used to him inside you.

You draped your arms around his neck and gave him a little squeeze, signalling you were ready. He started out slow, moving in and out of you at a languid pace, feeling the tightness of your walls.

“Fuck,” Lando cursed, panting slightly. “You’re so fucking tight for me Love.”

You let out a moan, tightening your arms around his neck, tangling your hands into his curls. Lando started going faster, unable to help himself, even knowing you were already sensitive after one orgasm. He was thrusting in and out of you, voicing his pleasure, cursing and praying your name over and over again.

Everything was so much. The pleasure was wracking through your body, you felt like you were flying, Lando slamming into you. You whined, squirming away from Lando, only for him to grab your hips and pull you back down.

“Oh Y/n, sorry baby, you’re not leaving just yet,” he murmured in your ear, pounding into you. He groaned as you whined, clenching around him, pulling on his hair. 

You arched your back, eyes rolling back as he started slamming into that one spot over and over again, hitting the spongy spot with lethal precision. You were screaming his name, sobbing into the skin of his neck, hands clawing at his back as you were overwhelmed with the orgasm rolling over you.

The feeling of your walls clenching around him pushed Lando over the edge, and with a groan he came in you, pumping you full of his white cum. He continued to fuck you as he came, his thrusts turning sloppy and uneven, his pants and groans filling the room.

He stayed in that position, hovering over you, the both of you catching your breath. When he finally pulled out you frowned at the emptiness that filled you, only for the frown to melt into a content smile as Lando laid down beside you and wrapped his arms around your waist, pulling your back to his chest.

He peppered lazy kisses along the side of your neck, marking you with purple hickeys, sucking and biting at his leisure.

You fell asleep with the feeling of Lando’s lips on your skin.

[draculasintern]

♡ You can be the Boss ♡

CEO!Bruce Wayne x Chubby/Plus sized!secretary!fem!reader Oneshot (?)

Cw: AFAB reader, office AU, power imbalance, age gap but not mentioned much, dominant!Bruce, “sir” kink, Pet names (Sweetheart, pretty, pretty thing), desk sex, oral (f receiving), fingering, overstimulation, light D/s, possessive!Bruce, he's a bit condescending then soft, aftercare, unspoken feelings, mutual pining, this is so inappropriate, freaky ass boss

Intern Note: Wrote this under candlelight while Dracula yelled about taxes. He doesn’t know I have Docs open..

He doesn’t touch you. He hasn’t—not once. But he watches.

And when he’s alone in that glass-walled office with only the hum of fluorescent lighting and the soft tap of your heels across the floor—he thinks.

Not about work. Not about the board. Not about Gotham.

No.

He thinks about how your blouse clings when you lean. How your pencil skirt always rides high on your thighs when you walk too fast. How your lipstick matches your nails. How your necklace dips into the crease of your cleavage when you tilt forward to hand him papers. And how oblivious you are to all of it. You’re not trying to flirt. You’re not playing innocent. You’re just… you.

Sweet. Competent. Tired. Always tired lately. You stay late when no one else does. Bring him coffee without being asked. Speak softly when his jaw is clenched.

You’re the only person in the building who doesn’t flinch when he raises his voice. You’re the only one who sees him when the rest of the city only sees the suit.

He hates it. He wants more of it.

The couch in the shared office is worn at the seams. You sit there after hours now—blouse unbuttoned just one button more than usual, like you’d loosened it without thinking. Your skirt tonight is different. Not the usual pencil fit. This one’s looser, longer. Falls past your knees in clean, soft lines.

It hugs the swell of your hips when you sit.

You’ve kicked off your heels. Set them politely beside the couch. Your legs are crossed, but not primly. You’re too tired for that. There’s a crease at your waist from sitting too long. A little smudge in your lipstick where you’d bitten your bottom lip.

He notices everything. Every. Single. Thing.

You look up suddenly, sensing something—maybe his gaze lingering too long—and give a quiet little smile.

“Everything okay, Mr. Wayne?”

He doesn’t answer. Not right away.

Because no. Nothing is okay. Not when you’re sitting there, looking like that. Not when he’s been fantasizing about tearing that skirt off with his teeth for weeks.

He clears his throat. Shifts behind the desk. You don’t notice. Of course you don’t.

He watches your eyes drop back to your notes, lashes low, and for a second, he can see it— You. Bent over his desk. Your necklace pooled on the floor. That sweet mouth of yours parted, moaning his name. You, ruined. Undone. All for him.

His cock throbs in his slacks. And he breathes out hard through his nose.

Control.

He still doesn’t speak. Just stands, walking slowly toward the couch. You don’t look up this time.

He stops just a few feet away. And then, finally— He says it. Low. Rough. Measured.

“You have no idea, do you?”

You blink. Look up.

Confused. “Sir?”

“The way you sit. The way you dress. The way you lean across my desk like you don’t know what you’re doing to me.”

Your lips part.

And for the first time tonight—maybe ever—you don’t speak. The air is heavy. Still. You’re staring at him, wide-eyed. Not offended. Not frightened. Just… processing.

Your thighs shift. The fabric of your skirt pulls. He watches it.

“You keep looking like that,” he says, voice quiet, dangerous, “and I’ll stop pretending to be a better man.”

Your breath hitches. But you still don’t move. You just watch him. And maybe now—finally—you know.

He doesn’t touch you. He still doesn’t touch you.

But when he turns back toward his desk, his hands are shaking. You go home with his voice still echoing in your head.

You shouldn’t. It should’ve faded in the cab, or in the elevator, or somewhere between unlocking your front door and kicking off your shoes. But it doesn’t.

You keep looking like that…

You unzip your skirt, toss it over the back of a chair. Your blouse is half open. You don’t remember unbuttoning it. You sit down on the edge of your bed like you’re waiting for something, hands limp in your lap. Your necklace presses warm into your chest. You reach up. Touch it. Slowly.

His eyes had followed it. Had tracked every sway and shift and little accidental show of skin.

He had looked at you like you were something he could taste. Like he’d been holding back for far too long. And he’d meant it.

He didn’t say it like a man trying to flatter his secretary. He said it like a man fighting every part of himself not to ruin her.

You breathe in, deep. Then out.

Your hand is still at your collar. Thumb brushing the edge of your necklace. Your pulse is louder than the city outside your window.

You lie awake most of the night.

Not because you’re in love. Not because you want him to sweep you into his arms and confess something tender.

But because you can still feel his stare. Because for one solid moment, you felt like prey. And you liked it.

And you know—if he ever stops holding back? You’ll let him.

You arrive the next morning five minutes early.

Lipstick reapplied. Skirt tighter. Necklace tucked just a little lower.

You don’t speak of the night before. Neither does he. But when you hand him his coffee, and your fingers brush—he looks at you. And smiles. Just barely. But it’s the kind of smile you’ll think about for days. Not soft. Not kind. More like a secret. Like he knows something you don’t.

You straighten the files in your arms even though they don’t need it. Your fingers tremble only a little. You don’t speak. You don’t have to.

Because everything feels different now. The air. The carpet under your heels. The faint smell of his cologne already clinging to the hallway before you even reach his door.

You sit at your desk. You type. You file.

You feel his gaze more than you ever did before. Not constant. Not indulgent. Just… present. Taut. Pulled like wire. Like he’s holding back.

And that’s what kills you the most. He hasn’t said anything else. He hasn’t done anything. But every moment, every quiet interaction— The brush of his hand when he gives you a folder. The pause when you glance over your shoulder. The way his voice drops half a step lower when he says your name— It all tastes like something that already happened.

Even though it hasn’t. Yet.

You don’t know when the line will be crossed. Maybe it never will.

But when the sun sets again—when the others go home and the floor empties out and the silence returns—he’s still there. And so are you.

But you’re not soft tonight. Not tired. Not gently fading into the couch like before. You’re busy. And furious.

Your jaw is clenched, a little muscle ticking near your cheek. Your eyes scan the reports on your screen like they’ve personally offended you. And your nails—painted in that same muted, perfect shade—are digging into the palm of your off-hand hard enough to leave little arcs of red.

Someone didn’t format their department files. Someone else duplicated a data pull with wrong timestamps. Someone signed off on a quarterly draft you now have to fix before the board sees it tomorrow.

It’s all coming down on you. And you should’ve gone home. Should’ve had time to think about the look he gave you yesterday. The low rasp of his voice when he told you not to wear that skirt again. The weight of your name in his mouth. But no. You’re stuck here. Grinding your teeth.

Because no one does their goddamn job.

And he hears it. From the other room. The tight typing. The sharp shuffling of folders. The little curse you whisper when a spreadsheet crashes and doesn’t autosave. He doesn’t come out right away. He waits.

He tells himself it’s to give you space. But really—he’s just watching. From his office doorway, tie loosened, jaw set.

He’s watching the way your shoulders tense under your blouse. The way your skirt rides up slightly when you shift in your seat. The way your hand rubs the stress out of your own wrist like it hurts to even exist in this building tonight.

He should offer help. He doesn’t. He just listens. Watches. And wonders if you’re as worked up about him as you are about the files.

You don’t notice he’s watching until you stand to grab another folder—fast, too fast—and drop a pen from behind your ear.

You bend to grab it. And he’s there.

“Don’t.”

You freeze, hand outstretched toward the pen. Your fingers brush the floor, then curl back. You straighten slowly.

Bruce is in the doorway. Tie loosened, eyes dark. He’s looking at you like you’ve just crossed a line. Like he’s trying not to follow.

“Don’t bend over like that,” he says quietly. “Not when I’m standing here.”

Your breath catches. His voice isn’t harsh. It’s low. Flat. Controlled. Like there’s something behind it he’s keeping caged.

You blink at him. “It’s just a pen.”

“It’s never just anything with you.”

Your mouth goes dry. He doesn’t move. He just stands there—tension in his jaw, hands in his pockets, gaze pinned to you like he’s memorizing every part of this moment for later.

And then, like it costs him, he tears his eyes away.

“Leave it,” he says, voice tighter now. “Get it later.”

He doesn’t walk away. Doesn’t look at you again. Just returns to his side of the room. The same one you share. You stand there.

Jaw tense. Breathing shallow. And something inside you just tips. You speak. Stepping back a bit.

“I’m not trying to bother you,” you mutter, not even looking at him. “I just—god, I’m frustrated.”

You’re still holding a folder—creased now in your grip. He steps closer with you noticing, you're too busy rambling to notice he's backing you against your desk.

“It’s like everyone clocked out early and left me with their unfinished trash. And now I’m the one stuck cleaning it up, again, because no one else knows how to follow a format. I was supposed to go home. I was supposed to unwind. I was gonna eat something that wasn’t coffee and fantasize about—”

You cut yourself off. Jaw flexing. Hand curling into a fist. “I’m tired. I’m so tired. And I know that’s not your problem, I just—”

You pause. You feel it before you hear it. The air changes. The weight of the room shifts. He’s in front of you. Close.

You hadn’t heard him move. Your voice falters—but you keep going, like momentum will protect you.

“I’m trying not to be dramatic, I just—I’m doing everything. Everything they don’t. And I’m not asking for praise or anything, I just—I don’t think I can keep doing this if I’m the only one who—”

You stop. Because you can feel him now. Standing right there. His chest barely brushing yours. His heat soaking into your chest.

And then—

“Yeah?” His voice is low. Against your ear. Just one word. “I'll fix that.”

You gasp. He doesn’t give you time to think. He leans in. Kisses the cuff of your ear. Then lower.

A soft, deliberate press of his mouth beneath it—where your neck curves into your shoulder. Warm. Hot. Careful. Like a secret he’s finally allowing himself to tell.

You inhale sharply, lips parting. “Mr. Wayne, what are—”

But you don’t finish. Because his teeth graze the edge of your jaw—just enough to make your knees lock. And still—he hasn’t touched anything else. Not your waist. Not your hands. Just his mouth. And the sharp, electric silence between you.

His teeth catch the sharp line of your jaw—lightly, deliberately. You breathe in. Fast. Shallow.

“Sir, I don’t—” Your voice cracks. “W...wait…”

But your legs are already pressed together. You’re not pulling away. You’re breathing hard, like he’s the one who backed you against the desk (he did)—like he’s the one chasing you (he is), even though you’re the one who led yourself here (gaslighting you right now). He doesn’t say anything. Just leans lower.

His breath is hot against your skin. You feel it first—then the drag of his mouth along the base of your throat. Slower now. Unforgiving.

And then—his lips part. Teeth. Tongue. Pressure. He bites. Not hard—but deep enough to leave a mark. Right at the base of your neck. Where no one will see it until you change. Until you’re home. Until you’re alone again, staring in the mirror and pretending this didn’t happen.

You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding. It shakes on the way out. Your hand clenches the edge of the desk behind you. Your head tilts back just slightly—inviting, even though your mouth says the opposite.

“We can’t—” But you don’t move. And neither does he. His lips linger over the bruise. Warm. Possessive.

His voice is barely a whisper: “You should’ve gone home an hour ago then, sweetheart.”

His lips drag lower, slower this time—like he’s tasting the skin he just bruised. Like it’s his now. You can’t think. Can’t breathe right. Your body is hot and tense and aching in all the wrong ways, and still—you don’t push him back.

Your head tips farther. Your hand tightens on the desk. The words we shouldn’t die in your throat, drowned by the heat curling in your stomach. You squeeze your thighs together. He notices. Of course he does.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, voice like crushed velvet. “You’re trembling.”

You are. You don’t answer. You can’t. Because his mouth is back—just beneath your jaw now, soft and slow and dizzying. Your breath hitches. Your lips part.

“We shouldn’t…” you whisper, uselessly.

But it doesn’t even sound like you believe it. He huffs a quiet laugh against your skin—dark, satisfied. And his hand finally finds your waist.

It’s firm. Warm. Spanning your side like he’s meant to be there. You don’t flinch. You melt.

Bruce exhales through his nose, slow—like he’s holding something back. And then—he leans in again. Lips ghosting along your jaw. A kiss. Hot. Precise. One second too long.

“If you really don’t want this…” Another kiss—closer to your ear. “Tell me to stop.”

You don’t. You can’t. You just look at him.

Those wide, soft eyes—fuck, those eyes. All hesitant and glassy, like you’re about to cry but don’t know why. Your breath stutters. Your thighs clench tighter. He can see it. He can feel it in the way your hips shift, just slightly—like your body’s already aching for pressure.

And your mouth?

“Sir…” A whisper. A whimper. “Don’t stop…”

Your chin tips higher. Your neck tilts—offering him more. Giving him room. Like you want him to bite again. His grip on your waist tightens.

God. His thoughts are a mess. Vile. Addicted.

She’s probably soaked under that skirt. Soaked and trembling and standing here like she doesn’t know what she’s asking for. Cute little secretary, all pretty and sweet, probably ruined already from a few fucking kisses. Thighs pressed together like that’s going to help. Like she doesn’t want me to reach down and see what she’s hiding.

His hand flexes against your waist—thumb brushing over the soft curve of your belly. Fuck. You’re trembling.

“This is so…” you breathe. But your voice is barely there. And you don’t pull back.

Your plush stomach rises and falls with every shallow breath. He can feel the flutter of butterflies beneath it. The tension. The need. And all he wants is to see if you're as soft under your skirt as you are under his hands.

That spot—just beneath your ear, delicate and warm—and he mouths at it like he’s been dreaming of it. And when his lips drag over that exact place—

You whimper. Soft. Uncontrolled.

Your hand flies up to your mouth, eyes wide in horror.

But he’s already heard it. Already felt the way your thighs tensed. Already hard at the thought that he pulled that sound from you. He huffs—low and wrecked.

“That’s it,” he murmurs against your throat. “That’s how I want you.”

His hand rises, sliding along your waist—fingertips brushing your ribs, up, up—until he presses a kiss to the swell of your chest, right above your neckline. Then another, lower, near the center. Right where your necklace rests against your skin.

“Pretty thing,” he whispers, voice dark. “Shaking like I haven’t already made you mine.”

You gasp. But you don’t stop him.

And when his hands shift—gripping your hips now—you barely have time to breathe before he lifts you. Effortless.

Like your softness means nothing to him. Or rather—like it means everything.

He sets you on the edge of the desk, lips still on your skin, kissing up the curve of your chest. And then—he drops to his knees.

His hands find the hem of your skirt. Your breath catches.

“Let me see,” he murmurs. Not a question. Not a command. A need.

He lifts the fabric slowly—palms gliding up the soft skin of your thighs, kissing every inch as he reveals it.

The plush give of your legs. The way they tremble. He kisses above your knee. Then higher. Again. Your thighs twitch. He presses another kiss—closer now.

“So soft,” he murmurs against your skin. “You’ve been hiding all this from me?” Another kiss. Higher.

“You think I haven’t noticed? Every curve. Every step you take in those skirts that ride too high on your thighs.”

You’re breathless now. Flushed hot. Soaked. And he’s still kissing. Not your core. Not yet. Just your thighs—soft, plush, trembling beneath his mouth.

He starts at your knee, lips parting over the skin with obscene slowness. One kiss. Then another. Then a trail of heat dragged upward, like he’s mapping you out inch by inch.

You twitch when he reaches the tender inner part. You can’t help it.

Bruce groans—quiet, but deep—and presses his thumbs into the crease where thigh meets hip, parting your legs just enough to make you gasp.

“You’re already shaking,” he mutters against your skin.

You cover your mouth, trying to keep the whine in.

“Sir…” you breathe. Barely audible. But it makes him pause.

He lifts his head slightly, breath grazing over the front of your panties. “Say that again.”

You hesitate—swallowing hard—because he hasn’t even touched you properly, and your body’s already betraying you.

“Sir,” you whisper.

Bruce groans like he’s the one falling apart. And then he mouths over the fabric. Not removing it. Not yet. Just pressing his tongue through the soaked lace—tasting the heat, the slick.

“God…” His hands squeeze your thighs, thumbs brushing the edge of your panties like he’s contemplating tearing them. “You’re soaked through, sweetheart.”

You try to respond—try to say something coherent—but his mouth is back, pressing in, lips dragging along the soaked seam like he’s savoring the fact that you’re already ruined and still dressed.

“These are in the way.”

And with that—he hooks his fingers into the sides of your panties and pulls them down, slow.

Dragging the damp fabric down your soft thighs, watching how the slick clings, watching it stretch before snapping back—leaving you bare and glistening. He stares like it’s the first light he’s seen in years.

“Fuck…” he swears. “Look at you.”

Then—he leans in. And licks one long, deep stripe through your folds. Your whole body jolts. A breath caught in your throat.

“Sweetest fucking thing I’ve ever tasted,” he rasps. “You have no idea what you do to me.”

And then he’s gone—mouth sealed, tongue working, hands pinning your thighs open. He doesn’t ease you into it. He dives in.

Tongue curling. Lips dragging. Nose brushing your clit with every groan he lets out against your soaking core. He eats like he means it—like he’s starving. Like this isn’t just something he wants—it’s something he needs. You let out a sound—half gasp, half whimper—and slap a hand over your mouth, cheeks flushing hot. You’ve never had this before. Not even close.

No one’s ever been down there for you—let alone a man like him. With his mouth greedy, his grip bruising, his voice hoarse from how much he wants to stay between your legs.

“Sir,” you whisper, but it’s shaky—like you're falling apart just trying to say it.

Bruce groans into you. The sound vibrates right through your clit. Your thighs twitch, instinct pulling your knees inward—but his grip tightens, holding you open with one large hand as his other smooths slowly over your trembling belly.

“First time?” he murmurs, voice wrecked, lips brushing against your soaked folds.

You nod, eyes glassy, thighs trembling harder.

“Thought so,” he growls, pressing a kiss right over your clit.

Then another.

Then his tongue slides deep again, slower now—but more intentional. More possessive.

“You’re too sweet not to have been touched like this,” he mutters against you. “Too fucking soft.”

You’re whimpering now. Not because it hurts. Because it doesn’t.

It feels too good.

“W..we shouldn’t—” you gasp, but your hips roll toward his mouth like they know better. “Not here–”

He chuckles. Dark. Muffled. "Yes, here.."

And then—he sucks.

Mouth wrapping around your clit, tongue flicking until your hand is gripping his hair, thighs pressed to his jaw, your whole body tense and fluttering.

“Sir—ah—Sir, I—”

But he doesn’t stop. Doesn’t slow.

He groans again—filthy and full—like he’s tasting every single noise that falls out of you.

“That’s it,” he pants, breath hot, lips dragging over your slick skin. “Cum on my tongue, sweetheart. Let me feel it.”

And you do.

You fall apart with a sharp cry, hand still over your mouth, legs shaking, soaked and ruined and barely keeping it together as he rides you through it, licking up every drop like it’s his prize.

He pulls back slowly, tongue heavy in his mouth, lips slick and red from where he’s just been. You’re still panting. Shaking. He doesn’t move far—just enough to look at you.

Your skirt is bunched around your waist. Your blouse clings to your chest. And your thighs are still parted, trembling, the inside of them wet with him.

“I can—” you start, voice quiet, “I can return the favor, Sir.”

He breathes hard through his nose. The way you say Sir nearly breaks him.

“No,” he says. A little too fast. A little too raw. “Don’t.”

He presses one hand to your knee. The other slides up—slow, firm—until his fingers trace the heat between your legs. You jolt. Breath catching.

“This isn’t about me,” he murmurs. “Not tonight.”

And he doesn’t stop touching you.

Even after you’ve come on his tongue—hard, ruined—he stays there, face still between your thighs, fingers dragging through the slick mess he’s made.

He watches it. Watches how it glistens between your folds. Watches the way you twitch every time he brushes too close to your clit.

You’re still in your blouse. Still in your skirt.

Your thighs are bare now, trembling under the heat of his breath.

And Bruce? Bruce is still on his knees. Still in that expensive suit. Still hard behind his zipper, jaw tight like he’s holding something back.

His fingers are slow at first. Sliding over your slit. One thick finger pressing just enough to feel how soft you are inside.

“You ever been touched like this?” he murmurs—not teasing. Just curious. Just ruined.

You nod slowly, breath stuttering. “Yeah… just not like this.”

He hums. Dark. Low. His fingers stroke again, dragging slick over your entrance.

“Figures,” he mutters. “You’re used to boys, huh?”

You don’t answer. Not when he’s already pushing a single finger inside—steady, controlled. You gasp, hips twitching forward. His mouth presses to your thigh.

“You feel that?” he breathes. “How easy you open up for me?”

You nod again. Barely. His name trembles on your tongue, but you can’t form it.

He curls the finger once, then again—deep—and your whole body jolts. He kisses your other thigh. A little harder this time. Closer to where his finger is moving. His mouth is warm. Wet.

“So fucking tight,” he mutters. “Can’t stop thinking about how you’re gonna feel around my cock.”

Your breath stutters. “Sir—”

His tongue drags a line up the inside of your thigh. His finger doesn’t stop. If anything, he adds another—thick, smooth, stretching you open until your knees shake. You feel full—not overwhelmed, just aware. Like he’s studying how your body reacts to every thrust, every curl, every filthy flick of his wrist.

“They didn’t take their time with you, did they?”

You don’t answer.

Because he’s right. You’ve had sex. But not like this. No one’s ever knelt for you. No one’s ever worked their fingers this deep, this slow. Kissed your thighs like they meant it. Like they wanted to. Like they couldn’t help it.

You’ve been touched. But not like this. Not like he’s savoring you. Not like he’s grateful to be on his knees between your legs, with your skirt hitched up and your body flushed, trembling, real.

And maybe that’s what hits you hardest. Because you’ve always been soft. And you know what the world does with softness—it tolerates it. Avoids it. Looks past it.

But Bruce? Bruce is looking.

His mouth presses another kiss to your thigh. His hand, large and warm, spreads across your waist like it fits there. Like it belongs. Not clutching. Not pawing. Just holding—firm, steady.

“You have no idea,” he mutters, voice wrecked, “how long I’ve wanted to touch you like this.”

You almost laugh—but your breath hitches instead. You can feel your heartbeat in your throat. Your skin. Between your legs.

“I’m not—” you start.

But the words vanish when his fingers move again, deep and slow.

“Not what?” he murmurs. His lips ghost up your thigh. “Not like the girls you think I’ve had?”

Your chest rises. Your hands grip the edge of the desk behind you.

“You think I’d be on my knees for anyone else?” He curls his fingers inside you—just right—and your whole body jolts.

“No. Just you.”

He leaves a few marks on your inner thighs.

“The way you sound, the way you feel—fuck, the way you look in these skirts…”

You moan softly, and he eats it up. Kisses the crease of your thigh. Moves his hand from your waist to your hip, grounding you.

“You’re not some fantasy. You’re real. And you’re gorgeous.”

Your thighs tremble.

He doesn’t let up. Doesn’t give you time to hide or deflect or turn your face away. Because he’s not worshipping the idea of you.

He’s touching you.

And wanting you.

Two fingers, deep, curling just right. His thumb strokes lazy circles over your clit. Not fast. Just enough. Just perfect.

Your thighs are shaking now. Your grip on the desk is white-knuckled.

“That’s it,” he murmurs behind you. “Just like that.”

Your skirt’s still bunched up at your hips. Your blouse still clings to your back. You’re mostly dressed, but it doesn’t matter—because you’re coming apart anyway.

You moan—soft, sweet, wrecked. And Bruce watches every second of it.

“So good for me,” he breathes, voice tight. “Letting me feel you like this…”

You choke on a sound—his name maybe—but your body does the rest for you. Your walls clench around his fingers, trembling through it, hips twitching as your orgasm hits hard and helpless.

“That’s it. Just like that. Let me have it, pretty.”

He works you through it, slow and patient, fingers never leaving you until you’re whimpering from the aftershocks.

And when he finally pulls them out—slick and glistening—he doesn’t speak for a moment. He just looks.

Then, quietly: “Can you take me?”

You blink stars in your vision, still catching your breath, hand over your mouth.

“Are you up for it?” His voice is lower now. Rough. Like he’s asking, not assuming. Like this is the moment he’ll stop if you ask him to.

