#if I tag this enough then I'll never lose it again

[wintrwinchestr]

strangers | part 4

summary: you never would've snuck out of bed last night if you had known it would lead to this—becoming a pawn in joel's sick, depraved game, playing the role of both victim and accomplice. how can the sparing of your life feel so much like a death sentence? how can you ever forgive yourself when your hands are as soaked in innocent blood as his are? how can the kind, gentle man you thought you loved, turn out to be such a monster?

!!PLEASE READ WARNINGS, THIS IS A VERY DARK FIC!!

I've tried to label this fic as detailed and as boldly as possible. I will not be held responsible or bullied off the internet if you choose to read this potentially upsetting/triggering work of fiction anyway.

warnings: joel miller x f!reader, 18+, smut, age gap (reader is college-aged, joel is mid-50s), no outbreak au, serial killer!joel, dark!joel, !!GRAPHIC!! DESCRIPTION OF MURDER AND BLOOD, NON-CON PIV (gonna say rape just in case, reader does not verbally consent), JOEL IS A SICK FREAK WHO GETS OFF ON KILLING, lying/gaslighting, manipulation, stalking, heavy dose of Joel POV, fingering, pussy slapping, edging, breathplay, degrading language used in an unsexy way, consumption of blood, Joel comes on your face, brief mention of somnophilia, reader has hair long enough to grab, development of stockholm syndrome, pet names (baby, darlin', babydoll, sweetheart), story inspired by "preacher's daughter" by ethel cain, vaguely set in the 70s, please respectfully let me know if i missed anything and i will rectify the tags

word count: 11.5k

a/n: this is a dark one, folks. if i haven't lost you already, i might lose you after this one. if this is the stop you get off on, i'm okay with that :) thanks for coming along for the ride. we've still got places to go from here, i'll be glad if you do decide to stick around. i feel very fortunate that the conversation around this story has been positive and respectful and i look forward to keeping it that way <3

divider by @saradika

series masterlist/moodboard

read this chapter on ao3

The office looks so different in the daylight.

The key to the room you’ve been staying in is still the only one missing from the corkboard, but the previously empty coffee pot is now half-full of this morning’s brew, and the ominous ticking of the clock is now mostly drowned out by the sounds of an afternoon football game, playing loudly on the television in the little lounge. 

Joel has only let go of your hand twice since you left town—once to help you up into the truck, and once to help you climb back down. Your fingers have remained interlocked otherwise, even while he was driving, even right now, as you stand in front of the desk and wait for somebody to respond to the sharp sound of the little golden bell reverberating throughout the room. Joel hits his fingers against the top of it again, with a little more agitated force this time, but still, no answer.

“I know this ain’t a five star joint or nothin’, but goddamn…” Joel grumbles, leaning around to peer into the room where, by the sounds of it, a touchdown has just been made. “Hey, buddy! Lil’ help in here?” He shouts, and the sudden intensity of his voice makes you jump. The volume of the game diminishes almost immediately, and a scrawny-looking teenage boy emerges from the lounge, wiping Cheeto dust onto his jeans.

“Sorry about that, sir. Eagles game, you know?” the boy tries to jest, but Joel only hums in response. “Anyway, what can I help you guys with?”

“Was wonderin’ if you might know anythin’ about a girl named Chrissy who was workin’ the night shift in here last night?”

“Chrissy? Sure, she’s pretty new around here, but I’ve worked the mornings after her a few times… Why do you ask? Is she in some kinda trouble?”

Not yet, she isn’t. 

“Nah, nah, nothin’ like that,” Joel reassures, then maneuvers you to stand in front of him. “Quite the opposite, actually. She helped my lil’ girl out last night when she wasn’t feelin’ too well. We’re awfully grateful to her, ain’t we, sweetheart?” He prompts, nudging you in the back. 

You nod, but keep your head down, fiddling with the hem of your dress. 

“Oh! That’s right. She, uh, left a note on the coffee table in there, saying something about keeping an eye on the girl staying here, and the, um…” You flick your eyes upwards as the boy’s sentence trails off, and watch him look Joel up and down once, swallowing hard. “Yeah, just the girl. Guess that was you, huh?” You avert your gaze again quickly when he addresses you, feeling your pulse quicken in panic.

“Mhm, sure was,” Joel answers for you. “That was awfully… kind of her, bein’ so concerned like that. Anyway, we just thought we’d stop by, see if she was around so we could give her a proper ‘thank you’, but I take it she ain’t here anymore? Any idea where she might be this time o’ day?”

The boy expels a sigh, tapping his fingers on top of the counter while he thinks. “I mean, I don’t know her too well… But I know she’s got another job at this bar down the road, The Rattler Room. I think she trades her nights between that place and here, wouldn’t be surprised if she’s got a shift there later tonight.”

“Well, how ‘bout that,” Joel says, clapping his hands on either one of your upper arms. “Guess we know what we’re doin’ about dinner tonight, don’t we, sweetheart?” Goosebumps raise on your skin even in the warmth of the office, and a nauseous feeling swirls in the pit of your belly. You feel somewhat fortunate that Joel wasn’t actually looking for a response from you, because if you were to open your mouth right now, you can’t guarantee that the minimal contents of your stomach wouldn’t come spilling out all over the muddy-colored carpeting. You would’ve never gotten out of bed last night, never tiptoed into this suffocating little room and asked the friendly-looking freckle-faced girl for help with your stupid idea—or hers, as Joel seems to think—if you had known that you would be putting more than just your own life at risk. You know what’s coming next, why Joel wants to hunt her down and stalk her like the predator that he is, and it’s all your fault.

“Let’s get goin’ now, baby. Thanks for your help, son, ‘s much appreciated.” Joel grabs hold of your hand again as he leads you out the door, and you nearly trip over the threshold as he tugs you across it.

He has a sick kind of spring in his step as he drags you back to the room, licking his chops and wearing an amused expression as he shucks off his boots and collapses onto the bed with a groan. You stand at the foot of the bed, frozen, as he grabs the remote off the bedside table and flicks the little square television to life. 

“Whaddyou wanna watch, babydoll, huh? Signal’s kinda spotty out here, but one’a these channels has gotta be playin’ an old Western or somethin’...” You just blink at him, dumbfounded, watching him surf through the staticky channels as if the previous five minutes had never happened. Joel had just started the countdown on the remainder of Chrissy’s life right before your eyes, and all he wants to do now is… kick his feet up and watch some fucking TV? 

“What do you mean, ‘what do I wanna watch’?” You ask, unable to hide the disconcerted edge in your voice.

“Baby, it ain’t a difficult question. Gotta kill time somehow, don’t we?” Joel turns his head in your direction as he addresses you, but otherwise keeps his eyes glued to the television screen, which now seems to be stuck on a snowy channel filling the room with loud, unsettling white noise. “God—dammit,” he curses, smacking the remote against the palm of his hand a few times. Your stomach churns both at the way he beats the inanimate object for its disobedience, and at his ironic choice of idiom.

“Kill time until… what?” 

Joel looks up at you from under his lashes, halfway rolling his eyes at you before giving up on his endeavor altogether and clicking the TV screen into darkness again. “Did you think I was just makin’ shit up last night? You’re gonna bring her to me. Not right now, ‘course. Later, when the sun goes down, we’ll head on over to that bar. I’ll buy you some dinner or whatever kinda shitty food they have, but dessert’s on you, you get me?”

Your vision starts to go a little dark around the edges, and you feel unsteady on your feet as the grim reality sets in that he wasn’t just prattling off some depraved fantasy to you last night, he wants to make it real. He wants to spear a hook through your abdomen and cast you out to sea, dangle you in front of something empathetic and pretty and fragile and lure her straight into his gaping jaw. You can hardly live with yourself as it is, the way you’ve already been so consumed with survivor’s guilt for the past twenty four hours that you can feel the physical weight of it on your soul. But actually being responsible for adding another girl to his collection, your hands just as soaked in her blood as his would be? It will fucking break you. It won’t just be the images of the polaroids that will haunt you, it’ll be the shattering sounds of their screams, the metallic scent of their blood, the nauseating visions of their contorted bodies that will be your own tangible memories now, seared onto the backs of your eyelids because you were there. You’ll never get a decent night’s sleep for the rest of your life, and you won’t deserve one.

“But… you—we can’t take her. It can’t be her.”

Joel sits back against the headboard, crossing his arms, like he wants to see where you’re going with this. “No? Why not, babydoll?”

You cross your arms back at him, widening your stance in order to look more sure of yourself. “Well… That kid. He saw our faces, right? When Chrissy doesn’t show up here again tomorrow night, the police will question him, and he’ll tell them that we were asking about her. They’ll know we had something to do with it.” 

Joel scoffs. “Yeah? Well, maybe they will. Then what’re they gonna do about it, hm? Two of us’ll be long gone by the time tomorrow night rolls around.” He knocks down your logic as easily as he would a house of cards, and you can’t think of anything else to say that might be able to convince him not to do this. The thought of it alone is like a drop of blood in the water, and once he’s gotten a whiff of it, there’s nothing you can do to stop the frenzy. 

“B-but—”

“But what, sweetheart? How long d’you think I’ve been doin’ this, hm? Think I don’t know the rules of the game by now?”

He has a point. Joel has managed to evade capture for this long, surely he isn’t going to start slipping up now. He probably has his ritual down to a science, knowing exactly which type of girl to take, the right place to get the job done, and how long he can stick around for afterwards before his face shows up as a crude drawing on the evening news. The only thing on his mind now is the exciting prospect of being able to get his rocks off in just a few hours, while yours is running a mile a minute thinking about the lifetime of trauma and guilt you’ll be setting yourself up for if you do this, how many different ways it can go wrong, and what could happen to you if it does. 

“Here, c’mere, baby,” Joel beckons, spreading his legs and patting his hand on the mattress between them. “You’re thinkin’ too much about this. Lemme show you how easy it’s gonna be, hm?”

He raises his brows at you when you don’t obey immediately, and you reluctantly crawl onto the creaky bed toward where Joel’s toned arms are reaching out to you. He grabs onto your waist when you get close enough and pulls you against him, situating you so that your back is pressed against his front. He wraps his arms around your middle, and rests his scruffy chin on your shoulder.

“You remember passin’ that bar on our way into town today, don’t you, babydoll? Had a big ol’ neon sign out front, a bright green rattlesnake waggin’ its tail back ‘n forth?”

“Um…” You close your eyes, trying your best to sift through the memories of everything you had seen during the drive. But it’s proving difficult, especially with the way one of Joel’s rough hands is sliding down your belly, finding its way underneath your dress and settling overtop of your panties. He begins to circle his middle finger around your clothed bud, and you hate the way it makes your breath hitch.

“C’mon, think for me, sweetheart. You remember, don’t you?” Joel prompts, a condescendingly teasing lilt in his voice.

A blur of neon green streaks across the backs of your eyelids, and you do remember, kind of. A divey looking place with a few motorcycles and pickup trucks parked out front, relatively isolated and unassuming aside from its kitschy signage.

“Mhm,” you hum, and it comes out more like a whimper. “I… I remember.”

Joel’s swirling finger picks up its pace, increasing the pressure against your clit as he continues to quiz you. “Yeah… And a few miles down past it, there was that abandoned lookin’ lil’ neighborhood, right? Houses were ‘bout fallin’ apart, all the yards were real overgrown… You remember?”

This, you can picture more clearly. It had reminded you of your own starved out hometown, every street lined with boxy two-story houses covered in peeling paint and climbing vines. Some of the homes so decrepit-looking, with their crumbling foundations and boarded up windows, and yet still with an assortment of sun-bleached children’s toys littering the front porch, a wind-chime still singing even if nobody was around to hear it anymore.

All you can do is nod in conformation, too afraid to make any more noises that might sound like you’re actually enjoying this, like it feels good, like you want him to keep going. Fuck.

“That’s where we’re gonna do it, baby. So you gotta listen real carefully, okay? Gonna tell you the plan, ‘n I want you to repeat it back to me, alright? Can you do that, babydoll?” Joel tugs your panties to the side as he questions you, exposing your damp core to the air conditioned room. “Fuck, look at that…” He muses, now using two of his fingers to spread your puffy lips apart and admire the way they glisten.

“Uh huh, I… I can,” you confirm breathily. 

Joe’s fingers travel downwards, focusing their ministrations around the rim of your leaky hole instead. “Here’s what we’re gonna do, sweetheart… Gonna head down there, park the truck ‘round the side. I’ll give ya some cash to go sit up at the bar, ‘n I’ll hang around in the back, keep an eye on you… You’re gonna chat up lil’ miss Chrissy, tell her all about how I snatched you up, made you mine, won’t let you leave my side… You’re gonna use your manners all pretty ‘n nice, and ask her to please, please take you back home, help you get away from that big, scary, mean old man who hurts you so bad—“ He presses a thick finger inside your opening, and you can’t help but moan at the burning intrusion. “Just don’t tell her how much you like it, huh, babydoll?” 

“Y-you… You want me to tell h-her… All of that?” You ask, confused that Joel would instruct you to tell her the truth, when so far, he’s been hellbent on hiding from the world who he truly is, only bearing his teeth when provoked, like a caged animal.

“Mhm, want you to tell her the truth, sweetheart, everything. Not like she’ll be able to do anythin’ about it later, hm?” Joel grabs onto your chin with his unoccupied hand, and shakes your head for you. “No, she won’t. Tha’s right, baby…” He laughs darkly, and you understand his intent now—to taunt you with an opportunity to finally be able to ask for help, to force you to pantomime what could be a real chance at escape, knowing that nothing will come of it. Joel begins to piston his finger in and out of you, and he holds you tightly against him as you squirm and sob.

“You’re gonna work your magic on her, and she’ll take such pity on you, sweet lil’ lamb that you are, of course she’ll take you back home… You’re gonna give her directions to that row of houses, have her take you all the way down to the one at the very end of the street, ‘n I’ll be followin’ close behind in the truck the whole time. Two of you’ll get outta the car, and then—” He sinks a second finger into your warmth alongside the other one, and you make a pained little noise at the stretch, arching your back against him. “Then I get to have my fun,” he snarls into your ear.

You didn’t realize how much tension you’d been holding in your body until now, until Joel had begun using his skillful fingers to render it all down, along with any rational thought you’d had left. You want to fight, want to spit and bite and scratch and push yourself away from him and never let him touch you there again, but you can’t. Your limbs feel weaker and weaker as the muscles in your abdomen draw tighter and tighter, and all you can do is melt against him, let him siphon out all that worry and pain and trauma and replace it with pleasure, at least just for a little while. You’ll grapple with yourself about it later.

You can feel the rumble of Joel’s voice against the skin of your neck, but you don’t register what he says, too consumed by your own pleasure to hear him. You just continue to mindlessly buck into the movements of his fingers, until he yanks them free from your walls and issues a sharp slap to your aching cunt.

“I said, repeat it,” Joel hisses, and you yelp at the sting, your hips stuttering as they continue to chase after nothing.

“S-sorry, ‘m sorry, Joel, please—” You pant.

“You want me to keep goin’? You wanna come? Then repeat it back to me, babydoll, all of it, or I ain’t givin’ you shit. Need to know that you understand, that I can send you out there to bring me some fresh meat and you ain’t gonna fuck it up.”

“Okay, okay, okay, um… Fuck—” you curse as Joel slowly reinserts his fingers, resuming their beckoning motion against that spongey spot deep inside that makes you dizzy. “I-I’m gonna… Tell her… About you…”

“Uh huh, tha’s right… What about me, baby?” He encourages, his fingers working their way back up to the pace they had been moving at before he had deprived you of them.

You try to wade through the dense cloud of fog in your mind, your ability to think slowing down as the heel of his palm stimulates your clit with each rhythmic thrust. “T-that you, um… That you took me, you h-hurt me. And I’m gonna ask her to… To take me home—” “Good, good girl…” Joel praises. “Doin’ such a good job, almost there, babydoll. What comes next, hm?”

You take in a shuddering breath, closing your eyes tightly as you force your brain to recall the steps he had just walked you through. “I make her d-drive me to, um… To that house—”

“Which one, baby? Lots’a houses on that street, which one did I say?” Joel stills his movements, holding your pleasure hostage while he waits for your answer. You try desperately to twist around in his hold and continue to chase after your high, but his grip around your jaw remains ironclad. 

“The one on the… The corner?”

Slap.

“Ain’t what I fuckin’ said. You think I want everybody drivin’ by to be able to hear her fuckin’ screams? Try again.”

You cry out, your abused little hole constricting around nothing. You dredge the depths of your short term memory, desperate to come up with the right answer.

“At the end! T-the one at the end,” you shout, and you’re rewarded with the replacement of his fingers, petting against your walls with just the right amount of speed and force that he knows will have you seeing stars with just a few more strokes.

“There we go… And what’s the last thing I said, sweetheart, hm? Last thing I need you to do…”

You draw a blank, your head filled with nothing other than almost there, keep going, please, please, please. You whine, bracing yourself for another swat to your sensitive cunt as you force yourself to admit, “I-I don’t… Don’t remember.”

Slap.

A debauched, animalistic cry leaves your lips, one that you can’t bring yourself to feel embarrassed of at the moment. “Yes you do, baby. Not gonna let you gush all over my fuckin’ fingers ‘less you tell me. Think. Can’t do shit if the two’a you get to the house and just twiddle your thumbs in the car, can I?”

“N-no, I gotta… Get her out of the car… Right? Is that it?” You’re heaving, completely breathless and covered in the dampness of your own sweat and arousal. At this point, you think you’ll say whatever the fuck he wants to hear if it means he’ll reinsert his fingers and finally let you fall over the edge.

“That’s right, sweetheart…” The hand that was gripped onto your jaw migrates downwards, wrapping itself around your neck. He presses his thumb and forefinger into either one of your pulse points, and you feel like you’re floating as he resumes the movements of his soaked fingers, drawing your orgasm closer and closer to the surface again. “One last thing… Tell me what I’m gonna do to her, hm? Then you can come, baby,” Joel growls, and you can feel him pressing his hard length into your back as he does. 

His voice sounds muffled, like it’s coming from underwater, but it resonates clearly enough for you to understand what he’s commanding of you. A whine forces its way through your constricted throat as you plead, “D-don’t make me, please just—” “Say it, or you’re gonna be watchin’ me do it with an achy, unsatisfied cunt leakin’ all over the fuckin’ floor. ‘S that what you want?”

You don’t want to watch him do it at all. A more sensible part of your brain knows that this is all so wrong, that it’s sick and horrifying and completely deplorable, but the pleasure-seeking part of it doesn’t really care right now. Joel is playing with you like a doll, pulling your strings and posing your limbs as he molds you into his perfect victim. He’s breaking you down, slowly but surely, and although you can feel it happening in real time, he’s proven to you time and time again how defenseless you are to his manipulation, how just a few gentle words and swirls of his fingertips can have you falling apart against him, so that he can put you back together just a little bit differently than you were before. 

“N-no,” you whimper ashamedly.

“Then say it.”

You swallow, and you can feel the cartilage at the front of your throat moving against his hand as you do. “You’re gonna… Kill her,” you rasp through half-full lungs, the words hardly meaning anything to you at all with how close your release is, being dangled in front of you just barely out of reach.

“Sure fuckin’ am,” Joel growls through gritted teeth. “Gonna enjoy every second of it, too, ‘s been so goddamn long. ‘M fuckin’ starvin’ for it, babydoll, you got no idea… Can’t wait to watch that lil’ bitch bleed.”

You ignore his perverted rambling to the best of your ability, the rocking of your hips becoming more spastic as the movements of Joel’s fingers increase in intensity, alongside his own excitement.

“C-can I… Please, Joel—” you beg hoarsely, your own voice sounding distorted and far away as you fuck yourself on his hand. 

“Yeah, babydoll, come for me, such a perfect fuckin’ girl…”

Both of Joel’s hands maintain their pressure as the knot in your belly tightens, then unravels all at once. You come undone on his fingers, the motel room filling with the obscene sounds of your wetness and your pathetic mewling as you drench Joel’s hand. He shushes and praises you through your climax, his fingers only ceasing their onslaught once your twitching body finally relaxes and slumps against his broad form. 

Your skin feels cool, tingly all over as the blood rushes back into your head. Joel pulls you into his lap, bending your knees close to your body so that he can cradle you like a child. You must be crying again, because he’s using his knuckle to wipe moisture from underneath your eyes as you shudder against him, reality coming crashing down around you again all at once.

“You’re so good for me, baby, such a good girl… It’s gonna be just fine, you’ll see. It’ll get easier every time we do this, won’t seem so scary anymore…” Joel rubs your back and kisses the top of your head, and you let him believe that you are crying for fear of the brutality you’ll have to bear witness to tonight, and not because you’ve dared to feel pleasure at the hands of the person who will be doing the brutalizing. You feel so fucking ashamed in your post-orgasmic state, but you’re so dehydrated and exhausted that you don’t really have enough energy to scold yourself right now. 

Joel holds you close as he rocks your curled-up form, and you feel too weak to resist the way your eyes begin to flutter closed, the release of tension making way for your poor night’s sleep to finally catch up with you. 

“Get some rest, babydoll, gonna need it. I’ll wake you up when it’s time to go,” is the last thing you hear before you allow yourself to succumb to the temptation of sleep. 

—

You were never supposed to find those polaroids. 

Could Joel have taken the precaution of dumping his box of jerkoff material into a ditch somewhere before you could ever get the chance to find it on your own? Of course. But he didn’t know if he might need it again, if he might someday find himself with another itch that only his little collection of keepsakes could scratch. He had kept them hidden from you for a reason, tried to toss them in the trash and convince you that they weren’t worth getting curious about for a reason—because things were going perfectly well, better than it had gone with any of them. Joel had never planned on adding your photo to the pile.

He had known you were different, that you were the one, from that very first night you’d spent together. You’d been nothing but polite, grateful, and appreciative, even when he’d slid beside you in bed and stolen a taste of all that sweetness you were made of. 

His whole life, Joel has searched for someone like you—someone to submit to him, to rely on him, to need him. That latter trait is the most important one, and the one that all the others seemed to be lacking. They liked feeling cared for and protected, liked bleeding his wallet dry while they spent a few weeks using him as some kind of rebellious experiment to piss off their parents one last time before they moved out of the house. But none of them ever made it very long before they decided that they didn’t really need him after all, that the fling was over, that the spark was gone, that they missed the shitty town he had picked them up from and wanted to be taken back. Ungrateful brats, they all fucking deserved it. And now they never get to go home, they get to rot in the fucking ground where their families will never find them, and he gets to keep their pretty pictures all to himself, asserting his control over them even in death. See how much they fucking need him now, when he is the one thing standing in between a cold case and a funeral.

Joel had known you wouldn’t end up like them, because you do need him. You have nobody, whether you’ll ever be able to admit it to yourself or not. You have no friends, no future, and no family, or at least not any left alive that actually care about you. You have no choice but to rely on him. Who knows what would’ve happened to you if he hadn’t stumbled upon you that night, looking so weak and lost and vulnerable and alone? There are much worse men than Joel out there, men who rape and kill just for the sick pleasure of it alone. At least Joel has some method behind his madness. It’s not like he’d invite a girl into his truck and immediately begin to fantasize about what her windpipe might feel like collapsing underneath his fingers.

Or, he didn’t used to. Not when he first started taking them. 

He’d thought the desire had just disappeared on its own, once he’d found you, his perfect little doll. Joel had meant what he said when he told you that he was going to be done after the last one. But then… Then he’d had you pinned underneath him last night, starving your lungs of air, your eyes red and watery as you’d begged for your life, and he’d realized that he missed it. He craved it. Needed it. The itch was still there after all, demanding to be scratched. But no matter how aggravating and persistent it may get, Joel had decided a long time ago that he’ll never use you to make it go away. It’ll never be you. Even when he’d had his hands wrapped around your throat, he’d never planned on finishing the job. After all, how could he ever live without you when he’d spent so long trying to find you?

And this is the one thing he needs you to understand—that he’s never letting you go. Joel had thought he’d gotten it through to you well enough last night, when he’d given you a taste of the consequences the others had suffered when they’d tried escaping. But you must be stronger than he’s been giving your credit for, judging by the way you still decided to fucking act up today with that dumbass little letter of yours. That’s okay, though. He can handle it. It just means you’ll take a little more effort to break down than he’d previously thought. If he can’t convince you that the only version of your life you were ever destined to live is the one with him in it, then he’ll just have to make you think that it’s your own idea to stay, to submit. He seems to have made some pretty good progress chipping away at your resolve today already. At this rate, he’ll have it whittled down to nothing in no time at all, and you’ll be right back to the pliant little babydoll he fell in love with all that time ago. The one who needs him.

You’ll come back around soon enough, when you finally realize that you don’t have any other choice.

So, maybe Joel is a little glad you found the polaroids. He wouldn’t have ended up here if you hadn’t, skulking around the pool table in the back of the Rattler Room, practically vibrating with anticipation and foaming at the mouth like a rabid dog. He flicks his gaze between the end of his pool cue and where you’re perched at the bar on a cracked leather stool, occasionally catching your eyes when you look back at him nervously. Joel just gives you a nod and a wink every time, and it’s enough to make you turn back around and take another sip of your drink to quell your anxiety. 

You’re probably getting antsy because the two of you have been hanging around here for the better part of an hour, and Chrissy still hasn’t shown yet. But this is just one rule of the game—waiting. Patience. A predator doesn’t go in for the kill the second they lay eyes on their prey, do they? They have to study their movements, make sure they’ve got the little creature right where they want them, with their belly up or their neck exposed or their back turned, and then they pounce. You’ll learn the rules soon enough. With each of these little hunts that you accompany him on, you’ll learn. There may even come a time when you pick out the girls yourself, because you see it as an act of service, of love, satiating his hunger like this. 

The next time you look back at Joel, you move like you’re about to get up from your seat and walk over to him, but he gives you a stern look that says “Stay put.” He jerks his chin upwards, toward where his pretty piece of meat is now emerging from behind the bar. Joel wonders if you believe the web of lies he’d spun about her today, if they were enough to convince you that Chrissy had taken advantage of you, that she’d manipulated you, that she deserves this. He hopes that you do, so that her death might weigh a little less on your conscience, so that you’ll put up a little less fight the next time his itch needs scratching. 

God, that slender neck of hers is just begging for Joel’s blade. His upper lip twitches as he imagines the sight of her deep crimson blood dripping down her ivory-colored skin, her face becoming impossibly paler as her heart flutters out its last few beats before stopping altogether. Joel usually saves his knife for special occasions, when he needs the execution done quick and dirty before her screams wake up the entire fucking neighborhood, or in instances like his last girl, when she just needed to be put out of her fucking misery. But he might use it tonight, just because. Because he’s hungry. Because he’s so fucking hard he doesn’t think he can make himself suffer through the amount of time it takes to strangle a girl. 

Joel watches from the shadows as Chrissy seems to recognize you right away, reaching for your hands across the bar as she says something to you that he can’t make out. Judging by the pitied expression she wears, the way she leans into you, he guesses it’s something like, “I’m so glad to see you. Are you okay? Are you hurt? Do you need help? Do you need me to save you from that big horrible monster who’s making your life so miserable?” Joel rolls his eyes at the imagined conversation. He sets his pool cue back on the rack and takes a seat at a small corner table, keeping his head low as he sips his beer, adjusting himself while he watches the way the tendons in Chrissy’s neck tighten and flex as she speaks. He can practically see her carotid artery pulsing underneath her skin, can already taste the iron on his tongue from the flecks of blood that will inevitably splatter onto his lips when he slices it open.

Calm the fuck down, Miller. It’ll be playtime soon enough.

The two of you talk for another minute or so, and Joel gathers that you must be reciting the lines he’d taken such care to teach you today. Chrissy’s brows furrow, her lips part, and she places one of her small hands over her chest as she listens, as if your rehearsed little sob story is just too much to bear, so tragic and devastating that it’s actually causing her physical pain to hear. She retrieves a paper napkin from underneath the bar, and hands it to you so that you can use it to dab underneath your eyes. Jesus, are you crying? You’re even better at this than he thought you’d be. 

Your shoulders shudder as you finish drying your tears, and Chrissy glances behind her at the clock on the wall, pausing to think for a moment before she turns back to you. Whatever she’s saying, she looks sure of herself, determined, and you nod your head on just about every other word. “Okay?” is the only one he can read on Chrissy’s lips, the last one she says to you before she begins serving the other patrons sitting at the bar. You continue to sip at your drink with your head hung low until she disappears into the back again, and when you swivel around in your stool, Joel is already staring at you. He makes a beckoning motion with two of his fingers, and you hop down from your seat, scurrying over to him as if he were whistling at a dog to come.

“She, um…” You start, checking behind you once to make sure Chrissy is still out of sight. “She said she’ll take her first break early, in an hour or so, and then… Then she’ll drive me home.”

A satisfied grin tugs at the corner of Joel’s mouth. “Alright, ‘nother hour it is, then. That wasn’t so hard, baby, was it?”

You shake your head, avoiding eye contact while you swirl your finger around the condensation from Joel’s beer bottle that’s collected on the lacquered table. You open your mouth like you want to say something else, but close it again quickly, seeming to think better of it.

“What is it, sweetheart, hm?” Joel prompts, curling a rough hand around the back of your bare thigh.

“I just… Wish it didn’t have to be her. She’s really nice.”

So were the rest of them, Joel thinks, until they tossed him aside like a chewed piece of gum. “Nice” doesn’t mean shit to him. Lots of girls are nice. And pretty. But they all fucking sound the same when they’re begging him to stop.

Joel bites his tongue, despite his supply of faux sympathy running dangerously low, and musters up what little there is left of it in order to give you the last little push that you need. “Oh, babydoll… You shouldn’t feel bad about somebody who did you wrong sufferin’ the consequences of their actions. I know she seems nice, but she ain’t a good person, baby, I told you that already—”

“I know, but—”

“But nothin’. It’s already been done, sweetheart, you gotta stop thinkin’ about it so hard. Just get back up there, hm? Be over before you know it.” 

Joel uses his grip on your thigh to spin you around, and sends you back up to the bar with a lewd swat to your ass. He stares at the way it bounces underneath the too-short skirt of your dress, and leans back in his chair as he takes another sip out of his sweating bottle. 

The next “hour or so” passes at such an excruciatingly slow pace, he’s stopped himself nearly a dozen times from flagging down a waitress and requesting another beer. He’ll have to make do with just the one, if he wants to be sharp, present, so that he’ll be able to savor every moment of both the hunt and the slaughter. Joel had forgotten how exhilarating the entire process is, how arousing it is to lurk quietly in the shadows, without the little thing having any idea that he’s there, until it’s too late. 

He bides most of the time by just sitting, staring, thinking. About if Chrissy will be more of a begger or a screamer, if she’ll waste any of her breath trying to plead with him and change his mind, or if she’ll just cry herself hoarse in hopes that somebody will hear her pathetic wailing and come to her rescue. Joel chuckles to himself when he remembers the one who kept insisting that “I have a boyfriend, you know. I bet he’s been looking for me, he’ll be here any minute now and he’ll fucking kill you.” Joel had doubled over laughing as he gestured around to the isolated patch of woods he’d dragged her out to, nearly pitch black and dead silent, save for the pale light of the waning moon and the sounds of her heaving sobs. “Oh, you got a boyfriend, do you? Tight lil’ virgin cunt was tellin’ me otherwise, but nice try, sweetheart,” Joel had taunted. Her photo was one of his favorites—a neck-down view of her kneeling form, featuring her chained together wrists and her filthy hands and knees, dirt-stained from how he’d taken her on the ground one last time.

Well, her first time. Whoops.

He’s got a white-knuckled grip around the neck of his empty bottle by the time he’s pulled out of his trance, the movement of two bodies up at the bar distracting him. Joel’s eyes refocus in time to see Chrissy draping her coat over your shoulders, ushering you out the back door after giving the room a once over. Not a very thorough one, considering she had basically looked right at him and didn’t seem to recognize him, but that’s more situational awareness than he can give most of the others credit for.

Too bad it won’t do her any good.

Joel feels like he’s got an electrical current pulsing through his bloodstream as he gets up from his seat, allowing the two of you a few paces’ head start before following in pursuit. He spots the flame of Chrissy’s red hair as she hurriedly helps you into the passenger side of her shitty Pinto, the door’s rusty hinges squealing loudly into the night. The back parking lot of the bar is poorly lit in contrast to the neon illumination from the rattlesnake out front, allowing Joel to slink behind Chrissy’s car and over to his own truck undetected. He situates himself behind the wheel, making sure to keep an eye on his rearview mirror as he rummages through his backpack and sets the tools he’ll need on the side of the bench seat that you usually occupy—his knife, a length of rope, and his camera.

Just like Joel had promised you earlier, he pulls out of the parking lot just behind the two of you, and keeps a close—but not suspiciously so—distance as he chugs down the poorly paved road, maintaining a speed-limit obeying pace and keeping his headlights off for good measure. He even refrains from having any music playing as he chases after you, the choice partly because he’s too dialed in to bother futzing with the tape player, and partly because he doesn’t want to risk making any noise that would raise even a modicum of suspicion, aiming to disappear into the shadows altogether for the next couple of miles.

Joel is nothing but a ghost, Death himself riding his pale horse into the silent dark, in pursuit of yet another sacrificial lamb to add to his flock. He’s lost count of just how many he has in his possession now, but he never gets tired of the way they bleat and cry and thrash as they struggle to escape his scythe. None of them ever seem to understand that they were each promised to him a long, long time ago, when Joel was already grown but they had only just been conceived. They’d been born onto a path that would eventually lead them directly into his waiting arms, where he would show them love and affection and pleasure and ecstasy and whether they were to reject his offerings or not, Joel would always take what was rightfully his, in the end. 

Joel holds his breath as Chrissy’s car approaches the intersection of the rundown neighborhood, but releases it when she makes the sharp left turn that you must have directed her to take. Good girl. He turns his own wheel more slowly, creeping carefully down the road until he finds a large, overgrown shrub to tuck his truck behind, out of sight from the two little creatures now exiting the Pinto and crushing mounds of dried grass under their tentatively stepping hooves. Joel kills the truck’s engine, his teeth chattering in anticipation as he swipes his tools from the seat beside him and slides himself out from behind the wheel. He reaches behind him to slot his knife underneath his belt, then begins his prowl towards the house with the rope and camera clutched in either hand. 

“No offense, but… You live here? Are you sure?” Joel hears Chrissy ask you, bending over to peer into a hole near the house’s foundation where some of the siding has rotted away. 

That’s right, stay down, just like that.

Joel is only a few paces away now. 

“W-well, it’s um… I h-haven’t really been here in a while, to be honest,” you respond, stuttering your way through the first lie you could think of in order to keep the charade going. You sound like you’re making it up as you say it, but that’s okay. Joel is closing in on his target now, it doesn’t matter if your trembling voice had set off the trap or not. Chrissy is already caught in it.

He’s so close he can smell the redhead’s rosy perfume that she had applied before her shift, can practically see the fine hairs raise on the back of her neck when she hears the snap of a dead tree limb coming from behind her. She lets out a little gasp, and whips her head around just in time to see Joel’s icy expression as he shoves a filthy boot into the back of her knee, making her yelp as she collapses onto all fours. Her hands scramble desperately for purchase in the thicket of dead foliage, but Joel is on her before she can regain her balance.

“Yeah, tha’s right… Down, bitch,” Joel spits, straddling her back and using his weight to push her body flat against the ground. “Hold onto this, babydoll, will ya?” He passes his camera off to you, not taking his eyes off Chrissy’s squirming form as you accept it quietly.

Joel grabs hold of Chrissy’s flailing wrists and wrenches them behind her back, squeezing her abdomen hard between his thighs as he does. “Hold fuckin’ still, ‘less you want me to break some bones while I’m at it,” he barks, but it does nothing to deter her futile efforts. She kicks and bucks and thrashes underneath him, making pathetic struggling noises as he winds the length of rope around her wrists, binding them together. 

“Get the fuck off me! Help me, get him off!” She pleads with you as she yanks against the rope and writhes around in the dirt. All you do is look at her with wide, watery eyes, your chest heaving as you clutch his camera in both of your small, shaking hands. “Are you with him or something? What the fuck is this? Help me, please!” Chrissy shouts, her voice terrified and guttural. 

“Yeah, somethin’ like that,” Joel growls into her ear, before pushing himself up off the ground and using his grip around the rope to pull her up with him. He wraps one arm tightly around Chrissy’s middle, and clamps the hand of the other one over her mouth. “She ain’t gonna help you, she knows better ‘n that... Did such a good job for me, sweetheart, such a good fuckin’ girl… Open the door for me so I can get her inside, now.” Joel watches the muscles in your throat constrict as you swallow hard, your eyes shifting from Chrissy’s terror-stricken ones up to Joel’s as you process his command. He smirks to himself when you do obey, the ribbons in your hair fluttering behind you as you scuttle up the stairs and wrench the door open. 

Chrissy is still shrieking incessantly into the meat of Joel’s hand as he shoves her up the creaking steps, and he supposes that he has the answer now to the pondering he was doing back at the bar—screamer it is. They piss him the fuck off the most, are probably most of the reason why his hearing isn’t as good as it used to be, and why he ends up using his knife more often than he’d like. Strangling is his preferred method—it’s more intimate, more hands on in nature, and makes less of a mess—but sometimes the cleanup is worth it if it means he can get them to shut the fuck up and quit shattering his eardrums with all their annoying fucking screeching that they know won’t do them any good. He’d made a good choice, sharpening his knife earlier while you were still asleep back at the motel this afternoon. Joel wonders when you’ll notice that you’re wearing a different pair of panties than the ones he’d made you come in, having tested the sharpness of his blade by slicing them off of you before cleaning up the mess you’d made with his tongue. 

Joel wrestles Chrissy inside the house, kicking broken glass and sloughed off sheets of yellowed wallpaper out of his path as he walks her into the living room. He turns his head as he instructs you to shut the door, and Chrissy uses the opportunity to bite into Joel’s palm and slam the back of her skull into his temple, hard enough to break the skin.

“Ah!—Fuckin’ bitch,” Joel hisses, forcibly shoving her onto the decaying hardwood floor. Chrissy tries to get up, but he presses the tread of his boot into her chest, keeping her down. He touches a finger to the side of his head, bringing it in front of his eyes to examine the droplet of blood that came with it, along with the indents in the flesh of his hand that are beginning to sprout little crimson beads. “Just fuckin’ askin’ for it, ain’t you?”

Joel looks over at you again, to where you’re standing with your back against the door and wearing the same deer-in-the-headlights expression as when he’d handed the camera to you. You have it clutched against your heaving chest, your eyes impossibly wide as you stare at the scene unfolding before you. He can practically see the gears turning in your brain as it cycles through the options of fight, flight, fight, flight, seeming to have landed on freeze instead. Joel observes you for a couple of seconds, waiting to see if one of your shaking hands will eventually snake its way back to the doorknob, but it doesn’t. Since you know what’s good for you, and all.

“C’mere, babydoll, where I can see you,” Joel orders, jerking his head into the room. Your eyes flutter out a few rapid blinks as you seem to shake yourself free of your petrified state, but your feet remain planted firmly underneath you. You’re standing so rigidly, with your knees locked in place, Joel is surprised you haven’t passed out yet.

“Can’t I just… wait in the truck or something? I’ll stay right there, I promise—”

“You know damn well I can’t take you up on any of your lil’ promises anymore, sweetheart. Besides, seemed awfully interested in how I do things last night, why the sudden change of heart, hm?”

You shift your weight, trying to come up with some excuse while you watch Chrissy try and fail to wriggle herself out from underneath the weight of Joel’s boot compressing her ribcage. “Just don’t do very well around b-blood, is all,” you squeak out pitifully.

Joel rolls his eyes, frustrated at the precious seconds you’re wasting by suddenly complaining about being a little squeamish. 

“Well frankly, baby, I don’t really fuckin’ care. You’re gonna have to learn to get the fuck used to it, I ain’t doin’ this with you every time. Get in here. You can face the goddamn wall, but you’re stayin’ put until this is over, are we clear?”

“Y-yes, Joel, thank you,” you concede shakily. Joel’s eyes follow you as you flit across the room, nearly tripping over chunks of fallen drywall before tucking yourself into a little alcove behind the fireplace and hugging your knees to your chest. 

“Alright… Where was I?” Joel ponders aloud, removing his foot from Chrissy’s chest and crouching down to her level. He grabs a fistful of her shirt collar and yanks her back up to a sitting position, looking down at his bleeding hand and sighing before harshly slapping Chrissy across the face with it. Her head whips to the side from the impact, and he grips onto her bloodied face with his injured hand to turn it back towards him again. “Y’know, I don’t take too fuckin’ kindly to feisty things like you who don’t know their goddamn place. Ain't so gentle with bratty lil’ cunts who think it’s a good idea to fight back, leave their marks on me. Am I, babydoll?” He says the latter part a little louder than the rest, brushing the forefinger of his unoccupied hand across the scar on the bridge of his nose as he speaks. You don’t respond, but he can tell that you hear him, that you know what—who—he’s referring to. “Yeah, she knows… One of her lil’ friends gave me this pretty thing, can you believe that? Suppose she gave me that pretty thing, too.” Joel chuckles to himself at his own double entendre, gesturing to where you’re cowering in the corner. “Poor thing had a friend go missin’ a while back, never knew what’d happened to her. Trail was cold, but she decided to follow it anyway. And Lord, am I glad she did, ‘cause it led her straight to me…”

Joel turns Chrissy’s head this way and that in his grip, enjoying the way she squeezes her eyes tight and flinches as she braces for another impact. She whines and whimpers as his fingernails dig into her freckled cheeks, now smeared with his orange-red fingerprints. “W-why me, then? Why not h-her, how come she gets to live? J-just take her, let me go, I won’t tell anyone,” Chrissy sobs through her teeth, hardly able to move her jaw in Joel’s firm hold. He reaches behind himself and slides his blade out from under his belt, raising it up in front of her face. Her eyes go wide as she lets out a horrified noise, thrashing against him and crying while he examines the way the sharp edge glints in the moonlight coming in from the broken windows.

“Oh, sweetheart…” Joel muses, turning over the blade in his hand a few times before looking up at Chrissy’s terrified face, his expression shifting from something wistful to something sinister, cold. “It ain’t ever gonna be her.”

Joel cranks her jaw upwards and slides his knife across her throat before she can even expel an entire scream from her lungs, the piercing tone of her voice becoming wet and garbled in just a few seconds as she chokes on her own blood. It sprays through the slit in her skin, some of it splattering across Joel’s face and landing on his lips, before coming out as a steadier stream that spills down her pale neck and dribbles from the corners of her mouth. Joel watches on as she convulses and gags, her eyes rolling back into her skull before becoming dead weight in Joel’s grip, and she collapses onto her side when he finally lets go of her jaw, still agape with a silent wail. Her muscles spasm as she bleeds out, the ruby-colored liquid pooling underneath her head and saturating the ends of her auburn hair. Joel licks his lips clean as her wound pulses in time with the beating of her heart, the rhythm becoming slower and slower before fizzling out altogether. It only takes a minute or so for her body to still completely, her gurgling breaths eventually morphing into the death rattle that he’s come to recognize so well. Joel swipes his bloodied blade across his tongue before sheathing it under his belt again, glancing over to where you’re now rocking back and forth, your spine hitting against the fireplace’s stone structure with dull little thumps.

He stalks over to you, ignoring the startled yelp you make as he grips onto your upper arm and drags you to where Chrissy’s cooling corpse is lying in the center of the room. Just like he had done to her earlier, he pushes you onto your stomach and straddles your hips. Only this time, he rucks up the skirt of your dress and yanks your panties to the side, swiftly freeing his painfully hard cock from the confines of his jeans and slotting into you with nothing more than a mouthful of his own saliva to help him ease inside. “Oh, f-fuck, Jesus fuckin’ Christ,” he moans, gripping one hand onto your hip and using the other—the one with a still-bleeding bite mark—to press the side of your head into the filthy hardwood, so that you’re facing Chrissy’s glazed-over expression while he takes and takes and takes. He doesn’t have it in him to be gentle with you, blinded by adrenaline and arousal as he uses you to get himself off. 

“God, you’re so fuckin’ tight when you’re scared,” Joel snarls, snapping his hips into your backside with such force that the clap of skin-on-skin echoes loudly throughout the empty house, nearly drowning out the sounds of your cries. You’ve got your hands splayed out on either side of your head, having dropped Joel’s camera when he’d forced you into a prone position. You make a disgusted gagging noise when the expanding pool of Chrissy’s blood reaches your fingertips, but you can’t pull away with Joel’s body weight holding you in place. You shut your eyes tightly as you sputter and sob, but Joel won’t allow that. He pulls you up onto your knees, pressing you against him and prying your eyes open as he holds your head up by a fistful of your hair. “No, no hidin’ from this, babydoll. You fuckin’ look at her… I do this for you, baby, you see? So that it won’t be you. I just get so fuckin’ hungry, I can’t help myself. I can’t fuckin’ stop. But as long as I live, I swear it’ll never be you. That’s why it’s them instead. You understand, sweetheart? I love you, babydoll, I love you so fuckin’ much.” Joel mumbles the last bit into the supple skin of your neck, sloppily kissing and biting into your flesh, until he isn’t sure to whom the iron taste that fills his mouth belongs anymore.

He gropes and grabs all over your pliant body, grunting curses into your wet skin while he uses your tight, warm hole like a toy. He’s practically been edging himself for the past several hours, starting from when he’d rubbed circles around your swollen clit and used the reward of your own pleasure to manipulate you into doing his dirty work. Joel is surprised he didn’t cream his jeans before now, the release of finally pouncing on his prey and the taste of her blood on his tongue almost enough to make him come untouched. His hips begin to stutter only a handful of thrusts later, but instead of allowing himself to spill inside you like he had last night, he slides himself free of your walls and maneuvers you onto your back, reaching for his camera.

“Smile pretty for me, babydoll,” Joel says, holding the viewfinder up to his eye while he jerks himself off over your used body, his knees planted on either side of your ribcage. The dazed expression you wear looks enough like a smile to satisfy him, and he snaps a photo as he paints your face with his come. Thick white ropes splatter against your skin, already smeared with the blood from his hand and the filth from the neglected floorboards, and you look like the most gorgeous fucking thing he’s ever seen—his perfect doll, his fallen angel, his most precious and favorite lamb, the love of his fucking life. “Startin’ a new collection today, darlin’, since I got rid of the other one… This’ll be the perfect one to start it out.” Joel removes the blank polaroid from the slot, and sets it back down along with the camera to give the image time to develop. He sits back on his haunches as he catches his breath, running his bloodied hands through his damp hair and zipping his spent cock back inside his jeans. Joel stares down at you while you blink slowly, looking ruined with your tangled hair spread out on the floor and your hands resting up by your ears in surrender. Your breathing is slow, shallow, and he trusts that he can leave you there to come back into yourself while he takes care of Chrissy’s body. 

Joel pushes himself back up to his feet with a groan, his knees cracking and aching in protest, and he walks around the first level of the house, peeking into different rooms until he finds one that used to function as a bedroom. There isn’t much left inside, but the wrought iron bed frame still has a moldy sheet draped haphazardly over the mattress. He yanks it free and bunches it up in his arms, carrying it back into the living room and spreading it out on the ground beside the corpse. Joel rips the top hem of the bedsheet from its seams, and wraps it around his injured hand before tying it off with his teeth. He rolls Chrissy’s stiffening figure onto the now-frayed edge of the fabric, tucking it under one of her arms to hold it in place before tumbling her down the remaining length of the linen. He performs the task monotonously and with little strain, as if he’s done so a dozen times, because he has. It doesn’t take very much effort to lift her onto his shoulder; she was already a wisp of a thing to begin with, weighing even less now that nearly her entire blood volume is soaking into the wood beneath where she had been laying.

Joel navigates to the back door of the house, kicking it open with his boot and letting it slam behind him. He walks several yards into the overgrowth behind the house, dodging low-hanging branches and stepping over fallen logs until he reaches a small clearing. He deposits Chrissy’s body onto an area of dried, yellowing grass, before returning to the backyard where he had noticed a dilapidated shed, nearly completely fallen over from several years’ worth of dry rot. Joel grunts as he pries the doors open, and yanks on a rusted metal chain hanging from the ceiling. A single light bulb illuminates the contents of the shed—a decades-old lawn mower, a few bags of grass seed, and some basic gardening tools, including exactly the one he was looking for. He brushes several thick spiderwebs out of the way before grabbing hold of the shovel, and lets it drag behind him as he treks back to Chrissy’s soon-to-be makeshift burial site. Joel digs a shallow grave, not wanting to take the time to complete the entire six feet with you still on your own inside the house, and uses his boot to send her cloth-wrapped body tumbling into the hole, where it lands with a dull thud. He stares down at her bloodied chrysalis, exhaling a shuddering breath as he revels in the final stage of his ritual.

Over the course of his life, Joel has done a lot of thinking about what exactly it is about the slaughter that he finds so titillating. On a particularly sleepless night several years ago, he’d finally landed on the transformation being what arouses him so. Taking a life is not unlike the procedure of sex, he’d realized—there is a start and an end, a before and an after, and an intangible, in between state, where the soul of the other person is slightly separated from their body, placed into the palms of his hands to do with as he pleases. There’s a reason the French came up with that clever little phrase—la petite mort—because sex and death are inexplicably intertwined, at least for Joel. He experiences such a rush, such a release, from taking part in the gruesome metamorphosis in which a girl is transformed into a body, that he can’t help but chase that high again and again and again, even though he always seems to forget that as much as there is the before and the during, there is also the after. 

That troublesome, uncomfortable after.

Joel shakes himself out of his stupor, tossing the shovel in after the body and doing a half-assed job of kicking the dirt he’d excavated back inside the pit. He scatters some fistfuls of grass and a few dead branches on top of the pile for extra camouflage, and then trudges his way back through the woods.

When Joel returns to the house, you’re in the exact same position he’d left you in, just as he’d thought you’d be. He approaches you slowly, crouching beside you and brushing some of your knotted hair away from your soiled face. Your eyes are frozen, as if still looking into Chrissy’s own glassy ones, and you don’t even so much as twitch when Joel pulls a rag from his back pocket and uses it to wipe his arousal and as much of the blood as he can manage off of your skin. 

“You okay, sweetheart? You with me?” Joel asks you, his voice barely above a whisper, as if trying not to spook a small animal. You look almost… shell shocked. Traumatized. Out of your own body. “Talk to me, babydoll, please.” He rakes his fingers through your hair for another silent minute or so, during which time you continue to lie perfectly still. Unblinking. Unflinching. A husk of a girl.

Joel sighs, reaching across your body to grab his camera and the now-developed polaroid. He shoves the latter into his jacket pocket, deciding that he’ll examine the image later, once he reconciles with the unfamiliar feeling in the pit of his stomach—something like remorse, he thinks. 

He slides his hands underneath your body, cradling you in his arms and carrying you bridal style across the living room, over the threshold, down the steps, and along the stretch of fractured asphalt until he reaches the truck. Joel sets you down on your feet so that he can open the passenger-side door, but your knees buckle underneath you almost immediately, requiring him to support your weight while he fumbles with the handle. He lifts you up onto your seat once he gets it open and buckles you in, and you don’t look anywhere except directly in front of you the entire time. Joel smooths out the skirt of your dress, now stained with dirt and blood, and shoves his camera into the backpack sitting at your feet before shutting you in. He crosses in front of the hood and retakes his place behind the wheel, taking a long look at where you sit nearly comatose beside him. You’re here, but you’re not. He doesn’t know where you are, or how to pull you back from it, back to him.

Joel fidgets with his keys, jingling them in his hand in an effort to fill the cabin with something other than a silence so loud it’s making his ears ring. “It’ll feel better in the mornin’. You’ll get used to it, after a few more of ‘em, I promise.” He places his linen-wrapped hand on the side of your head, pulling you closer to him so that he can plant a whiskery kiss in your hair. Joel lets his eyes flutter closed as he breathes in your scent, inhaling a stuttering breath. If remorse is truly what he feels, then that would warrant an apology, he supposes. But it would also require taking action to rectify the wrongdoing that warranted the apology in the first place, to make sure that it never happens again. And that, he cannot promise.

He pulls away from you, licking his thumb once to wipe a dried smear of blood from your temple. “You wanna get that old map outta the glovebox, babydoll? Decide where we’re headed to next?” Joel prompts.

Silence.

“I’ll take you anywhere you want, darlin’. Long as they got hot coffee and color TV,” he chuckles.

Stillness.

“Well… Alright, then. Next state over it is.” Joel sniffles, feeling around in the dark for the truck’s ignition cylinder, the engine finally sputtering to life after a few misses of the key. Your head falls against the window as the tires begin to rumble over the uneven pavement, and you don’t bother to reposition yourself, even though the sensation of your skull rattling against the glass must be uncomfortable.

Joel doesn’t steer the truck in any particular direction, just away. Away from here, toward the life together in California that he’d promised you, hoping that he can collect all your broken pieces and put you back together along the way.

As it turns out, there are two things that Joel needs you to understand—that he’s never letting you go, and that he will never be able to stop himself. As instinctually as Joel needs to blink, breathe, sleep, he needs to kill. He needs to spill blood and feel it underneath his fingernails and taste it on his tongue, needs to bite into the soft pink skin beneath white wool and feel the precise moment when a creature becomes nothing more than flesh and fur.

And he needs you. Joel cannot live without either one, he’s decided, and so he must be in possession of both.

He regrets the way in which he’s broken you tonight, but not the way that you will be reassembled in his image. 

Transformed.

tag list: @beefrobeefcal @iamasaddie @rebel-held @dilfgestivo @joeldjarin @kamcrazy123 @hellowoolf @rexamongthestars @stevie75 @luxurychristmaspudding @noisynightmarepoetry @mewantpeepaw @pedritoferg @evolnoomym @annoyingmarvelreader @joelsdagger @natalieispunk @mermaidgirl30 @untamedheart81 @galway-girlatwork @pinkiec6-rubi @wand-erer5 @arminsbf @shivispunk @gigistorm @theoreticalfreak @vinceelser @always-andromeda @path0logicalpeoplepleaser @old-logan-and-old-joels-slut @atjlovverr @zliteraturehoe @k1l4ni @hjzghi-blog @xkyxkyxxlylcylulucuflfluclu @kay1805 @alex-does-art-things (if your name is crossed out, it won’t let me tag you!!)

[iknowwhereyousleepatnight]

pissed tf off because 1) i have once again put on a new show thinking i could work on shit with it in the background without getting distracted (and failing miserably)(when will i learn). 2) i have a new character that i want to tear apart with my teeth which pisses me off even more because 3) it is EMBARRASSING how much i like this character i could fucking feel my pupils dilating and my prey drive activate literally immediately 4) it is even more embarrassing bc he is so embarrassingly my type that im pissed tf off that i never watched this before now or literally any time i wasnt busy. and this all leads to 5) now i have to think about killing him when i am TRYING TO GET SHIT DONE and it's making me mad it's pissing me off so bad i'm fucking enraged they should invent a way to physically harm fictional characters just for me i think

[thawthebeez]

hey guys. tumblr user thawthebeez back at it again with yet another haikyuu essay B) the topic of today is one that i see NOBODY talking about which is crazy because this motif is (in my opinion) one of the main foundations of the kagehina community.

now may someone please explain to me why the HELL nobody ever talks about how whenever Tobio expresses an insecurity of ANY KIND, Hinata is ALWAYS the first one to swoop in and tell him not to worry about it?

yes, we've all established that Hinata Shouyou is the #1 Kageyama Tobio understander. we get that. BUT THIS IS ONE OF THE MAIN DISPLAYS OF THAT AND I'VE SEEN LITERALLY NOBODY SPEAK OF IT EVER.

i'm pretty sure there's an instance of it in season 2 (either that or my brain just made it up) when Tobio is a little worried about his and Hinata's quick attack not really working out but Hinata tells him "nah you'll figure it out eventually" or something along those lines. i'm not going to lose my shit over it because i can't find it but if you know YOU KNOW.

a part that i COULD find from season 2, however, was this:

here we have Tobio explaining how talented of a setter Oikawa is- how he's so much better than him- and it's clear that this is something he's insecure about given his facial expression.

THEN we have Hinata's INSTANT response:

and it blows Tobio away because WHAT

because, to paraphrase a little, Tobio basically just said "yeah oikawa can make any spiker look good no matter what team he's on" to which Hinata replied "yeah but that team wouldn't be Karasuno" which is essentially "Karasuno is strong enough as it is" BUT- if ur crazy- " dw he wouldn't take your spot babe" (<- which probably isn't how it's meant to be interpreted because they just finished talking about The Team That's Stronger As Six thing so like... context clues. it's probably not the insane interpretation).