You turn your head, breathless and hot. “Please, Sir…”

It breaks something in him. You hear it—in the low groan that leaves his chest. In the clink of his belt coming undone. In the way he swears under his breath like he’s been waiting years to hear you say it.

“Fuck…”

His trousers slide down. His hand wraps around himself once—just to take the edge off. And then—he steps closer.

“I’m gonna take care of you, sweetheart,” he murmurs, cock dragging through your slick folds. “Gonna fuck you nice, I promise.”

You feel the head of him press against your entrance—thick, hot, aching.

“Still so soft,” he whispers against your cheek. “Still so wet for me.”

He slides in slow. Thick. Heavy.

Stretching you inch by inch, so full you can barely think—barely breathe. Your soft thighs twitch against his sides. Your fingers dig into the muscled skin of his arms, holding tight.

“Fuck,” you whisper—half-shocked, half-wrecked.

Bruce groans low in his throat, forehead nearly pressed to yours.

“Yeah?” he breathes. “You feel it, don’t you…”

And god, do you.

He’s so thick. He’s not even moving yet, and it already feels like he’s splitting you open—dragging along every nerve, pressing deep where no one’s ever reached.

His hands settle at your waist, sinking into the soft give there—not just steadying you, but grabbing you. Like he needs the feel of your body under his palms just to stay grounded.

You let out a shaky breath. Your arms reach up, instinctive, wrapping around his neck and pulling him closer—needing the weight of his chest, the warmth of his breath against your mouth.

“Oh, sweetheart…” he exhales, broken.

You moan in his ear when he grinds in just a little deeper, adjusting the angle. He groans again—this time lower, rougher, like he’s biting back a curse.

“You’re—fuck—you’re wrapped around me so tight,” he mutters, almost to himself. “So goddamn wet.”

He pulls back—not far—and then pushes in again, slower this time, letting you feel the entire stroke.

Your jaw drops. Your breath stutters. His grip shifts lower, kneading at your thighs now—thick, plush, spreading just for him.

“That’s it…” he coos, lips brushing your cheek. “You take me so fucking well.”

You feel everything. The press. The weight. The stretch. And he’s deep. So deep.

You whimper into his neck, and he keeps going—praising you, rambling, sounding like he’s drunk on every squeeze of your cunt.

“You’re made for this, you know that?”

“Sitting at your little desk every day looking so sweet—so soft—had me fucking aching.”

“You don’t even know what you’ve been doing to me…”

You clutch at his shirt now, pulling him flush to you—skin to fabric. Your blouse-covered tummy soft against his stomach, his shirt riding up just a bit. Your thighs bracket his hips, needy and open.

“Sir—”

That nearly breaks him. His hips stutter forward and he groans, face buried at your throat, his hands tightening on your waist like you’re the only thing holding him to earth.

“God, you feel so good,” he grits. “So warm—so fucking perfect.”

You’re soaked around him. Still fluttering. Still stretched and trembling and so full. He fucks in deeper, slower—like he’s trying to savor every slick squeeze, every flutter of your soft body wrapped around his cock.

“You don’t know what it’s like,” he breathes into your neck. “Coming into this office every goddamn day wanting to ruin you.”

His hips roll again.

You can feel him everywhere. Your tummy flutters with every slow thrust, and your moans shake as you cling tighter to him—your nose buried near his ear.

“I’m never gonna forget how this feels,” he whispers. “You, like this—around me.”

He rasps out, breath trembling. “Fuck, sweetheart—you’re gonna break me.”

You’re close. He can feel it—your body fluttering around him, tighter, warmer, soaked with every slow roll of his hips.

“That’s it,” he murmurs, voice ragged. “That’s it, baby…”

He draws back and thrusts deep again, hips grinding into yours, the soft curve of your belly pressing flush to his abdomen. His hands grip at your thighs, your waist—anywhere he can touch—sinking into the warmth, the give of your body, pulling you down onto him like he wants you to stay there.

“You gonna cum for me, sweetheart?” he breathes, nose brushing your cheek. “Gonna fall apart just like this?”

Your walls clamp down around him and Bruce grunts—deep in his chest—still holding your hips, still fucking you through it like he can’t stop, won’t stop until he’s wrung every last flutter out of you. His cock twitches inside you, hot and thick.

“That’s it,” he pants. “That’s my girl. Just like that.”

Your body trembles—legs shaking, thighs pressing to his sides—and he groans at the way your cunt tightens around him. He barely slows—just enough to lock his hips deep, deep inside you—his voice breaking on a moan as he buries his face against your cheek.

“You’re gonna make me—fuck, baby, I’m gonna cum—”

His hips stutter against yours, thick inside you. He angles deeper, hitting that soft spot again, and your body arches, a gasp ripping from your throat. The heat bubbling in your lower stomach coils tighter—white and pulsing, about to detonate.

You’re a babbling mess. “Sir—Mr. Wayne—” Another gasp hits you like a wave. “Bruce—”

That does it.

A guttural groan tears from him. His fingers, probably leaving bruises on your plush hips, thrust deeper. Your hands bury in his hair. His name spills from your lips over and over. And it absolutely undoes him.

His hips stutter again, slower now, dragging out every last flicker of sensation from you. And when he presses into that spot one more time, it breaks you.

Your body tightens around him. The orgasm hits—hard—white heat pulsing through your veins, your back arching, thighs clenching around his waist. A breathless cry escapes you as you fall apart completely.

He groans as you squeeze around him, his own release chasing yours. A low, wrecked sound spills from his throat as he buries himself to the hilt, pulsing deep, warmth spilling inside you. His forehead drops to yours, damp hair sticking to his skin, chest heaving.

For a while, it’s just the sound of your breathing. Both of you wrecked. Sweaty. Trembling. Tangled in sheets and each other. You close your eyes, still catching your breath, and feel his hand brush over your thigh—gentle, almost absent-minded.

“You okay?” he asks, voice rough from use.

You nod against him, soft. “Yeah.”

Bruce exhales slowly, like something in him loosens at your answer. His forehead stays pressed to yours for a moment longer, eyes closed, before he finally shifts—carefully. He draws back, pulling out of you with a hiss between his teeth. He stills the moment your body jolts at the sensitivity, a large hand cupping the back of your thigh to ground you.

“Easy,” he murmurs.

You breathe out a shaky laugh, eyelids fluttering. “I’m fine.”

“Still,” he mutters.

He slips off his suit jacket—crumpled somewhere on the floor—and grabs a clean handkerchief from the inside pocket. It’s monogrammed. Of course it is. He’s quiet as he cleans you up—not rushed, not clinical. Just… gentle. Attentive in a way that makes your throat tighten.

When he’s done, he reaches for your underwear, sliding it back up your legs slowly, then smooths your skirt down, fingers lingering more than they need to. He doesn’t say anything. But there’s something reverent in the way he does it. Like this is more than just habit. Like you’re more than just a distraction.

He stands, tucks himself back into his slacks, fastens his belt with a sharp click, then glances down at you—still half-draped over your desk, body spent.

“Come on,” he says, offering his hand. “I’m taking you home.”

You blink. “But I still have to finish—”

“No.”

His voice leaves no room for argument, but it’s not unkind. “You’re done for today. You’re off tomorrow. I’ll handle everything else.”

“Bruce—”

He leans down, kisses your forehead like it’s something he’s wanted to do for a long time. His hand smooths your hair back, eyes searching yours.

“Let me take care of you.”

And for once… you let him.

So...how we feeling..? First time writing for Dc.. hopefully I dont get a stake to the heart for this.. Also dont tell me if its bad, let me cringe later.

-The Intern

[coldfanbou]

Kinkcember Day 18: Public sex

This is probably the shortest fic of the month. I wasn't give too many details, so it was left kinda bare and I didn't want it to turn into a gangbang.

Length 1.1k

Jo Yuri x Mreader

She looked out onto the street, licking her lips as she thought about what would await her. Jo Yuri had gotten into a pretty bad habit. It just excited her; she couldn’t help it, and she wouldn’t tell anyone what she was doing. The young woman raised her hand as she saw a cab making its way over. It stopped just in front of her and the backseat door on its own. Yuri stepped inside the cab, excited that she had found one so quickly. “Where are you going, Miss?”

“Home,” Yuri replies, giving the details of her apartment building. You pull off and onto the street, starting the taxi’s meter.

Yuri tapped her feet against the car floor, waiting for the taxi driver to reach her destination. She moved her hand under her skirt, grazing her clit. She bites her lip, quieting her moans. You turn your head. “Is everything alright, miss?” 

Yuri nods, “Yeah, everything’s fine.” She mumbles, continuing to tease herself as you continue the drive. You arrive at her home and check the meter, telling her the price. Yuri smiles at you and looks through her purse; she doesn’t have any money in there. She never does; Yuri knows other ways she can pay.  She continues to look for a few more seconds before finally giving up. “It looks like I lost my wallet. Is there any other way I can pay you?” She asks, leaning forward to reveal her cleavage. You pause and look at the young woman through the mirror. The look in her eyes told you everything you needed. You inch the car forward, heading down a small side street right next to the building. Yuri smiled, excitement growing inside her. 

You shut off the taxi camera and the meter before looking at the woman. “There is another way; you could pay with your body.”

Yuri’s lips curl into a smile, “Thank you. Where should we start? Nothing is off limits; you can use me as much as you want…until I’ve paid the amount.” Yuri imagined what you would do to her; she was getting wetter the longer she thought about it.

You press the button on your controls to open her door. Yuri glances at the open door, then back to you, watching as you step out of the car. She focuses on your movements, noticing you’re pulling something out. The young woman turns to the door. You surprise her by having your cock out and ready for her. “Oh, wow,” Yuri says, grabbing your shaft. She moves her hand along it, smiling. “This is just how I like them,” she says softly.

Yuri moves in, swallowing the head of your cock and bobbing her head quickly. She moves her hand under her dress and pushes her fingers inside her cunt. Being out in public was what turned her on the most; anyone could see what was going on. The only thing keeping that from happening was the lack of people out at this hour. You drive your cock down the young woman’s throat, reveling in the pleasure your feel from it tightening around you. You didn’t want to cum down her throat, though; as good as it would’ve felt to do that or cum on her face, you wanted her pussy. You needed to focus and hurry up; there was more money to be made at this time. You pulled your cock out of Yuri's throat, leaving her gasping for air as you pulled her to her feet and lowered the window to her door. You wanted people to see her.

You pushed Yuri through the open window, lifted her dress, grabbed your cock, and rammed it into her tight cunt. Yuri’s tongue wagged in the air as she felt your cock inside her. She moaned loudly, not caring if anyone could hear her. She wanted them to know she was getting fucked. As you slam yourself into her cunt you smack the young woman’s ass, marking her body. You reach up and grope her breasts, roughly squeezing them. Yuri groaned, smiling as she felt your cock move deeper into her. You were pushing her against the door, wanting every inch inside her tight cunt.

“Fuck, yes, harder!” Yuri shouts, pushing her ass against you. You grab her waist and ram yourself into her with reckless abandon, uncaring if anyone spotted you. Yuri's moans did attract attention, though. A stranger came through the side street and spotted you fucking the young woman. Yuri noticed them first and beckoned them over; another cock was just the thing she wanted. You pull Yuri from the window, letting the stranger get at her. Yuri reaches for his pants, fishing his cock out and putting taking it into her mouth. You’re surprised at what she’s capable of, but it was clear now that she was cock hungry. You thrust into Yuri with more strength, letting her body jerk forward and making her take in more of the stranger's cock. He begins thrusting, too, sending Yuri back and forth between your bodies. Yuri’s muffled groans fuel your lust, and you speed up. You feel your orgasm coming but continue at your pace, determined to ruin the young woman.

Yuri’s moans climb in pitch as you push her closer to her climax. She could feel a tightness in her core; the situation was pushing her to another place, and her body was desperate for a release. Her walls tightened around your cock, and her body tensed in your grip. 

You drove your cock deep inside her before pouring your load into her cunt. Yuri shudders as she feels your semen pour into her. She moans loudly. It would’ve been louder had her mouth not been stuffed by the stranger’s cock. You keep yourself inside the young woman, enjoying the way her walls milked your cock while you could. The noise she had made attracted more attention, both men and women this time. They began to crowd around Yuri; the young woman watched as the men pulled out their cock, and the women began to touch themselves. The stranger that was fucking her mouth came as the attention shifted to him; he pulled out and shot his load on Yuri’s face. She stuck her tongue out, trying to catch as much as she could. He turned the young woman around, wanting his turn with her cunt. He wanted to claim it before the crowd really got to her.

You left the young woman alone with the crowd, needing to finish your shift. It wasn’t like Yuri minded anyway; with all the cocks around her in need of milking, she was more than happy. You drove away, looking in the rearview mirror as Yuri was stuffed with more cock and hands wandered her body. She finished the night, wobbling into the apartment building, her clothes torn and cum running down her thighs.

[zeltqz]

call me or not, it's up to you pt 2 | haitani ran

☰ — synopsis : you finally called ran back after a disagreement with your boyfriend.

☰ — pairing : haitani ran x fem!reader ☰ — length : 5.8k words ☰ — contents : nsfw and 18+ contents, mentions of violence, protected sex, protective ran ☰ — notes : this has been in the drafts for WEEEKS but i had to post for my mans birthday, couldn't miss it

On the way home, Ran’s peaceful drive was interrupted by the sound of his phone ringing. Initially he would’ve ignored it, but one glance to where his phone was sitting in the cup holder, he almost lost control of the wheel seeing your name. The streets were fairly empty at this time of night, so nobody was disrupted when he pulled over abruptly, clearing his throat before answering.

“Hello?”

Soft sniffles filled the car from where his phone was connected to his speakers, and his concern grew significantly. “Ran?”

“Why are you crying?” he asked, fingers tightening against the wheel as he waited for you to continue.

You paused briefly, exhaling exhaustedly. “A—are you busy right now?”

“No.” He started driving again, slowly. “But why are you crying?”

“I need you to pick me up. If that’s not too much stress for you. I, um, I really need help.”

“Sure, I mean. Send me your location.” You murmured a soft agreement and he heard your fingernails tapping against the screen, a notification message sliding down his screen seconds later. “Why do you need help? Talk to me.” Ran leaned forward to connect his GPS to your location.

“It’s a long story,” you sighed. He could hear your teeth clattering together as you shivered. It was incredibly dark outside right now, the skies pitch black, streets tinted orange from the streetlights, and the heavy rainfall that’d been plaguing the city for the last few hours. 

“We have time,” Ran responded simply. He could practically feel you hesitating. “(Name) I need the full story here. Talk to me while I come get you.”

You pressed your lips together tightly, wrapping your arms around yourself as you shivered, goosebumps erupting on your skin. Your shirt was soaked through at this point, your jeans soggy and the lack of a coat made you certain you’d catch hypothermia later. 

“I—uh. Basically I got into an argument with um, Masato. You know him? He’s the um, dude from my story. A month ago?”

“I’m aware,” Ran responded dryly.

You swallowed thickly. “Yeah well. He was driving me home and we got into an argument because I didn’t like how he was flirting with one of the waitresses at the restaurant. And then he wanted to check my phone. I said no of course, but not because I was cheating or anything. I just didn’t like how he kept deflecting whenever his issues was brought up. But anyway, the argument escalated and he basically kicked me out the car and left me stranded god knows where. All the buses stopped running an hour ago, and the nearest train station is a 45 minute walk away. I have no money so I can’t call a cab. My wallet is in his car…and everything is just such a mess. I don’t have a jacket, I’m cold and I just don’t know what to do.” 

By the time you finished your voice was tiny, and the sniffles came back as you fought from crying. Ran could practically picture your face right now, all teary eyed and sad and his grip on the wheel tightened immensely. 

“I’m about fifteen minutes away, baby. Okay? Is there anywhere warm you can get to?”

You looked at your surroundings. A lone empty highway, with a diner in the distance, the words “OPEN 24/7” flashing in neon lights. “Yeah. There’s a diner around here.”

Ran looked at the map on his phone and confirmed the location of the diner with you. You nodded and he told you to get there quickly and he’d order you something once he got there. You thanked him and hung up, slowly making your way inside. You felt like a crazy person when you walked in, clothes soaked and wetting their floors as you made your way to sit down by the heater. A few concerned employees and customers glanced at you, but you ignored them in favour of wrapping your arms around yourself, a pitiful attempt of creating warmth.

Ran’s speeding managed to cut the fifteen minute drive into eight, and you were too busy staring at the table, tracing the wooden pattern with your eyes to see him pull into the parking lot. It wasn’t until the bell rang as  he walked did you finally look up and meet his gaze. 

He rushed over to you and you stood up quickly, wrapping your arms around him. He dropped his head to rest on top of yours and he could feel you shaking against him. 

“You alright?” he asked and you nodded, not removing your head from his chest. He wrapped his arms around you tightly, feeling you clutch onto the front of his shirt. 

“Um excuse me?” The two of you broke apart, staring at the waitress that stood a few feet away from you both, a notepad in her hand. “Are you two ordering anything?”

“You hungry?” Ran asked, looking down at you. You shook your head. “Thirsty?” You thought for a minute before nodding. “Hot chocolate for the lady please. Put marshmallows, whipped cream, whatever’s available in there.” He handed her his credit card and turned his attention back to you. “Look at me.”

You tilted your head up to look at him and he reached a tentative hand out to your cheek, cupping it. Your face was wet, from tears or the rain he didn’t know, frankly he didn’t care. His thumbs wiped some of the water away from your cheek, tracing over your features softly.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, wiping at your own face. 

“For what?”

“For calling you like this. I didn’t want you to see me like this again. This is so embarrassing.” 

Ran dropped his hand down to your arm, soothing the goosebumps erupted on your skin. “Take this.” He shrugged his jacket off his shoulders and you held your arms out as he helped you fit in through it.

“I look ridiculous,” you said with a teary laugh. 

“You look cute.” He pinched your cheek and you pushed his hands away, a small smile on your face despite it all. The waitress came with your drink and the two of you sat down. He watched you take small sips of your drink, avoiding his intense eye contact.

After you finished your drink, he reached forward and wiped some whipped cream from the corner of your mouth. His thumb traced down to your chin, lingering for a few seconds before pulling away. 

“Thank you for the drink.” You pushed the mug in the middle of the table, wrapping your arms back around yourself. “I’ll pay you back—”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

Your eyebrows furrowed. “I don’t want you—”

“You just told me your wallet is gone. How are you going to pay me back?”

“...I’ll get it back—”

“Like hell you are,” he interrupted and you sat back, looking at him shocked. “You’re never seeing that man again. I’ll make sure of that.”

You scoffed, shaking your head. “Unbelievable. I didn’t call you so you can control every aspect of my life again Ran.”

He leaned forward, elbows resting on the table. “Why did you call me then? Last I recall, you have plenty of other friends that have cars.” 

“T—that doesn’t matter why I called you, Ran,” you spluttered, not sounding the least bit convincing. His eyebrows rose and so did your temper. “I’m serious. I called you because you were the first person I thought of. You’re thinking too much about it.”

“Sure. If that’s what you believe,” he said, tone dripping with condescension that made you roll your eyes. Times like this is when you realised that missing Ran is completely different than actually being around him. He was insufferable and you remembered exactly why you had to break things off. 

Ran stood from the table, dusting his clothes. “I’ll take you home. Come on.” He held his hand out.

Reluctantly you stood, grabbing your phone and storming past him, ignoring his hand. He simply smirked and followed after you. You waited outside his car, standing by the backseat with your arms crossed, his jacket over your head acting as an umbrella.

He unlocked his car and you slipped into the back.

 “You can sit up front,” he suggested, shrugging when you stubbornly shook your head, staring resolutely out the window. He rolled his eyes, a light smirk still on his face. He drove at a slower speed than he usually would when he saw you starting to doze off against the seats, driving around in circles just to give you enough time to rest. You woke up an hour later, rubbing your eyes and blinking to adjust to the bright lights. 

Looking around you realised you were parked in a familiar looking garage, the car empty. You slipped out of the car and into the house, walking through until you entered the living room. Ran was seated on the couch, watching tv and texting on his phone.

“Uh, Ran?” You approached the couch and he casted a glance in your direction. “Why am I here?”

“You really thought I’d take you home after that story you just told me on the phone?” His nose scrunched as he flipped through the channels. “I’m not stupid.”

“Okay, Masato isn’t like a serial killer or something. Relax. I’m safe at home.”

“Any right minded man that would leave a girl stranded on the streets in the freezing cold is definitely a cause for concern alright. You’re not going back there till I take care of things.”

“Oh. And by “take care” you mean getting your men to kill him? That’s it?” He stayed silent and you groaned. “I can’t do this. I’m tired, Ran. You know I hate violence. I don’t want the man dead either—”

“Well I do.”

“Good thing it’s not your call then,” you shot back, frowning. “This is my life not yours. You don’t get to decide who gets to stay in it or not.”

He tilted his head back and looked behind at you, the smile on his face turning into more of a smirk. “Do I get to stay or na?” You rolled your eyes and he reached behind him, grabbing your arm and pulling you closer to the couch. “Well?”

You shrugged, looking down at him. “I dunno.” 

Shrugging his jacket off your shoulders, you folded it neatly and slung it on the back of the couch. “It’s complicated Ran,” you said, placing both hands on either side of his head, on the back of the couch.

“Doesn’t have to be.” He grabbed one of your hands, caressing your knuckles.

You found yourself hard pressed to look into those violet eyes of his staring intently back into yours. “Ran…it’s not that simple.”

“It can be. You just don’t like simple.”

You forcefully removed your hand from his. “Excuse me?”

“You always feel like shit has to be complicated in order for it to work. I noticed that you know?” You scoffed, and he rolled his eyes. “Don’t act dumb. We dated for seven years, I think you’d know a person after that long.”

“Crazy because if I were to sit here and say false things about you, then you’d just deny them because I don’t know better than you. Isn’t that right?” 

“Nothing about what you say about me is false. You know this,” he said with an exaggerated sigh. He reached in his pocket, putting a cigarette into his mouth. 

“So if I called you cold and manipulative, would you say I’m correct?”

He lit his cigarette and tossed his head back to look at you, exhaling smoke from his mouth. “You wouldn’t be wrong, no. But you’re only focusing on the negatives.” He reached his hand out again and you hesitated for a split second before grabbing his hand, allowing him to pull you back closer. 

“I can’t think of any positives.”

He rolled his eyes. “Sure.” He took the cigarette out of his mouth and patted the spot on the couch next to him. You walked around the couch, sitting beside him, cringing at the feeling of your wet clothes on his leather couch. 

He put the cigarette back in his mouth and examined you. “You’re still cold.”

“I’m fine.”

He wrinkled his nose, exhaling smoke through his nostrils. “Go shower. Wear some of my clothes.”

“Are you sure?” 

He waved in the general direction of his bathroom and you thanked him. You returned back to the living room half an hour later, wearing one of his shirts that were too big for your body. Flopping back on the couch beside him, he offered you a cigarette to which you shook your head.

“Anyway back to me,” Ran said. You rolled your eyes. “You really can’t think of any positives to describe me? Come on, think deep.”

“This is starting to sound like couples therapy,” you stated dryly, He didn’t respond, just continued staring at you. “I dunno,” you said, picking at the skin on your lips. “Like, you’re funny I guess? You’re sweet, and caring in your own twisted fucked up way. You’re protective in a way that is a perfect mix of just good and overbearing. You’re fucking annoying sometimes too and—”

“Woah woah woah. Going off topic, a little bit?”

You smiled, a genuine laugh leaving your lips and Ran’s heart fluttered at the sight. He slung an arm over your shoulder, tugging you closer. You sighed, resting your head against his shoulder, closing your eyes when he kissed your forehead. 

“I missed you a lot, you know?” You hummed in response, snuggling up beside him. When Ran had came back home and let you sleep in his car, he turned the heating on in every room in the house for you. The fact you still snuggled close to him for warmth made him smile a little bit.  “Didja get my voicemail all those weeks ago?”

“Yeah.” You shifted to look up at him. “Gave me a bit of an ego boost not gonna lie,” you admitted.

He looked down at you. “Why’d you take so long to call me then?” he asked, trying to keep his voice calm and level, to not show any betrayal of emotion. You didn’t respond and looked at the tv, distracted by your thoughts. He jostled you lightly. “Hm?”

“I don’t know,” you finally said after a few seconds. You looked back up at him. “I was petty and hurt still and part of me wanted to make you jealous.” You laughed lightly. “Was pretty shitty of me. I wanted to call you, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. And I shouldn’t have left you hanging like that. But I’m sorry, Ran.”

Ran hummed, the sound vibrating from his chest into yours. He looked away from you, staring at the television with an unreadable expression.There were many times you couldn’t understand what he was thinking. Ran was a man with an unbreakable exterior, and you could only think of one time in your eight year long relationship when you actually managed to crack through that hard shell of his. 

When you found out Izana had died and Ran had gotten himself and his friends arrested. He was released a couple hours later and you came to pick him up from the station. It was hard seeing him more quiet than usual. He barely said a single word to you when you took him home and spent the night with him. That night was when you finally saw Ran cry for the first time and it was overwhelming for you. He wasn’t balling with tears, just a few drops and you wiped each tear drop away with your thumb. That night was so memorable for you and it stayed in your mind all those years later. 

Right now he had that same unreadable, blank expression on his face as he stared at the television, his fingers softly grazing the unshaven stubble on his jaw. You looked up at him, chin on his shoulder and waited for him to finish his thoughts.

“What’s his full name?” he asked after a long moment of silence.

You swallowed. “Why?”

He shrugged. “Just curious.” You were looking at him weirdly, eyes roaming over his face as you tried to uncover any hidden agendas he might have. It still pissed you off how irritatingly good his poker face was.

Squinting at him, you slowly pulled back to sit close beside him, fiddling with the loose string on the sleeve on your shirt. “Promise you won’t…hurt him?”

“I won’t… not kill him,” he said with a smile that grew when you looked up at him exasperated. “I just wanna ask him some questions, s’all.”

You nervously chewed your bottom lip raw by the time you decided. You sighed. “It’s Masato Hirakawa. He’s my accountant,” you told him and Ran shifted on his side to look at you better. “He asked me out one evening and I said yes. We didn’t make things official until like two weeks ago and then that’s when things started going downhill.”

“Whaddya mean?”

You scrunched your nose. “We got drunk at a club last week and Yuzuha drunkenly mentioned the voicemail you left me and I just laughed it off but Masato looked confused and asked what we were talking about. I told him not to worry about it and he got upset, thinking I was hiding shit from him which made no sense because you left that voicemail before we were even official so I wasn’t cheating. But he didn’t care. He then went down a rabbit hole once he figured out your name and started like internet stalking you. He was googling everything he could find about you, was stalking your Instagram, seeing your lifestyle and he took whatever he was feeling out on me.”

Ran’s eyebrows slowly rose as he considered what you just said. 

“Not physically,” you quickly added upon seeing his reaction. “No I mean he would get mad and yell at me, then one night he accused me of being a gold digger and using him for his money and I reminded him just because he’s an accountant that he’s not some millionaire and he needs to calm down. He started ranting and raving about you at any given time and it just got annoying. Every time I was on my phone he thought I was having an affair with you even though we haven’t been in contact in a literal year.” You laughed dryly. 

“It was so stupid. And for what? It was only a week and it made me feel like I was just so…” you paused, trying to figure out the right words. “I don’t know. I just hated it so much. Then today with the car I slept in the car and he took my phone and listened to the voicemail you left and then was convinced that I was sleeping with you while seeing him and he woke me up by yelling at me and stuff. Then kicked me out.”

“Is that why you called me?”

You nodded, fingers trembling as you played with the string. “I’m sorry, by the way. I didn’t mean for all this to happen. You were just the first person I could think of helping me in that moment. I didn’t—”

“Stop stressing.” He grabbed your wrist and you let go of the string as he guided your hand to his mouth, pressing a kiss to your knuckles. “You calling me back was the best thing you could’ve done.” You smiled wryly, meeting his eyes for a few seconds before looking away. “Come here.”

Slipping into his lap, he cradled you against him. “You mad at him?” he asked and you nodded. “Let me take care of this? Please?”

“I don’t know…”

“I won’t kill him if that’s what you’re so scared about. Just wanna spook him a little,” he said, making you giggle. 

You looked up at him and nodded. “Just a spook. Promise?” His eyes dropped down to your lips and your face heated up when you realised where his gaze was trained. 

He leaned down and kissed you softly, his hand rising to your cheek., looking searchingly in your eyes for the longest two seconds of your life. “I promise,” he whispered against your lips before pulling you in for another kiss.

Twisting your body, you turned to loop your arms around his neck, his hand sliding over your knee to pull you over, straddling his lap. His hands slipped under your shirt, rubbing up and down your back. He pulled away, smirking. “No  bra?”

“It was wet from the rain,” you mumbled, kissing him again. He groaned into your mouth, all decorum gone as moved his hands to your chest, cupping your breasts, your nipples already hard and poking his palms.

“Mmm take this off,” he said, tugging at your shirt. 

You shut him up, kissing him again as your hands flew to his shoulders, your whole body warming at the feel of solid muscle, still prominent even through his shirt, underneath your palms. “Take yours off shirt,” you replied, biting his bottom lip with a smile.

He rolled his eyes. “Unbutton me then.”

Now it was your turn to roll your eyes, his smile growing as you got to work, unbuttoning them one by one, your skin growing hot at black ink peeking through. He shrugged his shirt off and your hands flew right back to his shoulders, running them down his chest and letting your fingers trace along his abs. 

He sat up and kissed under your jaw. “Now your turn.” You cupped his face as he sucked, your fingers moving to his hair, tugging when his tongue licked and sucked harder. 

You pushed him back and he watched you lift your shirt up and over, stretching in the process and tossing it to the other end of the couch. He licked his lips as his hands flew to your hips, fingers dipping shallowly against the band of your panties, snapping them back against your skin.  You kissed him sloppily again.

His hands slipped under your thighs, lifting you up and carrying you as you squealed, legs wrapping tightly around his waist as he carried you to his bedroom. Depositing you on his bed, he wasted no time climbing on top of you, pinning your wrists to the mattress as he kissed down your body. 

He latched onto a nipple, his tongue snaking around it as he licked and sucked. The warmth of his mouth and his hands tweaking your other nipple were making you dizzy, biting your bottom lip hard as you began to get restless. He kissed down your stomach, his hands pushing your legs apart. 

“Holy fuck, you’re so fucking wet,” he breathed, eyeing the wet patch in your panties.  He peeled them away and ran his finger through your folds, smirking at the hitch in your breath. “All we did was kiss.”

“S—shut up,” you hissed, irritation turning to pleasure when he swirled his finger around your entrance, and he had to bite his lips to keep from groaning when your hips started stuttering, a silent plea for him to go further. He slowly sunk his finger in and you gasped, back arching against the bed. He pulled out before sinking fully in, teasing you with only the tip of his finger.

You irritatingly looked at him. “Stop being a fucking tease,” you complained, trying to shimmy your body further down the bed, needing more of him. Ran grabbed at your hip, stilling you and you whined loudly.

“Easy.” His voice was light and playful and that only angered you even more. Idly pumping his finger in and out of you, he added another and you writhed, restlessly moving to fight back the heat forming in your abdomen. His fingers curled against that spot that had you melting against the sheets. When you were least expecting it, your eyes closed and head thrown back, he leaned forward, wrapping his lips around your clit, and sucked. 

You moaned loudly as his tongue began working at your cunt, licking sloppily like a man starved. Slipping his fingers out, he parted your folds with two fingers, eyes trained on the way your pussy was gleaming with a mixture of your slick and his saliva.

 “Fuck,” he breathed. He looked up at your body, over the curve of your breasts. “Sit up for me. Wanna see that pretty face.”

“Nn-nn,” you said, shaking your head, writhing against the sheets as he buried his face back into your pussy, sucking obligingly at your clit. His tongue was making you feel everything at once, his fingers sliding back into your pussy making your hips stutter, your body was heating up, and you could feel the incoming pressure of an all familiar orgasm building until it stopped.

Ran simply stopped his ministrations and stilled his fingers in you, the thickness of his two fingers sitting in your pussy has you gushing a little more around them, and your clit felt cold without his mouth. 

You sat up and stared confusingly at him. “Why’d you stop?” 

He presses a longing kiss to your inner thighs. “You didn’t wanna cooperate with me. So why should I give you what you want?” You groaned loudly as he smiled, lips curving against your skin. He continued to lather kisses to your thighs, coming dangerously close to your pussy and just when you’d get your hopes up, he’d move back to your thighs. 

“Ran, please.” You moved your hand to his hair, trying to tug him away from the marks he was leaving against your thigh but he was nothing but stubborn. “Rannnnnnnn,” you groaned. 

“You know what I was want,” he stated simply, and your face scrunched imperceptibly. “You’re so cute when you do that.”

“Ran I’m serious. Eat me out or I’m leaving.”

He arched an eyebrow at you. “So bossy.” He looked up at you and you were still partially glaring at him. He smiled. “Keep looking at me just like that.” His head lowered, ignored hearing you call him a masochist under your breath and smirked at the sound of your breathing hitching, effectively shutting you up as he licked a stripe up your slit.

The eye contact was overwhelming and hard to maintain, especially when he slipped two fingers back inside you without warning. You were struggling to keep your eyes open and effectively failed, shutting them as his lips sealed around your throbbing clit. The pressure was re-building and your hands flew to his hair, gripping tight and tugging as you chanted his name over and over again as you came. 

Ran sat up, swiping a hand over his mouth as he rearranged you on the bed, wasting no time and letting you catch a breath before he pinned your wrists to the mattress with one hand, sloppily reaching for a condom in his bedside table with the other. 

He grabbed a condom and you watched as he rolled it on in record time, his eagerness rolling off him in waves as his hands darted straight to your hips, lifting them up at an angle, fingers digging into your skin as he slid his cock in slowly. His mouth fell open at the tight warmth stretch of your pussy, a low groan escaping him. 

You raised your arms up and he let go of your hips, leaning down to let you accommodate him, wrapping your arms around his neck as your legs locked around his waist. He slid his arms under your back and held you back just as tightly, his hips pressing flush against yours. 

You almost whined at the feeling of being so full, the thickness of his cock nestled between your walls dizzying. He pulled out and slowly pushed back in, his pace speeding up as you started to let your moans out. He buried his face into your neck, inhaling that sweet perfume you always love to overspray on yourself, taking in the heat of your naked body below him, and began littering your neck with kisses, sucking hard at your skin till it bruised. 

Your hands flew to his neck, taking your nails up and down and dragging red long streaks onto his skin. He pushed himself up, hands on either side of your head and began snapping his hips until you got louder. The bed was squeaking,  your voice was getting higher, and the wet sounds of your pussy reached your eyes making you feel hot. 

“I’m close,” you whimpered, gripping onto his arms, and he grunted at the bite of your nails digging into his muscle. 

“Me too baby.” He pressed down on your stomach with a firm hand, hips slowing down to slow but deep thrusts. You could feel his cock stretching you out as he hit deeper, his hand applying more and more pressure until it was unbearable. You came with another loud cry, his hips stuttering against yours before he cusses and pulls out abruptly, your body cold and empty and you push yourself weakly onto your elbows to watch as he sprays his cum on your inner thighs, painting them white. He tapped his cock against your pussy, sliding it up and down your wet folds before exhaling deeply. 

He sat back onto his knees and examined your spent body, how your eyes were unable to stay open for more than three seconds without slowly closing shut. 

He moved to lay beside you, gathering you in his chest. 

“Wait. I need to clean up,” you muttered, trying to keep your legs open to chase away the feeling of wet cum in your inner thighs. 

“Who cares,” he grumbled, hand sliding down your leg to throw it over his hip. “Sleep with me. It’s almost 3 am.” He fell asleep not even a second after finishing his sentence and you rolled your eyes, a fond smile on your face. 

Ran was nothing but a deep sleeper, and you took advantage of that to brush his hair out of his face and cup his cheeks, playing with his nose as he slept soundly in front of you. It took an hour for you to fall back asleep and you woke a few hours later. 

Rolling onto your side, you slapped around for his laptop on the bedside table and opened it,wincing at the bright screen. Through the blindness you were able to make out the time as 8am. Carefully you slipped out of bed and took a brief shower before heading to his kitchen. 

Ran was able to sleep through mainly anything, even his alarms, but the sounds of you clattering around his kitchen effectively did succeeded in waking him up. He snorted once he checked the time, mumbling “this girl,” under his breath and slipped out of bed to take a shower and brush his teeth. Whatever you were cooking ended up taking nearly a whole hour and you re-entered the bedroom with a tray full of food, Ran had been reduced to idly scrolling on his phone, scratching his stomach. 

“Good morning,” you chirped, climbing onto the bed and placing the food on his lap.

“Morning baby.” He pressed a kiss to your forehead and you smiled at him. “What’s all this?”

“I felt bad about um, getting you to pick me up yesterday so I wanted to uh, treat you I guess.” You sat beside him, resting your head on his shoulder and looked up at him. “I barely cook so you better finish every single thing on that plate.”

He snorted and pulled you in for a kiss. “I appreciate it. Thank you.” 

“No thank you. Seriously. I really owe you one Ran.” You smiled shyly at him before clearing your throat. “Now shut up and eat.”

He rolled his eyes when you grabbed the fork, forcefully stabbed the eggs and held it up to his mouth. “Say aaah.”

He stared blankly at you until you glared at him. He sighed and opened his mouth, the smile coming back in your face in full force as you fed the fork into his mouth. He chewed and you were already restabbing the fork on the plate to pick up some waffles when he stopped you. 

“I can feed myse—“

You shoved more food into his mouth. “Is it good?” You asked, trying not to laugh as you saw him struggling to chew with his mouth full. He nodded once he swallowed, kissing your forehead again and gathering you back into his chest. 

“It tastes amazing. My baby so talented. Come here.” He brought you back in for another longing kiss, his hand cupping the back of your head. You pulled away and removed your head back to his shoulder, tracing your fingers across his chest as he ate. He pushed the plate to the side once he finished and turned to face you. “What’re you doing today?”

You hummed and spread your hands flat against his stomach, feeling the slow rise and fall of his chest. “Me and Yuzuha are going to Masato’s to pressure him into giving me my shit. If he doesn’t then I’ll call the police.” 

He wrinkled his nose at the idea and you went back to dragging your finger across his skin, tracing his bellybutton. 

“I don’t want you going over there.”

“Relax. Hakkai and Mitsuya are going to be there too incase he wants to try something.” He wrinkled his nose again and you turned to look up at him. “Okay don’t be like that. They’re strong!”

“All it took for me was a brick and he was out.” Ran laughed when you rolled your eyes. 

“You’re not immortal, you know. Smashing anyone over the head with a brick would knock them out!”

“All I hear is excuses. Besides I thought you said you’d let me handle it, hm?” He jostled you playfully and you shook your head. 

“I was thinking about it and I really do not want you and your goonies to torture the dude until he’s on the verge of death. I hate him but I don’t want to hurt him either.”

“You’re too nice for your own good you know? People will take advantage of that,” he stated calmly and you sighed, settling back beside him. 

“…I know.”

“So let me handle it,” he proposed. You weren’t looking at him so he tilted your face back to his, forehead pressing against yours. “Let me take care of it. And you.” He laced your fingers together as you stared him deeply in the eyes, letting him attempt to persuade you. 

After a few moments you bit down on your lip and sighed. “Okay. Take care of it but I don’t wanna hear what you do or say to him. Alright?”

His grin turned wolffish and he pressed another kiss to your forehead. “You don’t gotta worry about a thing. Just get some sleep,” he said as he gently laid you back down on the bed and tucked you back in, “and let handle everything for you.”

[bombiikki]

𝖎sn't 𝖎t 𝖑ove? ⸝⸝ 𓂃₊ ⊹

⋆˙⟡ — non idol!hanni x fem!reader

♯ 𝖘ynopsis : you’re torn between loving hanni and protecting her from the danger that follows you as spidergirl. you keep breaking up with her, but she always waits. maybe it’s time to stop running—and just love.

𝖈ontains : ANSGT. resolving some issues, emotional whiplash, they break up so many times, then make out up, lots of yearning, and hesitation, reader questions everything, but never her love for hanni, hanni is lwk the strongest soldier ever, it ends with fluff, so its still technically the happy ending

𝖜ord 𝖈ount :13.6k

𝖆uthor's 𝖓ote : the happy ending cuz its what the ppl crave for. i lwk rushed the ending bc idk i think it js got a lil repetitive but dont let my opinions stop u from enjoyign the fic !!

. ♬ ݁˖ 𝖓ow 𝖕laying — isn't it love? from steven universe

a part 2 to "a blessing in disguise" < to the spidergirl series masterlist

the wind was a scream in your ears, wild and relentless as it whipped past your mask. the city blurred beneath you in streaks of brick and concrete, yellow cabs and blinking lights, all of it too fast to matter. your body moved on instinct—knees bending, arms snapping forward, webline catching the ledge of a glass tower and flinging you forward into open air.

you didn’t even feel the drop anymore. just the cold. just the way it cut through your suit like a knife, or maybe it was the way your thoughts wouldn’t shut up.

it had been a week. a week since the funeral. a week since the rain soaked your suit and your hands trembled behind the mask. a week since hanni’s eyes had searched for answers, and you gave her none.

now there were sirens below. two police cruisers, lights bleeding red and blue into the smog, racing after a black sedan that had just slammed through a bank’s glass doors. the windshield of the getaway car was cracked, the front bumper barely hanging on, and one of the guys inside had been dumb enough to start shooting before they even turned the corner.

you didn’t hesitate.

your webline snapped taut as you flipped over a rooftop, the gritty surface racing beneath you. with every swing, you gained on them. one breath. two. then you dropped low, just above traffic, your body twisting through the maze of cars and honking taxis.

you could see inside the car now. four guys. ski masks. bags stuffed with cash. one was screaming into a walkie. the driver jerked the wheel violently, swerving into the opposite lane. horns blared. a truck nearly clipped them.

you gritted your teeth, picked up speed.

your shoulder clipped a traffic light—pain bloomed, sharp and bright—but you didn’t stop. you dove lower, flipping under a scaffold and landing hard on the sedan’s roof. the whole car buckled. the guy in the back screamed.

“what the hell was that?!”

you grinned beneath your mask and pounded your fist against the roof. “guess who!”

the guy on the passenger side rolled down his window, raising a pistol with shaky hands. you shot a line of web straight into the barrel before he could aim. the gun clicked uselessly. he tried to pull it free, but you yanked him out the window instead.

he hit the pavement with a grunt, rolling to a stop.

the driver screamed and lost control. the car swerved, smashed into a fire hydrant, and skidded onto the sidewalk. water exploded into the air behind it. you leapt off the roof just before impact and landed crouched on the hood.

before the others could recover, you launched a web at the nearest one’s chest and yanked him into a mailbox. he groaned and didn’t get back up.

two left.

the driver scrambled out, limping. you chased him on foot this time, your breath coming hard, every muscle alive with adrenaline. he darted through an alley, tried to climb a chain-link fence. you reached him before he could get over the top and pinned him there with two quick webs.

the last guy didn’t run. he just raised his hands, knees shaking.

you looked at the wreck behind you—sirens still closing in, lights reflecting in the puddles—and exhaled slow.

you were tired. of all of it.

and then, like always, you remembered her. hanni, somewhere in a classroom. maybe doodling in the margins of her notebook. maybe looking out the window and thinking about the girl who left her in the rain.

you swallowed the thought. it burned.

fifteen minutes later, you were back on the rooftops, peeling off your gloves as you ran. you had five more blocks before school. your hair stuck to your forehead beneath your hood. your ribs ached.

you climbed into the school building through a back stairwell and slipped into class thirty-five minutes late.

your teacher sighed so deeply you thought it might echo.

“miss y/n,” she said. “again?”

you nodded sheepishly, clutching your bag.

“sorry,” you muttered, still catching your breath. “traffic. i promise i won’t be late again.” 

a few of the students laughed, and your teacher only sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. “i’d give you detention, but i think at this point you’d consider it part of your schedule. just… try to be on time. and don’t make promises you can’t keep.”

you nodded, slipping into the desk behind hanni. her posture didn’t change, her eyes fixed on her notes. she hadn’t looked at you since the funeral.

you leaned forward, voice barely a breath.

“but those are the best promises to make.”

and maybe she didn’t believe it. maybe you didn’t either.

but for just a second, you thought you saw her pencil stop moving. and that small, impossible flicker of hope warmed your chest.

even if only for a moment. even if you didn’t deserve it.

some part of her still listened and some part of you still loved her—even now. especially now.

it started slow. a glance. a breath. a flicker of something almost lost. not with a grand gesture or a dramatic apology. just with a glance. and then another.

she didn’t smile when she looked at you. but she didn’t look away, either.

sometimes, that’s all a flame needs—just a little air.

you sat behind her again in chemistry. same seat, same scuffed floor tile beneath your foot that squeaked if you shifted your weight wrong. the desk still had that scratch in the corner where someone once carved a heart and then tried to erase it. you’d traced it before, back when your thoughts moved like rivers toward her, even when you were supposed to be balancing chemical equations. back then, she’d twirl her pen when she was thinking, and you’d find yourself watching the motion like it meant something.

now, she sat straighter. tighter. the space between her shoulders seemed smaller, like she was always bracing for something. she didn’t glance back. didn’t nod. her presence was sharp, all edges. like she’d drawn a silent boundary between you—chalk on pavement. and you didn’t know if you were meant to cross it.

but then she passed you a beaker before you asked.

and later, when your hand accidentally brushed hers near the sink, she didn’t pull away. didn’t flinch. just went on adjusting the bunsen burner like nothing had happened.

not much. but enough to burn.

you caught her humming under her breath one morning. it was faint, like the wind barely catching on an open window, but you knew the song. a melody you’d only heard once, when everything still felt new and terrifying. back when she was pressing gauze to your bleeding shoulder, eyes wide, voice shaking. back when she looked at you like she didn’t know whether to run or hold on.

you didn’t say anything now. just listened. let it fill the quiet space between you like sunlight sneaking through old blinds. warm and unexpected. gentle on skin that had only known cold lately.

at lunch, she sat beside you. not across. not at another table. not with her usual friends in their usual corner.

she sat beside you. her tray bumped yours, and you both said “sorry” at the same time.

she didn’t laugh, but the corners of her mouth twitched. like laughter might’ve been hiding there, waiting for the right moment to be brave.

you almost smiled. almost. but you didn’t trust your hands not to shake.

it was still too soon. still too glass. but still, you spoke.

your voice found her without permission. soft questions about class, about the mitosis quiz, about whether or not she thought mr. lee might actually be in love with the concept of kinetic energy. she rolled her eyes, but she answered. and her voice wasn’t cold—not warm either—but real. a kind of tentative honesty, like testing ice with one careful step.

you didn’t touch her. not even a sleeve or a wrist. not yet. you didn’t deserve to.

but you listened. really listened. especially when she talked about the things she loved. the way dna coils because of hydrogen bonding. how amino acids twist into helixes and sheets like origami. how enzymes knew exactly what to become in order to fit the molecule they’d bind to—like some kind of molecular soulmate. you didn’t say much when she got into it, just nodded and let your chest fill with the sound of her excitement. like her voice could stitch you back together without meaning to.

sometimes, after class, you’d walk beside her in the hallway. not touching. not talking. just walking. your shadows brushed the same patches of linoleum. she didn’t ask you to leave. and that was something.

on good days, when the clouds weren’t too heavy and the guilt in your chest hadn’t swallowed your spine, she’d look at you with something close to softness. like she remembered. and once, she said something funny—dry and sharp, about enzymes being the unsung heroes of the human body—and it made you laugh out loud. she looked at you like she didn’t mean to make you do that. like she hadn’t meant to reach you.

but she had.

still, you saw it. in the way her fingers curled tight around her pen. in the way her gaze sometimes lingered too long before pulling away.

the question lived in her eyes. do i let you back in? will you leave again?

and you couldn’t blame her. you didn’t have a promise that would mean anything. your mouth had already broken the ones that mattered.

so you said nothing. just sat beside her during study hour. your notebooks side by side. pens moving in quiet synchrony. the silence wasn’t empty—it was full of questions neither of you were ready to ask.

then one afternoon, you stayed late to finish a group project. just the two of you. sunlight filtered low and golden through the windows, catching the strands of her hair and making them shimmer like copper. she was writing notes. focused. calm.

you glanced at her. just once.

and she looked up. caught you.

you didn’t look away fast enough.

“what?” she asked, voice barely above a whisper.

you shrugged, eyes flicking back to your notebook. “just glad we’re talking again.”

her fingers stilled on the page. she blinked. and for a heartbeat, you thought she’d get up and leave, close the door, draw the line again.

but she didn’t.

“me too,” she said softly. it wasn’t a whisper, not quite. but it was steady.

it wasn’t a promise nor was it forgiveness. it was just a flicker.

and you, like the fool that you were, cupped your hands around that tiny flame and swore to keep it alive.

even if you burned. especially if you burned. even if it meant burning all over again.

it took weeks. not just glances or passing words anymore—but real time. quiet hours spent in the same room. late study nights. group projects that turned into gentle conversations. she laughed at your jokes again, sometimes. rolled her eyes, but with softness, not distance. you learned to be patient. to not reach for her hand even when your own ached to hold something steady. you waited. not because you were uncertain. but because love wasn’t a thing to be rushed. not when it had been broken before.

sometimes you’d catch her watching you when she thought you weren’t looking. sometimes her gaze lingered too long. sometimes you swore she almost smiled.

you remembered everything. the way she used to tuck her hair behind her ear when she was thinking. the way she’d tap her pencil twice before writing something down. you memorised it all over again, like it was a new language and you were desperate to be fluent in her.

you found excuses to be near her. in the lab, you offered to be partners. she agreed without looking up. you told yourself that meant something. maybe it did. maybe it didn’t. either way, you held onto it.

and then came the day when your heart couldn’t take the quiet anymore.

you’d spent the afternoon helping her carry boxes for the science fair—oscillating models and half-finished posters, that kind of thing. she was laughing—really laughing—for the first time in what felt like forever. and for a second, the world tilted right again. like maybe things could be good. maybe they already were.

so you did it. you asked her to meet you on the rooftop of the old library building after sunset. said you had something important to say. she blinked at you for a second. hesitant. wary. but she said yes.

the sun was already gone when she climbed up the fire escape. the sky was navy blue and full of quiet stars. you were already waiting, pacing, rehearsing the words you’d said a hundred times in your head.

she stepped forward, folding her arms, her expression unreadable. “you’re being weird,” she said.

you swallowed. “i know.”

silence.

then—“i love you.”

your voice barely broke the air, but it was enough.

her breath caught. her shoulders tensed.

you kept going, even though your heart was racing like a train without brakes.

“i never stopped. even when i left. even when it hurt. i thought i was protecting you, hanni. i thought if i stayed away, you’d be safe.”

her eyes didn’t soften. not yet.

“but it just made us both miserable,” you whispered. “and i was wrong. i know that now. you don’t need protection. you need honesty. and... love. and i want to give you that, if you’ll let me.”

she stared at you like she was trying to solve an equation with too many variables.

“you left,” she said, voice small. “you said you loved me and then you left.”

“i know,” you said, stepping closer, hands trembling. “and i won’t pretend like that didn’t happen. i broke your heart. and i hate myself for it every day. but hanni, i swear to you—i won’t leave again. not unless you tell me to.”

the wind moved gently through her hair. the city below buzzed faintly, distant and irrelevant.

you reached into your pocket and pulled out a tiny folded paper—creased and worn. it was the note you’d written weeks ago but never had the courage to give her. on it was a sketch—her and you, sitting under the stars, the words “worth it” scrawled at the bottom.