ANYWAYS boom there it is. Tobio expresses insecurity, Shouyou swoops in and goes "Ermmmm Actuallyyyyy🤓" WHICH IS SO FUCKING ENDEARING ON IT'S OWN BUT THE FACT THAT IT HAPPENS MORE THAN ONCE AND AT SUCH A CRITICAL POINT TOO

the critical point in question being:

(context: Tobio just came back from his training camp in Tokyo and is a little frustrated because he's gotten so used to playing with other prodigies like himself so to go back to talented-but-not-prodigious players is a bit of a switch for him. don't get him wrong tho he loves this team to DEATH it's just a little different that's all. hashtag number one Tobio apologist right here)

SO THERE'S THIS! and it goes without saying that Tobio is DEEPLY insecure about his late middle-school days and being referred to as a king. Tsukishima adds a little salt to the wound and while I didn't take a screenshot of it Tobio makes this look of absolute HORROR after he says what he says

(which, side note, shows a lot of a character development within Tobio. especially since I've been flipping between season 2 and 4 a lot looking for these clips. Tobio didn't even notice when he was acting kingly before but he realizes it INSTANTLY now which is so so so good for him yayyyy character development!)

this also leads fantastically into my next tangent which is

TOBIO FUCKING APOLOGIZES!

now, admittedly this isn't entirely related to my thesis but i absolutely ADORE talking about this scene and i genuinely think it is one of the most prevalent displays of character development within Tobio because i feel like he tends to get overshadowed by all the other characters (especially Hinata, which i'm not upset about in the slightest like it makes perfect sense and if Tobio got all the attention all the time the show would be soooo unbalanced)

but I feel like a lot of people skip over Tobio's overall development over the course of the show. I mean compare s1 Tobio to s4 Tobio THAT IS NOT SAME PERSON ANYMORE. he grows so much over such a short period of time (which is another essay I could write. something along the lines of "Explaining Why Tobio And Shouyou Need To Be On Separate Teams Actually Because Character Development Purposes" because the amount of people i've seen on tiktok complaining about kghn being on separate teams and how they should just be on the same team forever makes my blood boil violently) and it's so refreshing to see Tobio's growth especially as a big Tobio enjoyer.

ANYWAYS back to the main thesis.

So Hinata steps in IMMEDIATELY here. literally cuts Tobio's apology off because HE HAS NOTHING TO APOLOGIZE FOR. he was expressing his thoughts whatever that's fine he could have done it in a nicer way SURE but listen the guy still has a LOOOONNNGGGG way to go but still, nothing to apologize for. it's just growing pains, y'know?

now the quote "What's wrong with him being the King again?" appearing here isn't the first time we're seeing this. Hinata has ALWAYS been confused as to why calling Tobio a "King" is a bad thing. literally from day fucking one Hinata was like "nah dude I think that title is cool" WHICH, AGAIN, TOBIO BEING INSECURE ABOUT SOMETHING AND SHOUYOU REASSURING HIM THAT IT'S TOTALLY CHILL HELLO?????

LITERALLY FROM DAY ONE SHOUYOU HAS BEEN DOING THIS. THAT MAN MAY THINK TOBIO'S AN ASSHOLE SOMETIMES (and he kinda is) BUT NEVER WILL HINATA INHERENTLY HATE A PART OF HIM. and i don't think they realize it here nor do i think the realization comes soon after but at some point there will be the realization that they love each other. every single part. fucking Tobio probably realized it way back in junior high but that's a tangent for another time.

now this line.... this one right here...... oh my god i can be SO NORMAL ABOUT IT.

the main reason why Tobio had this look of HORROR on his face after he yelled at everyone was BECAUSE HE KNEW THE ENDING. he knew that yelling at them would have consequences (if it weren't for Hinata stepping in thank god). HE'S SEEN IT ALL BEFORE. in his final year of junior high he yelled at his teammates to run faster and jump higher and be better AND THEY LEFT HIM!!!

so Tobio yelling like this instantly makes him afraid that he's just ruined the entire balance of the team. he thinks he's going to be left behind again because he yelled and everyone is going to leave him BUT!!!!!

BUT SHOUYOU IMMEDIATELY JUMPS IN AND SAYS "idc what u say honestly if i don't like i'm just not gonna listen" OR, TO TRANSLATE "i'm not going anywhere regardless of what you say"

Tobio's biggest fear is losing this team. I literally do not need to explain why. that man would fucking DIE for this team (if you really need an explanation just to go the end of the Kamomedai match when Tobio admits that he's upset they lost because he wanted to play with that specific team more).

and for Hinata to essentially say "you could literally be as kingly as u want and i simply would not care, pal, i promise you i am NOT going ANYWHERE!!!" which has got to be SO FUCKING RELIEVING FOR TOBIO.

(also something something "nobody was there" / "i'm here" something something "doesn't matter what kind of toss goes up if you send it my way i'm hitting it" something something they're soulmates or whatever they are literally bound together by the universe they were destined to be together and it's a crime that universe kept them apart for so long and now that they're together they will always BE together two peas in a pod literally inseparable they are hot glued and duct taped together.)

and then there's this. i mean at this point you already know what i'm going to say like you get it by now but again IT MUST BE SO RELIEVING TO TOBIO to know that shouyou thinks his biggest insecurity is cool. that shouyou thinks that it's not something to be concerned about. that no matter what, no matter how much a King he is, they're not going anywhere.

SOMETHING SOMETHING "you drew stars around my scars" IF YOU EVEN CARE

and just the fact that it's always ALWAYS shouyou to do this. the fact that there was dead silence before shouyou spoke up. the fact that it's ALWAYS HIM there to understand Tobio (someone who has been misunderstood for as long as he can remember) GOD THEY DRIVE ME INSANE.

anyways thank you for being a witness to this madness👍

[peachylynnie]

you make him lose his cool

word count: 900-1k per lead synopsis: in which you provoke them, and they love it. (inspired by kiss of life's igloo) contains: fem!reader x lads men (separate, non!mc), established relationship, downbad men, NSFW CONTENT MDNI (i'm talking grinding, oral sex implications, etc), song lyrics, and cursing. a/n: UPDATED WITH CALEB AS OF 2/1/25 i feel hot whenever i listen to this song. i hope you do too while reading. enjoy! do not plagiarize or translate. lads men do NOT endorse plagiarism. reblogs & comments appreciated. lads masterlist | tagged: @vvintqz (ik this is technically the reader teasing xavier but u said to tag u when i write xavier so i hope u enjoy)

caleb

What you heard? (What you heard?) But it's never what you think, trust

it's impossible to surprise caleb.

he always knows what you're up to.

whether you're just waking up from a heavenly two-hour nap or going out to get your hands on the latest edition of your favorite blind box series, he's always there.

last time you tried to cook yourself a meal (ever since you started dating, he hasn't let you lift a finger), he came home early and snatched the spatula away from you, insisting that you sit down and look pretty for him while he makes his signature braised wings.

you're not sure how he does it. maybe he has a secret camera or a tracker installed (ha). though, you don't have any complaints. you think it's fucking hot how he's never away from you.

even so, you've been wanting to surprise him for a while now. blame it on your desire to fluster him as much as he flusters you. you're going to surprise him AT LEAST once in your lifetime.

which explains why you're in an apron right now, with absolutely nothing underneath.

to be honest, you were hoping to surprise him with homemade apple pie since he's always cooking for you. but again, you want to fluster him. thus the apron, a long piece of denim fabric wrapped tightly around your waist and hung dangerously low at your chest. you can't deny how delectable you appeared when you looked in the mirror, admiring your exposed arms, legs, back, and neck—anything that would drive the esteemed colonel insane. you felt jittery just thinking about the look he would have on his face when he walked in through the door of your shared home.

however, your joy is short-lived when your phone rings while you slice up some apples in the kitchen.

"what's with the apron, pipsqueak?"

you put the knife down with a sigh. "do you have a camera installed in here or what?"

caleb chuckles into the phone. "wouldn't you like to know?"

"i would like to know so i can turn the damn thing off and actually surprise you for once, dipshit," you retort playfully as you adjust your phone between your ear and shoulder, picking up the knife to continue chopping. you suppose you should still make the pie since you already got the ingredients out.

"aw," he mocks, his voice dripping with arousal. "did my little pipsqueak dress up just for me?"

"yes," you snap, rolling your eyes. "but this little pipsqueak is about to change since you ruined her surprise."

your threat does little to faze caleb, as evidenced by his endearing laughter.

"don't be upset, pips," he teases into the phone. before you can scoff at his audacity to tell you not to be upset, your ears catch the hurried footsteps in the background of the call. it doesn't take long for you to hope your boyfriend is on his way home—on his way to you. sure enough, his next words cause heat to pool between your bare legs.

"keep the apron on. i'll be home soon."

after he hangs up, you put your phone down with a giggle, eager for what's to unfold once he arrives. however, you still can't help but wonder if he actually has a camera installed because how the fuck does he always know what you're up to? you frown as you turn your head left and right. you don't see any red flashing lights in places that could provide him an optimal view. nope. nothing in the corners of the ceilings and nothing in the walls either. before you can convince yourself your boyfriend is somehow omniscient, you notice something out of the corner of your eye.

his dog tag. seems like he forgot to put it on after putting on his uniform. you pocket it, hoping to give it to him when he gets home.

but your mind is truly one of a kind. as caleb likes to put it, resourceful during the most critical moments.

because when he's balls deep inside of you, coaxing your second orgasm out of you, you get the bright idea to fish your shaky fingers into the pocket of your bunched-up apron and put. it. on.

caleb's eyes widen upon seeing his dog tag on you. there it was, the important item he forgot this morning, resting between the delicious valley of your breasts, bouncing up and down while jingling an enticing melody.

"fuck—pipsqueak, you—" he thrusts harshly, pistoning into your sopping heat. you throw your head back at the sensation, allowing him an even better view of his chain, mingling with the beads of sweat on your collarbone. shit, he's so turned on right now. not only were your swollen, sweet lips adorning his name, but so was your pretty little neck. it filled the young colonel with pride. and enough vigor to bring you to your third release, as evidenced by the endless slamming of his hips and the clenching of your thighs.

"good girl," he helps you through your high before letting go of your waist, hoping to give you a break. "i'll go get a towel. stay here."

but when your pilot of a lover goes to leave, you wrap your legs around him and pull him to you, causing him to collide with you. caleb hisses at the contact, sensitive more than ever.

"don't push it, pipsqueak," he warns as he plants both of his arms on the kitchen counter, caging you in. "you need to rest."

"i don't think so, colonel," you prop yourself on your elbows, meeting his eyes boldly. "i don't think so at all."

caleb swears he feels his mechanical arm short-circuit because what you do next is just fucking tantalizing.

you pinch his dog tag and bring it to your mouth.

his breathing quickens substantially when your teeth take the shiny piece of metal as their prisoner. it's not long before his dog tag is trapped between your seductive canines and your thighs are tightened around his waist.

with a shameless smile, you jut your chin towards the man, signaling to him to make his move.

caleb growls, seizing the chain with both hands and bringing you to his face.

"i warned you, pips."

extra (in honor of his official installment)

as you munch on some apple pie in caleb's embrace on the couch, you can't help but ask.

"how did you know about the apron but not the dog tag?"

your boyfriend sniffs before answering, a little bit of pie still in his mouth.

"i couldn't check the cameras on the way home."

"oh that makes sense."

"…"

"wait, what?!"

sylus

Glass room, perfume, Kodak on that lilac (alright) Slipping on my short dress, know he like that (like that)

there's nothing like getting ready in sylus' bathroom. not because of the sheer size of it (it takes at least a day to explore his residence), but because of how good you look in the mirror right now. you can't help but smile as you step back to get a full look at yourself.

sylus went all out for tonight's auction.

he gifted you a tight-fitting ebony dress, its gorgeous silk straps accentuating your shoulders perfectly. he also gifted you a pair of evening gloves, its velvet fabric wrapping around your arms flawlessly. of course, the dress came with priceless jewels and heels. as you twirl in front of the mirror, the scarlet gems on your ears glimmer, and the cherry kitten heels on your feet click. oh, you look so good, you can kill.

but what seals the deal is the neck accessory he got you.

an intricate, black choker made out of lace. fucking lace. a scoff leaves your mouth when you notice the ruby medallion hanging at the center. his taste is as clear as day.

as you reach behind your neck to clip the choker, the man of the hour walks in. you meet his eyes through the mirror, your hands still at the back of your neck. "sylus."

"miss," he acknowledges in return, an unmistakable smirk appearing on his lips. his eyes trail down your figure. "you look stunning."

"thanks," you giggle as you hook the choker clasp. "you don't look bad yourself."

and you're absolutely right. although he has his usual dress shirt on, his outerwear is completely new. a gorgeous red blazer, adorned with inky brush strokes, sits proudly on his shoulders. moreover, his accessories are new (he's never worn any before). cuffed around his right hand is a sleek platinum watch, spotlighting his forearm deliciously. hanging from his left ear are silver chains, shining unashamedly. you can't help but bite your lips as you admire your lover in the mirror.

yeah, sylus went all out tonight.

catching the hazy look in your glittered eyes, he tilts his head before grinning, "like what you see, sweetie?"

you roll your eyes playfully before returning to the sink. "yes, actually. didn't know you were capable of wearing something other than black."

sylus chuckles as he leans against the wall, arms crossed. "i've worn colors other than black before."

"if you're talking about the two outfits that have the belt around the sleeve," you list nonchalantly as you pick up your lip gloss. "they don't count. they have black on them."

"i'm talking about the red cardigan, sweetie," he counters smoothly, eyeing the lip gloss in your hand.

"ah." you run the wand over your parted lips, enjoying the feeling of gloss on them. "touche," you say, bending over the sink to see if you missed a spot. you do, however, miss the way sylus' fingers tighten around his arms when your dress hikes up. smacking your lips together, you lift the wand to reapply. "but you barely even wear that. so that doesn't count either."

sylus hums, barely paying attention to what you just said. his eyes are transfixed on the wand. he's mesmerized by how it travels across your lips, slathering them with sticky, shimmery syrup, leaving him thirsty for a taste. not to mention the sounds leaving your lips whenever you press them together. sweet, squelching sounds that have him pressing against you in mere seconds, his hands gripping the edge of the sink.

at first, you were taken aback by his sudden proximity. but after feeling something prod at your back, you smile amusingly before placing the wand down. "i'm assuming," you swiftly turn around and wrap your arms around his neck, his eyes widening as you pull him closer. "there's been a change of plans." you slowly lick your lips, collecting some excess gloss. as it drips from the tip of your tongue, you ask with a tilt of your head, "how late are we going to be?"

that's it.

sylus crashes into you, his tongue desperately trying to lap up the excess gloss. his hands haphazardly roam all over your body before lifting you onto the sink, pinning you down as his lips smear your lip gloss everywhere. you moan, trying to match his fervor. the sinful mixing of breaths, saliva, and gloss floods your mind, causing you to wrap your legs around him and bring him closer to you. he welcomes the action, gasping and grinding into you.

by the time he pulls away for air, both of you are left panting like dogs, mouths and chins smothered in sheen.

your eyes never leave sylus' as you wipe your chin, a string of gloss and saliva hanging prettily from your gloved palm. with a groan, he dives into your neck and sinks his teeth into your collarbone. you throw your head back at the pain, whimpering when he soothes the spot with his tongue.

but when sylus traces a finger up your back, you freeze immediately.

why?

oh, because he's unzipping your dress.

"sorry, sweetie," he chuckles into your perfumed skin, savoring your surprised reaction when he drags the zipper all the way down. "we won't be late."

you look at him in confusion, barely processing the silk straps falling off your shoulders.

he leans in and whispers into your ear.

"we won't be going at all."

xavier

Heart attack, IV when I walk the street Vitamins that D, I'm good, I'm healthy

your starlight of a boyfriend collapses onto the bed, his legs hanging off the edge and his pants dangling pathetically from his ankles.

you giggle at the sight, wiping your lips clean of his release. as you rub a drop between your index finger and thumb, you notice the texture's a bit thick, almost like jelly.

"xavier," you call lovingly, rising from your knees and crawling on top of him. he barely responds; his eyes are screwed shut with beads of sweat trailing down his face, neck, chest, legs, everywhere. shit, what did you do to him? he can't get his chest to stop heaving, his mouth to stop watering, and his ears to stop ringing. he can't do anything. not with the way you looked so pretty on top of him, especially after making him release so intensely in your mouth.

"xavier," you repeat as you cradle his face, making his dazed eyes meet yours. "when was the last time you drank water?"

"water?" he pants. "i'm not sure. why do you ask?"

"well," you show him your fingers. he gulps, flushing a deeper shade of red. "this tells me you haven't been drinking enough water."

you get up to retrieve some water from the kitchen. xavier whines at the loss of contact. although he tries to stop you from leaving, you easily slip out of his weak embrace (he literally got his life sucked out of him; cut him some slack). after you reassure him with a kiss on his forehead, you open the door. "i'll be back soon."

he responds with a whimper before closing his eyes. before he knows it, he falls asleep.

not even five minutes have passed when you return to the room, a glass of water in your hand and a packet of vitamins in the other.

"xavier?" after placing the items down on the nightstand, you sit on the bed to admire the view. there he is, sleeping soundly with his shirt unbuttoned and pants unbuckled, his chest slowly rising up and down and his cute nose scrunching every so often. you almost feel bad when you wake him up. almost. as much as you like watching your boyfriend sleep, he needs his water and vitamins, considering how much energy he uses to fight wanderers.

"wake up, xavier," you coo. "you need your vitamins."

he stirs, peeking one eye open to look at you. cute, you think. "i'm too tired, angel." he whines before closing his eye again. "i'll have some later."

"come on," you chuckle. "at least drink some water. you're dehydrated."

hoping to keep him awake, you litter his face with kisses, repeatedly pecking his adorable features. his droopy eyelids, his button nose, his fluffy cheeks, his moist forehead, his small chin—not a single spot is missed.

his little laughs repay your efforts. before you can continue your bombardment of kisses, his arms wrap around your shoulders, successfully pinning you down to him. you're surprised by how quickly he replenished his strength.

"you're trapped," he points out cheekily. "now we can both sleep."

"xavier," it's your turn to whine. "you need to drink some water. besides," you try to get up but fail miserably due to his tight embrace. "you need to scoot up, and i need to lay down properly if we both want to sleep." still no signs of letting you go.

you sigh before poking at your boyfriend's waist, causing him to yelp.

he immediately lets go of you, rubbing the spot you just touched. taking the chance to escape, you stand up and reach for the glass and vitamins.

"meanie," he pouts. "i thought we agreed to not tickle each other for today."

"that's because you try to tickle me all the time," you retort playfully, opening the packet of vitamins. "besides, i only tickle you as a last resort. unlike you, i'm nice." you pop the vitamin in your mouth and bring the glass to your lips.

"as if." he yanks up his pants and crosses his arms. "last time i checked, being nice means letting your boyfriend sleep peacefully," he quips as he turns away from you, hoping his grumpy little act will coax more kisses from you.

instead, a hand comes into his view and grasps the sheets. furrowing his brows, he shifts back to ask what's wrong but is startled to find your face hovering above his. 

"angel, what—"

you press your lips into his, your free hand gripping his chin. on instinct, xavier opens his mouth, expecting your tongue to greet his. however, his eyes widen when he feels something pour in. oh. he greedily swallows the water and vitamin, his fingers weaving into your hair.

you pull away abruptly, a drop of water trickling down the corner of your lips. before he can say anything, you grab the glass of water and drink from it again, your hooded eyes never leaving his. xavier groans at the sight, his chest heaving for the third time today. and it's barely afternoon. oh, you're going to be the death of him.

he's sure of it when you return to his lips, water flowing into his mouth so sensually as his tongue reaches out for more. this time, you rest your entire body on top of him, allowing him to grab at your hips and thrust upward, desperately rubbing against your clothed core and seeking any type of friction that could relieve him of this growing desire you satiated with your mouth less than ten minutes ago. he never wants to drink water alone ever again.

“a-angel,” he moans when you pull away again. “why?” 

“you need more water, xavier.” you tease with a lick of your lips. “gotta make sure my boyfriend is hydrated, ya know?”

with that, you go to stand up and reach for the glass. however, the room spins as xavier pins you down, your positions switched and your wrists restrained above your head. your eyes widen, realizing you might've pushed your boyfriend too far. 

"angel," dark, cerulean eyes burn into you before glancing at the glass. “that's not enough water.”

rafayel

Yeah, white tippy-toe summer, I make him go dumb, duh He doubled down on that text, says that I'm the only one

(heads up, reader doesn't have to be mc but they know about rafayel's identity as the sea god and he calls you his beloved bride)

rafayel isn't sure how he got here.

you, on top of his bare chest, nibbling at his neck and dragging a finger down his clenched abdomen.

"c-cutie," he stammers. "someone might see."

he's not wrong. you're at the beach after all. but it's a private beach, one the artist rented for a date. so really, what's the harm in pinning your boyfriend down in the sand and showing him how much you appreciate him?

"you're the one who said this place was private, raf." you giggle before sinking your teeth into him, eliciting a moan. "besides, we both know why you suggested a date at the beach. don't tell me you forgot." you trail your finger along the waistband of his swim trunks. he jolts, his half-lidded eyes meeting your misty ones.

of course, he didn't forget. but considering the current, scandalous situation he's in right now, his memory is a bit hazy. as you twirl the drawstring with your index finger, rafayel bites his lip and tries to remember how exactly he got here.

last thing he remembers is you excitedly texting him about your package coming in.

a package, pft. no big deal, right?

wrong.

he almost dropped his phone when you sent him a picture of the package, more specifically, you wearing its contents.

a gorgeous two-piece swimsuit in the color of his hair. fuck, lavender has never looked so good on you. the way the tight, skimpy fabric hugged all the right places, making you seem so so malleable. the way you posed in front of the mirror, your face bridling with innocent excitement but your body positioned so so temptingly. shit, he hopes this exhibition ends soon because his slacks feel suffocating all of a sudden.

it wasn't long before he spammed you with a hurricane of texts consisting of flattering emojis and praises about how you're the only one he'll ever love (dramatic but heartwarming) and how he would love to take you on a date at the beach as soon as this stupid exhibition is over so you can swim in your new set to your heart's content (totally not because he wants to see the real thing).

yeah, now he remembers. he got himself into this situation. you even tried to stop him.

"uh," he recalls you hesitating through the call. "aren't you tired from your exhibit?"

"nope," he immediately answers, causing you to raise a brow. "not at all, cutie. i'm in tip-top shape. what better place for us to test your swimsuit than the beach?"

"us?" you repeat amusingly. "since when was testing a swimsuit a two-person thing?"

shit, he got caught.

"raf," you giggle at his silence. "if you want to see me wear this in person, you can always just ask, you know?"

"w-what?! no!" he acts as if you insulted his artwork. "i just thought it'd be a good opportunity for us to go on a date and to test the quality of your swimsuit! what if one day you go into the water and it gets untied or something? what if i'm not there to protect you from prying eyes? you can never be careful enough with swimsuits, especially shipped ones!"

"uh-huh," you drawl skeptically. "i'm sure a triple-knotted bikini will SOMEHOW get untied by the waves."

"come on, cutie," rafayel whines. "i know a perfect, private place! i'll even bring the food, the blankets, everything! please?" (he purposely emphasized "private" because no way in the seven seas is he going to let anyone look at you in a bikini)

you sigh before observing yourself in the mirror once more. the bikini DID look good, and you DID buy it for future swimming dates with rafayel. might as well, right? besides, you can't say no to him, especially when he begs so cutely like that.

"fine, raf," he remembers you giving in with an endearing sigh. "send me the address of the beach once you're done. i'll stop by your place to pack your swimming trunks."

and here you are, resting on top of him and drawing figure eights with your fingertips IN his swimming trunks.

he would laugh at the irony if it weren't for your provocative actions. you were the one who brought him his swimming trunks, and now, you were the one making him wish you didn't bring them so he could see how pretty your fingers looked right next to his—

yeah, he definitely got himself into this situation. he has no one to blame but himself for his predicament. it's his fault he's currently twitching and throbbing underneath you as you breathe into his neck and tease doodles into his thighs.

"oh fuck, cutie—" rafayel jerks his head back when you suck on his adam's apple. your mouth felt so good. you felt so good. 

after pulling back with a 'pop,' you trace the red mark with your free hand, admiring your artwork on your artist of a lover. unfortunately for him (fortunately, really), this causes him to squirm uncontrollably. the simultaneous stimulation from your right hand on his thigh and your left hand on his neck was just too much for the lemurian. he swears he's this close to bursting all over the sand like a messy, wet bubble. 

suddenly, you stop, withdrawing both of your hands from his body. 

"c-cutie?" he lifts his neck to look at you but finds himself confused as to why you're sitting up. though, his confusion is quelled when you reach behind your neck. 

oh. 

your hands come into view, each one tugging on the strings of your top.

oh fuck. 

he doesn't even see your top fall. no. he's completely frozen (and hard) when you lay back down on him, smushing your now-exposed chest into his abdomen, allowing him a view that brings roses to his cheeks. (he can feel your nipples rubbing against him).

"oh, god of the tides," you purr with a smirk as you press your ear into his chest, relishing in his rapid heartbeats. "you promised you would test this swimsuit with me." before he can deny your reminder of his mistake from the earlier call, you grab his hand and bring it to rest against your swimsuit bottoms, causing his breath to hitch. "won't you make good on your promise?" 

rafayel swallows shakily before nodding. 

"anything for my beloved bride." 

zayne

Mm, yeah, I make him lose his cool Yeah, I make him go mmmmmm ah! ah!

doctor zayne, the epitome of calm and control, reduced to this.

a red-faced mess, losing his cool in a rocking chair, thanks to his lover shaving his chin on his lap.

his lover, who just so happens to be wearing a nightgown, a silk, sapphire nightgown with lace ruffles and ribbons that drove the man insane.

to make matters worse (better), your bare thighs were on either side of his hips, caressing and stroking him whenever you would move to shave his chin.

don't even get him started on the fact that you're sitting right on top of his crotch. he prays to any merciful soul out there that you don't feel him growing down there-

he inhales sharply when you reach behind him for a towel, your chest mere millimeters from his face.

"you okay, zayne?" you ask with faux concern.

"yes," he clenches his jaw. it's taking him everything to not dive in and lick, suck, bite—anything to relieve him of this torment. "please hurry."

"hurry?" you pout with a tilt of your head. "but why?" you lift his chin to wipe some excess shaving cream. "do you not want me to shave you?"

"no, darling. it's just—" his hands fly to your waist for stability when you place the towel back in its place. shit, every time you lift yourself onto your knees to reach behind him, the chair moves more and more, resulting in a pattern where when he leans back, you press into him, and when you lean back, he presses into you. it's not helping that this pattern deliciously resembles a certain rhythm in bed.

"it's just?" you repeat to him, stroking his jaw to inspect for stray hairs.

he doesn't say anything. how can he? he can't just spill about how badly he wants to kiss your sweet lips, squeeze at your delectable chest, rip your enticing nightgown apart, and take everything you have to offer. no, he can't. not when you approached him so innocently with a cute smile on your face after he came home, asking if you could shave him. (he almost fell to his knees when he saw what you were wearing). not when you look so beautiful gazing at him from above, handling his skin with addictive yet gentle touches, and glowing underneath the moonlight from the open windows. shaking his head, he grips your waist with renewed resolve.

"it's nothing," he closes his eyes. "please continue." he would rather drink alcohol than misinterpret your innocent intentions.

except there was nothing innocent about your intentions at all. you admit, it's fun to tease zayne like this. the way his lips would chase after your fingers whenever you traced them, the way his eyes would falter whenever you leaned in, the way his breath would hitch whenever you moved your hips, oh it all made you feel wanted. and who could want more than a gorgeous, capable doctor who looks at you as if he's going to die if he can't have you?

you. you want more. you WANT him to have you, take you, right here on this rocking chair. you thought teasing him with a few shifts of your hips and some purposeful closings of distances between his face and yours would relay the message. but no. he's either completely oblivious or has the will of a steel that's been fortified ten times over. because even though he's made it incredibly clear that he wants what you want (his blushing cheeks and shortage of breaths are hard to miss), all he's done is sit there and take your teasing.

you frown, retracting your hand. what's it going to take for doctor zayne, the epitome of calm and control, to give in?

a lightbulb flashes in your head.

"hang on, i missed a spot," you lie, lifting yourself up once more to reach for the shaving cream next to you. "i'll make this quick."

and with that, you slam your hips down.

he groans out loud, eyebrows furrowing and fingers tightening around your hips. he still hasn't opened his eyes though.

"are you sure you're okay, zayne?" you ask innocently, twisting left and right. "i'm worried about you."

"w-why," he starts hoarsely, his fingers gripping for dear life, trying to stop you from moving so damn much. "why would you be worried?"