“i made this the day after the funeral,” you said. “because even when i was hurting, even when everything felt too big and too heavy, loving you still felt right.”

she looked at the drawing. then at you.

and then, like sunlight cutting through cold—she stepped forward.

“i’m scared,” she said.

“me too,” you breathed.

“but i still love you,” she whispered. “even if i didn’t want to.”

you laughed, a broken, relieved kind of sound.

“so… what does this mean?” you asked.

she took your hand and it was the first time you’d touched her in what felt like forever.

“it means,” she said slowly, “you get one more chance. and you don’t get to waste it.”

you squeezed her hand gently. “i won’t. i swear.”

“don’t make promises you can’t keep,” she said mockingly.

you smiled, eyes shining. “but those are the best ones to make.”

and that night, under a sky full of stars and unsaid fears, you kissed her—softly, carefully, like a prayer—and for the first time since everything fell apart, you let yourself believe that love might just be enough.

because even broken hearts can burn again.

even flickers can become flames.

the days were softer now.

sometimes you woke up and forgot what it was like to ache. her laugh had that effect on you. it echoed through the halls, through your chest, and settled in the cracks you used to hide behind. there were moments—brief and blinding—where you almost believed you could be normal. just a girl in love. just two science nerds holding hands on the way to class.

the world was quieter with her hand in yours.

she wore your hoodie now, the one with the tiny web stitched inside the pocket. her hair tied messily. her knuckles ink-stained from taking notes. she tapped her pencil on your desk during class, nudged your shoulder when you got distracted, smiled at your jokes before you finished them.

and you smiled back. really smiled. with teeth and dimples and something in your chest you hadn’t let breathe in a long time.

but even sunlight casts shadows.

he started showing up in the corners of your eyes.

mr. pham.

not alive. not even speaking. just... standing. watching. arms crossed like the day he caught you sneaking onto their rooftop. eyes sharp. unreadable.

you’d blink and he’d be gone.

you never told hanni. how could you?

but some days, when she touched your cheek and kissed the corner of your mouth, you felt ice bloom down your spine. not because of her—but because of him. because of the promise. because of the look in his eyes when he told you to protect her. because you said yes, even though it shattered something inside you.

you started hesitating more on patrol. paused longer on rooftops. you couldn’t bear to swing past the district station anymore. every siren made you flinch.

but you always came back to her.

every day, she waited by your locker. every night, she texted you goodnight, even if you hadn’t replied for hours. and every time you looked at her, really looked, it felt like forgiveness. like the world was saying, try again.

still, she noticed.

one afternoon, in the quiet lull between school and golden hour, you were at her house. she was reading something on her bed, and you were pretending to do the same, but your fingers kept twitching, tapping against your thigh. your mind kept drifting. always back to him.

“y/n,” she said softly.

you looked up, startled. her eyes were on you, steady and warm and a little sad.

“where’d you go?”

you opened your mouth. closed it. shrugged. “just tired.”

a lie. the kind she’d stop believing soon.

but instead of calling you out, she set her book aside and crawled closer. her hand found yours, curling around it like it belonged there.

“you’ve been pulling away again,” she murmured. “is it... about my dad?”

you froze.

she didn’t look angry. just honest. just scared, but not of you.

“sometimes,” you said quietly, voice like ash, “i see him. not really. just... sometimes i think he’s still watching me. judging. wondering if i’m keeping my promise.”

her fingers tightened around yours.

“and are you?”

you blinked at her.

“keeping it?” she clarified. “are you protecting me?”

you didn’t answer. because protecting her meant walking away. it meant leaving again. and you hadn’t. not this time.

hanni’s other hand cupped your jaw. she leaned in, her forehead resting against yours. her breath was warm. steady.

“i know he wanted you to keep me safe,” she whispered, “but he didn’t know what that would cost you. he didn’t know how much i—how much we love each other.”

your breath hitched.

“if being with you puts me in danger,” she said, “then fine. that’s my risk to take. not his. not yours.”

your eyes stung. you tried to pull away, but she wouldn’t let you.

“look at me,” she said. “i choose this. and i will every time. i choose you.”

you wanted to believe it. god, you did believe it. but some part of you still trembled with every kiss. every time she held your hand too tightly. every time her heart beat against your ribs and you thought, i could lose her.

but right now, she wasn’t afraid.

and maybe, for tonight, that could be enough.

you kissed her like a prayer. slow. shaking. she kissed you back like a promise—one stronger than the one you’d made to a dying man.

when she pulled away, she smiled. not like before. not soft or shy.

this one was steady. certain.

and when you closed your eyes, there was no ghost behind them. no shadow in the corner.

just her.

and for now, for this, it was enough.

you hadn’t meant to wake up like that—breath caught sharp in your throat, heartbeat thudding like a war drum in your chest. the nightmare had torn through your sleep like claws, dragging you back to a rooftop soaked in rain and blood. to a promise you made on shaking knees. to a man gasping for air, begging for his daughter’s life.

and now you were here again.

not in that moment, but somewhere far too close to it.

you stood outside hanni’s window, rooftop beneath your feet and the city stretching out like it always did—loud and indifferent. the night air chilled your fingers even through your gloves. you hadn’t even realised you’d suited up until you caught your reflection in the glass. spidergirl. not y/n. not the girl who had kissed hanni on this very rooftop just days ago. not the girl who had made her laugh so hard she cried.

just spidergirl. you were always spidergirl when you did this.

you knocked once, softly, and she opened the window like she had been expecting you. like she always was.

her smile flickered when she saw the suit. she didn’t say anything. she just stepped aside and let you climb in, like this was normal. like this wasn’t the beginning of the end.

“you okay?” she asked quietly, brushing hair from her face. her voice was sleepy and a little concerned. she was wearing one of your hoodies—probably the one you left here two weeks ago. her room smelled like lavender and detergent and home.

but that warmth was the last thing you deserved.

“what happened?” she asked again, stepping back.

you didn’t move. didn’t answer. just stood there, mask on, chest aching, lungs full of things you didn’t know how to say.

she waited.

and then you shattered.

“i can’t do this anymore,” you said. your voice cracked like something small and broken. “i can’t keep pretending this is okay.”

her brows furrowed. “pretending?”

“that you’re not in danger every second we’re together. that i can just love you and nothing will go wrong.”

hanni blinked, and something in her expression faltered. “where is this coming from?”

“a nightmare,” you said. “no. a memory. your dad… he was dying, and he looked at me like i did it. like it was my fault.”

her voice was gentle, but firm. “it wasn’t.”

you paused. the memory surged again—his voice, his blood, the way he looked at you like you were both his worst fear and his only hope.

“i think we need to stop seeing each other.”

and just like that, the silence shattered.

hanni’s face folded in on itself. not angry. just… wounded. like you had taken something beautiful and crushed it in your hand.

“you’re breaking up with me again?” she asked, disbelieving. “now?”

you still couldn’t look at her.

“i have to. i keep putting you in danger. i can’t—i can’t sleep without dreaming of the worst-case scenario. every time i’m with you, i’m scared it’s the last time.”

you stayed silent. and despite the silence, you kept your mask on and didn’t dare meet hanni’s eyes.

“you don’t get to do this,” she said, her voice rising further. “you don’t get to show up in the middle of the night and decide for both of us.”

“i wasn’t trying to hurt you.”

“then stop,” she snapped. “stop acting like love is something dangerous. i’m not going to fall apart just because you love me.”

you turned your face away, jaw tight behind the mask. your hands curled into fists.

“i see you die every night,” you said, voice soft and shaking. “you don’t know what that does to me.”

“and you think i didn’t notice when you disappeared?” she said, her voice beginning to fray. “you think i didn’t feel it every time you pulled away? when the texts stopped, when you vanished like i meant nothing?”

you couldn’t look at her.

“i love you,” you said. it came out like a confession. like a wound.

“then stay.”

you flinched. “i can’t.”

“why? because of a promise?”

you didn’t answer. because you knew your answer was yes. because fear had clawed up your spine like it always did. because if something had ever happened to her and you were the reason, you’d never have forgiven yourself. because love, to you, still meant sacrifice. still meant leaving.

and because she looked at you like you were worth the risk—and you weren’t sure she was right.

she stepped back then, like she was trying to protect herself from the words you hadn’t said.

“so that’s it?”

you nodded. “i’m sorry.”

you didn’t wait for her to say your name—didn’t wait for the look she’d give you when she realised you meant it. 

you swung off the rooftop before your heart could change its mind.

you swung through the city like it was the only way to stay sane.

the wind in your ears, the rooftops flying by in blurs of steel and brick, the weight of gravity pulling you down and the webline pulling you forward—it was the only rhythm left that made sense. it was all muscle memory now. the city pulsed below you like a wounded thing, flickering with sirens and neon and breathless cries for help. and still, none of it could drown out her name.

her name lived under your ribs. soft, painful, echoing. your heart ached with every rooftop passed, every second spent above a world where she no longer held your hand.

you saw her at school sometimes. that was the worst part. not the bruises. not the late nights. not the dream of her dying again and again beneath the lizard’s claws. no, it was the ordinary things that hurt the most.

seeing her brushing past you in the hallway, her backpack slung lazily over one shoulder. seeing her in chemistry, head bent over her notebook, pencil tapping as she annotated diagrams of cellular respiration like her heart wasn’t broken. seeing her laugh—god, laugh—with someone else during lunch. not the kind of laugh she gave you, not the kind that wrapped around your neck like summer air, but still—it was a laugh. and you weren't the reason for it anymore.

you kept your distance. that was the deal you made with yourself. no more climbing to her window at midnight. no more stolen moments of warmth between bruises. no more selfish love.

because that’s what it had become, hadn’t it?

you loved her so much, you left her.

you wished you could stay. you wished that was enough. but it never had been, had it? the shadows always came back. and you always followed them. not because you wanted to—but because someone had to.

and still—still—when you saw her smile at someone else in the hallway, your chest squeezed like it didn’t know what to do with all that ache. like it didn’t know whether to be happy that she was okay, or broken that she was healing without you.

you were pulling away. and she was letting you.

but neither of you had stopped hoping. not yet. not entirely.

and maybe that was worse. maybe that was the cruelest part. because there was still warmth between you. the kind that lingered in silence, in the corners of your shared memories. just enough to feel. just enough to miss when it’s gone.

just a flicker.

but it hurt like a flame.

sometimes you found yourself looking for her reflection in windows. watching her from across the courtyard like you were stuck behind glass. her hair in a loose braid. a bandaid on her finger. her lips mouthing the steps of mitosis under her breath. and you’d wonder if she still thought about you. if she still dreamed of the nights you lay side by side, breath tangled, hearts too full.

but the guilt always came back.

the guilt always won.

so you stayed quiet. you laughed at the right times in class, answered questions when the teacher called your name, pretended your smile wasn’t made of paper. and every night, you pulled on the suit like armor and bled for a city that would never know your name.

you tried to be brave. you tried to be spidergirl.

but even spidergirl couldn’t stop thinking about hanni.

she lived in your silence. in your hesitation. in every part of you that wanted something soft and safe and too bright for someone who only existed in shadows.

you wished she hated you.

it would’ve made things easier.

but she didn’t. she still looked at you like maybe she could forgive you. and maybe that was the most painful thing of all—that she still had that light in her, and you weren’t sure if you deserved to be near it again.

so you let her go. but not all the way.

you let yourself hope—just a little. just enough to hurt.

just enough to wonder… if someday, somehow, she might look back. and you’d be brave enough to take off the mask. and maybe—just maybe—stay.

hanni hadn’t moved on. not really. 

people thought she had. she laughed again. tied her hair with yellow scrunchies. answered questions in class like nothing had ever broken inside her. and maybe that was the trick—she didn’t look broken. she looked like someone who was healing. someone who was learning how to live without something she once held close.

but you knew better.

you saw her at school, always in the corner of your eye. you never looked for her—never directly—but your eyes found her anyway. like she had been stitched into your peripheral vision. like your heart had been trained to search for her, even when your head begged it not to.

she still smiled. still watched.

sometimes, you felt her gaze on your back like a gentle hand—not pushing, not pulling—just there. quiet. steady. waiting.

and god—it hurt more than any bullet ever could.

because you knew what bullets felt like. the sharpness, the heat, the panic. you had been grazed, torn through, stitched up more times than you could count. but none of it had ever settled into your bones the way she did now. none of it ever lingered like this ache. this awful, tender, impossible ache.

she was waiting for you. maybe she shouldn’t have—but she was.

you saw it in the way she still left space beside her during study hour. in the way she glanced toward the door when you were late to chemistry, even though she didn’t need to anymore. in the way she picked at the label on her water bottle when your name was mentioned, like she was holding something back.

you wondered what would happen if you sat beside her again. if you said something soft. something true. you wondered if she’d still listen.

but you didn’t. you said nothing.

you just watched her from a distance and pretended your silence was safety. you wore it like a shield, even as it rotted you from the inside.

she passed you once in the hallway. close enough that your arms brushed. she didn’t flinch. she only glanced up at you and nodded, slow, like she was giving you time. and her eyes—those eyes—were still kind. not like they used to be. not wide and glowing. but something quieter. something deeper. like a flame beneath glass.

you felt yourself swallow hard. your breath stuttered in your throat.

because she still saw you. and somehow, that was worse than being invisible.

sometimes you wondered what she told herself. did she think you’d come back? that you’d knock on her window again one night like nothing had ever happened? or did she know—did she know you were still out there, swinging from rooftops, haunted by a promise and a man who died on your watch?

you wished she hated you—you really did—because hate would mean she’d let go.

but she hadn’t—not completely. and maybe that was the cruel part. maybe that was what kept you up at night more than the guilt or the blood or the dreams. the knowing. the unbearable knowing that if you turned around, if you just reached—she’d still be there.

waiting. still.

and you didn’t know if that made her brave or foolish. but you knew what it made you.

a coward.

because love—real love—didn’t leave. not like you did. not when it still had a heartbeat.

so you walked past her in the halls, your steps slower than they should have been, your head bowed just slightly. and she walked past you too, her eyes catching yours for half a second.

not a question. not a plea.

just… hope. just that quiet, stubborn flicker that refused to go out.

and every time, you wondered how something so gentle could hurt so much.

you couldn’t stay away. the city sprawled beneath you like an endless maze of memories, and every rooftop you swung past felt hollow without her waiting on the other side. the night was cool, the air sharp with the faint smell of rain that hadn’t quite fallen yet. somewhere far off, a siren wailed, distant and lonely, like a sound made just for you.

and before you even realised, you were there again—right outside her window again. the same window you’d stared at in sleepless nights, the one that held the ghost of promises you never fully kept. your heart hammered, not from exertion, but from the ache of everything you’d lost and everything you still wanted.

your knuckles hovered just above the glass. you hesitated. then, finally, the knock—soft, almost shy, like maybe you didn’t want her to hear it. or maybe you did. maybe you needed her to.

you held your breath, waiting, heart pounding like a drum you couldn’t quite control. after a moment, the curtains at her window fluttered—a slow, hesitant movement that felt like a fragile heartbeat.

the fabric was drawn aside, and then the window slid open with a faint creak. her face appeared, framed by the dim, golden light of her room. her hair was down, loose and slightly tangled. her eyes—wide, searching—found you through the dark like they’d been waiting. she looked vulnerable, raw—like she’d been waiting for something she wasn’t sure would come. like she had been holding in so much, and finally, here in this quiet night, some of it was slipping free.

you felt your chest tighten. despite the exhaustion etched on her face, despite the sadness that seemed to hover just beneath her skin, she was still the most beautiful thing you’d ever seen.

you smiled awkwardly, the kind of smile that tries to hide everything—guilt, fear, love all tangled up inside. your fingers went up, trembling slightly, and you tugged off your mask, letting it fall with a soft thud to the floor. your hair was wild and messy and you ran your fingers through it, half to fix it, half just to do something with your hands.

your smile wobbled—nervous, unsure. the kind that tried to say “i love you” and “i’m sorry” at the same time but said neither.

her eyes flickered over your face, lingering on every line, every shadow. she didn’t say anything for a moment—just watched you with a quiet intensity that made your heart ache.

“you,” she breathed, a word heavy with a thousand things unsaid.

your chest stung.

“hey,” you breathed, barely above a whisper.

there was a pause. neither of you moved. the space between you felt both impossibly close and miles away, full of shadows you couldn’t quite reach through. and still, she stepped back, pulling the window open wider. a silent invitation.

you carefully climbed through, the cool air of her room brushing your skin as you moved inside. the room smelled faintly of jasmine and old books, a softness you hadn’t felt in a long time.

the door was closed. the light was warm. the world outside didn’t exist here.

you stood in front of her, not quite touching, like if you moved too fast, she’d disappear.

she looked up at you, and in her face was every sleepless hour, every quiet moment she’d waited. and you looked back at her like she was the only real thing in the world.

you lifted a trembling hand to brush a stray lock of hair behind her ear. your fingers lingered there, tracing the curve of her jaw with gentle reverence, like you were trying to remember every line, every detail of her face.

she didn’t flinch. didn’t pull away. her breath hitched, and you felt it—how close the edge still was. how fragile this moment could be.

then, without warning, your lips found hers—soft at first, searching, like you were trying to say everything without words. but the moment she leaned into you, everything shifted. the kiss deepened, growing hungrier, messier. her hands found your shoulders, then your neck, pulling you closer like she couldn’t stand the space between you. your fingers curled into the fabric of her shirt, anchoring yourself to her, to this.

you moved together like something inevitable—like you’d been holding this in for too long and the dam had finally cracked. her lips were warm and desperate against yours, and when her fingers slid into your hair, tugging just slightly, it pulled a quiet sound from your throat. you felt everything all at once—her breath catching, her body pressing against yours, the rush of heat that made your chest ache.

you backed her toward the wall without meaning to, one step, then another, until she was there beneath your hands, her breath warm against your cheek. your lips broke apart only for a second, gasping, and then found each other again, even more urgent than before. it wasn’t careful. it wasn’t clean. but it was real—raw and aching and alive.

your hand found her waist again, sliding around her back as you pressed into her, needing her close. she fit there, perfectly, like something lost and found. you kissed her like the world was ending, like maybe it already had, and this was all that was left. and somehow, despite the heat, despite the trembling that ran through both of you, there was something unspoken holding it all—something soft beneath the fire. it was what you both needed, even if it didn’t fix everything.

when you finally pulled back, your foreheads rested against each other, breaths ragged, lips swollen. the warmth of her skin grounded you in a way the city never could. her skin was warm. your hands were still on her waist, steadying yourself like the world tilted when she wasn’t this close. you could feel the rise and fall of her breath, the quick beat of her heart through the thin fabric of her shirt.

“i missed you,” you whispered, voice barely steady.

she smiled, the kind of smile that’s a little sad but still hopeful. “i know,” she said, voice soft, almost fragile.

you didn’t say sorry. you didn’t promise that you wouldn’t leave again. the truth was heavier than words could hold. the guilt, the fear—they were still there, lurking just beneath the surface.

but she didn’t ask for those things. instead, she stepped into your arms, as if somehow this moment made the uncertainty feel a little less sharp.

you held her close, careful not to crush the delicate thing between you. the silence stretched, but it wasn’t empty—it was waiting. waiting for something neither of you could name yet.

and even though the problems weren’t solved, even though the future still felt uncertain, in that quiet space between heartbeats, you let yourself believe maybe—just maybe—this flicker could grow into something stronger.

for now, that was enough.

the day began like it had forgotten the past. no nightmares. no rooftop ghosts. no blood behind your eyelids.

just sun through your window, warm and golden, and her name on your tongue like a prayer you didn’t mean to say out loud.

you saw her before first period, standing by her locker, one foot tapping the floor as she balanced a book on her knee and tried to fix her hair with the other hand. she didn’t notice you right away. her face was scrunched up in quiet frustration, lips pursed as a loose strand refused to stay tucked behind her ear.

and for a moment, you just watched. let yourself memorise her again. the small things. the way she hummed under her breath when she read. the curve of her smile when it finally settled, unbothered and soft.

then she looked up and caught you staring. her eyes widened, then softened.

 "you’re staring," she said.

 "i do that sometimes."

 "creepy."

 "flattering."

 she rolled her eyes. but she smiled.

you walked her to class. talked about nothing. the clouds. the vending machine still being broken. she said her chem teacher was a sadist. you said yours probably had nightmares about molarity equations. she snorted into her sleeve. and you felt something settle inside you—something that hadn’t felt calm in weeks.

in physics, she leaned over her desk and whispered, “explain this to me before i go insane.”

 you looked at her worksheet. “you’re already insane.”

“so help me before i get worse.”

you scooted closer. tried not to smile too wide when her arm brushed yours. explained the formula slowly, pointing to where the force and displacement aligned, and her eyes followed your finger like it was the most important thing in the world.

"why do you know this stuff so well?" she asked.

 "because i’m secretly a nerd," you said.

 "not secretly."

 you nudged her with your shoulder. she didn’t nudge you back, but she also didn’t pull away.

at lunch, she pulled you down beside her before you could think twice. her tray bumped yours, and she handed you her juice box without asking. you blinked.

“i don’t like grape,” she said simply.

“i do,” you said, even though you didn’t.

“then we’re even,” she replied, taking a bite of her sandwich, chewing slowly like nothing had changed.

and maybe, for a few hours, it hadn’t. for a few hours, the world tilted just right.

after school, you offered to walk her home. she hesitated for the briefest moment. then nodded.

you walked slow. too slow, probably. like you were trying to delay the end of something sweet. she talked about the project she was doing for bio—enzymes, heat, all the ways protein could fall apart. you listened like it was poetry. she noticed.

“you’re staring again,” she said, without looking at you.

“can you blame me?”

“you’re still cheesy,” she muttered, but she was smiling, and the sky was turning orange above her, and you swore she glowed.

on the steps of her apartment, you stopped. her key dangled from her fingers.

“wanna come up?” she asked, hopeful, nervous.

you looked away.

there were sirens in the distance. you could feel the weight of the suit in your bag. a familiar ache in your chest—one that never really left.

“i can’t,” you said, too quiet.

her face didn’t fall, not exactly. but something behind her eyes dimmed.

“right,” she said. “you’ve got... things.”

“it’s not like that.”

she nodded like she understood. like she was used to it. and she was. she shouldn’t be, but she was used to the feeling.

you stepped closer, hesitated, then leaned in. she didn’t pull away. your breath touched her lips. your hand hovered near her cheek. 

“i have to finish that paper,” you whispered.

she opened her eyes. looked at you. and god—she looked tired. not of you. just tired of waiting for something you never promised to give.

“okay,” she said. 

you didn’t move. neither did she. and in the end, it was you who turned away first.

you didn’t look back. but her presence followed you anyway.

later, as you swung through the city—rooftops passing in blurs and the wind biting your skin—you kept thinking about how close she had been. how the sunlight had turned her hair gold. how she had waited for you to close the space between you.

you tasted the lie on your lips. not a big one—just small enough to swallow.

she didn’t know you were headed toward danger. toward alleyways soaked in shadow. toward a name you still didn’t say out loud.

but she smiled at you anyway. she shared her juice box. she listened when you spoke, and spoke when you listened.

and for one golden day, you let yourself believe. maybe this time.

even if it wasn’t forever. even if the danger crept close again.

you lied—just a little. but it was enough to make your chest ache.

because the truth was never far behind. and neither was she.

it happened fast—like most things in your life lately.

a scream shattered the quiet, tearing through the cold air like it didn’t belong to anyone. and just like that, you were already moving. there wasn’t time to think, not when fear crackled in your ribs like lightning, not when someone needed saving.

your suit clung to your skin like instinct. you vaulted off the rooftop without hesitation, the wind slicing past your face, sharp and familiar. below, a man in a ski mask was dragging someone down an alley, a glint of metal in his hand, something darker flickering in his eyes.

you dropped in without ceremony, landed with a crunch of gravel and a tilt of your head.

“hey, don’t you know it’s rude to ruin someone’s night?” you called out, voice light, steady, even as adrenaline thrummed in your veins. “also, terrible outfit. like, painfully cliché.”

the man spun around, startled, his grip tightening on the gun.

“you’re just a kid,” he snarled.

you webbed the weapon out of his hand before he could raise it, the gun clattering uselessly to the pavement behind you. “and yet, here you are—getting your ass handed to you by one.”

he lunged. you ducked, swift and fluid, your body twisting under his swing. you landed a sharp kick to his ribs, sent him sprawling into a trash bin. but he wasn’t done—he scrambled to his feet, pulled a second gun from his jacket.

you saw the trigger move before you heard the sound.

the shot rang out like thunder in a tunnel.

pain bloomed hot and immediate in your left arm, the force knocking you back a step. your breath caught as blood soaked through the suit, warm and fast. still, you didn’t let yourself fall. didn’t let him see the pain.

instead, you webbed his feet to the concrete, yanked him off-balance, and pinned him with a final shot of webbing to the alley wall.

“you just had to make this dramatic,” you muttered, pressing your palm against the bleeding wound. “can’t even bleed in peace anymore.”

your knees buckled slightly as you launched yourself upward, each swing from building to building tugging at your arm. you clenched your jaw through it. forced yourself to keep going.

you didn’t even realise where you were heading until the fire escape came into view.

her window.

you landed hard, knees thudding against the metal railing. the world swayed for a moment, blurred around the edges. you blinked it back, knocked on the glass with a shaky knuckle.

just once.

the curtains fluttered. and then she was there, eyes wide, barefaced and soft in the lamplight. sleep still clung to her, but the worry chased it away fast.

she unlocked the window and pushed it open. the night air rushed in around her.

“y/n,” she breathed, like she wasn’t sure if she should be angry or relieved.

you didn’t answer. couldn’t.

she reached out anyway, helped guide you inside with steady hands. you nearly collapsed, legs trembling, shoulder screaming with pain.

“what happened?” she asked, voice low, trying not to panic.

you shook your head. “it’s nothing.”

“you’re bleeding.”

“still nothing.”

“shut up.”

she made you sit on the floor, back against the wall. you watched her cross the room quickly, pulling out the worn first aid kit from under her bed. her hands trembled for only a second before she dropped to her knees beside you.

her touch was gentle, careful as she peeled back the torn fabric of your suit. the bullet had grazed your upper arm—deep, but clean. she muttered something under her breath you didn’t quite catch.

“you need stitches,” she said. “but i’ll do what i can.”

you nodded faintly. her voice kept you grounded.

you watched her work. watched the way her brows pulled together, the way her bottom lip was tucked beneath her teeth, how her fingers moved with quiet confidence.

“i missed you,” you murmured, eyes locked on the ceiling, just loud enough for her to hear.

her hands didn’t pause. but her breath hitched.

she didn’t say it back.

not yet.

when she finished wrapping your arm, she didn’t let go. her fingers remained around your wrist, warm and careful, like she was afraid to lose you again.

“why do you always come back like this?” she asked softly.

you looked at her. really looked. even in the dim light, she was breathtaking—hair messy, eyes rimmed with sleeplessness, heart open in ways you didn’t deserve.

you didn’t have an answer. not one that wouldn’t sound like a broken promise.

instead, you leaned forward, just slightly, resting your forehead against hers.

she didn’t move.

you wanted to kiss her. you wanted to stay. but the city still called. and you were still who you were.

so when she finally drifted off beside you, her back slumped against the wall, her head tilted toward your shoulder—you slipped away.

you left without a sound—out the window, into the wind, bleeding and quiet.

you didn’t say goodbye. because you never did.

the rain came down slow, then heavy, soaking through your hoodie before you even reached the edge of the school parking lot. you kept your head down, hands stuffed into your pockets, hood tugged low over your eyes. it was easier not to look. not to search the crowd for her face like you always did.

you hadn’t spoken in days.

not since that night. not since the blood. not since you left before morning, the bandage she’d wrapped around your arm still clinging to your skin like a promise you’d never made.

and still, every time you turned a corner, you expected her to be there.

you didn’t see her at first—not until your foot hit the sidewalk and your breath caught for no reason. not until you looked up and saw her standing by the bike racks, soaked to the bone, arms crossed tightly over her chest like it was the only thing keeping her from unraveling.

she wasn’t letting you go this time.

you could’ve run. maybe you almost did.

but your feet betrayed you. they moved forward, one slow step after the other, until you stood in front of her, the rain curling at your lashes, dripping down your cheeks like sweat or tears—what was the difference anymore?

she didn’t speak at first.

her eyes traveled across your face, your soaked hair, the bruise peeking from under your collar. her voice, when it came, was small. tired.

“why do you keep doing this?”

you opened your mouth, but nothing came out. the words felt too heavy to lift.

“why do you keep leaving?” she asked again, firmer this time. “i wait. every time, i wait. and you still walk away.”

you looked at her then. really looked. her cheeks were flushed with cold, eyes red-rimmed, mascara smudged under her lashes. the rain blurred her edges, but it couldn’t hide the hurt in her voice. the quiet breaking.

“i’m trying to protect you,” you said, and your voice cracked around it.

she let out a shaky laugh. not because it was funny. because it hurt.

“no,” she said. “no, you’re not. you’re breaking me. again.”

the silence between you split wide and deep. thunder cracked in the distance, low and distant like a memory.

you didn’t mean to hurt her. but meaning never mattered as much as it should’ve.

“every time i think you’ll stay,” she whispered, “you disappear. you leave me with the pieces. and i pick them up, and i wait, and i hope. but i can’t keep doing this, y/n.”

your name in her mouth was a wound. soft, but bleeding.

“i had a dream,” you said, because it was the only truth you had left. “i saw you die.”

her expression softened. not because she forgave you. but because she knew you meant it.

“you think keeping me away will save me?” she asked. “do you think it hurts less, watching you leave than taking the risk of staying?”

you didn’t know what to say to that.

“i love you,” she said. “i don’t care if it’s dangerous. i don’t care if it’s messy. i just want you. not the version that disappears in the dark. not the one who says nothing and bleeds alone.”

you looked away. the streetlight shimmered against the rain, glowing like a second moon.

“i don’t know how to stay,” you said, quiet as a confession. “i don’t know how not to ruin things.”

she stepped closer. not to forgive you. but to let you feel how much it hurt.

“then let me ruin things with you,” she said. “because being left behind hurts more than anything else ever could.”

you closed your eyes.

the rain kept falling.

but for a moment, her hand brushed yours, fingers barely touching, as if asking—not demanding—just once, for you to stay.

you didn’t hold it. you just stood there. aching. unsure. and still so in love you could barely breathe.

and then the moment passed. and like always, you turned to leave.

but this time, she didn’t call after you. she just let the rain speak for her.

you were falling through yourself again. slipping in slow, uneven spirals. some days, the sky felt like it belonged to you. some days, you swore your feet had never left the ground. you moved through the city like a whisper, like a bruise no one could name. sometimes you wore the suit just to feel like someone else. sometimes you couldn’t even bear to touch it.

your mind was a mess of turning gears and cracked reflections. nothing stayed still. nothing held its shape. some mornings, you woke up believing you could do this—love her, save her, keep the world from breaking at the seams. other mornings, you couldn’t even look in the mirror. the shadows clung too tightly. your hands trembled. your chest ached.

you didn’t know what you were doing anymore.

one minute, you could still taste her lips on yours, soft and startled like a sunrise. the next, you saw her bleeding, limp in your arms, a nightmare with too much detail. blood on your palms, too familiar to be anything but memory. you shook it off. tried to. but it stayed, clung, echoed.

you loved her and that was the only truth that didn’t shift beneath your feet. you loved her. but was love enough to keep her safe? was love enough to keep yourself from running? 

you didn’t know.and god, it hurt to not know.

your thoughts never stayed quiet. they screamed and whispered, begged and warned. you should stay away. you should hold her closer. you should disappear. you should never let go.

you should stop loving her.

no. no, not that. never that.

you couldn’t stop, even if you tried.

she haunted your every corner. her laugh lived in the hollow of your throat. her smile burned behind your eyelids when you blinked. her voice lingered like a ghost in your ears, asking you to stay, to try, to let her in.

you couldn’t tell if you were healing or breaking.

every time you touched her hand, you wondered if it would be the last.

every time you saw her eyes, you feared the day they’d stop looking at you with love.

you tried to be strong. you tried to believe you could be enough for both of you. but sometimes you looked at your reflection and saw nothing but failure stitched into the seams of your suit.

you weren’t a hero. you were just a kid with broken dreams and too much love in the wrong places.

but still—still—you loved her. with everything you had. even when your hands shook. even when your voice faltered. even when you couldn’t promise her anything beyond your heart.

she was your constant in the chaos.

your still point in a spinning world.

and somehow, even when you were at your lowest, even when guilt cracked you wide open, that love remained.

it burned. it stayed. even when you weren’t sure if you would.

you hadn’t meant to walk that way.

honestly, you weren’t even sure where your feet were going until they stopped—and there she was.

just outside the back exit of the school building, half-shadowed beneath the awning where the rain couldn’t quite reach her. her backpack hung off one shoulder, and she was twisting the strap with her fingers like she wasn’t sure whether to leave or stay.

you froze.

she looked up.

your eyes met like they had so many times before—across hallways, between lab tables, under the heavy air of everything left unsaid. but this time, it was different. not painful exactly. just... exposed. like both of you had forgotten how to look at each other without remembering all the times you didn’t.

she didn’t smile and neither did you.

your throat tightened, but you nodded, slow. cautious. her head tilted slightly, the smallest twitch of something unreadable in her expression. you thought, maybe, she’d turn away. maybe this was too much.

but she didn’t.

instead, she stepped forward—not far, just enough to show that she wasn’t leaving. not yet. not this time.

you swallowed the ache in your chest. it still lingered, that awful twist of guilt and longing and shame. you hadn’t meant to stay away for so long. it wasn’t supposed to be like this—like every inch toward her felt like crossing a battlefield. like love was something you had to walk barefoot across glass to reach.

still, you took a step closer. she let you.

“hey,” she said, voice soft but steady. there was no blame in it. just a quiet kind of knowing. a thread of hope strung through hesitation.

you opened your mouth. nothing came. your tongue felt like stone. you hadn’t prepared for this, hadn’t built up the words. all you had was your guilt, your silence, and the tremble in your fingers.

she noticed.

her eyes flicked down to your hands, and slowly—carefully—she reached out. she didn’t grab. didn’t push. just let her fingertips ghost against yours, like asking a question without words.

you flinched.

just a little. not out of fear. not out of rejection. just out of the weight of it. and still, she didn’t pull away.

your breath hitched. you watched her face, the way her brows drew together, the way she kept her hand there, unmoving, waiting. her warmth bleeding into your cold fingers like sunlight on frost.

you didn’t deserve this. not the softness. not her patience. but god, how you wanted it. how you missed her in every way a soul could miss something.

you curled your fingers around hers, slow. hesitant. like it might break if you held on too tight.

her expression didn’t change, but her grip tightened.

“i didn’t think you’d come,” she whispered, and her voice cracked just enough to undo you a little.

you looked away. the rain was falling just past the awning, glittering in the soft streetlight. everything smelled like wet leaves and concrete.

“i almost didn’t,” you said.

the truth sat heavy between you.

you expected her to ask why. expected the weight of her voice pressing against all the reasons you hadn’t said before. but she didn’t. she just stood there with you in the quiet, like she knew the question wouldn’t help.

“but you’re here,” she said, and there was no question in it. just quiet acceptance. not forgiveness. not yet.

you nodded. “yeah.”

the silence that followed wasn’t empty. it breathed. it held you both in its arms and didn’t ask for anything more.

your hand still in hers, you glanced up again, slowly. her eyes were glassy in the low light, rimmed with tiredness, but still… still they held that same softness. that same wonder.

she stepped a little closer. your shoulders brushed. the contact sent something deep in you cracking open.

“i don’t know how to do this,” you said, your voice barely above a breath. “i want to. i do. but i’m still scared.”

she looked at you like she already knew that. like maybe she’d been scared too.

her thumb brushed over the back of your hand. “so am i.”

you blinked. she said it like it wasn’t a failure. like fear wasn’t a door slamming shut, but something you could walk through together, even with shaking hands.

“but i’m still here,” she added, and her voice didn’t shake that time.

your chest ached. your ribs felt too small for your heart. you didn’t speak, didn’t know how to. you just looked at her like she was the only thing in the world that made sense. and maybe she was.

maybe she always had been.

you didn’t say thank you.

you didn’t say sorry.

you just held her hand, standing in the space between leaving and staying, and for the first time in what felt like forever, it was enough.

the night was soft. a hush of wind through the trees, a warmth left over from the sun still lingering in the brick of the rooftop. stars blinked above the city, quiet and uncaring, and the skyline glowed faint orange and blue like it couldn’t decide if it wanted to sleep or stay awake forever.

you sat side by side, your legs dangling over the edge.

her shoulder brushed yours.

you hadn’t meant to talk. hadn’t planned to open the doors you’d kept bolted shut since the beginning. but maybe that was the thing about love—it wasn’t always planned. it just asked you to be brave, even if your voice shook. even if your heart did too.

and tonight, for once, you were tired of carrying it alone.

you looked down at your hands, the scars along your knuckles, the rough skin on your palms. you exhaled.

“he asked me to promise,” you said, quietly. “right before he…”

your throat closed. you didn’t say it. didn’t have to.

her gaze didn’t leave you.

you looked straight ahead, the city stretching out in front of you like a secret you were still afraid to tell.

“he said—if i loved you, i’d let you go.”

a pause. heavy. real.

“and i did. i tried. i did everything he wanted. i thought if i could just stay away, you’d be safe. like that would be enough.”

you bit your lip. the words were tumbling now. too fast, too raw.

“but it wasn’t. it just broke us. over and over. and still—i can’t stop thinking about it. the rooftop. the blood. how i couldn’t save him. and the dreams, hanni—i see you there too, sometimes. i watch you fall and i can’t catch you. and i wake up and i’m already breaking.”

she didn’t interrupt.

you finally turned to look at her. her eyes shimmered, soft with something that wasn’t pity. it was understanding. it was something deeper. something still standing after every collapse.

“i know i keep hurting you,” you whispered. “i don’t mean to. i just—i keep thinking, if something happened to you because of me… i wouldn’t survive that.”

you swallowed. your voice dropped again.

“and i don’t know what’s worse. losing you, or knowing i was the reason.”

the silence stretched.

and then she spoke.

“love isn’t weakness,” she said, gently but firmly. “not mine. not yours. not what’s between us.”

you looked at her. her expression was steady, clear.

“you don’t make me weaker. you don’t put cracks in me. you hold me together.”

your breath caught.

“i know what your life looks like,” she said, softer now. “i know the risk. i’m not pretending i don’t. but i’m choosing this. i’m choosing you.”

she reached out, touched your hand. warm. real.

“you keep trying to protect me by pushing me away. but you don’t see it’s what’s breaking me. not the danger. not the fear. the silence. the leaving.”

your eyes burned.

she scooted a little closer, her hand now fully covering yours. “i’m stronger with you. not without. and maybe—maybe you’re stronger with me too.”

you didn’t speak. you didn’t need to.

you leaned into her shoulder, your forehead brushing her temple. her hair smelled like something soft and familiar. and for the first time in a long time, you let yourself feel it—the weight in your chest loosening. the ache easing.

you were still scared. the fear didn’t vanish overnight.

but in this moment, with her hand in yours, her breath steady beside you—you didn’t feel alone in it.

and maybe that was the beginning of healing. not being unafraid. just being unafraid together.

you didn’t hear the green goblin’s cackle before you saw him. no—what you heard first was the whine of his glider splitting the wind above the city. then came the bombs, the chaos, the smoke rising into the sky like the city itself was burning. and somewhere in all that noise, all that fear, you knew: he was looking for you. or worse—he was looking for her.

you met him halfway across the skyline.

“you’re late,” he sneered, standing at the edge of the rooftop. “i was starting to think you forgot about me.”

“oh no,” you said, voice dry and sarcastic despite the tight knot in your chest, “i wouldn’t miss this date for the world.”

your body moved before your mind could catch up, launching forward with a sharp kick. he blocked it easily, laughing like it was all a game. his glider whirred behind him, circling like a vulture.

"you’re getting sloppy, spidergirl!" he shrieked, wild eyes shining like broken glass. "you’re soft. i can smell it on you."

you didn’t answer. didn’t dare. you were already bleeding—left shoulder, the same one that caught a bullet months ago. he was faster than before. stronger. crueler. you wondered what oscorp had done to him. you didn’t care enough to ask.

the two of you crashed into the side of a building, glass shattering around you. your breath caught in your throat. still, you fought. knee to his ribs, elbow to his chin. he laughed through the pain. 

every punch felt heavier than the last, every dodge slower than it should’ve been. your left arm was still sore from the last fight—you hadn’t had time to rest, not really. but you pushed through it, your breath shallow and burning.

he was strong, unpredictable, but you had something he didn’t. desperation.

but even as your fists connected and your webs tangled around him, something inside you twisted. something heavy.

where was she?

you hadn’t seen her all day. hadn’t heard her voice. not even from across the classroom. you’d been keeping your distance again—because distance meant safety, right?

then you heard it. a crash. a voice.

you spun midair, only to see her.

hanni. standing beneath a flickering streetlamp, eyes wide. breathless.

you froze.

"what are you doing here?!" your voice cut through the wind, sharper than you meant. "gp—get out of here, hanni. now."

she crossed her arms, defiant even in fear. "oh, what, i’m just supposed to let you handle this alone?"

behind you, the goblin cackled again. “oooh,” he purred. “spidergirl has a girlfriend.”

your heart stopped.

“how... sweet.”

you turned too late. he was already moving. the glider howled through the air. he slipped past you with terrifying ease, grabbing hanni by the arm. she yelped, legs kicking as he lifted her into the air like she weighed nothing at all.

"hanni!" you screamed, already leaping—already too slow.

the goblin lifted her into the sky, her scream tearing through you. 

“let her go!” you screamed, swinging after them with everything you had left. “you wanna fight me? fight me!”

he laughed, rising higher—hovering over the glass dome of the old clock tower. 

"gladly," he sneered—and he did.

she fell.

your body moved before your thoughts did. one web shot toward her, another toward the tower behind you. time cracked open. the world slowed. 

you caught her. barely. arms around her waist, your body between hers and the glass roof of the clock tower dome. you wrapped your body around hers, arms tight. you cradled her head, shielding her from the impact—shielding her head as you both slammed onto the clock tower’s glass roof. her eyes were wide, but she was breathing.

cracks spidered beneath you like veins.

"are you okay?" your voice broke on the edges. your hand shook as it cupped her cheek. "tell me you’re okay."

her fingers clutched at your suit. “i’m fine,” she whispered. “you caught me.”

you almost smiled. almost. 

a pumpkin bomb landed beside you, exploding with a sharp hiss of fire and glass. it shattered the dome beneath you. glass rained down. 

your web snapped taut as you both plummeted into the belly of the clock tower. your body twisted midair, webs shooting again—one, two, three—to slow your fall.

the wind roared past your ears. you landed hard, one knee buckling. hanni clung to you, her breath ragged against your shoulder.

you didn’t have time.

he was still here.

the goblin dove through the broken ceiling like a demon from the sky. his glider shrieked. you met him midair again, this time with a rage you hadn’t felt in weeks. your punches were wild, desperate. you didn’t hold back.

"stay away from her!" you screamed, voice shaking.

your mask was torn. one of your lenses cracked. the world looked like it was shattering in half.

you slammed him into the gears of the clock tower. sparks flew. he clawed at your side—sharp, jagged. you screamed. the pain lit your nerves like fire.

but you kept going.

you webbed him to the tower. the last punch cracked something in his helmet. he slumped, glider sparking. the wind stilled.

you didn’t breathe.

then—your web slipped.

“no—no no no—”

hanni’s scream snapped your head down. her weight yanked at your shoulder. your grip was faltering.

she was dangling again. the wires holding you both up strained and groaned.

"hold on!" you begged.

“i’m trying!” she gasped.

your fingers were slick with blood. your arm screamed with pain. your mask blurred from tears.

“just—just a little longer—”

her hand slipped.

you caught it again—barely.

her wrist was small in your palm. you clutched it like it was the last real thing in the world and when you finally pulled her up, cradling her to your chest, something inside you broke.

the guilt was louder than the relief.

you held her in your arms, chest heaving, the ruined clock tower groaning around you. and all you could think about was how close it had been. how you could’ve lost her.

how it would’ve been your fault.

she was safe—yes. but only for now.

the green goblin was unconscious. the tower was falling apart. you couldn’t stay. so you ran again.

you webbed her down gently—far from the wreckage, far from the fight. you didn’t say a word. didn’t dare.

you turned your back before she could stop you and you disappeared into the smoke.

you didn’t say goodbye. because this time, you didn’t know if you deserved to.

you hadn’t slept. not really. every time you closed your eyes, it was like falling into the ocean mid-storm—dark and endless, full of faces you couldn’t reach. her face. his. blood on your hands that wouldn't wash away, no matter how hard you tried. your body was tired, but your mind never stopped. it kept flipping through your memories like pages in a book that wouldn’t close.

the city felt too loud, too bright. every siren in the distance echoed inside your ribs. every rooftop you passed reminded you of a time when you felt braver. stronger. steadier. now you just felt like a ghost wearing a mask. and it was heavier than it used to be.

you disappeared for days. spidergirl went quiet. you stopped swinging. stopped saving. even stopped going to school. because you knew she’d be there. you knew you’d see her smile, or worse—her sadness. and that would break you all over again.

but she stayed in your mind. like fog at the edge of a mirror. always there. soft. persistent. you missed her so much it physically hurt. she wasn’t just someone you loved—she was safety. warmth. the only part of this life that felt like home. and you had left her again.

the guilt clawed at you. sometimes literally—phantom pain in your chest, in your spine. sometimes it was his voice, haunting your dreams, sometimes it was hers, saying your name like she was trying to pull you back from the edge. and maybe she was.

so when you saw her again, by chance—just her silhouette, standing near the old science wing of the school, under a sky that looked like it couldn’t decide whether to rain or shine—your whole body locked up. your feet didn’t move, but your heart did. violently.

she saw you too. you knew she did. she always did. and still, she waited for you to come closer.

your hands were shaking. you stuffed them into your hoodie pockets, but that didn’t stop the tremble in your jaw or the ache in your chest. every step you took felt like walking toward a memory instead of a person. and maybe that was true. because when you looked at her, all you saw was everything you lost. everything you still loved.

you stopped a few feet away from her. she was watching you with those eyes—gentle, steady, unreadable in a way that made you want to fall apart and hold her all at once.

the silence stretched between you, and your throat felt too tight to break it. and then she asked, in the softest voice:

“do you still love me?”

you tensed like she'd hit you. every bone in your body locked up. you felt everything all at once—heat, cold, fear, longing. suddenly hot, suddenly cool. suddenly sure, suddenly so afraid. the words caught in your throat like a sob that hadn’t been born yet.

your heart was beating so fast it felt slow. like it couldn’t keep up. like it didn’t know how.

she had that look on her face. not angry. not demanding. just—hopeful. quiet. like she already knew the answer but needed to hear it from you. needed to be sure you were still there beneath all that armor.

you swallowed. tried to breathe. your heart felt like it was fighting you from the inside out.

“…yes,” you said, so quietly it barely made it out. “i could never stop loving you.”

her breath hitched, just a little. and then—then she smiled. that warm, quiet, kind smile that you’d only ever seen on her face. like spring after a long winter. and you couldn’t understand it. you didn’t know how someone could still smile at you like that after everything.

you were still tense. your body didn’t know how to let go. your hands curled in your sleeves, your shoulders locked in place, like if you moved, the whole world might break again.

but she stepped forward, slow and careful, like approaching a scared animal. she didn’t rush you. didn’t ask for anything more. she just opened her arms.

and then—without thinking, without breathing—you stepped into them.

and it was like everything stopped.

the world, the wind, the ache in your chest—all of it just… paused.

you melted into her. fully. completely. like you’d been waiting to collapse into her since the moment you left. your arms wrapped around her waist and pulled her close, like you were afraid the universe might take her from you if you didn’t hold on tight enough.

she held you. didn’t speak. didn’t move. just held you, her chin resting lightly on your shoulder, her hands rubbing soft, slow circles into your back. you could feel her heartbeat against your chest. and yours slowly matched hers.

you were still crying, though you didn’t realise it until her shirt was damp beneath your cheek.

the tension in your muscles eased. the storm inside you hushed.

you weren’t okay. not yet. but for a second, just one second—you felt peace.

in that moment, love wasn’t a battlefield or a punishment. it was stillness. it was soft and warm and solid. and it was hers. and yours.

and wasn’t it love? wasn’t it love, to fall and still reach for her hand? wasn’t it love, to be broken and still show up? wasn’t it love, even if it hurt?

it wasn’t the easy kind. not the perfect kind. but the kind that holds you when you break. the kind that waits. the kind that sees the worst in you and chooses you anyway.

because right then, in her arms, you weren’t spidergirl. you weren’t a walking contradiction. you weren’t a promise failing to hold.

you were just a girl, finally safe enough to fall apart. finally brave enough to feel everything. and she held you like she’d never let you go.

and maybe that was enough. maybe for now, just this moment—just her arms around you, just your name whispered softly against your hair—was enough.

you breathed her in like oxygen and held on like you were drowning.

you stayed.

not because the fear left you—it didn’t. it still pulsed beneath your ribs like a second heartbeat. it still crept into your spine when the wind howled just a little too loud through the alleys. but for once, fear didn’t win. love did.

you stayed, even when every instinct told you to run.

even when your hands trembled lacing hers. even when you caught yourself checking over your shoulder every few steps, because danger had never needed an invitation. you stayed. not because you were brave—but because you were tired of running. tired of losing what made you feel alive.

she never asked you to promise again. not in words. not outright. but the way she looked at you—quiet, wide-eyed, waiting—it made something in you ache. not with guilt this time, but with longing. for peace. for something soft. something simple.

you sat with her on her bedroom floor, knees touching. she was playing with the edge of your sleeve like she was scared it would disappear if she stopped. the window was open. the city buzzed beneath you, but for once, it didn’t feel like it needed saving. not right now.

“you’re still here,” she whispered.

you nodded, not trusting your voice.

she touched your face so gently you almost didn’t feel it. fingers warm, brushing the edge of your jaw. you flinched—not out of fear, but disbelief. her touch always made you feel like something fragile. not broken, just precious.

you held her hand against your cheek.

“i’m scared,” you said, finally. “but i’m not going anywhere.”

her smile was small but real. the kind that grew behind the eyes first, not the mouth. “me neither.”

the moment was quiet, but not empty. there was weight in it. meaning. her thumb traced lazy circles into the back of your hand. it grounded you. like gravity—but kinder.

you walked with her after that. to school. to the bakery down the street. to the park where the grass was still damp and the sky was just starting to turn gold. you sat on benches and split pastries and let the sun hit your skin. you watched her laugh with sugar on her lips and thought, i could live in this moment forever.

at night, you didn’t swing alone anymore. not always. sometimes, she waited at the rooftop with a blanket and thermos, just to see you land. sometimes, she fell asleep there, head on your shoulder, the stars above you both like a lullaby in light.

you still fought. you still bled. the city never stopped needing you. but now, when you limped home, there was a light in her window. there was warmth in her arms. there was safety in her silence.

and every time you doubted—even for a second—she would find you. sit beside you in the dark and say nothing until your hands stopped shaking. and when you finally looked at her, scared and small and tired, she’d just say, “i know.”

and somehow, that was enough.

you told her everything. about the night on the rooftop. about your promise to her father. about how much it hurt to love her and still fear her being near you. she listened. she always did. and when you were done, breathless and broken open, she kissed your forehead like it was sacred.