"oh, i don't know," you smear shaving cream all over his jaw before trailing your fingers down to his neck. "you just seem so…" you slowly trace a heart on his collarbone, eliciting a pretty gasp from him. "out of it."

zayne's eyes jerk open, glaring at you with unprecedented focus. you smile cheekily before pressing yourself deeper into him, eager to bear witness to what he'll do and say since he finally opened his eyes.

though, your smile doesn't last long. in an instant, his hands pin yours behind your back, causing your back to arch and your lips to part.

"i'm starting to think," he secures your wrists in his right hand and brings his left to his face, wiping away the mess you made. "you're doing this on purpose."

you grin. finally. he finally got the message. unable to hide your excitement, you lean in next to his ear and whisper, "what are you going to do about it, doc-tor?"

he inhales sharply, yanking your wrists.

"perhaps," he growls. "it's time you get a taste of your own medicine. prescribed by yours truly."

[nibwhipdragon]

I was going to make my own post about this then saw this on my dash – OP, you're SO right.

I do still like Jane. In a different way and definitely less than I did before, but I still do like her. She's an interesting and nuanced character like Kenny is and I wish both their lovers and haters recognised that more instead of having a more black and white, "they're perfect" "they're terrible" view. Jane was right, Kenny was unstable and unable to properly care for Clem and AJ – he even brings this up himself – but the stunt she pulled with AJ was absolutely not the way to go about proving that point to Clem. Giving up a newborn's life to get away from walkers would make almost anyone insanely mad. I wouldn't be surprised if other people would have reacted the same as Kenny did in that situation, albeit perhaps less murderous.

And yes, it was a setup to prove a point and she didn't actually do that, but Jane DID still leave AJ in that car on his own in the snowstorm. A walker could've heard him, broken in and eaten him while all of That went down. Or, the more likely outcome, he would've frozen to death. Babies can't regulate their temperature, and it was FREEZING. She could've very easily actually had AJ die to prove a point, and I feel that people don't really recognise that.

Yes, Kenny did do a few fucked up things in season 2, but in that moment I'd say Jane was the insane one.

I really hate how some people act like Kenny was insane for his reaction to the whole AJ ‘dying’ thing in season two as if Jane doesn’t have a history of letting children die and then acting like there was nothing more she could do.

[kiwriteswords]

You can hear it in the silence [Aaron Hotchner x Reader]

Masterlist|| Ao3||Word Count: 5k|| AN: After the gifset, I needed to play around with storyline! I tried to remain as sensitive to the topic as possible, so I hope it is seen as an exploration into Hotch's characterization and not as an attempt to glorify or mislead anyone on the topic! Tags/Warnings: female reader, hearing loss, hard of hearing, Hotch losing his hearing, spoilers to season 4, hearing aid, age gap, established relationship, mentions of sexual themes, canon typical themes Summary: As Hotch struggles with gradual hearing loss from an old injury, you stand by him through his stubborn pride and hidden vulnerability, guiding him gently toward acceptance, healing, and a deeper love.

You tucked your legs beneath you, sinking into the plush corner of Hotch's sofa. Warm, golden lamplight spilled across the room, softening the otherwise sharp angles of his apartment. 

There was something intimately peaceful about the quiet--

The muffled rush of cars passing outside, a faint echo of jazz filtering from his speakers, and the occasional tap-tap-tap of raindrops against the window.

He stood near the kitchen, sleeves rolled carefully to his elbows as he stirred the simmering sauce, the spicy, hearty aroma drifting pleasantly toward you. 

Watching him cook was an indulgent pleasure you'd grown quietly attached to. Hotch cooking felt both endearingly domestic and intensely personal, a side of him few had ever glimpsed.

He glanced up and caught you staring, and you didn't look away. Instead, you raised your eyebrows slightly, a playful smirk ghosting your lips.

"What?" His mouth curled into a soft smile, his dark eyes glinting in quiet amusement.

"Nothing," you teased gently, resting your chin in your palm. "Just admiring the view."

He chuckled softly--

A rare sound, warm and rich. 

The low hum vibrated pleasantly across your skin, drawing heat to your cheeks. "Dinner will be ready soon. Think you can survive until then?"

"I think I'll manage," you replied, stretching lazily and shifting your gaze toward the bookshelf behind him. "But it wouldn't kill you to hurry up. I'm starving."

"Careful," he said, deadpan but with unmistakable warmth, "I might be tempted to slow down just to teach you patience."

You hummed lightly in response, content in the easy banter. Moments like these--

Unhurried. Quiet.

They made everything else disappear. 

With Aaron, you felt profoundly safe. 

Secure, in a way you'd scarcely dared hope was possible.

Hotch turned slightly away, and you watched curiously as he tilted his head just slightly, brows knitting in brief confusion. 

It was subtle--

A momentary lapse in his carefully composed expression.

"Everything okay?" you asked gently, your voice cutting through the silence.

He straightened, expression immediately smoothing over, shoulders squaring. "Fine. Thought I heard something."

You studied him quietly, unconvinced but choosing not to press. 

Yet, somewhere deep in your chest, a faint unease flickered. It wasn't the first time you'd caught him reacting that way--

Tilting his head. Eyes briefly distracted as if straining to listen to something faint or far away.

You pushed the concern aside, smiling softly instead. "You know, if you're losing interest in my excellent company, you can just say so."

His mouth tugged upward again, but his eyes remained slightly guarded. "Never."

"Good," you breathed softly, allowing your playful tone to smooth away the subtle tension lingering in the air. "Because you're stuck with me."

He moved closer, placing two bowls carefully onto the coffee table, the steam drifting upward, mingling with the cool air. He eased onto the sofa beside you, close enough that your knees brushed. 

Warmth radiated from him-- 

Soft and reassuring. 

You reached instinctively for his hand, feeling the slight roughness of his skin as his fingers wove through yours.

He lifted his free hand, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, thumb brushing tenderly across your cheekbone. His eyes held yours, the intensity in his gaze making your breath hitch. "I wouldn't have it any other way."

Your heart fluttered, breath stuttering for a moment as his quiet, sincere words settled deep in your chest. You gently squeezed his hand, leaning into his touch, savoring the moment.

Yet, despite the tender exchange, a quiet, uneasy feeling lingered--

His brief moment of hesitation from earlier replaying in your mind. 

You'd noticed it happening more frequently: moments where Hotch seemed to drift, as if missing parts of conversations, his gaze slightly distracted. 

You remembered briefly overhearing something from Rossi years ago--

A cautious conversation mentioning something about the explosion Hotch had endured, how doctors had warned of hearing loss over time.

How, per usual, he didn’t follow orders, and it bothered him from time to time. And how, most of all, he’d never admit it. 

The BAU briefing room buzzed gently with early-morning energy. 

JJ and Penelope stood confidently at the front, flipping smoothly through photos and maps projected onto the screen. Beside you, Emily scribbled quietly into a notepad, while Morgan drummed his fingers softly against the table, eyes focused forward. Rossi looked less than entertained watching the slides unfold, and Spencer was rambling on about something. 

You settled comfortably into your usual seat, your thigh subtly pressed against Hotch’s beneath the table--

A quiet intimacy in the bright, professional atmosphere.

Hotch sat beside you, posture rigid but composed, pen poised over his yellow legal pad. His suit jacket was neatly buttoned, every hair meticulously in place, but the slight crease between his brows told you something was troubling him.

Occasionally, his knee pressed gently back into yours, wordlessly reassuring, even as he kept his eyes fixed on JJ and Penelope.

JJ tapped the screen softly, her voice measured and clear. "Local PD found another victim early this morning in Annapolis. Same MO: blunt force trauma, wrists bound, no defensive wounds. The unsub is cautious, controlled--clearly experienced."

You glanced at Hotch, noting how his gaze flickered briefly down, brow furrowing deeper, jaw tightening ever so slightly. The subtle shift in his expression was fleeting but unmistakable.

Penelope continued smoothly, gesturing to the screen, voice steady but quiet as she explained something more about the latest victim. Her age, occupation, and the location where she'd been found. 

Yet Hotch’s eyes narrowed, head tilting minutely toward his right shoulder, almost imperceptibly angling his ear toward Penelope’s voice.

Something twisted softly in your chest--

An echo of that vague, uncomfortable worry from days before.

"So we're thinking he's escalating?" Emily asked, pen poised mid-note.

JJ nodded slowly. "Yes. At this rate, the window between kills will shorten. If we don't catch him now--"

She stopped suddenly when Hotch cut in, voice clipped but uncertain, betraying an uncharacteristic hesitation. "Wait, JJ--repeat what you said before."

The room fell quiet, eyes briefly flicking toward Hotch. JJ recovered quickly, professionally smoothing over the awkward pause. "The unsub is escalating. The gap between each kill is narrowing, and we anticipate he'll strike again soon."

"Right," Hotch said stiffly, his eyes flickering down briefly to his notes, cheeks faintly flushed with something--embarrassment, frustration, maybe both. "Continue."

Your stomach twisted slightly. Beneath the table, you subtly shifted your knee, gently nudging his in quiet reassurance. Hotch responded almost unconsciously, nudging back, his hand tightening around the pen.

Morgan’s eyes flickered briefly toward you, then Hotch, expression unreadable but concerned. You pretended not to notice, instead focusing intently on Penelope’s continued briefing. 

Your mind, however, lingered uneasily on Hotch’s brief lapse. 

Was it becoming more frequent, or were you just now noticing how often he seemed to miss bits of conversation?

Penelope wrapped up, clicking off the projector as she gathered her files. Chairs scraped softly against the carpeted floor as the team stood, quietly murmuring. 

Emily and Morgan moved toward the door, and Rossi paused to speak with JJ in low, quiet tones. Spencer shuffled out behind with his files and book. 

You stood slowly, eyes lingering briefly on Hotch as he remained seated, focused intently on his notes, frustration radiating faintly from the set of his shoulders. 

The room had emptied around you both, leaving you together in silence, the quiet hum of electronics filling the tense space.

You moved carefully closer, gently leaning a hip against the edge of the table near him. "Hey," you said softly, voice deliberately casual.

He didn’t immediately respond, still staring down at the legal pad, jaw tight. Then, finally, he exhaled softly, looking up at you with carefully guarded eyes. "I missed something important."

Your heart tightened at the quiet frustration in his tone. "It happens," you said gently, attempting to ease his tension. "You've got a lot on your plate."

Hotch's mouth tightened briefly, clearly resisting the reassurance. "No, I--" He hesitated, shaking his head slightly, eyes briefly drifting downward. "This is different."

Your chest ached at the quiet admission. You reached instinctively toward his hand, your fingertips grazing softly against his knuckles. 

"Aaron," you began softly, voice gentle yet firm. "If something’s going on, you know you can talk to me."

He glanced up sharply, eyes intense, briefly clouded with vulnerability, embarrassment, fear--

Emotions he rarely let you see so plainly. 

Then he swallowed, clearing his expression quickly, forcing the careful neutrality back into place. "It's nothing. I'm just tired."

You hesitated, knowing he was holding back, but recognizing the stubborn tilt of his chin--

The silent, firm resolve behind his eyes. 

Pressing further right now wouldn’t help.

"Okay," you whispered softly instead, your thumb brushing gently over his knuckles. "But I'm here when you're ready to talk."

Hotch met your eyes again, quiet gratitude softening the hard lines of his face. He squeezed your hand gently, silent acknowledgment passing between you both. 

For a moment, you simply stood together, the quiet tension slowly dissolving into something warmer, gentler.

Yet, beneath that warmth, a quiet worry lingered--

Because despite his reassurance, you could sense something deeper brewing, 

Something difficult. 

Painful. 

That Hotch wasn't yet willing to face.

And something, you feared, that might soon be impossible to ignore.

The air was thick with tension, humidity clinging to your skin, pressing in like a tangible weight. It was late afternoon, but thick, gray clouds made the sky heavy, draping the crime scene in muted, eerie twilight. Tall grass swayed gently around the abandoned farmhouse, whispering secrets with every subtle breeze.

You moved cautiously, weapon drawn, heart steady but pulse thundering quietly in your ears. 

Morgan was ahead of you, shoulder pressed against the worn, splintered wood of the house's side wall. Hotch stood just to your right, face etched with sharp determination, jaw clenched tightly as he raised his gun.

"Hotch," Morgan hissed urgently, voice tight with anxiety, one hand held up cautiously, signaling you all to halt. "Stand back--there’s movement inside!"

Your eyes shot quickly to Hotch, stomach tightening painfully as he continued forward, seemingly oblivious to Morgan’s hushed warning. 

His eyes narrowed, searching the shadows of the building's interior through a cracked window.

Your voice caught in your throat, your heart suddenly seizing in panic.

Then, in a rush, everything unfolded at once. A shadow moved sharply inside. The unmistakable glint of metal flashed--

A barrel aiming directly toward Hotch. 

Fear surged through you. 

Hot and immediate.

"Hotch, down!" you shouted desperately, lunging toward him. 

You collided roughly, shoulder meeting his chest, shoving him forcefully out of the way. His body hit the ground beneath you, solid and warm even as the sharp crack of gunfire echoed violently through the humid air.

Splitting your ears with a painful roar.

You lay there, breathless, heart slamming against your ribs, your body shielding his as silence suddenly descended--

Heavy, deafening.

Then beneath you, Hotch shifted abruptly, groaning in evident pain. You scrambled off quickly, eyes immediately scanning him for injury, chest heaving in sharp, panicked breaths.

"Aaron," you gasped, voice strained, searching his tense expression urgently. "Are you hit?"

He shook his head, teeth clenched hard, eyes squeezed shut briefly, brows knitted together tightly. "No, it's--I’m fine," he rasped, clearly anything but.

A flicker of raw agony danced briefly across his features as he pushed himself up onto one elbow, jaw tense. He winced visibly, a hand instinctively pressing against his ear--

The injured one. The one from the explosion all those years ago.

You watched helplessly, fear tightening your chest as Morgan rushed closer, his voice filled with concern. "Hotch, man, you didn't hear me?"

Hotch's eyes snapped up sharply, dark and defensive, embarrassment and frustration flickering just beneath their surface. "I heard you," he lied tightly, voice strained, glancing toward the farmhouse. "It's nothing."

Morgan's jaw tightened, unconvinced. "Doesn't look like nothing."

Hotch shot him a sharp look, face rigid, pushing himself onto his feet with visible effort. He swayed briefly, fingers still pressed tightly against his injured ear. 

You gently grasped his elbow, steadying him, your pulse racing beneath your fingertips as you felt the slight tremble in his frame.

"Aaron," you whispered, your voice filled with quiet urgency, desperate for him to listen. "You need to--"

"Later," he cut you off. Sharply. Voice hoarse, and frustration evident but hidden beneath firm authority. "Let's clear the house first."

You bit your lip, stomach churning in helpless worry, but nodded silently, acknowledging his need to regain control. You stepped back, forcing yourself to refocus, feeling the warmth of Hotch’s gaze linger briefly, heavy with gratitude and quiet vulnerability he wasn’t ready to voice.

As Hotch moved past you toward Morgan, Rossi appeared suddenly beside you, his eyes quietly intense with a knowing look. "He's getting worse."

Your chest tightened painfully, and your voice dropped to a careful whisper. "He won’t admit it."

Rossi exhaled quietly, his gaze following Hotch's tense movements as he tried to regain composure. "Eventually, he'll have to."

You swallowed hard, feeling the weight of unspoken fear settle deep in your bones. Your gaze stayed locked on Hotch, noting the slight wince he couldn’t fully hide each time a sound echoed too loudly, each sharp voice crackling through the radios.

Quietly, privately, you worried--

More afraid now than you'd ever been. 

Afraid not only of what this meant for his job.

But more painfully, of what it meant for the man you loved so fiercely and the future you had quietly hoped you'd share.

You exhaled shakily, gripping your weapon tighter, forcing back the quiet, fearful ache in your chest. 

Because right now, he needed your strength. 

Your steadiness. 

Your silence.

The lights in your apartment were dim, casting comforting shadows across the room. Rain fell softly outside, droplets tapping gently against the windowpane, offering a quiet rhythm that ordinarily would soothe--

But tonight, tension hung thickly in the air.

Stubbornly resistant to any comfort.

Hotch sat silently at the edge of your bed, shoulders slumped forward, head bowed low, fingers clasped tightly in front of him. 

His tie was loosened carelessly, his usually crisp shirt wrinkled from restless movements. You watched quietly from the doorway, your heart aching sharply at the sight--

This towering, steady presence in your life suddenly appeared unbearably…small.

You approached carefully, your steps nearly silent across the carpet. "Aaron?"

His eyes lifted slowly, dark and heavy with exhaustion and something else--

Something raw, 

Fragile.

Something you'd never seen before. 

You gently sank down beside him, your knee softly brushing his thigh, offering a quiet, grounding comfort.

"Talk to me," you whispered, your voice carefully steady despite the tightness in your throat. "Please."

For a long moment, he said nothing, his jaw tight, the muscles beneath his skin tense as he struggled to gather words. When he finally spoke, his voice was hoarse, thick with emotion he struggled to suppress.

"I couldn't hear him," he admitted, his voice breaking slightly. "Jack...he stood up there, proud and excited, and I couldn't hear. a. single. word."

Your chest tightened painfully at the vulnerable confession, your fingers instinctively reaching for his hand. Gently lacing your fingers through his. 

His hand trembled faintly in yours, and that subtle movement sent an aching, helpless pang through you.

"The ringing," he continued quietly, his voice shaking subtly beneath its calm exterior. "The pain...it won't stop. It's constant. I can't sleep. I can't focus. I've missed things at work, important things--and now..." He swallowed tightly, eyes falling closed briefly as he inhaled sharply. "Now it's stealing moments with my son."

He shook his head bitterly, frustration and shame mingling in his eyes as he refused to meet your gaze. "I ignored it. I thought I could handle it. The doctors warned me after the explosion. Told me this could happen eventually, but I thought--"

"Aaron," you breathed, squeezing his hand gently, desperate to ease the pain radiating from every tense muscle. "This isn't your fault. You couldn't have known it would come this quickly."

"I ignored every sign," he interrupted sharply, voice thick with self-directed anger. "I was too stubborn, too proud. And now--now it’s costing me things I can't get back."

The admission fell heavily between you, laden with quiet agony. 

You moved closer, turning slightly so your knee pressed more firmly against his thigh, desperate to offer comfort. 

Grounding. 

Anything to ease the pain that radiated from him in palpable wavves.

"You can't change what's happened, you whispered, carefully choosing each word, voice gentle but unwavering. "But you can still take steps forward. Let me help you, Aaron. Please."

He finally turned, meeting your gaze fully, eyes vulnerable, haunted by embarrassment and shame he struggled deeply to hide. 

His voice was barely audible, weighted with a defeat you'd never imagined possible from him. "I've never felt so powerless."

Your heart shattered quietly at those words, the painful honesty behind them overwhelming you with tenderness and sorrow. 

Your hand lifted instinctively, gently cupping his cheek, thumb softly tracing the sharp line of his jaw.

"You aren't powerless, you murmured, voice quietly fierce, unwavering in conviction. "And you're not alone. You never will be, as long as I'm here."

He exhaled softly, leaning subtly into your touch, eyes falling shut for a moment, surrendering briefly to the quiet solace of your closeness. When his eyes reopened, they were softer, the rawness replaced by something tender and grateful.

"I don't deserve you," he whispered, voice cracking gently.

You shook your head softly, heart aching fiercely at the vulnerability of his words. "You deserve far more than you'll ever let yourself believe."

Slowly, cautiously, Aaron leaned forward, pressing his forehead gently against yours. Your breath caught, chest tight with emotion as you absorbed the quiet weight of this moment--

His quiet surrender, his trust, his raw vulnerability laid bare.

"I'm scared," he finally admitted softly, voice barely above a whisper.

You closed your eyes briefly, fingers threading softly through his hair, grounding yourself as much as him in the intimacy of this moment. "Then let me be brave enough for both of us," you whispered firmly, gently brushing your thumb across his temple.

You felt the faint tremble ripple through him, the quiet surrender as his walls slowly cracked further open. He drew in a shaky breath, nodding subtly against your forehead, quietly allowing himself--perhaps for the first time--to rely entirely on someone else.

And as you sat quietly beside him, holding tightly onto the man who'd always seemed unshakably strong, you silently vowed you'd help him rebuild what he'd lost. 

Piece by piece. 

No matter how long it took.

The doctor's office was pristine and starkly clinical-- 

A sharp contrast to the warmth and comfort of your home. 

You sat beside Hotch, gently leaning your shoulder against his as you waited. He had tried earlier to insist that you didn't need to come--had tried to spare you the burden--but you'd met his protests with a quiet, unwavering smile.

"I'm going with you, Aaron. End of discussion."

He hadn't argued further. 

He knew better. 

Now, sitting quietly beside you in the bright room, Hotch’s knee bounced anxiously, the steady rhythm betraying the nervousness he carefully concealed. 

You reached over quietly, fingers finding his, weaving together in quiet reassurance. His grip tightened immediately, as though your touch alone kept him grounded.

The door opened with a quiet click, and Dr. Bennett, an older man with gentle eyes and a warm presence, entered, nodding warmly as he settled onto the small rolling stool in front of you both.

"Good to see you, Aaron," Dr. Bennett greeted him kindly, glancing briefly toward you with an understanding nod. "And I see you've brought moral support."

Hotch's lips twitched slightly, a small, strained attempt at a smile. "She insisted."

You squeezed his hand gently, smiling softly back. "Wouldn't miss it for the world."

Dr. Bennett nodded knowingly, looking down at his chart, “It seems like you haven’t had your eat treated since,” He flipped through the pages, “2008.” The doctor looked to Hotch, who just kept a blank face,” turning his attention back to the chart before placing it on the counter,  "Let's take a look."

The room fell into careful quiet as the doctor gently tilted Hotch’s head, using a slim otoscope to peer carefully into his injured ear. 

Hotch remained perfectly still, tension lining every muscle. You watched closely, noting the slight furrow of his brow and the quiet tightening of his jaw.

After a moment, Dr. Bennett leaned back slightly, setting down the instrument and meeting Hotch’s gaze seriously. "There’s significant scar tissue buildup, Aaron. The original injury must have been extensive. Combine that with years of exposure to gunfire, constant travel on planes, and frankly, the passage of time...it's no wonder you're experiencing these symptoms now."

Hotch's expression hardened subtly, a brief flicker of unease shadowing his dark eyes. "So, what does that mean?"

Dr. Bennett exhaled softly, folding his hands carefully. "Realistically? You’d greatly benefit from a hearing aid. It won't restore what's been lost, but it can significantly improve your quality of life. Ease the discomfort, lessen the ringing and strain."

Hotch visibly flinched at the suggestion, discomfort and distaste clear in his tight-lipped expression, eyes dropping quickly to the floor. Your heart tightened in response, understanding immediately the quiet shame and embarrassment threatening to overwhelm him.

"A hearing aid," Hotch repeated quietly, the words thick with distaste, as if saying it aloud made it more rea--

More painful.

You rubbed your thumb gently over the back of his hand, speaking softly. "It could really help, Aaron."

He glanced at you sharply, a faint flush coloring his cheeks, his embarrassment raw and unshielded. His voice was quiet, barely masking his frustration. "It feels...like admitting defeat."

You leaned closer, voice gentle but firm, meeting his eyes directly. "It's not defeat. It's choosing yourself--choosing your health and your life. You deserve that, Aaron. You don't have to carry this alone."

His gaze held yours for a moment, quietly searching, vulnerability shimmering behind the carefully constructed barriers. He swallowed tightly, exhaling softly as his shoulders slowly relaxed. You saw the shift--

The quiet surrender.

And the reluctant, tentative acceptance.

Dr. Bennett smiled softly, recognizing the delicate tension between you both, sensing Hotch’s internal struggle. "Why don't you take some time to think it over? It's a significant decision, but an empowering one."

Hotch exhaled slowly, nodding once, his voice quiet and rough with emotion. "I appreciate it."

The doctor quietly excused himself, leaving the two of you alone in the gentle quiet of the room. Hotch's hand trembled faintly in yours, and your heart ached softly, recognizing how difficult this moment was for him--this man who had always been the protector, the authority figure, so quietly proud, now having to acknowledge something he couldn't control or conquer on his own.

"You don't have to decide right now," you whispered softly, lifting your free hand to tenderly brush through his hair, gently soothing the tension in his neck. "But I'm proud of you for taking this step."

Hotch swallowed again, eyes briefly drifting shut, leaning subtly into your comforting touch. His voice was quiet, nearly breaking. "It's hard."

Your chest tightened painfully at the raw vulnerability in his admission. "I know," you murmured, voice barely audible, aching with fierce affection. "But you won't do this alone, Aaron. Ever."

He finally turned toward you fully, his eyes softening, guarded walls slowly falling away. His free hand rose, fingers gently cupping your cheek, thumb softly brushing your skin in quiet gratitude.

"Thank you," he whispered hoarsely, the words thick with emotion. "For being here."

You turned slightly, pressing a soft kiss to his palm, letting your lips linger gently. "Always."

Rain pattered lightly against the windshield, gentle but persistent. The rhythmic sweep of the wipers matched the quiet rhythm of your heart as you watched Hotch from the passenger seat, his expression shadowed, his hands gripping the wheel just a bit tighter than usual. 

The streetlights blurred through the rain-streaked windows, painting muted streaks of amber and white across the dark interior of the car.

"You know," he began suddenly, breaking the heavy silence, voice edged with quiet frustration, "I’m not even fifty yet. People in their forties shouldn't need hearing aids."

You suppressed a soft smile, knowing exactly where this was headed, and instead settled comfortably back against the seat, turning your head to face him fully. "Aaron, hearing loss isn't an age thing. You know that."

He made a soft noise, somewhere between a grunt and a sigh, shaking his head stubbornly. "Still, a hearing aid. It's something older people need. It's--" He hesitated, clearly struggling with embarrassment. "I don't want you to look at me differently."

Your heart twisted softly, tenderness swelling beneath your ribs. "I won’t," you murmured reassuringly, your voice gentle. "I couldn't."

He shook his head again, lips pressed tightly together. "You're already younger than me. You already look--"

"Aaron," you interrupted gently, placing a comforting hand on his thigh. "I've never cared about the age gap. Why would a hearing aid suddenly change that?"

He exhaled slowly, eyes fixed stubbornly on the road ahead, jaw tight. "Because you'll be standing next to a man who can't hear without help. It just feels...like weakness. I don’t want to be someone you feel you have to take care of."

You softened even further, thumb brushing soothingly across his thigh. "Letting someone care for you isn't weakness. You've been strong alone for so long--you don’t always have to be."

He fell quiet again, the silence filled only by the soft hum of the tires on wet pavement, the steady rhythm of raindrops tapping gently overhead. 

You watched him closely, allowing him the space to process his thoughts, knowing his stubbornness and pride needed room to fade into acceptance.

After several long, tense moments, he spoke again, his voice quieter now, vulnerability beginning to edge into the firm lines of his expression. "I just don't want it to change how you see me."

You squeezed his thigh softly. "I fell in love with you exactly as you are--nothing could change that."

He was quiet again, fingers flexing slightly on the steering wheel. Then he exhaled sharply, voice rougher, lower, weighed down with self-awareness. "I can't keep missing things," he admitted slowly, reluctantly. "On cases...with Jack..." His voice softened even more, cracking faintly, "And with you."

Your heart clenched gently, breath catching softly in your throat at his quiet admission. 

He swallowed tightly, glancing quickly toward you before returning his gaze to the road, embarrassment evident beneath his careful composure.

"I'm tired of being exhausted," he whispered roughly, almost to himself. "Tired of the ringing. Tired of missing Jack's life. And--" His voice tightened further, vulnerability clear, "--tired of being so exhausted from not sleeping that I can't even make love to you."

His words pierced deeply, the raw honesty stealing your breath and filling your heart with tenderness and quiet ache. You leaned closer, silently offering comfort, your hand tightening softly on his thigh.

 "Aaron," you whispered gently, reassuringly, "it's okay. I'm right here."

His shoulders relaxed subtly, tension beginning to slowly drain away. "I know you are," he admitted quietly, finally meeting your eyes briefly at a red light. "That's why I know I can't let this get worse."

"I suppose a hearing aid wouldn’t be the worst thing," he finally conceded quietly, eyes fixed ahead but voice lighter now--almost resigned. "If it means I can stop missing out on the things that matter most."

You smiled warmly, affection surging gently through your chest. "Exactly."

Hotch’s lips finally curled upward, the faintest, tentative hint of a genuine smile. He lifted one hand from the wheel, gently grasping your hand on his thigh, intertwining your fingers carefully.

"And if it means I can properly hear all those sweet things you whisper to me," he murmured, humor and warmth finally beginning to edge back into his voice, "then maybe it’ll be worth it."

You laughed softly, relief flooding your chest at seeing him finally relax. You squeezed his fingers gently, heart swelling with quiet joy. "I promise to speak clearly."

He lifted your intertwined hands, pressing a tender kiss against your knuckles, gaze lingering warmly on yours at the next red light. "I’ll hold you to that."

And in the quiet warmth of that moment, beneath the gentle rhythm of rain, you felt the weight of his worries begin to lift, replaced by something hopefu--

Something stronger than fear.

Or embarrassment,

Or stubborn pride.

Something you knew, with absolute certainty, would carry you both forward.

Tag List: @zaddyhotch @estragos @todorokishoe24 @looking1016  @khxna @rousethemouse @averyhotchner @reidfile @bernelflo @lover-of-books-and-tea @frickin-bats @sleepysongbirdsings @justyourusualash @person-005 @iyskgd @hiireadstuff @kcch-ns @alexxavicry @sweethotchlogy

[split-spectrum]

CONCESSIONS

Chapter 5 - Finale

Pairing: Obi Wan/FemReader

Tags: sexually explicit content, elements of dubious consent, light bondage/restraints (handcuffs), masturbation, edging, orgasm denial, nipple play, oral sex, fingering, unprotected sex, cum play, this is 100% pure smut from start to finish

Length: 10.9K

Summary: Obi Wan chooses to undertake a trial that prevents him from sex for one year, and asks you to serve as his witness. As his close friend, you don't mind helping him. The rules of the trial are very clear. You make it your personal mission to find every exception.

☆☆☆

"I'm sorry," Obi Wan murmurs against your lips.

He says it even as he continues to kiss you. Even as his thumb nudges against your jaw, rubbing up the soft skin of your cheek. His hot breath is still inside your mouth as he whispers, "I don't know what came over me."

It's been over since it began. He's pulled away repeatedly, humming variations of denials and apologies against your lips, your cheek, your neck. But stopping still seems nearly as impossible as starting did.

The two of you don't do this. You don't kiss. You flirt, and you fight, and you share stolen moments that you can later pretend never happened. You touch him in the dark, and you don't talk about your feelings. You don't look at one another with heady desire coursing through your veins anymore. You just don't. You just can't.

And that's why, when he leans in again, instead of melting into his touch the way you want to, you glance up from his lips, catching his eyes. It's the barest of hesitations, but it's enough to make him slow down, swallow, pull back.

"Sorry." He says it low, stuck in the back of his throat, and it makes you feel like you're drowning.

It fucking kills you to hear him like this - quietly losing his air of formality. His hair is mussed where you'd grabbed onto it, and as he pushes himself up from the bed, he grazes thumb and forefinger over his short beard, like he's trying to wipe the taste of you from his mouth.

You watch his movements, entranced and silent. He glances back at you, and suddenly the distance between where you lie and where he stands feels like a growing chasm. You lean your weight onto your elbow, about to get up and join him. You don't know what you'll do or say, but you can feel him pulling away, back into himself.

As you sit up, he takes a single step back, and just like that, it's over.

"I-" he starts quietly, eyes meeting yours and then darting away, "I need to... clear my thoughts."

Your mouth falls open, his name about to come out. But you don't know what follows it. For once, he's tied your tongue.

"I'll be in the refresher," he says, turning abruptly. "Excuse me."

Before you can begin to think of anything to say, he's heading toward the refresher, the warm, damp air from your own use billowing out when he opens the door.

He stops only to gather a change of clothes, not even glancing back as he closes the door behind him.

 

--

When the room is quiet, and all you can hear is the soft sound of water flowing in the distance, you roll onto your back, closing your eyes. That had been too far. That had been looking for trouble.

And fuck, you're still aching for it.

You're still reeling at the things he'd said. His walls had dipped for the briefest of moments, letting you in, and somehow, you'd managed to blow it, snapping him back to his senses at the worst possible time.

He'd caught you off guard. If only you hadn't hesitated, he would have found relief. Instead, you have to lie here, just thinking about the way his mouth felt against yours. Thinking about the way he'd instantly started to pull you apart at the seams, from the moment he'd gotten his hands on you.

You're practically throbbing under the soft fabric of your sleep clothes as you slip your legs beneath the covers. Stars, what you wouldn't give for some privacy right now. Years of discipline are failing you spectacularly as you squeeze your eyelids tight, trying to think of something - anything - besides the way his beard had brushed against your neck when he'd been talking in your ear.

Your hand is flat against your leg, rubbing thoughtfully, when you hear the door open again, Obi Wan emerging fully clothed.

You try not to be obvious, glancing over at him only once, then returning your stare to the bunk above you. When he shuts off the light, you listen to his bare feet as he crosses the room, then vaults gracefully up the short ladder to his bed above you.

It almost feels like you've been caught at something, even though your hand is still resting at your side. You try to focus your thoughts, calm down, and go to sleep. But all you can think about is how big and warm his hands were when they'd held your waist. How hungry his kiss had been. How deep and dark his voice had gotten against your ear.

"I should thank you..." A softer, more subdued shade of that same voice drifts down from above you.

You nearly flinch at the break in silence.

"For keeping your promise," he adds.

The hum of the ship is the only sound as you process his words. It's the last thing you'd expected him to say, though you really hadn't expected him to say anything. Usually, you don't have trouble spotting his sarcasm. This time could be an exception. You aren't certain what would be appropriate to say back.

"You're welcome," you venture.

You fight the urge to admit that it had never been your intention to stop. That despite your better judgement, you still want to take things as far as he'll let you.

After a few long heartbeats, you speak up again. "I uh, thought you felt it was a mistake. Asking me."

A soft exhale. "I should never have said that. I've put you in a difficult situation. Forgive me."

Your eyes search the darkness. As usual, he leaves so much up to your interpretation. Another long moment passes. Suddenly, you want to keep him talking. Something about the way he's holding you at arm's length tells you that if you let things end here and go to sleep, your friendship is going to shift in ways that can't be undone. So you try to think of something else to say.

"How was your shower?"

"Cold," he answers. "Very cold."

Your eyelids flutter. You try not to picture his rigid body, his hand braced against the shower wall as the cold water pulls him back from whatever might have been on his mind.

"I'm sorry if I've made things more... difficult for you."

He doesn't answer for a long time. Then you hear him slowly shift in his bed. "I suspect that by this point, things would be difficult regardless of anything you had done."

"You mean going this long would have been hard for you no matter what?"

"No," he says quietly. "I mean that this was a terrible time for us to be assigned to a joint mission."

"Oh?" you reply, your heartbeat kicking up as you try to keep your tone casual. "Why is that?"

His hesitation is palpable, almost like you can hear him holding back his response.

"You can tell me," you encourage, letting your voice grow soft and breathy.

"Well," he lets out slowly, "I spent the majority of our conversation in the galley thinking only of taking you against the wall. If this was a solo mission, I would like to believe I could avoid such thoughts."

For a moment, all you can hear is the white noise of all the remaining blood in your head rushing to your center, and you ignore the urge to make an embarrassing noise. Instead, you swallow, replying, "It's a good thing I wouldn't have let that happen."

Another pause. "Can you be so sure?"

Your face is growing hot. It's like you can feel him toeing the line, waiting for you to pull him back. You open your mouth, words coming out tentatively. "It's, uh... it's my 'sacred duty', isn't it?"

"I might have tried to coerce you," he responds.

If he keeps offering up blunt confessions wrapped in his soft, chaste delivery, you're going to lose your mind.

"I'm well acquainted with your tactics of persuasion, Obi Wan," you say lightly, as if you aren't seconds away from touching yourself. "What would you have done to coerce me into letting you fail?"

"I think the question is better asked, what wouldn't I have done?"

Shit, he's doing this on purpose. He must be.

"You still haven't answered my question."

"I might have appealed to your sense of decency; tried to convince you to have mercy on me."

You should stop the conversation here. You should laugh and give him some clever quip about him never showing you mercy in training matches. You should tell him it would never work, and leave it at that.

But instead, your throat going dry, you simply ask, "How would you do that?"

It's an opening that shouldn't exist; a lit path that should have remained dark.

He answers, slowly, "I would have held you against that wall, rather than let you leave."

"Mm-hm," you hum softly, listening intently as his words become quieter.

"I would have ended that foolish argument."

Your fingertips graze the side of your leg again. "How?"

"I'd have kissed you. Properly."

"Yeah?"

"And I would have shown you exactly what you do to me."

It's hard not to let your words come out as an airy whine. "What- what do you mean?"

"You know very well what I mean."

Your chin tilts up. Your hand slithers below your waistband. "Obi Wan..."

"I might have pulled your clothes off, then and there. Would you have stopped me?"

You shake your head, though he can't see it. "No."

"If you'd let me, I would have touched you. Stars, I wanted to."

You can't answer. You're circling around your clit, wetness soaking your fingers.

"I wanted to ask for what you'd offered me before."

"Wh-what I'd offered?"

"Your mouth," he answers, sounding like the very thought is painful. "Though I couldn't. If you had said it, I would have had to refuse."

"Refuse?" you breathe, reduced to repeating his words. "Why?"

"Because I-" He cuts himself off. "I would have..."

You try to keep your panting quiet.

"With the way you... use your mouth on me, I couldn't have stopped there. I would have fucked you... I..." he grinds out. "I would have-"

A moan escapes your lips, and he goes suddenly silent.

The recycled air hangs still for an eternity.

He'd heard you.

You can do nothing but wait. Wait for the question. The confusion. The accusation.

But it never comes.

Then, finally, movement.

He rolls in his bunk, and you freeze, pulling your hand up and lying still as you hear him shift.

You want to say something, to make an excuse, to pretend nothing had happened. But the sound had been unmistakable. And your breath is coming too short to even speak.

You have no idea what he intends to do, but for some reason, he seems to be getting out of bed.

You can barely make out his form when he slowly steps down from above you, crowding into your bunk in the darkness. He comes closer, whispering your name, and when you don't reply, he leans down, giving you plenty of time to pull away.

You don't make a move; don't say a word. His mouth finds yours, and you sigh softly against it.

He kisses you, slowly this time, exploring you carefully and precisely. He waits to feel every movement that you reciprocate, brushing his bottom lip delicately across your top lip, waiting for you to spread open for him, which you eagerly do. Minutes pass before he finally slides his tongue into your mouth and drags a needy sound out of you.

He passes a hand down at the same time, reaching under your clothes and between your legs with a quiet certainty. Pressing his first two fingers down, he sinks into your wetness and draws them out again. His lips pull apart from yours.

"You were touching yourself," he says, the faint light in the room dancing in the reflection of his eyes. His hand drops to the bedding, evidence smearing across the fabric as he looks to you for answers.

"I..." You're obscenely embarrassed, but you try to keep from dropping his gaze. "I didn't mean for you to... to notice."

His features have taken on an emotion you can't quite place. "How long have you felt... like this?"

Your face flushes. It must be a joke, but you have no idea how to respond. "What do you mean?"

He shakes his head. "I had no idea you..."

"What?"

"When you offered to help me, I hadn't thought..."

You look at him for a long time, taking in his blown-out pupils, his kiss-swollen lips, his undeniable sincerity.

The truth washes over you, slowly sinking in.

All this time, he'd thought you'd been simply putting up with his request. That you were being a good friend. That you'd only offered to help him out of obligation.

His gaze falls off to the side, then drags back to you. "I had thought it was for my benefit alone."

You try to find the words to express how fucking mad with want that he's been driving you this entire time, but you come up empty. Instead, at long last, all you can say is, "No."

"No?" he whispers.

You shake your head softly. "No."

For a moment, he looks as if you've punched him. Then his wide eyes flicker down to your lap. "Show me, then," he breathes. "Will you?"

When he lowers his hands to your hips, resting his thumbs inward, awaiting your permission, it's like his touch is scorching you; boiling you over, even through your clothes.

You suck in air, trying desperately to clear your head. There's a reason you can't just give in and let him sink his fingers back in exactly where you need them. There's definitely a good reason. If only you could think of anything beyond how good his hands would feel on your skin...

But, no. Biting your lip, you shake your head and use every remaining shred of your willpower to say, "If you want, I'll show you. But not like this."

His face falls, confusion staining his features as he pulls his hands back. "What do you mean?"

You try to keep your panting quiet enough that he can't hear it, pressing back on your elbows and lifting your chin to look past him, over the side of the bed. "Could you get my pack for me?"

His uncertain look lingers, but he pulls your pack up and hands it to you. Digging inside, you find what you need.

His demeanor shifts the instant he catches sight of them. "You packed them anyway."

You give him a shy shrug, looking at him coyly through your eyelashes. "Never hurts to be prepared."

He swallows. "Those would not be necessary for what I had in mind."

He gives a pointed downward look, and you try not to shiver. Steeling yourself, you answer, "If you want to watch, we should put certain... assurances in place. As your witness, I think it's best to be safe."

It's a lie, of course. A lie to finally get what you want, after all this desperate trying.

His reaction earlier had shown you that the only way you can be sure to finish what you start is to literally hold him in place. You can't risk him losing his nerve again. Despite the fog of sex clouding your thoughts, you know this is your final chance, and you have no intention of wasting it. You aren't just going to offer him simple, straightforward relief. You're going to draw it out until it's the only thing he can think of. Until he can do nothing but give in.

"So," you ask, dawning your best false bravado and sitting up to encircle one of his wrists in the first of the binders. He doesn't pull away, but he hardly looks pleased. "What's it going to be?"

As you ask the question, you activate the first binder and meet his eyes. The uncertainty is still there, but it doesn't completely mask the excitement beneath. He exhales, then tucks his other arm behind his back, allowing you to chain him to the handle of the durasteel panel at the end of your small bunk. His shoulders are pulled into a hard line and he rests in a kneeling position, looking down at you as you slowly lie back on the bed.

"Thanks for trusting my judgement," you tell him, getting comfortable in the soft covers, but hesitating before slipping your hand beneath your clothes again. His eyes follow your movement, and your fingers rest just shy of where they should be going.

"You left me few other options," he replies, settling back against his restraints.

Looking up at him, you suddenly feel self-conscious. Has your coercion gone too far?

"You had options," you clarify. "You still have them."

He smirks. "Hardly. Remain a free man, or watch you pleasure yourself. To call that a choice would make me a fool."

You give a soft breath, then your fingers drop low. You can see his smirk falling away just as your eyelids flutter shut.

Your hand glides easily to where it had been only moments before, listening to the sound of his voice as you'd touched yourself. Your chest is tight with the anxiety of knowing he's watching you, but it's equal parts unnerving and thrilling at the same time. You start to play with yourself and the mix of adrenaline and desire shoots through you like lightning.

"Undress for me," he instructs. "Let me see."

It isn't said with anything resembling a demand, yet you shake your head, leaning back against your pillow. You're in charge. He has to know that.

"I know you aren't used to it," you reply, wrist slowing as you give him a soft smile, "but I'm giving orders at the moment." Your hand stills. "You're here to watch, nothing more."

You can feel him tense as your movement disappears. He stays quiet, as if waiting for you to continue, and when you don't, he finally speaks up.

"Don't stop, darling."

His soft encouragement nearly makes you pull your slippery-wet fingers over your clit and come on the spot. Even as you begin to drag your wrist in achingly slow circles again, carefully avoiding putting too much pressure anywhere dangerous, you're thinking about it. Maybe you could afford to tip over the edge and bite your lip hard enough to hide it. But not after he's worked you up this much. You're going to be a mess, and you know it.

Instead, you use your other hand to unbutton the top of your bodice and breathe a little deeper, holding your voice steady as you casually reply, "There it is again. You called me that earlier."

"What?"

"Darling," you say softly, trying to let it sound like an offhand observation.

"I used to call you that all the time."

Your brow creases. "I don't remember that."

"Ah," he says, sounding suddenly reserved. "Perhaps it was under my breath, then."

You open your eyes to look at him, expecting a smile, but finding him completely focused between your legs.

Stifling a whimper, you push your pants off with hurried, uncareful hands, staring up at him the whole time. You've given in much too quickly - you were supposed to draw this out. But you can't help it. He's talking you right up to the edge without even trying.

"Oh," he groans, watching you spread your legs for him and delicately begin to play with your pussy.

You lower your lashes and drag your eyes down his still fully-clothed body. You need to keep focused - keep pushing him closer to where you are.

"I should confess, this isn't the first time I've touched myself thinking of you."

He gives a small nod, not tearing his eyes from their spot. "I know. The holos."

You swallow, building your courage. "Not just then."

His eyes briefly flick up to your face, an urgent question in his gaze, but they hang there for only a second before he's distracted back to your center.

Letting out a slow breath, you let yourself ease your middle finger against your clit, the air on your skin chilling the wetness running along the insides of your thighs. "After that night we fell asleep together."

A loud huff of breath escapes him. "You... you didn't..."

Building toward orgasm isn't going to take long. You're practically soaking your fingers as you admit it to him: "Right afterward; just like this."

You let out a little shudder, speeding up your movements when you hear the soft clink of him readjusting in the binders.

"Let me touch you."

You leave it hang, as if you hadn't heard it.

"I touched myself here, too, imagining it was you."

Your free hand lifts to your left nipple, brushing it softly at first and then circling it until it starts to harden. Your bodice is open at the top, but still held tightly together at the bottom. As you near the edge, you study Obi Wan's face, watching his frustration build at each slow, deliberate movement. You pull your other hand up and drag your slick over your sensitive skin, using it to bring your other nipple to a hardened bud.

"Have you ever been touched like that?"

He doesn't answer, jaw tight and eyes fixated on your roving fingers.

"I think you'd like it," you go on, cupping your breasts and lazily drawing your fingertips over your skin. Then, you sit up and crawl the short distance to him.

"What do you think?" you ask innocently, hands spreading under his outer tunic. You rub your hand experimentally back and forth a few times to see if he'll bristle, but if anything, he seems to lean into your touch. Sliding your hand beneath his outer tunic, you brush his nipple through the remaining cloth. Delightfully, you find that it's already hard.

You smile, pushing his outer tunic over his shoulders. "You're a little more indecent than I thought, Obi Wan."

His lips are parted as he stares down your body, then back to where you're touching him.

"You have no idea."

You suck the edge of your bottom lip into your mouth, then take both your hands and trail them lightly against the soft fabric of his inner tunic, from his shoulders down to his stomach, palms flat. Then you bring your thumbs up to his nipples and begin to tease. His eyes roll up, then fall shut. He doesn't say anything out loud, but his chest begins to heave with shallow, harsh breaths.

You go on like that for a long while, drinking in every sharp intake of air, every roll of his shoulders, and every time he opens his eyes to look at you through a glossy daze.

"Let's make you a little more comfortable, hm?" you finally say, reaching to remove his inner tunic as well, but struggling with the resistance of the rest of his clothes, the multiple layers all held tight by his belt. You lower your hand, then stop to look at him before gently tugging at it.

"Can I take this off?"

"Yes," he answers before you even finish your last word.

You grin, freeing his waist and shoving both his tunics back, pushing open his neckline to reveal the bare skin beneath, until he's naked to the waist. With his clothes still draped halfway over his arms, you simply stare. The muscles bound to every inch of his frame are almost too much of a distraction to notice the obscene bulge straining in his pants. Almost.

"You, uh..." Your voice nearly cracks and you carefully clear your throat. "You look... really good like this."

Obi Wan, still gazing at your nearly naked body, barely seems to have noticed you talking. "I can't say what I think of the way you look." After a moment, he adds, "There aren't words in Basic for the things I want to do to you."

You feel a pulse between your legs, then smile weakly. "Let's just focus on you for the moment."

Your thumbs brush over his bare nipples again and he gasps. "That- that feels..."

He dissolves into short breaths, going silent for a long time as you drag the tips of your fingernails up and down his chest with feather-light touches. His biceps flex in time with your hypnotic rhythm as his skin pricks into goosebumps.

"Good, isn't it?" you say softly, not expecting a response as you watch him curl and flex beneath your touch. You go lower, daring to slide your hands low enough that they graze the skin beneath his belly button.

When you can see his stomach beginning to tighten in apparent frustration, you start to tease his nipples again, and he lets out a noise somewhere between startled and relieved. You only tease him briefly, then give him a moment's break to catch his breath, tracing his bare shoulders with your fingertips.

"How..." he manages after his panting subsides, "...did you know..."

You give him a wry smile, flicking your thumbs back and forth softly over his nipples again. "How did I know you'd like this?" you finish for him. "Just a feeling."

He moans in response, hips bucking forward. His face is starting to get flushed, and you suppress the urge to lathe your tongue over his neck.

"Why don't you lie down for me?" you purr into his ear.

He pulls at the binders, making an obvious point. "You've made that rather difficult."

Hesitating, you look him over, trying to let the logical part of your brain swim back to the surface. On the one hand, you know taking him out of the binders is going to lead to a conversation about getting him back into them, which ultimately could put an end to this. On the other hand, the image of Obi Wan lying beneath you, spread out, completely at your mercy...

"Just one hand."

You hold his gaze for a moment, waiting for him to agree. He raises his brows in that charming way he has, not saying anything back. Ever the skilled tactician, even in a moment like this, he's not going to volunteer anything he doesn't have to.

"I'm going to let one hand free, just so you can lie down," you clarify, reaching behind him to use the fingerprint scanner on the pre-programmed binders. You rest a hand on his shoulder, leaning close to the side of his face. "That means you lie down as soon as I press this button, right? Nothing else. Nothing to break the rules."

His eyelashes are hanging low as he stares at your mouth, not answering. It takes him a long time to drag his eyes back up to yours, and when he does, your heartbeat kicks up wildly. You click the button, only vaguely aware that he hadn't yet answered.

His hand finally loose, he doesn't let go of eye contact as he reaches for your chest, lightly dragging his fingertips beneath your collarbone.

"L-lie down," you whisper, not moving as he smooths the side of his knuckle down your bare skin. You arch your back instinctively, letting out a short, soft moan when he grazes your nipple. Your eyelashes flutter closed, despite your efforts. You force them open again.

"My goodness," he says breathlessly, sweeping his hand up to your cheek. "You are beautiful."

Fighting hard against the flush that you can already feel is settling deeply in your face, you force a dismissive smile and lift your own hand over his hand. "The words of a man currently tied to my bed, who would say anything to make me let him loose."

He meets your gaze straight-on. "The words of a man too desperate to tell anything but truth."

"Obi Wan," you murmur softly, not sure if you mean to chastise or encourage him.

He slides his hand to your jaw, starting to lean in for a kiss. That finally pulls you out of your daze. Heart racing, you lean in first. And harder.

Before he can meet your lips in a slow, sensual kiss, you close your mouth over his, plunging your tongue deep and drawing out a moan from him.

Using the momentum to push him back against the panel, you raise his hand up above his head, kissing him with every bit of the passion you've been holding back, ignoring the pulsing need to give in and simply press your body up against him, kiss him, taste him. Instead, you focus on getting his hand into position, and give a satisfied hum against his mouth as you clip the second binder back into place.

He makes a displeased noise in the back of his throat, but he does not stop kissing you.

His lips are ravenous, as if he knows the second he stops, you're going to pull away. He isn't playing with you; isn't going along with your teasing. He's unabashedly trying to feel whatever he can get. You use it to your advantage, pushing his pliant body toward the bed, sucking his bottom lip as you ease him down until he's lying beneath you.

When you finally pull apart, you murmur against his mouth, "I'm sorry."

He's looking up at you, lips parted, looking slightly accusatory but overall like he would very much like to continue kissing. "That was quite unfair."

"I... I couldn't trust myself," you admit, sitting up.

He licks his lips, then answers in an infuriatingly calm tone, "You might have trusted me instead, then."

You sit back, letting your eyes travel brazenly over his body, his arms held above his head and the rest of him lying spread out for you. You swallow, then try to match his unaffected tone. "Well. You never agreed to the terms, did you?"

His chest is heaving, but he still maintains that silky-smooth intonation. "I was hardly given the chance."

You drag your fingers up and down his skin, starting with his arms, which look thick and bracing from this angle. The dark hair of his underarms is inexplicably salacious.

"And if I gave you the chance now?" you ask, fingers drifting lower, brushing over the sensitive skin of his sides. You watch him shiver, skin prickling.

"The terms were... quite restrictive," he retorts, then closes his mouth to breathe through his nose.

By the time you reach his waist, he's visibly straining under your touch. He no longer looks combative. He just looks very, very serious.

You brush your fingers along his pants, taking care to stay above the waistline. After you've run your nails along it a few times, you casually ask him, "Can I take these off?"

He nods his head, ruffling his hair in the back. "Please."

"Mm," you answer, then slide your thumbs back up to play with his nipples again. "Good to know."

He sucks in, letting out sharp, harsh little breaths as you toy with him. You bring one thumb up to your mouth, lick it, and then slide it across his right nipple. Then you lean over his body to blow softly over the wet skin.

He jerks, sucking air between his teeth at the sensation, and meets your eyes. "Wh-why did you ask, if you weren't - ah - going to..."

He trails off as you lightly drag your nails down his chest, not stopping as you brush over his hardened nipples. His back arches off the bed and you can see the muscles of his arms clench tight.

"Because," you reply, forcefully nonchalant, "I want to make sure you won't stop me."

"I assure you," he grinds out, "That is the furthest thing from my mind."

He's dangerously close to encouraging you. Should you remind him that he can't technically ask for this, or you will have to stop?

No. He knows the rules. He said it himself.

You tease a finger beneath his waistband, then go back to stroking him lightly over the chest, humming approvingly at every little panting breath he gives in return.

You try to think of a way to re-frame things, giving him a careful reply. "Besides... it's not like you have the means to stop me, if you wanted to."

He nods along vigorously, watching you get closer and closer to his straining cock with every brush of your hand.

"You're right," he breathes.

You palm him through his clothes, his head falling back in relief when you finally touch him. The weight of his cock in your hand makes you want to moan. He's leaking through the fabric, so hard it must be painful. He gives a small whimper at the contact.

Your mouth already watering, you continue to give him soft, slow strokes, watching his face contort beautifully. Enjoying the sensation, you intend to draw this out as long as possible. The thought suddenly makes you shake your head a little.

"I can't believe you thought I was doing this all for you," you say softly. "You really thought I wasn't enjoying myself? That I wasn't into this?"

"Believe me..." He pauses to catch his breath, opening his eyes to look down at you. "If I had thought that those holos you sent were anything but instruments of torture, I would have taken your door off its hinges getting into to your quarters."

"What?" you blurt out, hand stilling on his cock. "But... you wouldn't have been able to do anything."

His brows furrow slightly. "On the contrary. Giving myself pleasure is strictly forbidden. Giving you pleasure..."

"...would have left you even worse off," you finish for him, trying to be reasonable.

He gives you a rakish grin. "A sacrifice well worth making."

Fuck, you need his cock in your mouth.

You gather fabric tight in both your hands, dragging his pants off his hips all in one slow, deliberate pull. You keep the fabric taut, gripping hard until his cock bursts out, standing rigidly all at once. Enveloping the leaking tip in your mouth, you can't hold back any longer. You take him all in one swallow.

He gasps, shockingly loud this time.

The sound warms your cheeks, heat pooling in the pit of your stomach, and you begin to bob your head over the length of him as he lets out anguished sounds from deep in his chest.

You keep your hand wrapped around the base of him, pumping him steadily, drool filling your mouth embarrassingly fast. His hips are bucking to meet every jerk of your hand, and your eyes roll back at the feeling of him filling you up. You lift your eyes to see his face, but from this angle all you can see is the underside of his beard and his flushed, open lips. His head is thrown back in what looks like silent agony.

You slide your lips back to his head, sucking there until he makes a deliciously urgent, overwhelmed sound. Then you pop off of him for a moment, licking your lips and letting him catch his breath. His chest is flushed red, sweat beading at his brow. He looks down at you, eyes wild.

"Fuck," he whines raggedly. "Oh, fuck..."

You smile innocently. "Good?"

He drops his head back, panting. "Unbelievable."

You hum in response, gently kissing the side of his cock. He twitches, and you flatten your tongue, licking a slow stripe from his base to his tip, then spread your lips and take him again in one languid mouthful. You drag several more expletives out of him, gripping his thigh with one hand and starting to tease his balls with the other.

"Oh, yes," he moans, hands dropping limp against his restraints. "That's it. Don't- don't stop..."

Your eyes go wide and you slow down, hesitating. Isn't that... isn't what he just said...

You hold him with one hand, stopping and swallowing so you can speak. "I, uh- um..."