“i choose this,” she said. “even when it’s hard. especially then.”

you rested your head against her shoulder and let the tears fall. you didn’t speak. didn’t move. just breathed. just existed beside her.

that night, when she touched your cheek and pulled you into her arms again, you didn’t tense. you melted.

you stayed.

and it was hard. but it was worth it.

[persevereforahappyending]

No Man's Land |14|

Pairing: Sam Carpenter x Reader

Summary: Sam can’t help but be drawn to the cute stranger from her gym, even if everything about them makes them the perfect suspect, just when Ghostface has returned.

Warnings: Canon Typical Violence, Fighting, Shooting, Guns, Stabbing, Blood, Killing, Murder, Death

Word Count: 5.2k+

Main Masterlist | Series Masterlist

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 | Part 11 | Part 12 | Part 13 | Part 14 | Part 15

“Remember, travel in public,” you heard Bailey say through the phone as you and Sam walked over to the group. “The more people around you, the less likely he is to try something.”

Sam flicked a glance at you, but you didn’t say anything. Traveling in public was useful at times, using the crowd to hide yourself and make your way to a target, or spy on them without them knowing. It could also be dangerous, you had a lot less control when traveling in public, never knowing what or who you might run into. Depending on the place, there was also the high probability of getting separated or losing sight of your target.

Ghostface had already attacked in public many times. You saw the news report of the lady killed by her student; you knew this psycho wasn’t that guy, but he stabbed her in an alley with people actively walking past it. Not to mention when Ghostface first went after Sam, it was when she was at the gym, sure it was late, but it was clearly not planned out, they had no idea if she’d be alone or how many people would be there. Then most importantly, when he attacked at the bodega, sure he came at you guys from of the shadows, but he had no problem running into a public space and shooting anyone who got in his way.

You weren’t sure what the better option was, the subway was cramped and upped the risk of getting separated. The crowd could also work against you, it was Halloween weekend, people were always dressed in costumes. You had plenty of assignments that involved you subtly taking someone out, just as they were simply walking down the street, only for them to stumble forward after you were long gone and collapse. A cab was no better, you didn’t have the risk of being around a crowd but there was no way all of you would fit in a cab, separating was the biggest risk you could take. Then there was walking, the shrine wasn’t close, and anything could happen between Gale’s apartment and there, if Ghostface came out of the shadows again he could force you into a public space, hurting more innocent people, or force you into an unknown location.

“What are you thinking?” Sam asked.

You crossed your arms as you silently debated with yourself. You went over every option, now you just had to determine which was the best course. “The subway,” you settled on. “Just make sure to stick together,” you looked at each of them. “Don’t let go or lose sight of each other.” When everyone nodded, they all made their way out of the building and towards the subway.

You pushed past people, everyone bumping shoulders as you forced your way down into the subway tunnel. Just as you expected, it was overly crowded, as usual, and half the people were wearing costumes or a mask of some sort. Once all of you reached the platform the doors to the subway opened and everyone began shoving each other to get in while others shoved to get out.

You heard someone screaming to wait but you couldn’t make out their voice. You kept your eyes on Sam, she was leading the group and shoving her way onto the subway. Tara was between you and Sam, but she started to fall behind when more people started to shove themselves between them. You instinctively reached out and caught Tara by the shoulders when she bumped into you. You felt her tense, probably at feeling someone touching her but as soon as she looked at you, you felt her relax in your grasp. You gave her a reassuring smile and continued forward, making sure Tara stayed in front of you and didn’t get pushed back again.

Once you were safely on the subway with Tara and Sam you looked back to see Chad in the doorway reaching back for Mindy. It was no use, people kept shoving Chad into the car and Mindy further away until the doors finally closed, separating them. You furrowed your brow when you saw Ethan a couple paces behind Mindy, but while she was still reaching and slamming her hand against the closed doors, Ethan remained still, as if he wasn’t even trying to get on the subway.

“Oh my god,” Tara whispered. You looked up, your eyes widening slightly at the sight of a handful of people dressed like Ghostface.

You understood the appeal of Halloween; you had dressed up plenty of times. What you didn’t understand was the appeal of dressing up like a serial killer. Jason, Freddy Krueger, you got it, they were iconic villains from classic horror movies. You also knew Stab was a movie, but it was based on real events, a real person dressed up like Ghostface and terrorized his classmates. Dressing up like Ghostface seemed rather tasteless, it wasn’t like most people were going around dressing up like Jeffrey Dahmer or Ted Bundy.

“Stay together,” you mumbled. Tara was already pressed into her sister’s side and you put your hand high on the pole Sam was next to, making sure, in a way, you had a protective arm around both of them, with Chad between you and Sam but behind Tara.

“Mindy said she and Ethan will get the next one,” Chad said. He didn’t bother looking up from his phone as he continued to text his sister.

“Tell her to keep her guard up.” Chad looked up at you and nodded before typing away on his phone again. You learned Mindy was naturally a suspicious person, you still didn’t want her to take chances. You didn’t trust Ethan and you didn’t like that Mindy was completely alone with him, even if they were surrounded by people, there was a risk.

The four of you rode in silence, your eyes flicking from each person in a Ghostface costume and back. All three of them could be standing in the same car with you and you wouldn’t even know it until one made a move. They could easily make a move, they would just need to get close enough, then once the car jostled, like always, someone could take a knife to the gut, and Ghostface could slip back into the crowd, with everyone none the wiser.

You were silently counting the stops as they happened, with each one, more people cleared out, but just as many got on. You clocked ever person entering and exiting the car, even if Ghostface wasn’t currently in the same car, it didn’t mean he couldn’t hop on at one of the stops. The stop before yours was when one of the Ghostface’s started moving. You effortlessly slipped around behind the others to get on the other side of Sam and turned so you were facing her but bocking her from any potential attack, your hand still gripped the pole, just above her head.

“Hey,” you whispered.

You could see Sam fighting a smile, but her eyes quickly shifted back to the figure over your shoulder. You used the reflection in the glass to track the Ghostface’s movements and turned your head just as they exited the subway.

“That was smooth,” Sam said, giving you a small smile. You just shrugged but didn’t bother moving, opting to stay right where you were, close, and face to face with Sam until your stop.

The four of you were the first ones out the door as soon as they opened. You followed closely behind the others as you made your way down the dark street towards the shrine. You still hadn’t heard from Mindy as far as you knew, you didn’t know if she was safe and, on her way, or if something had happened. Ghostface had appeared out of the shadows more than once and you weren’t putting it past him to do it again, you were sure he knew you were planning on taking him out tonight.

“Hey,” Kirby greeted once you were outside the shrine. “I just got done clearing the place.”

“Great,” Sam said. “Any word from Mindy?” she looked at Chad.

Chad shook his head and held up his phone as if that would make a text from Mindy magically appear. “I’m going to try calling,” he mumbled.

“Do you want us to wait for you?”

“No,” Chad waved her off. “I’ll meet you inside.”

Sam seemed reluctant but she nodded and followed Kirby into the shrine, with Tara right behind them. You moved to follow as well when you turned and looked back at Chad, frowning at his phone as he still tried to get ahold of Mindy. “Hey,” you called out, making him look up at you. “Be careful.” Chad glanced around, seeming to realize he would be standing on the side of the street at night, right outside of the Ghostface shrine, alone. “Want me to wait?”

Your offer seemed to shake Chad out of his daze as he quickly shook his head. “Nah, they need you more,” he nodded towards where Sam and Tara disappeared to.

You nodded quickly jogged to catch up with the girls. You didn’t feel right about leaving Chad outside alone, he was a perfect target for Ghostface. Ghostface could quickly take out Chad before making his way into the shrine and none of you would ever know.

“This is the only way in or out,” Kirby said, as you walked up behind them, slipping through the door before she closed it. “He comes in, the doors lock, and he’s trapped.” You hummed, it wasn’t a bad plan. “Our own little kill box.”

“Weapons?” Sam asked.

“One gun.” You and Kirby shared a knowing look, silently agreeing to still keep your gun quite. “And I have it.” Sam didn’t seem happy about only one of you having a weapon, but Kirby was quick to remind her she was the only one with a badge. You didn’t point out that a badge didn’t matter if you weren’t actually arresting Ghostface, if anything holding a badge just made things more difficult.

The four of you walked around, glancing at the display cases again. Your eyes scanned over the area, before you had been looking for threats and taking everything in, now you were scoping out spots to hide and what could be used to take someone out. If you had your gear, you could knock out all the lights, propel down and take out each Ghostface before they even knew what hit them. You could take out the lights still, but it would be less fun since you couldn’t propel down from the ceiling, and there was no window to break through.

“I’m going to check the perimeter,” Kirby said. You nodded and watched as she left the main room and through one of the side doors. The place wasn’t overly big, but there were still too many places you could be snuck up on.

Sam pulled out her phone and brought it to her ear. You watched her with a furrowed brow. “What?�� she shouted into the phone, clearly shocked by whatever the other person said. You looked back at the cage; Chad still hadn’t entered the building yet. When you looked back at Sam she was making her way across the stage, until she was standing in front of Billy Loomis’s display case. You didn’t question her as she opened the display case and took out the still bloody knife that was inside.

You approached Sam slowly, glancing down as she tucked the knife in her jeans, but you still opted not to say anything. “Everything okay?” you asked. Almost as soon as the words left your mouth the lights flickered, several of them going out as if someone flipped the switches for them.

Sam turned to you, her eyes searching your face for you weren’t sure what. You opened your mouth to ask what was wrong when a scream interrupted you. Sam whipped around and your head snapped up towards the door to the side of the room. Neither of you hesitate to run through the door, not even caring what would be on the other side.

You burst through the door and saw Tara on the ground, her shoulder bleeding, and Ghostface standing over her. You didn’t even hesitate to grab Ghostface by his cloak and slam him into the side of the counter that was next to him. Sam took the opportunity to pull her sister to safety while you faced Ghostface.

Ghostface pushed off the counter and swung his knife at you. You effortlessly dodged it, trying to keep him distracted from Sam and Tara. You barely ducked in time as the door to your right burst open and a knife was swung at your head. You whipped around to see there was now two Ghostface.

“Go!” you shouted. You slowly backed away until you heard the door open, telling you Sam and Tara had listened. You made your way towards the door and pushed an old popcorn machine over to buy you some time as you ran down the hall after Sam and Tara.

You quickly caught up with the sisters and the three of you burst through the door that led back out into the main room. “How the hell did they get in?” you asked as the three of you stood in a circle.

“Because it’s Kirby,” Sam said. You stopped in your tracks and looked at Sam cautiously, never once did it seem like she suspected Kirby. “Bailey said she was fired from the FBI,” she gave you a curious look.

“Forgive me for not taking Bailey’s word for it,” you said.

Before anything else could be said Kirby stumbled into the room, a trail of blood dripping down the side of her head. “We know it’s you Kirby,” Sam whipped around, holding up the knife she stole from the display.

“Wha-No,” Kirby said confused, shaking her head. “Someone knocked me out.”

“Get away from them Kirby!” Bailey called out, coming down the center aisle. You narrowed your eyes at Bailey, unsure of when he arrived and how he got in without anyone hearing him. “We know it’s you!”

“He’s lying!”

“You two aren’t going to get away with this!” You furrowed your brow at the word two but then your eyes widened when you realized he was looking at you. You scoffed and shook your head, now you knew he was killer.

Sam gave you a confused look and took the slightest step away from you. “He’s lying,” you said calmly. “He’s clearly behind this.”

Bailey let out a humorless chuckle. “My own daughter died because of you!” You glared at Bailey, it was obvious he was behind all of this, but you didn’t think he’d actually kill his own daughter, something was off. “It’s been you two since the beginning,” he gestured between you and Kirby with his gun.”

“No,” Sam said, shaking her head. “It can’t be.” Her eyebrows were scrunched together as she tried to make sense of everything.

“Who was the one with the file on Y/N?” You glared at Bailey, that was a thin argument at best, Kirby was FBI, she would be able to get your file. “Who’s been sneaking off and conspiring in corners?” You rolled your eyes, you and Kirby never snuck off, you just whispered quietly away from the others. It seemed to be enough to make Sam look at you differently though.

“Come on,” you said calmly. “Sam, you know me,” you held up your hands to show you weren’t a threat.

“But I don’t,” she said more to herself than you.

“Sam.” She looked up at you, but you could see her trust wavering, you could practically see her questioning whether last year was happening all over again. “Remember what I told you.” You gave her a knowing look and mouthed the word ‘Three’ even if you and Kirby were behind everything, there was still a third person out there. Sam saw you in the gym when two other Ghostface attacked her, she knew this.

“I-”

“Look out!” Kirby shouted, interrupting all of you.

You all turned to see a Ghostface running up behind Bailey, with his knife raised. Bailey raised his hand and shot at Kirby before any of you had time to react. The Ghostface slowed to a stop right beside Bailey and the second one appeared on Bailey’s other side. “Good work you two,” Bailey said with a smile.

“You?” Sam said, slightly confused and disbelieving.

“Me,” Bailey shrugged, clearly proud of himself. “The only one to figure it out,” he waved a finger at you. “What gave it away?”

“I clocked all three of you the second I met you,” you said. “Isn’t that right, Ethan?” you raised an eyebrow.

The Ghostface on Bailey’s left took off his mask, revealing Ethan was in fact underneath. “Still don’t know how you figured me out,” he said confused.

“But then who…” Sam started, turning her attention to the Ghostface that was still masked. “Mindy?” her voice cracked as if she truly couldn’t believe her friend might behind all this.

“No,” you said with a shake of your head. Mindy got separated with Ethan, so it made sense for Sam’s mind to go to her first. “Right, Quinn?” You felt Sam and Tara both snap their heads towards you, but you kept your eyes on the Ghostface as they slowly took off the mask, revealing Quinn.

“Surprise,” Quinn said, holding up the mask. “You’re good,” she chuckled.

“You were all painfully obvious.”

“But you died!” Tara said. “We saw you die!”

“But I didn’t,” Quinn snarked. “It’s quite easy to fake your death when your dad’s a cop. Got me off the suspect list,” she shrugged. “And gave me the perfect opportunity to attack Gale, then Mindy on the subway.” You heard one of the sisters suck in a breath, you just had to hope Mindy would survive, though you now knew why she wasn’t answering Chad.

“But why?” Sam asked. “Why do any of this?”

“So, everyone would see you for the killer you truly are,” Bailey said.

“But I’m not,” Sam shook her head. “Those posts are lies! I didn’t kill anyone.”

“No!” Quinn cut in, her voice rising with emotion. “You killed our brother!”

“Your brother?” Tara asked confused.

“You’re Richie’s family,” Sam said, seeming to put it together before you or Tara. Your eyes widened, you didn’t know anything about Richie, but it was clear his entire family was psychotic.

“Yeah,” Bailey sighed, his eyes filled with the sadness at the mention of his dead son. “Now it’s time to die,” his voice became devoid of any emotion.

Bailey pointed his gun at Sam, but you moved quicker, whipping out the gun you had concealed. You didn’t point it at Bailey though, you pointed the gun higher and fired at the light above them. All three of them flinched at the sound of the gun but then were forced to cover their heads as the light shattered above them and glass rained down. You grabbed Sam and Tara and pulled them to safety before Bailey could start firing again.

“Go,” you said, nodding to one of the doors to the right of you. Sam looked at you then looked down at your gun, if you survived this you were sure you’d be hearing about this. You reached down and rested a hand on top of Sam’s, forcing her to look at you. “Go.”

Sam seemed reluctant to leave your side but eventually she relented. You watched as her and Tara got into position to run across the room. You gave Sam a nod and as soon as they took off you stood up and provided cover fire, forcing Bailey to duck out of the way and not shoot at them. Ethan swiped his knife at you, forcing you to dodge him and not shoot at Quinn as she made for the door on the other side. You figured Sam and Tara could hold off Quinn long enough for you to deal with Bailey and Ethan though.

Ethan raised his knife and lunged at you again. You effortlessly caught his hand holding the knife with your own, holding it high in the air. You used your other hand that held the gun and fired, shooting Ethan in the knee. Ethan howled out in pain but as he fell forward, you twisted the arm that was in your grasp, keeping him standing up right.

You drove his own knife into his back and as soon as he released his grip your hand took his place, giving the knife a sickening twist before ripping it upwards. Ethan screamed out in pain again.

“No!” Bailey yelled. You turned around, making Ethan turn with you to use him as a shield.  “You sick bastard.” Bailey pointed his gun at you but didn’t fire, he couldn’t unless he was willing to kill his own son.

You couldn’t help but give a small smile, that probably looked rather sadistic to anyone else. You ripped out the knife and wrapped your arms around Ethan’s neck, effectively putting him in a headlock. You stared Bailey straight in the eye as you twisted your hands, the sound of Ethan’s neck snapping instantly filling the room. Bailey’s eyes didn’t even have time to widen in horror before you pushed Ethan’s body towards him, using it as cover as you dove behind the seats.

Bailey’s screams of horror filled the room, as he began shooting blindly into the seats. You stayed low, army crawling and rolling under the rows of seats as you made your escape. “Where are you?” Bailey screamed. You peaked your head over one of the chairs to see Bailey spinning around in circles, his gun raised as he searched for you. “Come out and face me!”

You watched Bailey, making sure to duck when he started to turn in your direction. When he wasn’t facing you, you took your chance and did a somersault across the floor, so you were now behind one of the displays. When you peaked around the display you got the perfect view of the balcony where you saw Sam and Tara facing off against Quinn.

Sam had one arm around Tara, trying to keep her as far away from Quinn as possible while her other arm was stretched out, the knife she took from the case raised. You could see Quinn smile and hop around as if she were having the time of her life. They were evenly matched, but Sam had Tara to worry about, putting her at an extreme disadvantage. Quinn knew that and was just toying with them, she just needed to keep them occupied long enough for Bailey to join her, then they’d easily take out the sisters.

You looked over as Bailey slowly made his way down the aisle, whipping his gun side to side as he continued to search for you. You slowly continued up the aisle, making sure to keep your eye on Bailey with each move you made. You made your way behind the back of the seats and did a somersault when you had to pass the main aisle. When you got to the end of the seating, you looked up, seeing Tara and Sam back against the wall. Sam stabbed the knife at Quinn, it was the only thing she could do to keep Quinn at bay.

You raised your gun over the seats and fired a few rounds next to Bailey, breaking several of the display cases in the process. Bailey covered his head as he ran for cover, he raised his gun and tried to blindly shoot once again. You took the opportunity to run to the staircase that led up to the level Sam and Tara were on.

When you got up to the top level you slipped through the door as quietly as possible. You stayed low as you made your way towards Sam and Tara, weaving in between the rows of seats as you did so. It didn’t seem either of the sisters had seen you yet, which you were fine with, you didn’t want them to react anyway. You were crouched down as you stepped down on the main pathway and slowly stood up. You tucked the gun away in the holster once again when you were directly behind Quinn.

You caught Sam’s eyes widen as she finally saw you, but you didn’t pay her much attention. Just like you did with Ethan you put Quinn in a headlock but instead of snapping her neck you drove the knife into it, then dragged it across her throat. You held the knife down at your side, not even paying attention to the small pool of blood it began forming on the ground.

You stepped back as Quinn turned around, a hand to her neck as blood gushed between her fingers. She opened her mouth but only spit up more blood. She reached out towards you as she stepped forward, but you stepped to the side. You stared emotionlessly as she stumbled forward, eventually going to far to the side and tumbling over the balcony.

Bailey let out another cry as soon as his daughter’s body crashed into the displays below.  He seemed to forget about the three of you up top as he ran to Quinn’s side. You looked over the balcony, seeing Quinn’s lifeless eyes staring up at you. You let out a hum, even if she wasn’t dead yet she soon would be, you cut her neck deep enough that she would certainly bleed out in seconds.

“Let’s go,” you said and nodded towards the door.

Tara gave you a look but did as you asked. You could feel Sam’s eyes on you so you turned to her and just saw her staring at you, though you couldn’t place the emotion on her face. She just watched you slit a girl’s throat and watch her walk off a balcony, all as if it were a completely normal task for you. Even though Quinn was trying to kill her you probably most certainly scared Sam away, especially if she caught what you did to Ethan.

You led the way down the staircase back to the first floor. You peaked around the corner to see Bailey still sobbing over Quinn. “What about him?” Tara asked.

“We take him out,” Sam said before you could answer.

“Got a plan?” you asked.

Sam nodded. “First, we need to hit the lights.”

The three of you moved, sneaking around Bailey and making your way through another door. Once you were free of Bailey’s gaze the three of you began searching until you finally found the electrical room. “Stay here,” Sam ordered her sister. “I’ll send a text when it’s time to hit the lights.” Tara seemed reluctant but nodded anyway. “Ready?” she asked, looking at you, which you gave her a firm nod to.

You left the electrical room, making sure to close the door as quietly as possible behind you. You and Sam gave each other an understanding nod before splitting up. Sam went around the side so she could get up on the stage without Bailey seeing her and you peaked out the little window of the door, making sure Bailey wasn’t looking as you slipped back out into the main room. You pressed yourself against the side of the stage as you waited for the signal to make your move.

“Come on!” Bailey yelled, shooting to his feet and spinning around in a circle with his gun raised. “Show me what kind of killer you really are!”

A moment later the lights shut off, throwing all of you into darkness. You smiled as you started moving, using the edge of the stage to guide you. Right on cue the giant screen clicked on, playing more of those home movie’s Bailey originally had going.

“What’s the plan Sam?” Bailey yelled as he predictably began making his way towards the stage.

You kept yourself low, blending into the shadows of the stage as Bailey got closer. Your hiding was made easier by Bailey not expecting you, he was too focused on the screen, waiting for someone to pop out somewhere up on stage. As soon as his foot got to the second one from the top you sliced your knife across his right heel.

Bailey let out a pained hiss as he tried to hold in his scream. He immediately stumbled forward, needing to lean all his weight on his left leg so he remained upright. You looked over the side of the stage to see Bailey, as predicted, hadn’t made it far, so you sliced your knife across his left heel, sending him crumbling to the floor.

You hopped up on the stage in one effortless move. Bailey raised his gun, trying to shoot behind himself but you grabbed his hand and arm, and brought your knee up, snapping the bone at his elbow. Bailey sobbed as he brought his arm to his chest, his gun falling to the floor as he was no longer able to hold it. You walked around to the front of him, kicking his gun across the stage so he didn’t get any ideas.

You crouched down so you were eye level with Bailey and tilted your head at his broken state. “I was right about you,” Bailey said through gritted teeth, tears streaming down his face from the pain he was in. “You’re just a trained killer.” You tilted your head to the other side then stood up without a word, backing away as you made way for Sam.

Sam came out from behind the screen, which was still playing the home movies. She was dressed in her father’s Ghostface costume as she walked towards Bailey. She crouched down, twisting the knife in her hands as she stared at Bailey through the mask.

“You can’t do this to me,” Bailey seethed. Sam stood up and took a small step back. “You can’t do this to me!” Sam ripped the mask off, letting it fall to her side. “You can’t do this,” Bailey shook his head. “I’m a decorated officer, you can’t-” he was cut off by Sam shoving a knife through his eye.

You gave a nod of approval as Bailey fell backwards, his body unmoving. Sam looked back at you, and it was like you could visibly see the relief of this all being over in her eyes. She looked past you and you turned, following her line of sight as Tara joined the two of you on stage.

“Are you okay?” Sam asked, looking at her sister.

“No,” Tara admitted. “I’m going to get so much therapy after this.” Which made Sam chuckle.

You smiled but quickly winces when you moved to stand next to the sisters, all the adrenal quickly wearing off. “I’m going to an ambulance,” you said. “I’m pretty sure I tore all my stitches.” Both sisters laughed and you couldn’t help but join in as the three of you made your way off the stage.

Taglist: @thatshyboy1998 @artrizzler19 @btay3115 @acutenobody @godamnityess

@luvwanda @rqizzu @riyaexee @bella423 @rayisaknight

@assgradiangod @canyonyodeler @marsyay78

[22ayla21]

I love ur works so much, the way u write them are so enjoyable ^^

cab I req phainon who tries so hard to court reader but ended up failing miserably (reader doesnt even notice) and just ended up blurting out a confession with the most inconvenient timing

Confession at the Most Inopportune Moment

Attempts to get her attention led to him confessing at the most inopportune moment.

Phainon was not one to give up, especially when it came to something important to him. It was one of the reasons his life had always been full of ambition and aspirations. He was never afraid to show determination, and now, when it came to the woman who had turned his whole perception of the world upside down, he had no choice but to try.

From the first day he saw her, he knew he couldn't just walk past. Her calmness, strength, and inner light drew him like a magnet. But, alas, she didn't notice him the way he wanted. She was unapproachable. Every glance, every word, every gesture with which he tried to attract her attention, elicited only indifference from her.

He tried to be mysterious, to draw her to himself, but her attention was like sand slipping through his fingers. Sometimes he caught her gaze by chance, but as soon as he took a step forward, she quickly turned away, immersed in her thoughts or conversations with others. He saw her disappear into the crowd, ignoring his existence, and every move of hers seemed to confirm that she didn't want his attention.

Every time they accidentally found themselves near each other, his heart beat faster, but she always remained calm, as if his presence didn't arouse the slightest interest in her. He tried to be clever, courteous, but her ignoring seemed to drain all his energy. She was elusive, and Phainon felt his patience running out.

Days turned into weeks, and he couldn't understand what exactly kept her at a distance. He tried to attract her attention with laughter, playful gestures, but each time he received only silence in response. Sometimes he began to doubt, maybe he was wrong? Maybe she really didn't notice him, or maybe he just wasn't interesting to her? These thoughts tormented him, but none of his efforts yielded results. He continued to hope that one day she would pay attention to him, that her heart would open before him.