He sits up, pulling at the chain to look at you, eyes glossy and lost. "Your mouth," he rasps. "Please."

That seals it. Damn him.

He's at the edge of coming. You can feel his dick throbbing in your hand, and you could give it to him. You could, but...

"I... I can't," you answer, hating the words. You stroke him a little, not able to move away or let go. Not able to stop entirely.

Breath escapes him in erratic huffs. He sounds like he's almost laughing in disbelief, but his face is all desperate panic. "What?"

"I can't," you say, sounding like you're pleading. "You told me you couldn't ask for it. You made me promise."

His mouth is hanging open. All he says is your name as an obtestation.

Your face crumbles. "I'm sorry. I have to. You... you wanted this."

He shakes his head. "No, no, listen-"

"I should really..." You need to excuse yourself. Put as much distance between you as possible. Lock yourself out of the room if you have to. But looking at him like this... His hair is a matted mess. It's flattened against the crown of his head and jutting up behind his ears where he'd rubbed against his own arms, writhing under your touch. His jaw is slack, his chest ruddy and covered in a thin sheen of sweat. You've never seen him like this before. If you didn't know better, you'd think he'd seen battle.

"S-should really..." you repeat, face pinched tight in denial as you jerk him slowly and watch him buck at the slightest touch. "I should go."

"No, wait," he urges, voice cracking a little. "Just- just stay. For a moment."

"I don't think I should." You finally pull your hand away and he sighs roughly.

"Let me feel you," he pleads, eyes meeting yours.

"No, I... I'm not supposed to," you reply, wanting absolutely nothing more than to give in.

He shakes his head. "Please. Let me touch you."

A flush overtakes you, and you sit up to pull the edge of a blanket over your unclothed lower half. "I can't... let you do that."

He looks physically pained at your answer. "You cannot leave me like this. Only a touch. Just one hand. I'll do nothing to break our agreement."

His offer is so clearly going to make things harder for him, and perhaps it's selfish to accept it. Perhaps you should hesitate; let him take some time to reconsider.

Perhaps a better friend would have taken a moment to meditate on exactly what it meant for you to allow this one final concession. Or any of the other little concessions that have led you to this very choice.

But you aren't a good friend. You are a very bad, very fallible friend. And you release just one of his wrists. And he's sitting up, leaning toward you before you've even moved the blanket.

He kisses you, hand dropping down immediately, dragging from your stomach down to your navel. It feels like he's setting you alight. When he goes lower, you bite back a pathetic whine. You're already so worked up, the faintest attention from him is overwhelming.

"Uncuff me," he whispers against your lips, fingers grazing your sensitive skin.

You sigh helplessly. Stars, you want nothing more. You swallow, shaking your head in a feeble attempt to regain control. His fingers slide between your legs and his mouth falls open when he feels how wet you are.

"Oh, darling, uncuff me."

You shake your head again, eyes squeezed shut as his fingers delve deeper, your slick dripping over his hand. "N-no, Obi Wan, I can't," you plead, close to the edge already.

How can you tell him that the binders are now your last shred of self-control and you have no idea what will happen if they come off?

"Mm-" you whine high in your throat, letting yourself give into the feeling of him touching you, if only for a moment. Then you reach down to grasp his wrist, as if to stop him, but making no effort to actually go through with it.

Feeling his wrist move beneath your palm, you can't deny the thrill of letting him do this to you while holding onto his arm. You're acting as if you're holding him back when you're practically guiding him through it.

He curls his fingers up and presses them deep inside you, making you moan. It's such a needy, depraved sound that your eyes widen in surprise and you suddenly realize that you need to stop before you lose control completely.

Obi Wan catches the look in your eyes, though, and it's in that moment that you realize - you already have.

He leans forward to kiss your neck, pumping his fingers faster. "Let me taste you," he whispers against your neck, breath hot and ragged. 

You lift your head, giving him more space to drag his tongue across your skin. "We shouldn't."

"There isn't a single rule you would be breaking."

You bite your lip, unable to focus on anything but the way he feels inside you.

"Please, let me hear you come, or I'll spend my nights dreaming of it until I go mad. Let me taste you. It's all I ask."

"Fuuuck." You drag out the word.

Every other day of your life, you can be a Jedi. You can be mindful and temperate and restrained. But not tonight. Not with his eyes so soft, his deep, accented voice sliding thick around your name, pleading for all these lovely sins.

If it had been anyone but him, you could have said no. But it's Obi Wan.

Obi Wan, whispering soft encouragement when you lean into his side, pressing your finger on the button.

Obi Wan, rolling over your body and wrapping you in his arms the instant he's free, pinning you to the bed and sucking at your neck like you're dripping honey.

Obi Wan, pulling you down to the edge of the bed with the strength and wildness of a man who's been denied far too long.

Obi Wan, kneeling between your legs and sliding his tongue into your pussy before you can say another word.

"Obi Wan..." His name spills out of you like a confession. Like you've been waiting to moan it like this since the day you'd agreed never to do it again.

His eyes are closed, his proud, regal nose buried deep between your thighs. He starts to drag his tongue up the river of slick pouring out of you, over and over and over while you squirm at the warm, unyielding pressure he's giving you. He's nowhere near your clit. This is all for him. Just tasting you, like he'd said.

It takes him a few minutes to gain some semblance of composure, finally pulling back to lick you properly, from the pool of your wetness all the way up. His tongue is flat and firm, and he makes a noise in the back of his throat when you roll your hips against him.

"Shit-" you gasp, pleasure winding steadily through your body with every methodical drag of his mouth. He's kissing you; sucking you - fervent, hungry, almost punishing. When his tongue delves into you again, the bedding twists beneath your hands.

"So good," you urge him on, wishing you could come up with better words to describe what he's doing to you, but your mind is half gone already, melted into a puddle of 'yes' and 'ohh' and 'just like that...'

You fight to open your eyes. It's going to be over too quickly if you keep them closed, letting the heat curl up hard and sudden. You need to stretch this out. You want to enjoy every moment, every detail. But looking down, you quickly realize, is only going to send you rocketing over the edge.

His eyes are still closed, his brows knitted hard together. You can't resist running your fingers through his beautiful golden hair, enjoying the way the dim light plays in the feathery locks. Running your hand along his ear, you sigh without meaning to. You could come just from the sight of him.

"We can... slow down," you force out, trying to make him give you a second to breathe. He just keeps licking you. Same steady pace. Same hard grip on your thighs.

"If you want," you try again.

He finally slows, murmuring warm words against you. "You haven't the faintest idea, do you?"

An electric thrill courses through you at the sound of his deepened voice, hearing and feeling it at the same time. "Mm?" is all you can manage to squeak out.

Then he pulls his mouth from between your legs and looks up at you, beard sopping wet and just the barest hint of a smirk on his lips. "How badly I've longed for this."

As he replaces his mouth with his thumb, rubbing softly at your clit, you gasp and stammer out, "Because of the Nikk-" you shudder, shocks of pleasure rolling through you as he slides the back of his index finger up and down, gathering your wetness. "Th-the trial?"

He slides that finger, along with a second one, back inside you. Your gasp turns broken, choked off in the back of your throat.

His blue eyes are piercing in their intensity, his voice low and a little rough when he gives you his answer before sealing his mouth over you again.

"No."

Your eyes roll back in your head as he plays with your clit, tongue stroking over you as your hands bury themselves in his soft hair.

"Obi Wan!" you choke out, all the heat inside you gathering tightly and ready to burst. "Fuck!"

He gives you perfect rhythm, working you from two directions at once; inside and outside, steady and merciless. You can feel the soft bristles of his beard against the tender skin of your inner thigh as his jaw moves, and you mentally file it away - knowing the memory is going to haunt you every time your own fingers bring you relief when you're alone.

When he finally sends you flying over the edge, your moans turn into ragged whimpers, your body tensing hard as your pussy convulses and twitches around his fingers. You cry his name again, almost in shock at how good it feels. He's wringing every bit of your orgasm from you, dragging his fingers in that perfect curl until you have to sit up, palms digging into the mattress and rocking your body forward as the pleasure starts to flirt with overstimulation.

When you do, though, you can see the motion his body is making. It's dark in the room, but the light coming off the nearby control panel is enough to see Obi Wan's hips thrusting even as his upper body stays pinned between your thighs.

A sudden wave of euphoria shoots through your veins as you realize he's fucking himself against the bed while you're coming in his mouth.

"Fuck," he gasps, pulling off only when you shove back his shoulders. His eyes don't leave your center. "I can't... I need-"

Your mouth is still hanging open as you collapse back on the bed, legs trembling. You blink at him through a daze, watching him where he kneels. His hand - the same one he's just slid out of your pussy - goes straight between his legs and he moans.

His expression is like nothing you've ever seen him wear before. He looks completely debauched; eyes so big and soft and tormented, deep red flush set high on his cheek bones, and mouth dropped open like he's fighting for his breath. Despite your bone-deep satisfaction, you feel a flutter in your stomach from seeing him like this.

"I can't," he repeats, using one big palm to cradle your thigh as he strokes his cock furiously. "Please..."

Your hand slides down to touch his as he grips your soft skin, thumb dragging through the wetness that's spread all over your inner thighs. Your head still in the clouds, you manage to pant out, "You... made me promise..."

"A promise, is that all?" he asks, voice shaking. "Keep it. I just... need to feel you."

Wondering if it's your hazy thoughts or his words that are making no sense, you loll your head to the side. "How... could we...?"

"It isn't against the rules. I swear it."

Technically, many things could be allowed within the rules. The way the Nikkama is worded... though it's been translated so many times...

There's the letter of the law, and the spirit of the law. Which one can you bring yourself to follow?

With Obi Wan staring up at you, stomach smeared with his own sticky mess from rubbing himself against a mattress instead of you, technicalities suddenly sound incredibly tempting.

"Damn," you say softly as you unabashedly stare at him. "You truly are a great negotiator."

His brows knead together. "Negotiating? No, darling, I am begging."

He sinks one knee into the edge of the bed, leaning over you. "This is a cry for mercy."

As he strokes himself, you find yourself spreading your legs.

"Obi Wan..."

"Please, I... a-anything," he stammers hoarsely, hand grazing his cock and then tightening as he looks down. "I need it quite- quite badly."

You watch the way he palms himself, brazenly drinking in every inch of your body. And you realize how truly weak you are.

"You... couldn't put it inside..."

Relief seems to flood him as he shakes his head, leaning into you and stroking himself faster. "No... no..."

He thumbs gently at your pussy, spreading you open, and groans.

"Stars, you're so... You're dripping," he murmurs, sounding awestruck. "Lovely girl."

You make a high noise in the back of your throat, not able to answer as the heavy warmth of his cockhead is pressed against you, sliding between the lips of your pussy.

Obi Wan makes a sound like he's taken a blaster bolt straight to the chest. He still has one leg on the floor and you can feel his thigh shaking, struggling to hold him up. He's half pressing himself down into your warmth, frantic and messy as his hips buck at their own pace.

You're still buzzing from your first orgasm, but there's something deeper than just the physical that's starting to burn again already. The look on his face alone is enough to make you throb.

"We... we have to stop," you say, in a voice that's anything but convincing. "We- we have to."

"It's alright," he pants out, eyes glassy as his hands slide to your waist, holding you steady to fuck through your slick, inviting warmth. "It's alright."

You know it's not, but feeling him rocking against you like this, desperate and needy and savage, you can no longer bring yourself to care.

"F-fuck." His voice breaks, dropping off from a whine. "It's too much-"

He drops his hand into the bedding, the other hand holding your leg open as he thrusts against you, slipping over and over through the wet mess of your pussy as you writhe beneath him, hips rolling at the stimulation. His thick head dragging over your clit with each thrust is stoking the heat inside you, building it up all over again.

"Too much, it's too... oh, stars above, I'm going to come, I-"

He looks up at you with sudden, shocked eyes as if he's pleading for you to stop him, but you're too blissed-out and worked up to do anything of the sort. He reaches down, gripping himself and whimpering, still rutting against you, even through his fist.

His hips buck once more, twice, then...

"Fuck, I'm coming..."

He shudders, the head of his cock thrusting over your clit and shooting warm ropes of cum over your pussy, coating you until you're dripping with it. As each spatter of cum hits your skin, waves of pleasure and relief flood you, almost as if you're the one who's finally being allowed to come after weeks and months of building it up.

When he finally finishes, you let your head fall back, exhausted.

"Shit," you breathe out. "That... was incredible."

A low groan is all he gives you in response, still thrusting his softening cock against you. His eyelids dip low and he seems lost in a trance. You close your own eyes, letting yourself enjoy it. You can't deny your satisfaction, soaking in his sticky mess.

"I'm... I'm sorry, Obi Wan," you tell him after a few long moments of feeling him slowly drag against you. You wonder if he's quiet from disappointment, or something else. He doesn't answer you.

"I guess we failed, then?" you ask softly, trying to hide the desire in your voice when he slides over your clit. He doesn't stop moving, just slows to a pace that sends shivers down every inch of your body.

Still looking like he hasn't quite come back to himself, Obi Wan finally replies, "I wouldn't say that."

You smirk, but it's cut short when you feel him start to glide against your entrance. You stiffen, unsure whether it was an accident.

"I... I thought..."

"It's alright," he says soothingly again, just as he had before. He doesn't make any effort to elaborate.

He slides back and forth a few times more, then gathers some of the cum that's dripped down your legs with the head of his cock, pushing it back inside you. It's only when you feel him pressing at your entrance again that you realize he's starting to get hard.

"Obi Wan..." you murmur, eyes rolling back when he tenses, about to push in.

"Yes." He says it as a statement and a question, all at once. Looking up to meet your eyes, he waits, as if wondering if you'll ask him to stop. As if terrified that you will.

It's then that you realize, you aren't going to stop him. You simply don't have the power within you. Whatever it is that draws you so deeply to Obi Wan is stronger than you can bear to hold off anymore. But you have to put up a show, even if the lie is only for his benefit.

You swallow. "I don't think we should."

His eyes close with a particularly slow thrust. When he opens them, he replies with an edge of nervousness in his voice. "You don't think we should, or you don't want to?"

Trust him to get to the heart of the matter. You tamp down the hot whine in the back of your throat. "It doesn't matter," you reply, knowing you just gave your answer.

"I -ah - I won't..." he breaks off into a moan when the head of his cock presses shallowly into you.

 "...won't put it in?" you ask, vulgar. 

He shakes his head, mouth open. "No, I won't."

Your pussy sucks him tightly, making you gasp. "N-not all the way?"

He moves, and you hear the obscene sound of him sliding in and out of you. "No. No."

He shoves in a little deeper this time, making room for himself. Everything in you is burning to ask him for more. Feeling this much of him is like torture. He's right there, so big, so thick, and you just want him to fill you as completely as only he can.

Instead, you nod along with his words. "As long as you're in control."

He pulls out with a gasp, thrusting against the side of your pussy as if you've brought him back to reality for a moment.

Gasping to catch your own breath and fighting the urge to clench your thighs around him in frustration at the loss, you ask him shakily, "You're in control, right?"

He nods, arms trembling as he holds himself over you, still simulating fucking you with quiet ferocity.

"Perfectly," he promises, the word sounding drawn out, like he's barely aware he's saying it.

"Good," you tell him, fully concentrated on his cock spreading you open again, pushing into you with careful restraint. "Okay."

He holds there for one blissful moment, then frantically pulls out again, rubbing over your clit and moaning. The sound makes your pussy throb, clenching around nothing.

"I- I just need..." he lines up with you again, and you can feel a heavy spurt of precum dribbling from his cock just before he pushes inside. "Oh, need to feel you."

This time, when he stretches you open and you watch his face get drawn and tight, you realize this is the last time you can stand it. If he pulls out again, you will actually lose your mind. You feel like you've lost it a little already.

You reach a hand up, brushing back the hair that's fallen over his face, then wrap both your arms around his neck. "You are feeling me, Obi Wan."

He lets out a deep groan, pushing shallowly in and out of you.

"Do you want to come inside me this time?"

He makes a choking sound, hips stuttering wildly as he pulls back out. "You would let me?"

Heat warms your cheeks, as you suddenly remember his earlier words. "Well... didn't you say something about begging?"

Obi Wan meets your eyes, his cock hanging heavy against you. "Please, let me finish inside you."

It makes your stomach flip, and it takes your full concentration not to come on the spot. You force out a teasing, "What happened to your Jedi resolve?"

He's still holding you in his gaze as his voice goes low and plaintive. "You've broken it, darling." He gives a little groan as he pushes the tip of his cock back inside. "Along with the rest of me."

His hips shift down a little this time, and his next thrust is world-shattering.

You make a noise somewhat like a sob and he slowly pulls back, moaning deep in his chest.

"I'm sorry, that- that was a mistake, I-"

You spread your fingers through the hair at the back of his head, drawing him down to your lips for a kiss, and he sheaths himself again, fucking into you as if by instinct.

As you melt into the kiss, all the smiles and the wide eyes and the hesitating glances disappear instantly, as if a switch has been flipped. The air suddenly feels electric, and he's inside you, and everything is right in the universe.

He caves his body into yours, pounding into you with a desperate, relentless rhythm that you can feel humming in your blood. It feels like someone kick-started your heart for the first time in years.

"Thought about this for so long," you confess, losing yourself in the perfect strokes he's giving you. "You feel... so fucking good, Obi Wan."

He's panting out obscenities between every moan, but pauses to hear you speak. When he stops, at long last, it's to take off your bodice. Your breasts fall softly free of your clothing and you sigh in contentment as he pulls your naked body close, kissing you deeply.

His arms fall to your waist and he pins you down to the bed, fucking you hard and mean and perfect. His cock is so deep it's making you want to cry in relief as the waves of pleasure overtake you.

"I'm... I'm gonna come," you blurt, embarrassingly quickly.

He answers in a voice you've heard in devotary halls and senate chambers. A voice of smooth confidence and authority. A voice you've heard speaking countless holy words. 

His voice is shaking as he begs.

"Come for me, please."

You gasp his name.

"Come on my cock."

Your fingers clasp helplessly around the muscles of his arm as you twitch and writhe, face pulled tight in devastating bliss.

"Come all over my cock and let me feel it."

You come for him, the feeling ripping through you with shocking intensity as he fucks you recklessly, hungrily, desperately.

He snaps his hips hard suddenly, a shocked, "Fuck, Fuck!" tearing out of him. He spills deep inside you, coming and coming and coming as your pussy milks every drop out of him.

"Oh, fuck," you moan, as he pulls back and stuffs you full again. You can feel his cum starting to leak out as his thrusts become slower and more ragged.

"Ohhh, stars," he breathes out, suddenly empty of obscenities. "Oh, my word."

He stays there, head bowed and cock deep inside you, draining the last of himself until both of you have quieted your moaning. Then your eyes meet, and you blush. You share a knowing look, and then you kiss him.

He kisses you back, cupping your jaw gently, then slowly pulls out, making you both groan. He lies down next to you in the messy blankets, pulling you close, and you roll over to look at him properly.

"That was..."

"I know."

He kisses you again.

You lie in silence, then, just enjoying the feeling of being held by him. Finally, you work up your courage and ask him the question that's been waiting at the tip of your tongue.

"Are you... I mean... was that alright?"

He regards you, looking confused. "My darling, how could you ask such a question?"

Your lashes flutter and you look down, caught off-guard for what feels like the hundredth time by his affection. "No, I mean... with the Nikkama, I'm just... I'm sorry if I let you down."

Obi Wan's eyes go soft, and he whispers your name. "Would you like to know why I chose to ask you to act as my witness?"

Despite your bone-tired body, you're suddenly wide awake. Finally, an answer to the question you'd repeatedly thought you'd figured out.

"Yes. Please tell me."

He looks down. "Because..." He pauses to lift your hand to his mouth, kissing your knuckles. "Of all the people in my life, there are few with whom I would feel comfortable discussing... well... matters of a carnal nature."

You nod, unsurprised.

"And... of those few, there was only one person whom I felt I could trust never to return any feelings of mine."

Your eyes go wide.

"No matter how absurdly attractive..." He kisses your hand. "How wildly intoxicating..." He kisses your cheek. "How maddeningly irresistible I may find her."

He leans down and kisses along your jaw, tracing his thumb alongside it. His words are making your head swim.

"Wh... why would you think that?" you whisper, utterly stunned and confused.

Obi Wan answers matter-of-factly, "When you ended things between us-"

"When we ended things," you interrupt, brows furrowed.

He looks at you evenly, then softly continues, "When things came to an end between us, you asked me to promise we would never behave inappropriately again. It was my belief that was what you wanted."

You feel like a rug the size of a planet has been pulled out from under you. 

"We both agreed... I mean, I thought we both agreed we were becoming too attached."

He smiles gently. "We did agree on that."

"And I... I mean, we..."

"When you asked that we spend less time with one another, I certainly agreed it would do some good. What I didn't expect was that the next time I reached for your hand, you would pull away."

You can hardly speak. "So you never..."

He lifts his eyebrows good-naturedly. "You broke my heart, my dear girl."

Years of unrequited moments come crashing down all at once. Every time you'd looked at him longingly from across the room, wondering if things could be different...

And the way you'd treated him during this entire trial...

You'd been torturing him. It was no wonder he thought you were doing him a favor by indulging him.

"Obi Wan, I... I regretted ending things," you confess, looking up at him. "I thought so many times about telling you my feelings, but I always held back because I thought it was what we both wanted."

"Well," he replies lightly, though his eyes are penetratingly intense. "What do you think now?"

You capture his mouth in a kiss that's full of every emotion you've left unspoken for years. You don't need another moment to think about it. You've thought about it so terribly, terribly long.

He pulls you close, deepening the kiss as you sigh softly through your nose. This is where you want to be. No question.

When you part, you're both smiling like a couple of padawans. You lay your head on his shoulder and pull the blankets tightly around your neck. Obi Wan drags lazy kisses along your brow, and your eyelids begin to grow heavy. You should really get up and tidy things before you drift off, but right now there's nothing that could make you want to move from his arms.

In the silence that follows, Obi Wan draws slow circles with his fingers over the soft skin of your shoulder. You clear your throat quietly.

"Just to say it, though," you murmur into his skin, "I am sorry we didn't pass the trial."

You can feel him smile against the top of your head.

"What is achievement without failure? I am more than willing to try again. Provided that... you were there to help me?"

"In ten years?" You lift your eyes to him, warm in his embrace. "Of course I will be."

--

A/N: Thank you to everyone who waited so patiently for this final chapter! I hope you liked it! <3

Taglist: @slinkygail @wheres-mylove @millercontracting @cacti5539 @b0xerdancer-writes @spcecadet6

Previous Chapter // Masterlist

[mofongomuncher]

𝘾𝙖𝙥𝙩𝙪𝙧𝙚

(Ekko X Reader)

❥ cast : ! Ekko and reader ¡

Ekko leaned against one of the worn pillars, his arms loosely crossed over his chest. The soft hum of adults talking filled the space, punctuated by bursts of laughter from the kids playing in the main area of the base.

His gaze was locked on you.

You were crouched on the floor, one of the smaller Firelights perched on your knee as you adjusted the strap of their little homemade goggles. Another kid tugged at your arm, showing you a toy glider they'd crafted from scraps, while two more were busy trying to drag you into their game of tag.

"You're really trying to take me down huh?" you teased, laughing as one of them clung to your leg. "What is this, an ambush?"

"It's working!" one of the kids shouted, their voice high with excitement.

Ekko couldn't help but smirk. He'd seen you handle yourself in some of the most dangerous situations Zaun had to offer—but here you were, letting a bunch of kids "capture" you like it was the highlight of your day. You weren't just pretending to enjoy it, he could tell by the way your eyes crinkled when you laughed, the way your voice softened when you spoke to them.

He leaned further into the shadows, content to watch for a while longer.

One of the kids pointed at him. "Hey Ekko! Why're you just standing there?"

Your eyes flicked up to meet his, a playful glint in them. "Yeah big guy...What are you doing? Afraid you'll lose if you join in?"

He pushed off the pillar, his smirk deepening. "Nah, I'm just enjoying the show."

You raised an eyebrow, your grin widening. "Oh, really? You're that entertained watching me lose to a bunch of kids?"

"Looks like you've got it handled." he said, his tone light but teasing. "Why mess with perfection?"

"Perfection?" you repeated, rolling your eyes as you stood up, one of the kids still clinging to your arm. "You've got jokes now, huh?"

"Always." he said, stepping closer.

"But seriously... you're good with them."

His voice had softened just enough to make you pause. You tilted your head at him, a small, knowing smile playing on your lips. "They make it easy."

"Not everyone would think that.." he said, glancing at the kids now chasing each other around the room. "You've got a way with them."

You shrugged, brushing off the compliment as you crouched back down to tie a loose shoelace for one of the kids. "They just need someone to pay attention, that's all."

He watched you, his expression unreadable for a moment. "You make it look like more than that."

Before you could respond, one of the kids tugged at your sleeve. "Y/N, come play!"

You laughed, standing up again. "Alright, alright!"

A smile tugged at your lips as you turned your gaze to Ekko. "Are you coming, or are you just gonna stand there looking cool?"

He rolled his eyes, the corner of his mouth quirking up. "Someone's gotta supervise. You look like you're about to trip over yourself."

"Right." you said, grinning as you backed into the chaos of the kids. "Supervise all you want Mr. But don't think I won't call you in when I need backup."

Ekko chuckled, shaking his head as he leaned back against the pillar. "I'll be here."

But his gaze never left you. Watching you laugh, watching the way the kids gravitated to you, he felt something shift in his chest. For all the weight he carried as the Firelights' leader, moments like this made him feel like maybe, just maybe, there was more to life than surviving.

He couldn't help but think that you were the best part of this little family they'd built together.

Check out my Ekko one shots on Wattpad for more stories!! :3

[ivyasproperty]

Hold me, console me.

natasha.r x fem!reader

summary — good things never come for ex hydra experiments, well that's what you had always thought. but a certain redhead is determined to prove you wrong.

warning(s) : cursing ( just a bit ), some mentions of anxiety

word count : 1.03k

A/N : istg this fic took me FOREVER TO WRITE because i was lazy ( oops ), so i hope you guys enjoy it cuz its kinda sloppy.....

You'd already been apart of the avengers for a few months now, and that meant living in the avengers compound. And even though you've been living with the heroes of New York for the past 7 months, you've always felt out of place in the team. Your team members worked in sync, always backing each other up without needing to vocalize it, but there was you, who struggled to even maintain a conversation with them. That was the main reason why you decided to take less part in missions, and of course Fury bit you in the ass for it, nothing got out of his sight after all, even after losing an eye. But there was also another reason, being an ex-hydra experiment took it's toll on you. You knew you were never the kind of person to harm others, but the words that the guards of doctors at the hydra facilities would yell at you always stayed in the back of your mind and gnawed at you.

ᯓ★

You had once again turned down the offer of helping out in a mission from Steve. He was a nice guy, so it hurt your heart after seeing the worried and upset look on his face. Steve Rogers was the person who had saved you from the hell hole you were raised with, alongside Clint Barton and Natasha Romanoff. Speaking of Natasha, you may or may not have harbored a huge small crush on the said spy after staying at the compound. The confidence that radiated off of her had always inspired you to be better, but you guessed it wasn't enough since you've been locking yourself inside your room for the past few weeks. You could tell your behavior was worrying others, you weren't always the cheery type but you'd at least hang around in the kitchen or joined them for movie night, but as your anxiety became worse, you grew cold and snarky, barely coming out of your room during both day and night.

Tony Stark, being the person he was, wanted to barge into your room and confront you. The others protested but he wouldn't relent, not wanting to hurt his ego after shouting so loudly. But he seemed to shrink into himself a bit after receiving a glare from the redheaded assassin. She was the most worried one out of all your teammates, and rightfully so, considering how she was the one to take care of you after the avengers took you under their wing.

Natasha had knew long ago about the crush you had on her, you were discreet with it yes, but nothing could get past a highly trained assassin. Natasha had tried to brush the fluttery feeling she felt in her belly after finding out, thinking it was just her imagination. But as days went by and you not coming out of your room, she got even more worried, so worried that she had broken into your room once just to check on you. It was then that she realized that she liked you too.

"I'll talk to her, Tony," her voice left no room for an argument as she got up from her seat on the couch and left the room in search of you. Tony had wanted to tag along, wanting to see what was about to unfold but was stopped by a hand gripping strongly onto his wrist. "Leave her be, Stark. She'll know how to handle it, and you need to stop meddling in other people's business." Wanda knew of your struggles, considering how she was also an ex-hydra experiment, so she knew you needed time and space.