He noticed how something special appeared in her eyes when she interacted with others, while he was like a shadow standing aside. It hurt him, and he didn't know how to find a way to awaken her interest. He tried to be perfect, but her cold, unchanging manner always remained unyielding. He burned himself out over these weeks and months, unable to admit that what really attracted him was not only her impeccable calmness, but also the icy barrier she erected around herself.

And then, one evening, when they were both alone and silence hung in the air, he couldn't hold back any longer. It was unbearable. Her ignoring, her invisibility to him—all of it stirred up a storm inside him. She was again occupied with some important matter, paying no attention to him.

He didn't think. He didn't know what to do. All the pain accumulated over months burst out, and he stepped forward without hesitation.

"I... I can't take it anymore, do you understand?" he said sharply, his voice full of emotions he had been hiding. She looked up, and her face, usually calm, softened for a moment, but immediately returned to its usual mask.

"What do you mean?" she asked, her voice devoid of curiosity or irritation. Only the usual indifference that seemed to leave no room for true emotions.

Phainon paused for a moment, realizing he couldn't pretend anymore. He saw her face, her eyes, and suddenly, unable to control his words, said what he had been holding inside.

"I can't just be a shadow in your life anymore. I love you. You... You're everything I've ever wanted. You make me forget everything when you're around, and I can't hide it anymore, even if you don't see me the way I see you. You're more important to me than I could have imagined, and I... I can't ignore it anymore."

He felt his heart freeze, and something heavy clenched inside him. He looked at her, expecting her to withdraw again. But that didn't happen.

Her eyes widened slightly. For a moment, she seemed confused. But it all passed like smoke. She sighed softly and shook her head.

"You chose the most inopportune moment for this confession, Phainon."

His face paled. He expected her to reject him, for her response to be as indifferent as ever. But her next gesture caught him off guard: she quietly approached him and placed her hand on his shoulder.

"I wasn't ignoring you, Phainon. I just..." her voice softened. "I was waiting for you to realize what you really want."

Only then did Phainon understand that his unconscious attraction to her was part of something much more important, something she had probably known for a long time, which he himself hadn't realized."

[carsthatnevermadeitetc]

Honda Acty Street L & 4WD, 1982. The Street was the passenger version of Honda's cab-over kei van. "Acty" is short for "Activity". The engine was fitted amidships, behind the front axle. The Street version survived through 3 generation and was discontinued in 2009

[rollerman1]

[gloomwitchwrites]

Ink & Needle // Chapter Five

Tattoo Artist Simon “Ghost” Riley x Female Reader

Chapter Specific Warnings (MDNI): tattoo shop au, language, suggestive themes

Word Count: 5.1k

You and Evie stake out 141 Ink. Amelia forms a plan. You and Ghost reunite.

Chapter Four // Chapter Six

ao3 // main masterlist // ink & needle masterlist

Sticky.

Sweaty.

Chest heaving.

Legs shaking.

And none of it the pleasant kind.

Your coffee is gone. It is somewhere down the street, splattered across the pavement, and likely creeping toward a storm drain. Whatever didn’t land on the ground spilled on you. It is in your hair. On your face. Smeared over the front of your coat.

The entryway floor of Amelia’s home is your refuge. You’re seated on the linoleum with your back against the door and legs outstretched in front of you. With shaking hands, you reach above your head to double-check the deadbolt. It’s locked, and yet it doesn’t smother the racing of your pulse.

How could it? You’re seeing things. Hallucinating. Who you saw simply isn’t possible. Of all the people in the world, how could it be him? How could it be Ghost? Your wraith. The man you took a risk on. The man who worshipped your body as if you were the only thing he’s ever wanted.

For a second time, you ran. Turned tail. Bolted.

Why? Why do you always run from everything? Why do you dart away the moment you start to get close? That’s the reality of your ineptitude to figure your shit out. When Ghost held you in his arms afterward, when those large, veiny hands of his caressed and squeezed your thighs, realization came charging toward you like a herd of stampeding animals. Yes, it was sex, but there were smaller moments—flashes of emotion—that you felt within yourself and radiating from him.

After it was done, you knew. The look of rejection and determination in his eyes when you glimpsed him through the cab’s rear passenger window only confirmed what you already understood. Your wraith claimed you in Riot Room’s green room. He branded you, inked your skin, took you within himself and then etched his essence into your flesh.

You told yourself in that moment that you would never be free of him.

And you were right. Unequivocally correct.

Not only did you run a second time, but he chased after you again. That realization is almost as earth-shaking as the fact that he’s just two streets over from Amelia’s home. Your wraith is within reach, and he still wants you, even after three goddamn years.

No, you say to yourself. It’s not possible.

Now you’re just making shit up to feel better. He can’t want you—can’t desire you after all this time. Ghost must have thought you were someone else, or he wants an explanation on why you left him hanging.

Is he someone who holds grudges? Will he threaten you like way he did that man who puts his hands on you?

I’ve killed men over less.

Unlikely. That wouldn’t make sense. While a pillar of darkness, with you, Ghost was anything but. The very idea of him being rough with you is immediately dismissed.

“Fuck,” you whisper at the ceiling. You blink rapidly and realize you’re crying.

One tear rolls down your cheek and you quickly wipe it away with the back of your hand. It’s the hand that held the coffee, and the sticky residue rubs against your skin, causing you to flinch away from your own touch.

Evie’s laugh startles you out of your stupor. You hear Amelia’s gentle chuckle as well. Their voices drift toward you from the direction of the kitchen. They can’t see you on the floor like this. You need to pull yourself together. Covering up the spilled coffee that stains your face and your clothes isn’t possible, but you can easily pass it off as a slip up. It’s these fucking tears you need to control.

As you shift forward in an attempt to try and drag yourself off the floor, the brown sack with the croissants scrunches under your fist. You glance down at it and wince. It’s smashed. Croissants are delicate, and they’re probably nothing but crumbs now.

You want to laugh but you’re afraid it might sound like you’re drowning. This entire situation is fucking awful. Ridiculous. You have no idea what to do about Ghost. And should you even care in the first place?

There is no debt owed. There are no strings with a hookup. Why are you spinning this idea that you are required to do anything about any of this? Ghost is not your responsibility, and a one-time hookup does not make you obligated to be his…anything?

The phantom of Ghost’s hands upon your thighs comes creeping up to the forefront of your mind. The slow drag of his fingers over your skin is so tangible that for a moment you almost believe that he’s really here, touching you, wanting to be closer.

Evie laughs again and that solidifies your resolve. You came to England for her. Evie’s husband is dead. He is in the ground and she is eight months pregnant. There is only you and Amelia here to take care of her. Evie is your priority.

Not Ghost.

Not your wraith.

“Fuck,” you repeat. Somehow, that one small word makes you feel a little better.

Peeling yourself off the linoleum is like removing a stubborn book cover sticker. It’ll either be perfect, or a straight up mess. You fall somewhere in between that spectrum.

As you enter the kitchen, Evie and Amelia don’t appear to notice you at first. They’re in deep conversation, and it isn’t until you’re nearly at the small breakfast table that they both realize you’re in the room with them. Evie’s stunning smile falters when her gaze falls on you. It’s a slow transition as she begins to take in your appearance.

Her eyes widen in concern. “What happened? Are you okay?” Evie starts to stand but you hold up a hand.

“I tripped,” you answer. It’s not exactly a lie. You did trip in your efforts to outrun your wraith.

Evie doesn’t need to know that information just yet, especially with Amelia sitting right there. You’ll have to tell Evie what happened, even though the very idea swirls the anxiety in your stomach around until you think you might puke what little coffee you did manage to consume before it met the pavement.

Evie settles back in the chair but the concern hasn’t left her face. “Hurt?”

Not physically.

“I’m fine,” you reply, setting the brown bag on the table. “But I’m a little worried for the croissants.”

Amelia grabs the bag and peers inside. “Oh dear. Well. At least you’re uninjured. That’s the most important thing.”

Using the table as a support, Amelia pushes up from her chair, and heads for the kitchen counter. Reaching into one of the cabinets, Amelia produces a large plate. Returning to the table, Amelia gently opens the bag and slides out the croissants onto the plate. An avalanche of broken golden pastry and crumbs follow.

You wince at the sight of the crushed croissants. “I’m going to change.”

Amelia arches an eyebrow. “Perhaps a shower?” She gestures toward your head, indicating the remains of the latte that have dried in the strands.

“That too,” you mutter, removing your coat and heading for the stairs.

After you shower out the coffee in your hair, you’re left with the final crushed croissant, and the rest of your day is spent making various phone calls on Evie’s behalf. By bedtime, you’re still working, but this time on actual paid work.

Evie sits up, propped against the headboard as she reads a book. You’re spread out at the end of the bed on your stomach, scrolling through emails.

“Evie?” you ask into the quiet.

“Yeah?” she replies, not looking up from her book.

You rest your chin on your elbow. “Can I talk to you about something?”

Evie marks her page in her book and sets it on the bedside table, resting one hand on her bulging belly. “What’s on your mind?”

Your work email pings and you briefly glance at it. Sighing, you turn back to Evie, ignoring the new email. After breakfast and the ridiculous amount of phone calls, you spent the rest of your time editing an instructional manual for a furniture company. The deadline is approaching, and you thought work might take your mind off the morning’s events.

But it didn’t. And your mind is still a swirling storm of anxiety that just won’t abate. You cannot stop thinking about Ghost and the intense look in his eyes when he realized it was you. The brief surprise became hardened determination, and that is what pushed you to bolt. Couple that with him chasing after you, and you’re an overflowing pot of boiling water.

Closing your work laptop, you push it to the side, sitting up until you’re fully facing Evie.

“Is it about this morning?” she asks softly.

How is this woman so goddamn intuitive? That kid isn’t going to get away with anything.

“Yes,” you reply slowly, drawing out the s a bit.

Her brows crease, and suddenly, Evie looks ready to fight God. “If someone hurt you—”

“No,” you say quickly, holding up both hands. “Stop. I’m fine. I’m just…” You trail off and then sigh heavily, rubbing your face with both hands as you try to figure out what it is you want to say.

Evie doesn’t speak. She waits until you’re ready.

Your hands drop to your lap. “I saw him this morning.”

Evie frowns. “Saw…him?”

You nod and lean forward a bit. “Him.”

Evie blinks, her lips parting slightly as her brain starts to piece the puzzle together. As it all starts to fall into place, Evie shakes her head in disbelief. “You’re having a laugh.”

Groaning, you throw yourself down on the bed, face-first. “I wish that I was,” you say, turning your head so your voice isn’t muffled.

“Are you sure it was him? Absolutely sure?”

“You don’t believe me.”

“That is not true,” says Evie with a bit of bite to her tone. “I’m just trying to process how it’s possible.”

“You and me both.”

Evie adjusts on the bed, and sits up a bit more. “But where did you see him? And more importantly, did he see you?” You wince, and Evie groans. “Tell me from the beginning. All of it. From the moment you left the house to when you returned. Every. Detail.”

Rolling onto your back, you tell Evie everything, all of it rushing out of you like water moving out of a tipped glass.

“Oh shit,” murmurs Evie as she absently rubs her belly.

“No kidding.”

“And it’s the same one from Riot Room? Ghost? That guy?”

You nod. “I am one hundred percent sure on that.”

Evie stares off into space for a few seconds while she absently rubs at the underside of her belly. She turns toward you abruptly as if yanked from her thoughts. “I need to see this man for myself.”

You bolt upright. “Absolutely not.”

Evie shrugs. “Then tag along if you’re that concerned.”

“That is not the point, Evelyn Green.” You throw one arm out to emphasize your point. “Ghost is in the past. We had sex—”

Evie interrupts. “According to you, it was,” she raises both hands, creating air quotes around the next words, “best sex you’ve ever had.”

“We had sex once,” you continue. “What more is there to say? I don’t need to dwell on him.”

Evie rolls her eyes. “Please. After that night, you changed. We all saw it. Even if none of us said anything to you at the time.”

You pause, pulling back a bit. “What do you mean?”

Evie sighs heavily. “I saw Ghost chase after you. I saw him standing on the curb. I saw him watching the cab drive off. And I saw your face when you turned away from staring at him.” Her head tilts to the side a bit. “The emotion on your face. It was like…it was like you knew you had just made the biggest mistake of your life.”

“Evie—”

“Shut up and listen to me.” She takes a breath. “Sorry. It’s the hormones. I’ve been moodier lately.”

And your husband is dead.

Evie winces as she adjusts on the bed. “When we arrived back to the hotel from Riot Room, did you realize you were smiling like an idiot in love? I know who you were thinking about. You told us every detail in the cab. And as you talked, you couldn’t stop grinning.” Evie removes her hand from her belly to rub at her lower back.

You stare down at your hands.

“A man doesn’t chase after someone he doesn’t want. Then you tell me that this morning, he ran after you? It’s been three years, and he still tried to catch you.” Evie shakes her head. “What isn’t clicking here?”

You open your mouth and Evie points at you. “Don’t make an excuse. I don’t want to hear it.”

“Then what’s your plan?” you sigh, playing with the hem of your shirt.

Evie’s lips purse and she taps the top of her stomach. “There’s a little café across the street. We can camp out. Watch the shop.”

“So we’re going to stalk him?” you ask skeptically.

“Yes!” Evie holds out a hand. “Give me your computer.”

Reluctantly, you do so. Evie rests it on her stomach. Opening it up, she starts clicking and typing away at the keyboard.

“What’s the name of the shop?” she asks without looking away from the screen.

“One-four-one ink,” you reply, scooting up beside her.

The tip of her Evie’s tongue is between her teeth. She taps away at the keyboard, entirely focused. She looks like Jade right now who always knows all the loopholes in finding shit out about people.

“Ha! Look at that.”

You lean closer and glance at the screen. You meet those dark eyes framed by pale eyelashes that look like halos. It’s Ghost on your computer screen. There is no doubt.

“That’s him,” you whisper.

Evie clicks through the various pages on 141 Ink’s website. Most of it contains information about services, ways to contact the shop, and a gallery of Ghost’s work. There is a very small “About” section that vaguely describes the start of 141 Ink, but nothing jumps out at you. It’s only two sentences worth of information. Other than that, the site is fairly normal.

All of this is right in front of you, and yet you still don’t have any additional information about this man. Ghost is just that. A ghost. A stranger. And yet, when you were in his arms, it felt so natural and comfortable.

Evie grabs her phone off the bedside table and opens Instagram. She enters 141 Ink into the search bar and taps on a result. She grins and hands you her phone. “Look at this. The guy has some serious talent.”

The photos and videos on 141 Ink’s Instagram are a lot more personal than the ones on the website. While many show pictures of completed piercings and tattoos, there are some that are much softer. Like the black German Shepard you noticed basking in the sun on the shop’s floor. There is a photo of him snoozing next to a waiting customer.

It’s personal. Sweet. And you can’t help but smile at it.

And Evie is right. Ghost is incredibly talented. Some of the work is simple and straightforward, but there are many more artistic pieces. They’re gorgeous, as if you’re looking into someone’s fever dream. The color, highlights, and dimension are all unnaturally realistic. Ghost certainly as an eye for this.

It’s such a strange thing to look at all this work, and think about Ghost. When you first met him, Ghost was a haunting shadow. A creature out of hell. Tattoo artists don’t have that same kind of aura to them. At the time, the possibility seemed out of the question. Ghost oozed danger, and you were certain he was going to snap the man’s neck who put his hands on you.

I’ve killed men over less.

It doesn’t make sense.

“Fine,” you finally concede. “We’ll scope the place out from the café across the street. But I am not talking to him.”

Evie rolls her eyes and laughs. “Sure thing.” She closes up your laptop and you take it from her, placing it on top of the nearby desk.

You slide in under the covers, and Evie returns to her book.

The following morning, you and Evie head for the little café across the street from 141 Ink. The sign outside the café says The Bird, and the logo is a blackbird on a branch. The inside is warm. Cozy. It’s early enough that you and Evie snag a corner table next to the window. Not knowing how long you’ll be there, Evie over orders as compensation for the server’s lost time.

When the food is delivered, the table is covered without a spare place to set anything down. It’s an absurd display, but Evie has money to spend, and the two of you will likely be here for several hours.

You fill up your coffee cup and the server tops off your mimosa glass. Evie stuffs her mouth full of pancakes. When the server turns around to leave, Evie grabs her backpack, digging around inside.

“Have some spy gear in there?” you joke, not expecting Evie to remove a pair of binoculars. You set your mimosa flute down on the table and cross your arms. “What is that?”

“It’s for research,” says Evie, shrugging her shoulders. She scans the café with narrowed eyes and then twists toward the window, holding the binoculars up to her face.

“I don’t know you,” you mutter, picking the flute back up to take a long sip. The bubbles in the champagne tickle your tongue, and you decide to swallow down the rest. It’s not like you’re driving. The two of you walked here.

Evie drops the binoculars from her face just as the server comes back to the table. You politely set the champagne flute down and the server uses their pitcher to refill your glass.

“Thank you,” you reply as they nod and turn to leave.

“What time does the shop open again?” asks Evie as she munches on a mouthful of pancake. “You said it was early.”

“It’s way past time now. I’m guessing the time I saw him wasn’t the actual opening time.”

Evie frowns and then holds the binoculars up to her face again. “I don’t see any movement inside.”

“This is absurd,” you say, waving your hand in the air.

“Wait!” Evie lowers the binoculars and you glance out the window.

Your eyes narrow slightly, gaze focusing in on the door of 141 Ink. There is movement. A shadow. A brief pause, and then, the door is opening.

Ghost is standing right there in the doorway as he guides the doorstop with the toe of his sneakers. He wears black joggers, a black t-shirt, and a zip up hoodie that’s open in the front. The hood is down but he’s wearing his signature balaclava. Beside him, the German Shepard appears momentarily before disappearing back inside.

Evie sighs appreciatively. “He is so large. Was he like that when the two of you hooked up? I never really got a good look at him.”

Maybe it’s the space between you and Ghost that makes you feel safe in your observation of him. He is the same, perhaps a bit softer in a few places where the muscles aren’t nearly so defined anymore, but you couldn’t really say for sure. From this distance, Ghost appears the same, but then again, you didn’t actually see all of him.

“He hasn’t changed,” you answer. “Not that I can tell.”

Evie chews around some pancake and then swallows. “I’m going to go talk to him.”

“Absolutely not, Evelyn Green.”

Evie points her fork at you. “Listen, bitch.”

“Evie,” you hiss, glancing around the café to see if anyone heard.

“I am trying to help you,” she says simply, as if it’s the easiest thing in the world to go talk to this man. “And since you’re not going to do it. I’m going.” Evie stands up and cradles her belly, nearly waddling to the door.

“Evie,” you call out, but she ignores you.

You watch in horror as Evie crosses the street and strolls up to the open door of 141 Ink. She knocks on it, waves—likely at Ghost or the dog—and then steps inside. You itch to reach across the table and snag the binoculars to see what Evie is up to in there.

“Oh my god,” you murmur to the air, tossing back the rest of your mimosa.

Several minutes later, Evie reappears in the doorway, and you sigh with relief. But when she steps outside, Ghost follows her. He offers her his arm, and she takes it. The black German Shepard stands guard in the doorway as Ghost escorts Evie to the edge of the road.

When Ghost glances to the left, Evie looks up, sees you, and eagerly points at him with a big grin on her face. Ghost glances to the right, then the left again, before helping Evie across the road. When they make it to the sidewalk, they keep walking as Evie gestures at the door to the café.

Ghost opens the door for her, and when Evie steps inside, her grin is downright smug when she notices you. You can’t run this time. There is no escape from this.

“Thank you,” says Evie as she slides into her seat, her hand on her belly.

“People drive fast on that road,” he replies.

Ghost turns to leave and freezes when he sees you sitting there. You watch as his pupils dilate. Science says that when human eyes dilate like that, it’s because they see someone they love. It’s also a sign of the biological need to reproduce. And you’re watching it happen in real time with Ghost.

Your mouth does not form words. Instead, you simply stare, and Ghost stares back.

Ghost blinks and then he’s almost shaking his head like he’s not sure of where he is. “Enjoy your meal,” he says.

Your gaze drops, noticing the way his hands clench and unclench. You’ve seen him do it before. At Riot Room. When he hesitated in the seconds before touching you.

Ghost exits through the door, and your gaze follows him. He pauses right outside The Bird’s large window. Ghost pushes up his balaclava to his nose and lights a cigarette.

You follow him out the door where he pauses to push up his balaclava and light a cigarette. Then he’s jogging across the street, leaning against his tattoo shop to smoke. Ghost is looking directly at you, and you cannot stop staring back.

Those dark eyes are stones that crush your bones, and no one can pull you from your torment expect him.

It isn’t until he puts his cigarette out and goes inside his shop that you release a deep sigh. Turning back to Evie, you groan at the sight of her feral grin.

“How could you?”

Her grin only widens. “You’re going to be thanking me once you talk to him.”

“What did you say to him?” you ask, exasperated. Evie shrugs, and stuffs more pancake into her mouth, saying nothing. “Evelyn Green, I swear to God.”

Evie stuffs another mouthful of pancake into her mouth. The server reaches out to snag an empty plate and you address them, needing something strong. “Can you leave the mimosa pitcher?”

“Sure,” she laughs, bringing it back a minute later. You immediately pour yourself another glass and stare down at your own breakfast which is entirely untouched.

Evie points to your plate with her fork. “Are you going to eat that?”

“No. I’m getting drunk instead.”

The moment you and Evie return home, Amelia is already in the kitchen with a kettle on for tea.

“How was breakfast?” asks Amelia as she starts setting everything out on the table.

“Amazing!” beams Evie, nearly bouncing on her toes.

“Fine,” you reply, voice monotone.

Evie grabs your arms and gives it a good shake. “We should tell Amelia.”

“Absolutely n—”

You don’t even get your words out before Evie is charging forward. “Do you want to hear who we ran in to at breakfast?”

“Amelia doesn’t need to hear that.”

“Hush,” says Evie, waving you off. “Amelia, are you familiar with the tattoo parlor just a street or two over. Across from the café we went to?”

Amelia nods. “Oh, yes. I’ve chatted with the young man that owns it. Very nice. Very,” Amelia holds her arms wide. “Large. Those muscles on him always impressed me.”

Evie grins and you slouch into a seat. “During my bachelorette party, this one ran off with him for a bit.” Evie points at you over her shoulder.

Amelia tilts her head slightly in confusion and Evie makes a gesture with her hands replicating intercourse.

“Oh,” laughs Amelia, turning in your direction. “Did you?”

The kettle shrieks and Amelia takes it off the burner, carrying it over to the little table, setting it down on a neatly folded towel. Evie takes a seat to your left while Amelia sits across from you.

“I need every detail.” Amelia starts assembling the tea and you slouch further in the chair.

You leave out the act itself, not wanting to detail to Amelia exactly how good Ghost was in that green room.

“And you ran from him?” ask Amelia slowly.

“Twice!” says Evie and Amelia shakes her head in disappointment.

“It’s done,” you reply sharply. “It’s in the past. We need to let this go. I need to let this go.”

Amelia leans back in her chair. “This sounds like a second chance to me. Why don’t you go talk to him? At least find a bit of closure.”

Evie places her elbows on the table. “Or get it on in the tattoo parlor.”

“That too,” nods Amelia.

The alcohol sits heavy in your stomach. “I’m going upstairs.”

“Suit yourself, but tomorrow we’re all going to the pub. On Sunday’s I go to the Dancing Faun. The owner always puts on American baseball on the telly for me.”

“You watch American baseball?” you ask skeptically.

“Oh, yes.” She leans forward as if she’s passing on a secret. “It’s the uniforms.”

Evie cackles, and you roll your eyes.

The next day, near lunchtime, you, Evie, and Amelia all head to the Dancing Fauna. It’s on the same street that The Bird and 141 Ink are on. Amelia assured the both of you that it’s usually an older crowd and that people around your age typically don’t venture inside unless everything else is packed.

Which means you won’t see Ghost. You can cure your headache with more alcohol and call it good.

The outside of Dancing Faun is a deep, forest green with gold accents. The door is solid black. Amelia pushes on it and Evie follows behind with you bringing up the rear. It’s fairly dark inside. The only light comes from a few hanging lamps above the bar and along the wall. Several televisions display various sports including rugby and soccer.

“Amelia! Usual spot?”

You glance to the right and notice the bartender. He’s roughly middle-aged, likely leaning toward the higher end of forty.

“You know it, Ben,” replies Amelia.

“Already have it on. And you brought guests.” Ben’s voice is gruff but his smile is kind.

“Just the two. And only one is drinking.” Amelia gestures at Evie. “This one will need some tea and perhaps something to eat?”

Ben nods and wipes his hands with a bar towel, already moving into action.

Your gaze takes in the rest of the bar. There are only three people taking up seats. Two sit close to each other but with one chair between them. The third person is at the end of the bar, closest to the door and what looks like an entryway that leads to a flight of stairs and perhaps a back room.

As you focus on the man sitting at the end of the bar, you squint, confused at first. Then you notice the black German Shepard snoozing at his feet on the floor. Then the man is turning toward you, his balaclava pushed up to his nose, a beer glass lifting toward his mouth.

He stops. You stop.

Ghost is here. Your wraith. Yet again, the two of you are meeting in unexpected places.

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.

Looking away quickly, you stare at the back of Evie’s head, following Amelia as she starts to introduce you to everyone in the pub. You smile when prompted, but you hear nothing of what is being said. You sense Ghost’s gaze on your back, and the very idea of his eyes on you sends a rippling heat of pleasure down your spine.

It’s not right. It’s not fair. Your body is betraying you.

Amelia turns and you follow her, nearly clinging to Evie in your desperation. Amelia pauses and introduces you and Evie to the two men sitting next to each other at the bar. Then you’re right in front of Ghost and Amelia is beaming at him.

“This is Simon,” she says casually. “Runs the tattoo parlor just a few shops down. He’s the only young one we allow around here.” Amelia grins and you want to flee all over again.

Ghost—or rather, Simon’s—gaze is fixated on you. Unmoving.

Amelia pats your shoulder. “I know the two of you know each other, but it’s been a while. How about you two catch up and Evie and I will go enjoy the game.”

“Amelia—”

“Sit,” insists Amelia, quickly ushering Evie away.

You’ve been betrayed.

Slowly, you sink down on the stool next to Simon—Ghost? What should you call him now?

“What will it be?” asks Ben, his gaze expectant.

“I’ll take whatever he’s drinking.” Ben shrugs and grabs a glass, filling it up before sliding it over to you. “Thank you,” you murmur.

Ghost sits up straighter, and shifts in his stool. He keeps one arm on the bar top, but the other rests against his leg, his hand poised on his knee. Your knee is touching his, and the very tips of his fingers brush against your jeans.

You have all his attention, that is very apparent.

“Hello,” you say weakly, unsure of where to begin.

“Hello,” he replies, and the sultry purr in his voice breaks something in you.

There is no going back.

Ghost—Simon? Is all there is.

[emma23]

Nail polish and threats :

Marc/ Steven/ Jake x reader

It was one of those nights. Jake Lockley had once sworn he wouldn’t babysit anyone outside of Marc and Steven’s shared chaos, yet here he was, driving his cab through the pouring rain with Y/N tied up in the backseat. Her stubbornness was as legendary as his bad temper, and tonight it felt like they were in some kind of endurance match to see who could out-annoy the other.

"Let me guess," she drawled from the backseat, twisting her wrists slightly in the loose bindings, "you’re not even going to offer me snacks during my abduction. Worst kidnapper ever."

Jake scowled at her through the rearview mirror. "You got a real funny way of beggin’ for your life, sweetheart."

"Begging? Please." She scoffed. "I’ve been through worse than you, Lockley."

His grip on the wheel tightened, a muscle in his jaw ticking. "Keep talkin', and you’ll find out exactly how bad I can be."

She leaned forward, unbothered by his threat. "Do you even know why Marc wanted to drag me into this mess, or are you just blindly following orders like a good little lapdog?"

Jake slammed the brakes, the cab skidding slightly in the rain. He turned to glare at her. "You wanna find out what happens when Marc’s not in charge?"

Her grin widened. "That’s exactly what I’m counting on."

The plan—if you could call it that—was for Marc to "convince" Y/N to cooperate with their latest mission. Jake, of course, was the muscle, brought out for situations requiring a heavy hand. But now, standing in the dimly lit warehouse, it was clear that Y/N wasn’t going to make this easy for anyone.

"You broke my nail!" she suddenly yelled, holding up her hand dramatically.

Jake froze, blinking at her like she’d grown a second head. "Are you kidding me? I just threatened to kill you, and you’re worried about a nail?"

"Do you think I’m afraid of death?" she countered, her voice dripping with mockery.

Jake blinked again, at a loss. "Most people are."

"Well, I’m not most people," she said with a smirk, examining her hand. "But I’ll tell you what I am: a woman who refuses to die with a bad manicure. So if you’re going to kill me, at least let me file this first."

From somewhere deep inside, Marc’s voice piped up. "Is she serious? Jake, what is wrong with her?"

“Nothing’s wrong with her,” Steven’s gentler voice chimed in. “I think she’s brilliant. Honestly, mate, maybe we could let her go?”

Jake rolled his eyes, muttering under his breath. "One of you needs to shut up, or I’ll tie her up again just for the peace and quiet."

"What was that?" Y/N asked, narrowing her eyes at him.

"Nothing," Jake snapped. "Mind your business."

"Hard to do when you keep muttering like a lunatic," she shot back.

After a while, Marc took over, his presence evident in the way Jake’s sharp features softened and his shoulders relaxed. He pulled up a chair and sat across from Y/N, his demeanor calm but authoritative.

"Y/N," he began, his tone measured, "we need your help."

"Well, you kidnapped me, so this isn’t exactly a great start," she said flatly.

Marc sighed. "Jake doesn’t have the best…tact. But this is serious. People could get hurt."

"And you think tying me up is the best way to ask for help?"

"To be fair, you did punch me the last time we saw each other," Marc said, raising an eyebrow.

She smirked. "You deserved it."

"Maybe," he admitted. "But that’s not the point. We need you, Y/N. And you need us, whether you want to admit it or not."

She leaned back in her chair, studying him. "You’re better at this than Jake," she finally said.

From deep within, Jake growled, "I can still hear you, sweetheart."

The conversation shifted again when Steven took control. Y/N noticed the difference immediately—the way his eyes softened and his posture became less aggressive.

"Hiya," he said, giving her a tentative smile. "I know this is a bit…intense, but I promise, we’re not trying to hurt you."

Y/N blinked at him. "Who are you right now?"

Steven chuckled nervously. "I’m Steven. With a V."

"Steven," she repeated slowly, her brow furrowing. "Wait, how many of you are in there?"

He hesitated, scratching the back of his neck. "Er…three, actually. It’s a bit complicated."

"No kidding," she muttered. "So let me get this straight. Marc is the grumpy one, Jake is the homicidal one, and you’re…the nice one?"

"More or less," Steven said, nodding.

"And yet, I’m still tied up in a warehouse," she said, her tone dripping with sarcasm.

Steven grimaced. "Right. About that—"

“Don’t untie her,” Jake barked.

“I wasn’t going to!” Steven shot back internally.

Y/N watched the silent exchange, her eyebrows raising. "You guys argue with each other in your head, don’t you?"

Steven blinked at her, startled. "How did you—"

"It’s written all over your face," she said with a smirk.

Hours passed, and the tension in the room began to thaw. Marc returned briefly, ensuring that Y/N wasn’t going to bolt the second they untied her, but it was Steven who ended up sitting with her the longest, chatting about anything and everything.

"Jake’s not as bad as he seems, you know," Steven said at one point.

"I don’t know," Y/N replied, her lips twitching into a smile. "He seems pretty bad."

"You’d be surprised," Steven said. "He cares a lot more than he lets on."

"Does he, though?"

"Oi, don’t make me regret being nice to you," Jake’s voice snapped from somewhere deep within.

Y/N laughed, the sound warm and genuine. For the first time that night, she felt like maybe—just maybe—she could trust them.

"That was a mistake," Jake muttered later, his voice gruff as he leaned against the wall, watching Y/N curl up on the couch.

"Which part?" she asked, smirking at him.

"All of it," he said. "You, this mission, everything."

"Don’t sound so happy to be here," she teased, her tone light.

He sighed, running a hand through his hair. "You’re gonna be the death of me, sweetheart."

"Maybe," she said with a grin, "but at least you won’t die alone. You’ll have Marc and Steven to keep you company."

Jake groaned. "You’re impossible."

"And yet, here you are,"

[navybrat817]

Negotiations

Pairing: Sugar Daddy!Andy Barber x Female Reader Summary: You meet with Andy to discuss the terms of your potential contract. Word Count: Over 4.2k Warnings: Slow burn, reader is broke (is that a warning?), sugar daddy offer, tension, slight insecurities, negotiations, inner monologue, Andy Barber (he's a warning, okay?) Graphic talent and thanks: Banner - @sgt-seabass, Divider - @firefly-graphics , Header - yours truly A/N: Welcome back to my Terms and Conditions AU! Beta read by the lovely @whisperlullaby (thanks!), but any and all mistakes are my own. ❤️ Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog for new fics and notifications. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!

Work felt like the longest shift even though it was only a few hours. You saw the customers through a different set of eyes as you served them. You wondered how many of them struggled like you or what they would do if someone like Andy entered their lives. If you came to an agreement with him on everything, you weren't sure if you'd ever step foot in the diner again after you quit. Not because you were embarrassed.

It was merely time to look forward.

And look my best.

You turned to the side when you checked your reflection. Estelle had way too much fun picking out an outfit for you. After carefully searching and sneakily looking at the price tag so she didn’t splurge, you opted for a sleeveless, blazer style dress. Nothing over the top or too fancy. You still wanted to look like you while looking professional.

Though she insisted it was your birthday gift, along with the surprisingly comfortable black heels, you planned to pay her back. Whether from the money Andy gave you or once you got your paycheck months from now at your new job. If she refused, you’d tell her the only gift you needed was her support and she gave that to you. Like she knew you were thinking about it, she messaged you.

“Good luck! I know you look hot! Knock his socks and pants off! He better give you everything you deserve!”

You had to smile at her enthusiasm. “It’s his office. His pants are staying on.”

“You say that now, but he’s the boss. You’ll change your tune once he has his hands on you.”

Laughing as you tucked your phone away, you couldn’t completely disagree with her. Andy robbed you of your breath whenever you saw him and it surprised you that you could maintain logical thinking when he was close by. You had to maintain that rational headspace today. He was a man used to people telling him what he wanted to hear. As an ex-lawyer and businessman, he could sway things in his favor if you weren’t careful.

Considering what he was offering you, it didn’t once feel like he was taking advantage of your misfortunes.

You stopped yourself from messaging Andy that you were on your way. He was a busy man with more important stuff to deal with than a check-in from you. It would be one of the topics of discussion shortly anyhow. Would he want to know where you are at all times or would he be content with the occasional message?

How much control will he want over me? How much do I want to give him?

Thanking and paying the cab driver as you arrived at the building, you didn't feel as out of your element the way you did at the restaurant. The office setting was familiar. It was bittersweet going inside though for something that wasn't work or an interview. Maybe this was better.

You held your head high as if it was.

I can do this.

You handed your bag over for the security officer to check while he verified your identification. Satisfied once he double checked your name and ID, he handed you a guest badge and allowed you to go to the elevators. It comforted you that Andy and his employees were safe when they went into his building. You wondered how often you'd be here or if he'd keep you away from his office outside of functions.

You avoided looking at anyone as you got into the elevator, though you felt the eyes of a couple of men sweep over your body. It didn’t matter what they thought. Andy was the only one you wanted to look good for. As you passed by each floor, the more you worried about breaking into a sweat. You shifted back and forth until the door opened.

One step closer.

It took you a second to move your feet forward and turn down the hall. It seemed to stretch on for miles, the door at the end of it was large and daunting. It was like entering the lion’s den, but you weren't afraid. Even if you did pause again before you turned the handle and walked in.

An older woman, Irene according to the nameplate on her desk, sat outside of a set of double doors, giving you a kind smile as she looked up from her keyboard. You didn't let her appearance fool you. Anyone who worked for someone as powerful as Andy likely had thick skin and a "take no crap" attitude.

"How may I help you?"

"Hi. I'm here to see Andy Barber," you replied, giving her your name and inwardly wincing. Of course, she knew you were there to see him. Why else would you be there?

"Yes, Mr. Barber is expecting you," she smiled, pressing the intercom on her desk. "Mr. Barber, your 4pm is here."

"Send her in, please."

It isn't fair that he sounds sexy through a speaker box.

"May I get you anything to drink?" she asked.

"No, thank you," you smiled, following her as she opened the double doors.

This is it.

The office was just as you imagined, the walls lined with a mixture of art and accolades. A small table and chairs sat on one side with a couch on the other. It was elegant, but the man behind the desk drew your attention. Sunlight filtered in through the floor to ceiling windows behind Andy, casting a halo around him as he stood up. A symbol of power and authority in his black suit with the skyline behind him, you found it difficult to take your next breath.

He looks like he was born to be in charge.

"It's good to see you again," Andy smiled, walking around the desk and gesturing to the table. "Why don't we sit over here? Did Irene offer you a drink?"

"Of course, I did, Mr. Barber. And before you remind me, I know to hold your calls," she chastised him, which only made him chuckle before she smiled at you. "I'll be just outside if you need anything."

I knew it. Take no crap.

"Thank you," you said, giggling as you walked to the table. "I like her."

"I do, too. She keeps me on my toes," he said as he pulled out the chair for you. "How was your day?"

"Uneventful," you replied, setting your bag beside you. It was nice that he asked. "How are you?"

"My day was just fine," he said, taking a seat. He had a notepad waiting there, similar to yours.

"That's good."

He gave you a half smile and you debated whether or not to continue with small talk. "Nervous?"

“A little bit,” you said, refusing to lie to him. It wouldn’t start things off on the right foot if you did. “I didn’t have ‘Sugar Daddy Negotiations’ on my BINGO card this year.”

He chuckled, the sound beautiful in the large space. “If it makes you feel any better, I didn’t either," he joked. "And you don’t look nervous.”

“It actually does,” you smiled. “How do I look?”

“You look beautiful.”

“Oh,” you said, your cheeks growing warmer the longer he gazed at you. While you wanted that to be his reaction, it was somehow unexpected. “I wasn’t fishing for a compliment, by the way.”

“And I wasn’t taking the bait. I’m telling you what I see.”

“Thank you. This was a birthday gift from Estelle,” you said, smoothing out the dress even though you were sitting. Why you felt the need to tell him, you weren’t sure.

“It’s a beautiful dress, but I was talking about your smile,” he said, his lip tugging in a small smile of his own before he cleared his throat. “As much as I’d like to sit here and continue to shower you with praise, maybe we should save that for another time.”

Your throat went dry at the implication, but you didn't want to get ahead of yourself. “Of course."

"Today is about figuring out our terms and setting expectations. I plan to take notes as we go along, if you don't mind."

"That's fine because I plan to do the same," you explained as you took out your notepad. "I’ve made a list of things I believe we should discuss and agree on before moving forward."

“You’re prepared,” he said, a hint of pride in his voice. "And getting down to business like last time."

“I do what I can,” you said, glancing at the first item on your list. “First thing is the length of our contract. You mentioned Mr. Huffman’s merger could take a few months, but there’s no definitive timeframe. My proposal is six months or when the job becomes available, whichever comes sooner.”

He considered your words carefully. “I spoke with Scott again and a merger like this may take a minimum of six months due to the range of variables. I propose a year or when the job becomes available. It hopefully won’t take that long, but I’d feel more comfortable if we have more time as opposed to less.”

A year was a long time, but you understood his perspective. “Why don’t we meet in the middle? Nine months.”

“Nine months, but if the merger is still pending at that time, we can revisit the contract and extend it if needed,” he proposed.

“Agreed,” you said, jotting down your notes on your pad while he did the same. “My job. You said I would need to quit and I’d be unable to take another position while under contract. I have no objections to that, but I won’t flat-out quit the diner. I’ll put in my two week notice. If they tell me not to come back, that’s on them.”

“I think that’s the respectable thing to do,” he said, nodding to your pad. “I don’t know where living arrangements are on your list, but I’d like to discuss that next.”

You wanted to discuss your free time since you wouldn't have a job any longer, but you would circle back to that. “Okay. You said over lunch that you’re not comfortable with me staying in my current place.”

“I did and I stand by that. I understand that my building doesn’t guarantee complete safety over yours because anything could happen anywhere at any time, but knowing you’re close by would help put me at ease. I have a loft ready to go and you can treat it as your own place. If something isn’t to your liking, we can change it within reason.”

“Within reason?”

Andy smirked slightly. “I can’t exactly take a sledgehammer to the wall if you want to make the space bigger,” he said, taking out his phone and pulling up an image. “But it’s a nice place. Feel free to swipe through it.”

The photos were beautiful and the living room alone looked larger than your entire apartment. “Is spending time at your place an expectation?” you asked.

“I’d like it if you did for an occasional dinner, but I understand if you'd rather not. I'd also like to meet you once a month outside of contractual obligations to talk.”

Sounds like a date. Is it though?

“I agree to the loft, the occasional dinner, and meeting with you once a month," you agreed. It wasn't overwhelming or demanding. You'd still have a sense of independence. "But I’d like to keep my current apartment. If I take this job in the upcoming months, I can't expect you to cover the loft anymore and I doubt I could afford it even with a decent salary. I’ll need a place to go back to until I find something better.”

"I own it," he said. He wasn't bragging in your mind. He was stating a fact.

"I doubt I could afford your rent then. I keep my apartment."

“Done,” he said after a moment. You were glad he agreed. Your apartment was still yours. “Which is a good segway into expenses. As a reminder, I plan to cover the rent for your current apartment, along with any bills associated with it such as cable or internet. If you prefer to shut those off during the contract, we can. I’ll also cover your cell phone, insurance, credit card bills, student loans, any debt you pay on a monthly basis. Oh, and groceries.”

Tears filled your eyes as he opened his mouth to continue. The more you tried to compose yourself, the more your face scrunched up. “I’m sorry,” you whispered. You hadn't expected to get emotional, but actually hearing him say he’d cover your monthly bills and help you stay on top of everything was unreal. You'd sleep better at night knowing you had nothing to worry about.

I probably look ridiculous.

“Don’t be,” he said gently, handing you his handkerchief so you could dab your eyes.

“I’m just,” you stopped to take a breath. It was okay to be vulnerable. That was part of communicating. “I’ve carried this stress on my shoulders and knowing that you’re going to take some of that weight away is… I’m never going to be able to repay you for that or thank you enough.”

“I don’t expect a monetary repayment nor would I want that. I told you, honey. You're an honest and kind person. Your company is going to be more than enough.”

He sounds too good to be true.

“You say that now, but you'll grow tired of me,” you teased, holding out your hand to give him the handkerchief. “Thank you.”

He shook his head and refused to take it back. “Keep it. And considering I offered a year for this, I know I won't grow tired of your company,” he said, a bit of concern in his eyes as you sniffled. “Are you okay to continue? We can take a break.”

“I'm fine,” you promised, straightening up and feeling lighter, like the weight was already gone. “We were discussing expenses.”

“Yes,” he smiled, gesturing to your outfit. “I plan to take you shopping so you can have a few outfits, jewelry, shoes, make-up, and whatever else you need ready for the planned upcoming events, as well as some dressed down outfits so you’re comfortable when we travel and to spruce up your wardrobe if you’d like.”

Careful. You’re going to spoil me.

“I’m also going to deposit two thousand dollars into your account each month for your leisure,” he added, writing it on his pad as if that was the final say in the matter.

“Two thousand dollars?!” you nearly shouted. You weren’t trying to sound hysterical, but you failed. “I’m sorry, but who spends that much on clothes each month?!”

Andy looked like he was trying not to laugh at the incredulous look on your face. “You don’t have to spend it on clothes. It’s for you to use as you wish.”

“But you’re already buying me a whole new wardrobe AND covering all of my bills and expenses for nine months. I’m assuming you're covering travel expenses, too?”

“I will,” he confirmed.

“Then there’s no reason why I’d need that much money,” you said with a shake of your head. Estelle would probably tease you for not agreeing, but it was too much. “I can’t possibly need more than five hundred a month.”

“One thousand,” he said firmly as you narrowed your eyes. “Humor me, honey. Please?”

You tapped your pen against the pad as you thought it over. You really didn’t see a reason for that much, but you could put any leftover funds each month into savings. It would be good to pay Estelle back.

Plus, how could you argue when Andy gave you a sweet smile?

“Fine. One thousand each month,” you said, ignoring the look of satisfaction in his eyes. “Okay. We’ve discussed the length of the contract, my job, living arrangements, expenses, which includes traveling. How about traveling itself?”

“Is your passport current?” he asked.

“It is.”

“Good. Some of the traveling will require us to go out of the country and you’ll need it handy. We’ll need to coordinate our schedules so you can block off dates in your calendar. We’ll most likely share a suite for any non-local events, but I’m not going to make you share a bed with me. You have my word.”

You nodded as you wrote that down. It was a bit of a surprise that he didn’t expect you to sleep with him. “Thank you, Andy,” you said, pointing at him with your pen. “But I’m planning to tell Estelle about every function, big or small, so she knows where I am. I won’t budge on that.”

“You’re allowed to give her the details. You said you trust her and that she can be discreet.”

You could never picture Andy as a creep, but the confirmation that he wouldn't force you to sleep with him and that Estelle would know what's going on helped you relax. "If I'm not working or going to functions with you, what am I doing with the rest of my time?" you asked.

Does he expect me to be at his beck and call?

"I'm glad you asked. It's your time to do what you want. Relax, hang out with friends, pamper yourself. Minus the days you'll have blocked out in your calendar, the time is yours," he explained, lightly twirling his pen in his hand. The motion momentarily distracted you. "I only ask if you plan to leave the city to tell me, that way I know you're unavailable if anything last minute comes up."

You weren't sure what you were going to do with that extra time. While a nine month long vacation sounded nice, you didn't want it to be all leisure. You needed somewhat of a routine. Maybe you could take some self development courses to prepare for going back to the office.

"That's fair. I don't have any plans to leave the city, but I'll be sure to let you know if I do," you said, hoping you weren't missing anything as you looked over what you had written down. "What if I’m sick or there’s an emergency and I can't be with you?”

“Then you won’t go," he said as a matter of fact. "I’d never ask you to choose between this arrangement and your well-being or family. Depending on the situation, I could miss it to help you.”

That was unexpected. Andy shouldn't have to put you ahead of any of his obligations. The offer though, even if it never came to fruition, warmed your insides. "That's kind of you, Andy," you said softly before you cleared your throat. “The last topic I have written down is sex.”

“No,” he said, something unreadable in his eyes at the suggestion. “Sex is not on the table because I’m not going to pay you for that.”

“Oh,” you said, quickly scratching it off your list. It was admirable on his part, but also slightly disappointing. Clearly you misread some of the signals. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to imply-”

“You have nothing to apologize for,” he assured you, placing his hand over yours before you could pull it away. “If I sounded harsh, I’m sorry. I understand sex is an expectation for some arrangements, but it isn’t for me and I would never want you to feel pressured to be physical with me. I also have no judgments against anyone who pays for sex. My preference regarding intimacy is for it to happen organically.”

“I appreciate the explanation,” you said. This was a business transaction to him. That much was clear. But knowing his reasoning behind it did help. “As far as being affectionate at functions, what’s your take on that? Or going on dates?”

“I may have my arm around you or keep you close to my side, but nothing more if you’re uncomfortable with that. If you are, please tell me and I’ll stop immediately,” he answered before a moment of silence stretched on. "You're asking if we're going to go on dates?"

"You mentioned meeting once a month. Is that a date?"

He waited a few seconds before he answered. "It's a chance for us to meet up and talk. I don't want to demand a title for those moments. That isn't fair to you."

It wasn't a "yes" or "no" answer. Maybe after his divorce and not knowing if people genuinely wanted to connect with him, he wasn't interested in the dating scene. "Okay."

He leaned back in his chair with a hum. “You deviated from the sex discussion quickly.”

“You said it wasn’t on the table,” you reminded him. You weren't about to make a fool of yourself by pushing.

“I said I wasn’t going to pay you for sex. I never said sex wasn’t on the table at all,” he pointed out. You jumped to the conclusion that he didn't want it because it wouldn't be part of the contract. “Any discussion we have regarding that, I’d prefer not to be in a contract form.”

“So if it does happen, we’ll work through it together naturally?” you asked, not wanting to get your hopes up.

His gaze softened considerably. “Yes, we would. And I’d hope you’d trust me enough to know I’d treat you well and take care of you.”

"I do," you said.

"But sex and a relationship aren't expectations of our agreement or outside of it," he said, taking his hand away from yours. "I want to make that clear."

Andy driving the point home was what you needed, as saddening as it was. At the end of the day, it was a contract. He was paying you for your company. Surely he didn't want anything else. "Thank you for reiterating that. Is there anything else you wanted to discuss that I missed?"

His expression remained neutral, but you imagined it disappointed him that you shifted the conversation back to business. Wishful thinking on your part. "Yeah. The only other thing I wanted to discuss is the possibility of you having a driver."

"A driver?" you asked. Wasn't that a bit much? "I don't mind taking cabs or Ubers."

"I understand that, but I'd prefer if you had a driver. If you have to meet me for an event and I can't escort you myself, they will know exactly where to go. You also won't have to pay for someone to drive you around if you want to go anywhere."

"But you're paying them," you said.

"My job is to cover your expenses," he shrugged, leaning his head back and reaching up to loosen his tie. You stared for far too long. "Told you I want to take care of you, honey."

You shifted in your seat, hoping he didn't take any notice. "I want to pick the driver," you said, a little more breathy than before.

That poor driver is likely going to be bored for the next three quarters of a year being my chauffeur.

"From a selection of my choosing. They're all trustworthy."

"I'm giving Estelle the details of that, too," you said.

"I expect nothing less," he smiled, catching your eye. "Is there anything else you'd like to discuss?"

"Not that I can think of," you said.

He tapped the notepad with his pen. "I'm going to have a contract drawn up, but I won't ask you to sign it for a week. This will give you time to back out if you need to and it will also give you a few days to contact me should you think of anything else."

"One week," you whispered. Could you wait that long? What if you did think of something else?

"Until then," he said, standing to walk back to his desk. He came back with a letter sized envelope. "So you know I'm serious."

Your eyebrows shot up when you opened the envelope. It was a cashier's check for two thousand dollars made out to you. He had it ready for you. "Andy, this-"

"I know we agreed on one thousand, but I was set on two thousand before we talked it over. Even if you decide not to move forward with this, I want you to take it."

Afraid you might cry again, you set the check down and stood up to hug him. He stiffened in your hold and you wondered if you overstepped before he exhaled and wrapped his arms around your back. You thanked him already with your words, so you wanted to do it again with a hug. The way he held you in return, it felt like was saying "you're welcome".

And that you weren't alone.

"I wish we could have that dinner tonight," he whispered, his mouth close to your ear. You shivered before you reluctantly pulled away. "Unfortunately, I have to get drinks with a few executives."

"That sounds terrible," you teased, drawing a chuckle out of him. "I should get going then."

"It is terrible," he agreed, making sure you had the check and your other things as he led you to the door. "I'll see you back here in a week at the same time."

"And I'll hopefully speak to you before then," you said, not wanting to sound clingy.

But the smile he gave you was a sign of hope. "I'd like that."

This is going to be the longest week ever.

I don't need to wait a week. I'm signing on the dotted line! Love and thanks for reading! ❤️

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