Tony being Tony, denied the accusation of meddling in other people's business. Your teammates groaned, done with his shenanigans and left the room, but not before a small banter between them and the big boss.

ᯓ★

Natasha walked to your room in a hurry, not wanting to waste a single second. She knew the way to your room by heart, she always visited you during the night and waited outside your door, just in case you decided to come out of the confinements in your room.

Once she had reached your room, she knocked on your door, calling out your name. She wasn't surprised that there wasn't a response and decided to just pick lock her way through your door. She knew it was wrong but she didn't seem to care anymore. She needed you to come out of your room, she needed to see you.

After she successfully pick locked your door, she was met with you under your covers with trash littered everywhere in your room. It was obvious you weren't taking care of yourself. You noticed a presence in your room and turned to look towards your door, not that surprised at the shocked look on her face that disappeared and was replaced with a worried look. You didn't know why but all the emotions that were bottled up inside of you suddenly burst out and you started sobbing like your life depended on it. Natasha, quickly breaking out of her stupor, ran to your side to console you.

"It'll be alright, I'm right here, malysh." You didn't know how long your cried for, you didn't care how long you cried for. Natasha was there for you and you didn't care about anything else but that.

After calming down and drying your tears, she cupped your cheeks and placed her lips on yours. Your eyes went wide in shock, not knowing what to do. You could feel her smile against your lips, amused in your reaction. "You'll be alright, I''ll always be here to help you through it, alright?" You could feel tears welling up in your eyes again, but for a completely different reason.

Even though you knew it'd take time for you to feel like you were a part of the team and open up about it to them, you didn't seem to dwell on the matter. Your mind was somewhere else as confessions were whispered into the dead of night into your bedroom with your lover, that you knew would be there to hold you and console you, even in your worse times.

A/N : NO BC THIS IS SO BAD IM CRYING, i regret being lazy and procrastinating on this one bc it turned out so rushed to me, but i hope you guys still enjoyed it >< feel free to leave requests anytime!!!!!

[howly]

headcanon: the boring perfect self control vampire bella thinks she has is a LIE and at one point she caught human scent mid-hunt and snapped. it made her so wild she had to be restrained to the point where things got ugly

i know edward would never dare to do it and meyer would never dare write it and in canon newborn vamp bella would be far stronger than him...

actually. you know who would be stronger than one young vampire? two old vampires. and who would act practical in a critical situation? emmett

imagine edward and bella heading out for a hunt and emmett being like "do you guys mind if i tag along? i feel like snacking". bella's a little mad at the prospect of suddenly having a third wheel (homegirl wasn't planning on just. hunting) but alice gets a weird hunch and goes "no, no, em should go with you" ok nostradamus. he's going.

fast forward they're in the mountain. bella finds having emmett third-wheeling is not half bad. in emmett's head, lowkey it's bella who's the third wheel after so many decades of him hunting together with edward. but nevertheless, it's so fun with her around. all is good until they catch the scent of an entire group of friends hiking just a couple of miles from here, away from all civilization. emmett and edward stop in their tracks, ready to turn around. bella, her guard down, loses it and stars running towards the group, so they have no choice but to charge at her. while strugging to keep her in place, they try to talk her down but she doesn't listen. she doesn't care, she's strong enough to fight them off, and she fights and claws and hisses and breaks bones of whoever gets in her way because there are so many pulses just a few minutes' run away from her and their scent is so sweet and burning and calling, calling, calling to her

while struggling to restrain her, emmett grunts "we have to disarm her". edward catches the image in his head and shouts "no! you can't literally disarm bella!". well, how the hell do you expect us to stop her from massacring all those hikers? we'll just put her back together afterwards. duh!, emmett thinks, and knows he has to act fast so he goes in while bella's busy yanking away from edward's grip and tears off a limb. or two. all 3 of them may or may not be screaming.

a few moments later edward's pinning bella to the ground, holding her face between his palms, forcing her to look at him. her thrashing is not so effective with limited body parts. part of him wants to yell at emmett but that's kind of low priority. he's holding on to the last of his composure while he looks down at bella's feral expression and chants 'baby. i'm so sorry but i'll give you your leg back after you calm down a bit. i won't be able to outrun you if you go chasing after those people now. please calm down. i love you. hold your breath'

just then she listens, stops breathing and her vision refocuses. for the first time she realizes she was on her way to slaughter a bunch of strangers and she broke the arm of the man she loves at least three times when he tried to stop her. she wants to open her mouth and apologize but that will require her to breathe and possibly go crazy with thirst again. so she stares back at edward's panicked eyes and nods at him, her own red eyes just as full of terror.

then she looks over his shoulder and sees emmett waving her severed leg in the air like it's a baseball bat. "hey, did you know that rose wears the same shoe size?"

[yoongissweetdream]

Chosen Appa | Wooyoung

- Pairing: Jung Wooyoung x Single-mom!Reader.

- Requested by: no one

- Warnings: single mum, hints at readers ex-husband being a cheater and an overall douchebag, best friends to lovers.

- Word Count: 1,205

- Taglist: Open. Send an ask or fill out the Tag List Form.

Wooyoung Masterlist | ATEEZ Masterlist | Taglist Sign-Up

Walking back into her small living room, Y/N is met with silence. The babbling sounds of her 15-month-old baby girl, who usually keeps herself entertained with her toys in her play pen while Y/N does the housework, has gone quiet. Assuming her little one might have fallen asleep, she peeks into the playpen only to discover that her daughter is missing.  

Panic sets in as Y/N searches every corner of the apartment, trying to convince that her baby isn’t capable of climbing out on her own yet. Her eyes dart to the entrance, where she notices the stroller and the diaper bag are missing. Relief washes over her and is quickly replaced with annoyance as she picks up the phone and calls the only person brave and sneaky enough to kidnap her baby in broad daylight. 

He quickly answers but before he can start his yapping, Y/N yells at him. “Yah! Jung Wooyoung! You better bring my baby back right now.”  

“No,” he says defiantly. “You’ve been under a lot of stress lately with finding a new job, the divorce and your soon to be ex-husband being a total asshole. She’s coming with me to the studio while you have a few hours to yourself," he insists.  "Don’t worry; she’ll be safe and sound. You know everyone here loves her.” 

Y/N can almost hear the smirk in his voice, and it only fuels her irritation further. “You can’t just take her without asking me first! What if something happens? What if she gets scared?” 

“Y/N,” he interrupts, his voice firm yet gentle, “You know I won't let anything happen to her. I protect her as if she's my own." 

"Fine, but if you pull a stunt like this again, you'll never see her again," she warns her best friend. "You got that? I'll make Yeonjun her godfather. You’ll be no one to her." 

"You really trust Yeonjun with Hannie?" he asks, skeptically. 

"He wouldn't kidnap her without me knowing," she defends their mutual friend.  

Wooyoung chuckles on the other end of the call, the sound brings some comfort to her. “You know, I think you’re just jealous because I didn’t kidnap you for the day too. Stop with the housework and enjoy this time to yourself. Take a walk, go get some lunch, do a little shopping.”  

Y/N sighs, her shoulders slumping as she leans against the kitchen counter. The weight of her responsibilities presses down on her. Never did she think she would be jobless, almost divorced and a single mother. But four months ago, everything came crashing down. Her husband’s mistress turned up at their door, crying and pregnant. She left, losing her job in the process, and moved in with her mother who’s been helping support her and Hannie while she finds a new job so she can get an apartment. But finding a job was proving harder than she expected. She’s seriously considering the job her mum offered her at the small restaurant she owns. 

Y/N feels a twinge of guilt for wanting a moment to herself. “I know, but she’s my baby. I can’t help but worry.”  

“Worrying is part of being a mother, but you also need to take care of yourself,” Wooyoung replies, his voice softening.  

Y/N bites her lip, contemplating his words. He’s right, of course. The past few months have been a whirlwind of stress, and she hasn’t had a moment to breathe. “Okay, but I want updates and photos. Text me every hour, or I swear I’ll come down to that studio and take her back myself.” 

"I promise to send you plenty of pictures," he assures her. "Hannie, say see you later, eomma," he adds, moving the phone closer to Hannie.  

Hannie babbles into the phone until a clear word breaks through. "Appa!" 

Y/N’s eyes widen with shock. Hannie just said her first word. Her heart swells with a mix of pride and disbelief. “Did she just say ‘Appa’?” Y/N asks, her voice barely above a whisper, as if she’s afraid to break the special moment. 

"I've been trying to get her to say eomma," Wooyoung admits after putting his phone on speaker, disbelief and pride in his voice also. He quickly ends the call and calls her back on video call. 

She quickly answers and the first thing to pop up on her phone screen is her little girl, her bright eyes sparkling with innocence and joy as she looks past the phone at wooyoung. She’s always imagined the day her daughter would speak her first word, and now it was directed at someone else. Someone that wants nothing to do with her. The reality of her situation hits her like a wave, and she feels a lump form in her throat. 

“Appa,” Hannie keeps saying, her tiny voice filled with joy as she looks up at Wooyoung, her little hands reaching out wanting him to pick her up. "Look, Hannie, it's eomma," Wooyoung says, turning the phone to show Hannie her mother on the screen. For a brief moment, she captures the baby's attention, and Y/N can see the flicker of recognition in her daughter’s eyes. "Can you say eomma?" he playfully encourages, trying to elicit another word from his goddaughter.  

Hannie giggles, her focus shifting back to him, her laughter like music that fills the room. "Appa!" she exclaims again. 

"I think she's calling you Appa," Y/N says, the realization dawning on her. When she thinks about it, Wooyoung has present in Hannie's life more than her own father. Especially since Y/N and her ex-husband ended their relationship. Hannie's father hasn't had anything to do with her since. 

 "Me?" he asks surprised, turning the phone camera back to him. "Why would she call me Appa?" he questions not really thinking about it. 

"Maybe she sees me as a father figure," Y/N tries to convince herself, but deep down, she knows that Hannie is forming connections, and Wooyoung is a significant part of her life. 

"I mean, I’ve been around a lot since you and—" He stops himself, the mention of her ex-husband hanging in the air. 

Y/N swallows hard, the lump in her throat growing. "You have been," she admits, her voice growing softer as she thinks about it. "You’ve been a great, Wooyoung. I don’t know what I would do without you." 

He smiles, but it’s tinged with something more serious. "I just want to be there for both of you. You know that, right? You and Hannie mean the world to me." 

"And you mean the world to us," she replies with a warm smile, her heart swelling with affection. In that moment, she realizes that there could be something more between her, her daughter and her best friend. Wooyoung has stepped into a role that neither of them expected, but it feels right. 

"I don't think this is a conversation that should be spoken about over the phone," he says after a moment of silence. "I'll bring Hannie home now and we can talk more." 

She nods, a small smile playing on her lips and ends the call. She rushes around the room, picking up toys and putting away the play pen. anticipating Wooyoung and Hannie's return home. 

© 2024 yoongisssweetdream - do not copy/modify/repost anywhere. reblog instead.

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[hedwig221b]

hi sweetheart I hope this finds you on a good day at a good time I was wondering if you had any fic recs for like either the hale fire doesnt happen or the hale fam lives like what were ur favourite fics of that trope if you enjoy it no worries if not (preferably stiles/derek) but I'll read anything you recommend hv a good rest of your day 🫶

hiii 💕💕💕 call me a sweetheart, and I'll rec anything lmao (but I do love that tag... Hale family is such a good topic to explore, so much good tea)

sanctuary where i stand by ceserabeau

"We're happy to have you, Stiles," Laura says, and nudges Derek hard, "Aren't we?" "Of course," Derek says through gritted teeth. When he looks at Stiles, the kid has a smug grin on his face. What a little shit. AU where Stiles is sent to the Hale pack to be their emissary.

Don't You Worry (Stiles) by Watermelon Wolves (RogueMarieL)

After Scott was bitten, Stiles told a very small lie in exchange for a very huge prize -- pack membership -- and he has spent the intervening years winning every Best Fake Boyfriend award on the books. Now, however, Scott wants to be in an actual relationship, and Stiles is losing his pack. Enter Derek.

What Fresh Twilight Bullshit Is This? by isthatbloodonhisshirt (wasterella)

"I am not Bella!” he insisted, shaking his fist angrily at Jackson, as if he’d been the one to suggest he was. “I am not Bella! I am, like, a Jacob, at least!” Lydia made a noise of debate from his right and he whipped around to look at her. “What?! What was that sound?!” “You’re more of a Mike,” she insisted, shrugging neatly and flipping some curls over her shoulder. “Wha—” Stiles had never been so offended in his life! “I am not! No way! I am a solid Jacob!” “Mike,” she argued. “Who’s Mike?” Scott asked. “Shut up, Scott!” Stiles insisted, pointing a finger at him but still glaring at Lydia.

Ain't Nothing so Good as the Cake and Eating it by sofonisba_found

Derek thinks he's doing alright in life, with his family at his side and a job he loves. Despite his family's concerns he remains adamant that he doesn't need a mate, afraid to take the risk of letting anyone close enough to try to hurt his family again. That is until he realizes that his true mate has been right under his nose for years, and that now through his inaction he may lose him.

what a big heart i have (better to love you with) by crazyassmurdererwall (smartalli)

Stiles has a massive thing for Derek Hale. This is not news. Stiles, after all, has been carrying a torch for Derek ever since they bumped into each other at a taco cart at the start of his freshman year. But what is news? With no hope of ever capturing Derek’s attention, Stiles is thinking it might be time to let that torch go. Try to let it burn out. (Derek might have something to say about that.)

My, What Big Shoulders You Have (The Better to Help You Carry the Weight) by isthatbloodonhisshirt (wasterella)

"Talia was just telling me an interesting story,” his dad informed him. Stiles didn’t have the nerve to glance over at him, because he knew no matter how much he argued, the proof was all there. The wolves had found him, Parrish had picked him up on the side of the road, he had a fucking picture on his phone. He was screwed. No point in arguing, all it’d do is piss his father off even more. “You don’t say,” Stiles offered slowly. “What uh—you know, I like stories. Is it a uh, good one?” “It seems to be a matter of opinion,” Talia said with another kind smile. “I hear you had quite the night last night.” Okay, time to cut his losses. He was already fucked, all he could do was apologize and hope she didn’t press for him to get fined and arrested. Given he was her husband’s friend’s son, he had high hopes. “I’m really sorry,” Stiles blurted out. “It was stupid and-and irresponsible and just—I am so sorry. I shouldn’t have crossed into your territory. I should’ve known better, I do know better! It was a complete lapse in judgement and I am just—I am so sorry.”

Oh God, He's Hot by lupus (lupuswrites)

When Stiles came home a couple of days before junior year started from a summer away, he was a little more than excited to see his best friend Derek, especially now that he’d finally gotten the courage to act upon his long standing crush on the guy. There’s just one problem; somewhere in the span of three months puberty hit Derek like the bus hit Regina George and all of the sudden Derek is hot. And Stiles isn’t the only one who’s noticed.

Once Upon a Dream by gryvon

Stiles has been dreaming of the Hale family burning alive since he was a child. After being locked in Eichen for a year, Stiles learns to keep his visions to himself. That doesn't stop him from keeping an eye on Derek Hale while he waits for Kate Argent to make her move. Only watching Derek becomes loving Derek and stopping Derek and Kate from getting together turns into Stiles dating Derek Hale. He's in love with Derek but his visions haven't stopped, only now he has to watch Derek die with the rest of his family. He'll do anything to keep that dream from becoming reality.

Hung The Moon by BurnItAllClean (nrnyx)

Slowly Stiles got control of himself again. His heart calmed. His breathing evened out. The anger was gone. In its place, a bone-deep weariness settled. He couldn’t do this. He wouldn’t survive this.

Growing Up With You by WhereAreTheBreaks

It all started with a strange scent in the grocery store, and now Derek can't imagine his life without the hyperactive little shit that is Stiles Stilinski. He didn't know why he always felt the need to be close to the boy but his mom's knowing looks certainly weren't helping.

Bonded to a Spark by AMatchInWater

Derek comes back to Beacon Hills after living in New York with Laura as a deputy. His mom wants to retire and has enlisted Stiles to be their emissary in training since he's such a successful spark. Derek hates all of it at first until he cracks when Stiles wakes him up in the middle of the night to fix the wards, and he starts to fall for the Omega living in his home.

Emissary by dragon_temeraire

To keep the peace, Stiles agrees to be emissary to the Hale pack.

Don't Feed the Wolves by Amazonia_8

Stiles took the dare, because what else was he supposed to do when the whole lacrosse team was chanting his name? Even though the werewolf pack had left Beacon Hills years ago, nobody was stupid enough to set foot on the Hale property. Except, apparently, Stiles. Now he's got a feral werewolf following him around town with the sole purpose of claiming Stiles as his own.

When You're Close I Feel the Sparks by Leslie_Knope

The guy is hot as hell, sure—leather jacket and glasses, Jesus, be still Stiles' poor, bisexual, beating heart—but more importantly, it must really suck being new on the first day of senior year. “We’re adopting him,” he decides, tugging Scott and Kira by the elbow in that direction. “Let’s go.”

Somewhere to Start by Lissadiane

Stiles has always known that he isn't quite human - the plant life that tends to sprout around him whenever he gets upset or excited gives it away. He's never really fit in among the regular people in Beacon Hills and is determined to wait it out, go to college, and find somewhere to belong. He's forced to abandon those plans, however, after he desperately agrees to enter into an arranged marriage to save his father's life. An arranged marriage with an angry, sometimes furry dude with trust issues. It's all very Beauty and the Beast, without the singing candlesticks.

Like a Baby Duck by ALoza

Derek hoists Stiles to his feet, and the six-year-old topples forward into the ten-year-old’s chest. He grunts and wipes at his cheek. “Sorry,” Derek blurts, eyes wide with worry, as he steadies him. Stiles smiles and shrugs, “‘s okay.” Derek smiles back and crosses his arms, “Okay, you have to be the prince and I’ll be the knight that has to rescue you, okay?” Stiles nods, “Okay.” “Go to sleep in the treehouse and when I kiss you, you have to wake up,” Derek instructs.

They Don't Know How Long It Takes (Waiting For a Love Like This) by crossroadswrite

Everyone knows that soulmates have a 86% rate of successful marriages, but everyone also knows that for you to find your soulmate you'll need an incredible amount of luck and to go through the hardest, most marking moment of your life for the bond to kick in and call them to you. If you're a werewolf, then you won't need to wait that long. Some people will say you just know, others will call bullshit. Derek is four when he meets his soulmate and he doesn't know because no one will tell him. Not until he's older. And it'll be a bit of an unprecedent case given that he met his soulmate even before he was born.

Daybreak by TheObsidianQuill

"There . . ." Stiles swallowed and looked down at the bottle in his grasp as he slowly swirled the amber liquid inside. "There's really nothing left. For me. Everyone is . . . gone, and it feels like I haven't thought of tomorrow in years." His words rang in the air like a gunshot, he took another heavy drink. "I would trade every last breath I take to just have another shot—not even a guarantee, just a chance to make things right and bring back even one of them." The pack was gone. He had nothing left. He had no one. With nothing to lose, Stiles puts everything on the line to go back in time to try to prevent the future from becoming his past. Broken, guarded, and haunted by his past, only one overgrown-pup of a wolf seems able to get past his defenses. Changing the future? Easy. Finding a place for himself in the Hale Pack? Impossible.

[masterlist link]

[wingedhallows]

— THE PAST SHOULD STAY THE PAST —

CHAPTER FOUR

— ₊˚⊹♡ PAIRING vi!basketball jockey x reader!ballerina ; 3.3k words — ₊˚⊹♡ SYNOPSIS There was something there—something unspoken, something undeniable. But in one careless moment, it all fell apart. Words were said, pride got in the way, and now she’s left with nothing but regret. She wants to fix it. She has to. Now, Vi is determined to fix what she broke. She’ll do anything—everything—to prove she didn’t mean it. But pride is a stubborn thing, and second chances don’t come easy. Can she turn the tide before it’s too late? Or has she already lost what she never had the courage to claim? — ₊˚⊹♡ AUTHORS NOTE hey babes! i totally forgot to post this so here you go, love u

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The door creaks open, breaking the cozy silence of your dorm. Margot’s voice follows a second later, lazy and curious. “Okay, what’s up with you?”

She strolls in, clearly way later than she promised—probably off with Ellie again, but you don’t even care.

You’re perched on your bed, legs curled up beneath you, cheeks flushed pink and practically glowing under the warm lamplight. Phone clutched to your chest like a secret.

Margot pauses mid-step, her brows lifting as she takes you in. “Why do you look like you just got proposed to?”

You don’t answer right away, just let out a little breathless giggle as your heart does another wild somersault.

She tosses her bag onto her desk chair, clearly sensing something's up. But before she can press, you burst—literally squeak, “She kissed me!”

Margot yelps at the sudden outburst, hands flying up like you just threw something at her. “Jesus! Warn me next time!”

You’re already off the bed, springing forward to grab her arms with both hands, practically bouncing.

“Who kissed you?” she demands, eyes wide, head tilted, trying not to smile too hard.

“Vi! Violet Lane fucking kissed me!” you squeal, and it’s like the words are helium—they lift you right off your feet.

Margot just stares for a second, blinking. Then she lets out a breathy laugh of disbelief. “Vi kissed you?”

You nod so hard your hair bounces, a dreamy sigh escaping your lips as you fall back onto the bed like a heroine in a romance movie. “She was so gentle... and her hands were like—ugh—and Christ, the way she kissed me…” You trail off, absolutely dazed.

Margot presses a hand to her mouth, doing her best not to laugh, but failing spectacularly. It’s not mockery—it’s fond, the kind of amusement only best friends get away with.

“I cannot believe Violet Lane kissed you,” she says, voice full of wonder and something teasing beneath it. “You’ve been mooning over her for months. And now look at you. Tragic no more.”

You just grin, wide and blissful. “I think I’m in actual love.”

And for once, Margot doesn’t make a joke. She just smiles. Because maybe—you are.

Vi is losing her damn mind.

Out on the porch, hunched over on the top step, a cigarette burns between her fingers—half smoked, forgotten.

She doesn't even like cigarettes. Hates the taste, hates the smell. But right now, it’s the only thing that makes any sense.

Her knee bounces restlessly. Her fingers twitch.

The night air is cool against her overheated skin, but it’s not enough to ground her. Her mind is a relentless reel of you—your voice in her ears, the look in your eyes, the way your lips felt on hers.

God.

She swears her boxers are still soaked just from that kiss. It wasn’t even dirty—it was barely anything—and yet it hit her like a punch to the chest. Like a car crash in slow motion.

The screen door creaks open behind her, and then Abby drops down onto the step beside her with all the grace of a bowling ball.

She’s got a beer in one hand and, without even asking, plucks a cigarette from Vi’s pack with the other.

“Damn. You sick or something?” she mutters around the filter as she lights it, one brow arched as she eyes Vi sideways.

Vi doesn’t look at her. Her gaze is fixed out at the street, on nothing in particular—just trying to get her head to stop spinning.

“I kissed her,” she says, quiet.

Abby pauses mid-light. She stares at Vi, then lets out a long, low whistle as the lighter flicks out.

“No fucking way,” she says, loud enough Vi’s sure the whole neighborhood just heard.

“You kissed her? Vi, holy shit! Finally!”

Vi flinches like the words physically hit her, dragging a hand down her face with a groan. “Jesus, keep your voice down.”

Abby ignores that completely, her grin stretching wide across her face like a damn cartoon villain.

“How was it? How’s she taste?” she says, nudging Vi’s arm like they're in a locker room talking stats.

Vi shoots her a look like she’s just chugged bong water.

“You dog,” she mutters, face twisted in mock disgust.

Abby just howls with laughter, clapping her on the back like she just won the championship. “Nah, don’t give me that. You’ve been walking around all broody and lovesick for months. I’m just proud of you, dude.”

Vi shakes her head, finally letting a laugh slip through. It’s hoarse, like it caught in her throat on the way out.

“I don’t even know what happened,” she admits, staring at the glowing end of her cigarette. “One second we were just talking, and then... I kissed her. And she kissed me back.”

There’s a beat of quiet. The kind of quiet that feels heavy with something unsaid.

“You’re fucked,” Abby says, but there’s no judgment in it—just honesty, plain and simple.

Vi exhales smoke like a confession. “Yeah,” she says. “I really am.”

“This is the first time you’ve actually been excited for a party,” Margot teases, laughter in her voice as she tugs you up the long driveway.

Her grip is tight on your wrist, boots crunching over gravel, while Flint strolls just a few steps behind—hands in his pockets, looking like nothing ever rattles him.

You flash Margot a grin so wide it almost hurts. “Because Vi’ll be here,” you say, practically glowing at just the thought.

The house is already pulsing with bass and bodies by the time you step onto the porch.

The scent of beer, sweat, cheap cologne, and something undeniably close to weed hits your nose all at once, thick and dizzying in the warm night air.

Margot elbows her way through the crowd like a seasoned pro, dragging you along behind her while Flint follows, grinning at the chaos.

But your eyes are already scanning the crush of people inside—past the tangled limbs, solo cups, and multicolored lights. Searching. Hoping. And then—

You see her.

Vi.

Pink hair half-up, cheeks flushed, smile wide and reckless as she pushes through the crowd like she owns the place.

And maybe she does—the way people part for her, the way her gaze lands right on you like it’s the only thing she’s been looking for all night.

Your heart goes off, a deep, pounding thunder that rattles your ribs.

And then she’s in front of you, grabbing your hand without a word, tugging you gently—no, claiming you right out of Margot’s grasp.

“Hey, pretty,” she murmurs, voice low and warm as she leans in close. Her breath ghosts over your ear, and then—quick as a heartbeat—she presses a kiss to your cheek.

She’s definitely drunk. You can taste it on the air between you—beer and something sweet, maybe cinnamon gum—but she’s steady enough, her grip sure as she leads you through the crowd like she’s bringing you home.

You follow without hesitation, cheeks hot and grinning so hard your face might crack.

Vi sinks into the couch with a sigh, all loose limbs and tipsy confidence, dragging you down beside her like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Her arm drapes lazily behind you—not quite around you, but close enough that her fingers brush your shoulder, testing the waters.

You’re hyper-aware of her warmth, the way her thigh presses against yours, the soft scent of sweat and beer and something undeniably Vi clinging to her skin.

“You look really...” she trails off, eyes squinting like she’s trying to land the right word. “Like... woah.”

You laugh, tipping your head toward her. “That’s not a word.”

“It is now,” she insists, grinning crookedly. “You’re... woah.”

Before you can say anything back, Abby throws herself down onto the couch next to Flint, legs sprawled, drink sloshing slightly in her cup.

“Ohhh no,” she says, eyes locked on Vi with a devilish smirk. “She’s officially in the heart-eyes stage.”

“Hey, shut up,” Vi mutters, though she doesn’t exactly deny it.

Ellie plops dramatically into Margot’s lap on the armchair across from you, sing-songing, “Vi’s got a crush, Vi’s got a crush—”

“I will tackle you,” Vi warns, but she’s still smiling, cheeks a little pink as she turns her attention back to you. “Don’t listen to them.”

“Oh, I’m listening,” you say, smiling into your cup.

Margot shakes her head fondly, fingers playing with Ellie’s hoodie strings. “I’ve never seen her this soft. It’s almost scary.”

“You shut up too,” Vi says, nudging your knee with hers. “Y’all act like I’m proposing or something.”

Ellie gasps with mock excitement. “Is this a public confession? Should we clear the room?”

“Ellie.” Vi gives her the most tired look she can manage, though her mouth is twitching like she’s trying not to laugh. She leans in a little closer to you, quieter now.

“You wanna get outta here for a sec? Just—air. Less noise. Fewer idiots.”

“Rude,” Abby says, raising her cup in mock offense.

But you’re already nodding, heart thudding as Vi stands and offers you her hand.

You take it.

The couch groans as you rise, the laughter fading behind you, and Vi tugs you gently toward the sliding door—just the two of you again, leaving the teasing and chaos behind.

The sliding door clicks shut behind you, muffling the party into a low, distant hum.

Out here, the air is cooler—crisp against your skin, thick with the scent of night and grass and cheap beer spilled on the porch.

Vi doesn’t say anything at first. She just walks a few steps into the yard, hands stuffed into the pockets of her jacket, head tilted up like she’s looking for answers in the sky. Her breath fogs faintly in the air.

You follow, arms crossed for warmth, heart drumming way too fast for how slow everything feels.

Finally, Vi turns, and there’s something different in her eyes now. Not the usual confidence. Not even her drunk, cocky grin. Just this soft, raw honesty that makes your chest go tight.

“I, uh...” she starts, rubbing the back of her neck. “I don’t usually do this. Like, the whole... feelings thing.”

You smile gently. “Yeah, I got that vibe.”

She huffs out a laugh, ducking her head, her cheeks flushed and not just from the beer.

“But I kissed you. And I keep thinking about it, and now you’re here and I’m just—fuck, I’m nervous.”

You blink. “You’re nervous?”

Vi nods, biting her bottom lip. “I know I’m not... the best at showing stuff. Or saying the right thing. But when I’m around you, I—I feel like maybe I don’t have to fake it, y’know?”

You step closer, heart fluttering. “I like you, Vi.”

The words come out small but clear. You’re not even sure when you decided to say them. Maybe the moment she looked at you like you hung the stars. Maybe long before that.

Vi looks at you like she’s waiting for the ground to open up and swallow her. But then she smiles—slow and crooked and so her. “I like you too. A lot. And it’s kinda terrifying.”

You both laugh, a little breathless.

There's a pause, charged and uncertain. Then Vi steps forward, close enough that her jacket brushes your arm. Her hand hovers near yours, fingers twitching—like she wants to touch you but doesn’t want to scare you off.

“Can I—?” she asks, voice barely above a whisper.

You nod. “Please.”

And then she kisses you.

It’s hesitant, soft at first—like she’s scared of getting it wrong. Her lips are warm and slightly chapped, and her hand comes up to cradle your jaw, just barely trembling. You lean into it, into her, the rest of the world fading away with the thud of your heartbeat in your ears.

It’s not perfect. Your noses bump, and you both giggle mid-kiss, but it just makes it better—realer. Her forehead rests against yours when you break apart, both of you slightly dazed and smiling like idiots.

“Okay,” she murmurs, breathless. “So... that was really nice.”

“Yeah,” you whisper back, your fingers still laced with hers. “It was.”

Neither of you say anything for a while. Just standing there in the quiet, swaying slightly, like the world slowed down just for this.

“Should we go back in?” you ask, finally.

Vi shrugs. “Eventually.”

You rest your head on her shoulder, and she wraps an arm around your waist without hesitation.

“I’m glad you came tonight,” she says softly, and this time, there’s no teasing in it. Just truth.

“So am I.”

Eventually, you murmur something about needing the bathroom and give Vi’s hand a quick squeeze before slipping back inside the house. She watches you go with this dazed little smile, like she still can’t believe you’re real.

The sliding door clicks shut again, and the quiet wraps around Vi like a blanket. For a moment, she just stands there—head tipped back, grinning like a complete fool.

That is, until she hears the sharp clack of heels behind her.

“Cute,” a voice cuts in, sugar-laced with venom. “Didn’t know you had a thing for ballet slippers now.”

Vi tenses before she turns. Caitlyn.

Hair glossy, ponytail too perfect to be real, wearing that smug little smirk like it’s part of her uniform. Cheer captain to a fault—and her ex, whether she liked it or not.

Vi’s jaw tightens. “What do you want, Cait?”

Caitlyn crosses her arms, manicured nails tapping against her elbow. “Just came to see if the rumors were true. You and her?”

Vi shrugs, feigning nonchalance. “Yeah. Me and her.”

Caitlyn raises a brow. “You seriously downgraded.”

Vi’s laugh is dry, humorless. “Nah. I upgraded. You just never liked the idea of not being the center of everything.”

Caitlyn’s eyes flash. “You didn’t mind when you were wrapped around my finger.”

Vi steps forward, close enough that her shadow cuts across Caitlyn’s flawless makeup. “You’re confusing me with someone who still gives a damn.”

For a moment, neither of them speak. The tension between them crackles like static.

Then Caitlyn’s voice softens, low and too sweet. “We could try again. You and me. It doesn’t have to be like before.”

Vi snorts. “Yeah, it doesn’t. Because I’ve moved on.”

“With her? Come on, Vi. She’s a dancer. What’s she gonna do, pirouette her way through life? She doesn’t get your world.”

“She doesn’t have to,” Vi snaps. “She doesn’t try to change me. Doesn’t act like loving me’s a project.”

Caitlyn flinches—just barely. Then she scoffs, turning on her heel. “You’ll come crawling back. You always do.”

You’re just about to step back outside when you pause by the glass door, hand brushing the handle.

Out on the porch, Vi is still standing where you left her—shoulders tense, jaw set. And across from her, like some ghost dragged out of the past, stands Caitlyn Kiramman.

Of course it’s her.

That smug little tilt to her chin, the flawless ponytail, the cheer captain uniform like armor—perfect as always, cruel as ever. You’ve seen her before. Around school. On Vi’s arm, once upon a time. You know exactly who she is. And what she used to be to Vi.

You shouldn’t eavesdrop.

But you can’t move.

You watch as Caitlyn leans in, way too close. Her voice is low and smug, like she knows she's winning some twisted game. And then—she turns her head just slightly and looks directly at you.

Dead in the eyes. As if she knew you were there the whole time.

And she kisses Vi.

Your breath catches—sharp and sudden. Like someone just slammed a door in your chest.

The world goes quiet. Not soft, gentle quiet—hollow quiet. Like all the sound was sucked out of the room. Like you’re watching a movie underwater, slow and detached and unreal.

You want to look away. You should look away.

But you’re frozen. Nails digging into your palms, stomach dropping like you just missed a step on a staircase. And your heart—it doesn’t just break. It fractures. Splinters. Like pointe shoes shattering on concrete.

Because you know Caitlyn. You know exactly what she’s doing.

And worst of all—you know Vi used to let her.

You don’t wait to see what happens next. Can’t.

You turn away, walking fast, barely able to breathe. Your vision blurs around the edges, but you don’t stop, not even when your chest starts to ache or your legs feel like they’re made of smoke. You just keep going.

Behind you, through the glass, Vi jolts back like she’s been slapped.

“Caitlyn, what the hell?!” she barks, shoving her away hard enough that Caitlyn stumbles.

Cait just smirks, brushing invisible lint off her sleeve. “Oh, calm down. It’s not like she didn’t already know.”

Vi’s eyes flick toward the door—just in time to catch the flutter of your dress, the faint blur of you vanishing into the house. Her stomach sinks so fast it makes her dizzy.

“Shit,” she breathes, too late.

Caitlyn’s smirk widens. “Told you,” she says, sing-song. “You’ll never outrun what we had.”

But Vi’s not listening anymore.

She’s already moving—ripping open the door, storming back into the house.

Looking for you.

Praying she didn’t just lose you before anything even had the chance to begin.

The music inside hits like a wave the second you slip through the sliding door—a bass-thumping, light-blurring wall of noise. But you don’t stop.

You push through the crowd, blinking hard, breath caught in your throat like a sob that doesn’t know where to go.

You barely register the tangled mess of bodies around you—people laughing, dancing, red Solo cups in the air. It all feels distant, muted. Like you’re not really in your body. Like you’re performing a role: heartbroken girl storms through party, exits stage left.

“Hey—whoa, whoa—” a voice cuts through the haze as someone catches your wrist.

It’s Margot, eyes wide, wearing a glittery crop top and concern.

Flint’s right behind her, already stepping between you and a guy holding a beer like he might’ve bumped into you. “Back off, man.”

“Jesus,” Margot says, tugging you gently aside, “what happened? You look like you just saw someone die.”

You try to speak but your throat is tight, jaw clenched. Your hands are shaking.

“Was it her?” Flint asks, already scowling.

You just nod.

Margot’s expression shifts instantly—fierce. Protective. “Where is she?”

You shake your head. “Don’t. I don’t wanna—just... I need to get out of here.”

Flint glances toward the door. “She’s gonna come after you.”

Margot looks at you like she’s ready to throw hands. “Let her try.”

Outside, Vi’s halfway through the door when she sees you disappear into the crowd—your back turned, the pale pink ribbon in your hair fluttering like a trail she can’t quite catch.

“Wait!” she calls out, voice breaking across the music.

She doesn’t care about the people she shoves past, doesn’t care about the way her name gets called out, confused and curious—“Vi? Yo, Vi, what’s going on?”

She doesn’t even notice Abby and Ellie until they grab her arm.

“Vi, what the hell?” Abby says, trying to hold her back. “What’s going on with you?”

“Cait kissed me.” Vi chokes out, eyes frantically searching the crowd.

“You kissed Caitlyn?” Ellie adds, somewhere between judgmental and genuinely baffled. “Why would you—?”

“I didn’t kiss her!” Vi snaps, practically shaking them off. “She kissed me, okay? And she did it on purpose. She knew she was watching—”

She’s breathing hard now, chest heaving, eyes wild.

Abby tries to calm her. “Vi, seriously, slow down. You’re scaring people.”

“I don’t care!” Vi shouts, already pulling away. “I have to find her. I have to fix this.”

And then she’s gone—shouldering her way through the crowd again, scanning every face like she’s trying to spot a dream that’s slipping too fast between her fingers.

Vi bursts through the front door, out into the chill of the night.

The porch lights burn bright behind her, casting long, lonely shadows across the lawn. The party is still thumping behind closed doors, the muffled bass a cruel reminder that the world keeps spinning even when yours just cracked open.

Her boots thud against the grass as she jogs forward, eyes scanning, heart thrashing.

“Where is she—” she whispers to herself, frantic. “Come on... please, please be out here...”

But the yard is empty.

The street’s quiet. Just a few parked cars, the soft hum of a distant engine. No fluttering ribbon. No soft footsteps. No you.

Vi stops in the middle of the lawn, turning in a slow circle, like maybe she missed something. Like maybe you’re just behind a bush, or sitting on the curb, or—

But you're not.

You're gone.

Her knees give out before she can even think about it, sinking into the damp grass with a dull thud. She drops her head into her hands, breathing hard like she just ran a marathon, like the air isn’t enough.

“Shit,” she whispers, voice cracking.

Then again, louder. More broken.

“Shit—”

Because she saw it. That split second through the glass—your silhouette at the door, your face right before you turned away. The way you froze, and then left without a word.

And she knows what it looked like.

She can feel what it must have felt like—for you.

The way Caitlyn turned and saw you before leaning in. That calculated move. That kiss meant to destroy.

And maybe she didn’t kiss Caitlyn back. Maybe she stood there stunned and horrified, shoved her away the second it happened—but you don’t know that. You didn’t see that part.

You saw her lips on Vi’s.

And that was enough to shatter everything.

Vi grips her jacket tight, knuckles white, like holding herself together physically might stop the emotional freefall. Her chest aches in this raw, pulsing way—because you’re soft and careful and brave in this quiet, delicate way. And you trusted her. You kissed her like you meant it. You chose her.

And now?

Now you probably think she chose Caitlyn.

You probably think she let it happen.

You probably think she’s just like before—the Vi who didn’t know how to be good for someone. The Vi who always ruined the things that mattered.

“I messed it up,” she says to no one. “I fucking messed it up.”

The night doesn’t answer.

Only the wind, brushing past the trees. Carrying your absence like it’s a weight Vi will never stop feeling.

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ TAGLIST *ੈ✩‧₊˚

( @foralltheprettygirls ; @sawaagyapong ; @jivimatcha ; @majuia ; @uhmidkmuch ; @savedforlaterr ; @baylegend6 ; @elle-girlylesbian @dazevi @paymeinkash , @jupitism , @lostsouls-mxli ; @xseraphine ; @tdawg2012 ; @norwayromanoff ; @caffeine-pup ; @tuliptu ; @killuomi ; @lin-elizabeth ; @sillyloafff ; @hitmehardmommy ; @cloudy-fay ; @powpowjinxlife ; @antobooh ; @horde9 ; @mikellie @caitvisthird44 ; @halle5s ; @strawb4kdior ; @daughterofthemoons-stuff ; @paankhaleyaaar )

[wholoveseggs]

Kinktober - {Day Two} {<- kinktober masterlist}

18+ ---- {Masterlist} {Tag-List} {Kinktober}

{Gwayne Hightower x F!Reader} Request {Anon}: can u do gwayne hightower and overstimulation? :)

1.1k words - Kinks: overstimulation, oral sex

Your noble husband was the picture of gallantry, never a single word out of his mouth that could be considered impolite, a perfect prince charming. He was a handsome man, tall and lean, his hair the color of autumn leaves, and a smile that made your knees weak.

All that knew him, adored his kind heart and effortless wit. He had a way with people, he was a people pleaser through and through. It was hard not to fall in love with him.

But he held a secret, that only you were privy to. One that only came out when the door to your shared chambers was locked and you were alone together.

So, it surprised you when this secret side of him came swimming to the surface on a warm summer's day. When the two of you were taking a picnic out by the waterfall near his family home.

He was laying back, a glass of wine in his hand, watching the way your gown floated around your hips as you walked along the edge of the water. You were humming a little tune to yourself, a smile on your face as you admired the view, the sunlight glistening off the rushing water.

You had turned your attention to him, catching him staring at you. Your lips pursed and he chuckled, raising his glass in greeting.

You laughed and made your way back to him, plopping down on the blanket.

"You look absolutely beautiful my darling," he sighed, a hazy look in his eyes.

"And you're drunk," you replied playfully, reaching for his glass, and taking a sip.

"Nonsense, I've only had a few," he teased, leaning over and kissing your cheek.

His hand had moved up your thigh, slowly pushing the fabric of your gown up. You gasped and looked at him, a wicked grin on his lips.

"Sweet husband, what are you doing?" you asked, though your voice was breathless.

"I'm having dessert, before my meal," he purred.

"But... Someone could see," you whispered, the thought making your pulse race.

"I'll have them executed for such an affront," he joked, and you rolled your eyes.

He pushed you back onto the blanket, moving between your legs and continuing his journey, kissing the soft skin of your thighs.

"I love how soft you are, it makes me want to eat you alive," he teased, nipping at your thigh.

You giggled and lifted your skirts up for him, allowing him to push them over your hips. He licked his lips and hooked your legs over his shoulders, diving in without a second thought.

You gasped and grabbed ahold of his hair, arching your back at the feel of his tongue sliding against you. The seven had truly blessed him with a talent for this, a skillful tongue, and the knowledge of exactly how to drive you mad.

Your eyes rolled back in your head, a loud moan leaving your lips. His fingers dug into the soft flesh of your thighs, keeping them firmly in place while he devoured you.

He didn't care that anyone could see or hear you, the waterfall was loud, and no one would dare come close enough to catch a glimpse of a Hightower eating his lady out in the daylight.

He lapped at you eagerly, his fingers working inside you, his nose pressing against the sensitive bud. He would be more than happy to die this way, losing his breath in service of his wife.

You whimpered and moaned, writhing under him, the pleasure almost too much to bear. It was like a fire, building in your belly, making you feel as though you would burn from the inside out.

Your back arched, toes curling, the rush of your climax hitting you, the waves washing over you as your eyes slammed shut, the sun burning the back of your eyelids.

He didn't stop, continuing his assault, forcing the pleasure to build again, his fingers stroking the spot that drove you wild, his tongue lapping up all the wetness.

Your hand tightened in his hair, the other fisting the blanket. You were shaking, panting, tears rolling down your cheeks.

"Slow down, d-dear husband," you gasped, your hips jerking away from his mouth.

"Nooo, I think you can handle a bit more," he murmured, and pulled you closer, holding you in place.

He continued to suck and lick at you, burying his nose deep within the soft curls at your apex, the tip of his tongue teasing that sensitive bundle that sent your mind reeling.

You felt a scream bubble up, and you threw your hand over your mouth, trying to stay quiet. He loved it, hearing you like this, seeing you writhe under him, lost in the throes of passion, his doing.

His goal was for you to reach bliss at least four times, his record being five, but he decided today would be the day he would break it.

Your hand fisted the blanket again, so tight that your knuckles were turning white, your body was aching and exhausted, and yet he continued.

The third orgasm hit, and he groaned, lapping up your essence eagerly. Your scent was better than any wine, the taste of you a delicacy reserved just for him.

He wanted to drown in you, never let go, keep you in his mouth forever. The sounds that were leaving your lips were a gift from all the gods, your body the most beautiful sight he'd ever seen.

A fourth and fifth orgasm hit, back to back, leaving you screaming and sobbing. Your body was aching, trembling, and yet he kept going, his eyes glued to your face, watching you cry and whimper.

The sixth came quickly after, your thighs shaking, clamping down around his ears.

"Please, p-please Gwayne, I c-can't... no more..." you sobbed.

"You taste so sweet, just a little more, come on my love" he encouraged.

He didn't slow, instead, he picked up the pace, his hands sliding under you and gripping your ass, pulling you flush against his mouth.

You cried out, your hands fisting the blanket as the seventh crashed over you. You screamed, the sound echoing around the clearing, bouncing off the water and rocks. Your thighs shook violently, thrashing in his hold, your body aching, the pleasure overwhelming.

Gwayne finally slowed, helping you through it, licking gently, drawing it out as long as he could. He knew you would probably pass out if he kept going, and though it was tempting, he didn't want to risk it. Besides, seven was a good number, a holy number, and he was always one for tradition.

Reluctantly he pulled away, your pussy swollen and pink, still pulsing from the aftershocks. He leaned in, unable to resist one more taste, giving you a slow, loving lick before leaning back and wiping his mouth with his sleeve.

"I think I might faint,” you gasped, closing your eyes, still twitching.

"Not a bad way to go, is it?" he chuckled, crawling up next to you and pulling you into his arms.

"I hope you're prepared to carry me back to the castle," you muttered, your limbs still too weak to move.

"With pleasure, my love"

{<- kinktober masterlist}

[mywritersmind]

I WANT TO BE BETTER - KA12

summary : you’re done with kimi not committing to you. breaking up your situationship should be left clean with only words to hurt. unfortunately, goodbye kisses never have always been plural for you two.

listen up : angst! smut! p in v! a lovely request for angsty or smut so i gave u both!! hopefully you enjoy !

words : 1285

⋆｡‧˚⋆

Sometimes… after a kiss, or when he leaves your apartment after bringing you flowers, or after seeing those sweet messages he’s so prone to send- you hate him.

Just a little bit.

This, is one of those times. Except he’s standing in front of you, his arms crossed and leaning against the hotel dresser.

He’s in all black, for a moment you think it’s a bit poetic. Maybe it is.

“I can’t do this, Kimi.” You flew out for this. Flew out for him. Now you’re sitting on the edge of an unfamiliar bed with your heart ripped out in front of you. “I want all of you.”

“Or none of me?” He shoots back, his eyes trained on the floor. His voice gets softer, “I want you too, Y/n.”

“Not enough.” You reiterate for what feels like the thousandth time, “You’ll kiss me and fly me out and hold me in your arms- but you won’t commit. I know this year is big for you and I want to cheer you on without looking back but I really thought we could be casual. I just… I can’t.”

“You’re giving up?” He meets your eyes. He looks tired- like your words are hurting him. He has no idea how much he’s hurt you.

“I’m giving in.” You say, “This is the best for both of us. You’ve said it yourself, I'm a distraction!

He shakes his head, his voice breaking, “I’ll- I can…”

“No, Kimi.” You sigh, looking up at him and trying not to cry, “You can’t. And that’s okay… I want you to be good.”

He is good. So good. When you’re alone. In public, you seem like the tag along friend who Kimi never touches because he doesn’t want anyone to think anything. But then he’ll pull you into his driver's room and make you forget why anger was ever an emotion you knew.

He’s everything and absolutely nothing at the same time. Breaking you down with every rushed kiss or rumor. It’s not his intention, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt.

“I am good.” His hands rush to his hair, “I’m good with you.”

“I’m not, though. Nothing is going to change the fact that I hate seeing you asked about your love life! Or that I know you don’t like me in the garage. Or that you like flirting with girls at events!”

“Fuck those girls- they’re not you!”

“Then why do you act like they are!?” You’re angry now, shaking your head and dropping it into your hands. You’re not exclusive- you’ve seen other guys, gone on other dates… but that’s why you need to break it off. Him doing the same things you are is torture. You know those dates mean nothing to you.

To him, they’re just another way to get out of the bubble he lives in. He doesn’t feel guilty after making another girl cum but you cried the last time someone other than Kimi kissed you.

“I’ll stop inviting you to races! I’ll see you at home- I'll come to you!”

“For what? One day every other month?” He looks defeated because you both know that’s what will end up happening. “We’re done, Kimi.”

His eyes widen, stepping forward, “I'll be better!” he’s on his knees in a second, his hands on your legs, “I’ll do better!” they drag over your skin in a touch far too familiar. He looks up at you with heartbreak in his eyes, “I’ll do it for you.”

You shake your head, your mouth shut tight to not say anything you’ll regret. Tears escape when the words you want to say won’t.

He wipes a tear off your cheek. “Baby…” You turn your head, not wanting to look at his face. “I can’t lose you.”

You take a shaky breath, “It’s too late, Kimi.” You’re a placeholder. Something stable. You’re eighteen.

A part of you wonders if you’ll meet again when you’re older, wiser. Then again, if it relates to Kimi, you doubt you’ll ever be wise.

The brunette rests his forehead against yours. He’s crying now too. “I really wish it wasn’t like this.” The hatred in you pops out again, but it’s immediately suffocated by the broken love in his soft eyes.

“I know…” You breathe, running a hand onto his cheek which he leans into like it’s muscle memory. He turns, his lips meeting your hand.

“I’m sorry.” He stands, leaning in and kissing you. The ghost of what you two were float above, feeling heavier than ever. “I’m so sorry.”

You kiss him back harder than you should, slipping your hand to his neck while he holds your waist. It’s messy and rough and falling apart all at the same time.

But he only kisses back with more force, climbing over you as you crawl backwards on the bed.

You’re not wearing a bra. He loves it, something clear from the small noise he makes when you start to squirm under his touch.

“We shouldn’t.” You bite out, not stopping him from kissing down your neck.

His curls brush your jaw as he whispers, “I’ll stop.” It’s up to you. He gives that choice, at least.

But every logical thought rushes out of your head the second he slips his calloused hand under your shirt.

His own top is gone quickly, his body hard and prominent as usual. Yours is next to go, then your shorts.

He used to smirk when he saw what underwear you decided on, today he only kissed down your stomach when he notices it’s what he bought you.

His lips are stuck on yours again as you use your hands to unzip his pants, his dick hard already. When your fingers brush over it, he shivers.

Pushing you harder into the perfectly made bed, he kisses your lips, then your jaw, his free hand slipping below your panties.

Your back arches at his touch, a feeling you’d never get sick of. “Need you-” you whimper out.

It’s everything he wants to hear, something he takes seriously, especially if it’s the last time you might say it.

He’s already leaking, lining himself up and wasting no time before pushing into you. Your head falls deeper into the pillow, Kimi’s eyes on your face.

He loves knowing that he makes you like this, loves knowing that you do the same to him. He groans when he picks up the pace, his hand next to your head and gripping the pillow.

“Fuck…” He whines, kissing you in the heat of the moment. “You’re fucking intoxicating.”

“So good.” You bite your lip, grabbing his shoulder. “Miss you.” It makes no sense. He’s in you- but somehow it feels different, even if the way you moan his name is the exact same.

He holds your hips when you start to slow down, controlling you so well. He manipulates every noise you make, every thrust hitting right where you like it.

His head drops between your boobs, crying out when you tighten around him, “I fucking love you.” It’s everything you’ve ever wanted him to say, and the worst possible thing to hear.

He watches you when your legs start to shake, your vision going blurry as his pace grows rougher. You’re both immune to tears, now seeing the hurt manifest in white heat that shocks both of you.

He cums on your thigh after you finish around him. He falls onto the bed next to you, both quiet except for the heavy breathing that fills the room. His hand is brushing yours still.

Despite how many times he’s touched you, it feels unfamiliar.

It feels like a goodbye.

[leighsartworks216]

Stolen Kisses

Zayne x gn!Reader

Inspired by two gifs, right here and right here

I think Zayne kissing me like he's drowning and I'm his only source of air would change me. Make me worse. God I want it

Warnings: fluff, kissing, touch starved Zayne, light banter, light angst (if you squint?)

Word Count: 1,010

Main Masterlist

First Love and Deepspace Masterlist

Second Love and Deepspace Masterlist

Third Love and Deepspace Masterlist

AO3

Tag List Form

Before you can lose your resolve, you grab Zayne by his collar and kiss him. It doesn't last long, but in the second or two that it does, you pour as much of your love for him into the kiss as you can.

You pull away quickly. Your anxieties have caught up to you. God, that was such a stupid move. Stupid, stupid, stupid!

You cover your mouth and squeak out an apology, avoiding looking at his face, completely missing the awed, dazed expression he held. Maybe if you can get outside fast enough you can escape this moment. Maybe you'll both ignore each other for a few days and then text each other promising never to talk about it ever again. You turn to make your escape.

A hand on your shoulder stops you before you can, however, turning you back around to face him. Another hand uncovers your mouth, and his lips are on yours again.

Your back hits the door, your head quickly cushioned by his hand, the other holding desperately to your waist. His breaths fill your senses as they fan against your cheek from his nose, as though he's trying so hard not to need to pull away. There's a slight tremor to them, too. A shaky sigh of relief.

You hold the back of his neck, tangling your fingers into his short black hair. Grab onto his open collar, keeping him close, never wanting him to part.

It takes so long before the kiss begins to soften. His breaths shuddering with overwhelming emotion as he slows to give you chaste pecks. Every single time his mouth is on yours, your heart aches, tortured from all the times you imagined what kissing him would be like. And now you know. And now you don't want to ever forget.

His nose brushes alongside yours as he pulls away. Breaths mingling together. He lets go of your waist in favor of cupping your cheek, his thumb stroking just under your eyes. "Open your eyes," he whispers, almost pleadingly.

Your brow furrows in worry. "I'm scared."

"Why?"

"Because... I don't want this to be a dream. I'm scared I'll open my eyes, and you won't be here... and none of this will have happened."

He doesn't say anything for a moment. You can feel his eyes flickering over your face, studying you up close in a way you've longed to do with him. His hand shifts from your cheek. You immediately miss the cool touch, the softness of his palm, the precision of his fingers.

He pinches your earlobe. You wince, leaning toward it instinctively. He chuckles softly as he soothes it between his thumb and finger. "Are you still dreaming?" he asks.

Your heart seems to lodge itself in your throat as you slowly open your eyes. He's still there, so close. Hazel green eyes shine with delight behind his glasses.

"There you are." He smiles at the heat he feels in your cheeks as he holds your face again. It's incredible to him how at ease he feels like this; your kiss, the catalyst to it all.

You experimentally play with the hair at the back of his neck. His eyes flutter briefly, a quiet gasp choked in his throat. It's as if your touch is the first he's felt in a millennium. Warm and gentle. It's dizzying, knowing you have this effect on him. With your hand on his collar, you brush your knuckles against his throat. You feel his Adam's apple bob against them.

You nudge your nose against his. "Can I kiss you again?"

With half-lidded eyes, he nods slightly, granting you permission. You tilt your chin up, kissing him in a slow, ghosting touch of lips. Your eyes linger open a crack just to see his expression. The way his eyes close, savoring anything you deign to give him.

He pulls away, letting go of you to pull off his glasses and set them carelessly in the key-bowl beside the door, before diving back in. His kiss is more insistent, more intent on tasting and indulging in you. He takes his time in the same breath that he seeks for more.

His tongue brushes curiously along your lip. You make such a sweet sound as you open your mouth to him, welcome him in. He licks into you with a groan, pressing you further against the door with his body right up to yours. Even still, he's not seeking for anything more than your kiss. He does not reach for your clothes, or slot his hips right up against yours. He just wants this - wants to kiss you for hours, to relieve himself of so many years pining after you and being too respectful not to do anything about it.

You sigh his name and you swear he whimpers at the sound of it like that, so breathy and wanton. It takes so much of his resolve to be able to draw away again, before he fully loses control. Before he gets so lost in you that his Evol starts acting up. Even still, when he pulls away, he stays close, forehead pressed to yours as he tries to get his breathing back under control.

His eyes flutter open at last. He looks at you with so much warmth, so much love. His lips curl into a soft smile, and he leans up to press a kiss to your forehead. "Sit with me a while longer," he whispers against your skin. You nod. Of course. You'd be hard pressed to leave now, when he's finally in your arms in ways you'd only dreamt of.

He steps away slowly, hands slipping from your face and the back of your head, to take hold of your own hands and lead you from the door.

The night carries on outside his house. Cars drive in the city lights, stars blink down from above. The world spins on, as two new lovers speak in hushed whispers about the wonderful start of their relationship between stolen kisses.

---

Tag List:

@the-golden-jhope @deepzombieyouth @huen1ngk41 @armycaratlover @cheesemachine44 @nyx2021 @angel-jupiter @thelittlebutton @pikachuzhc @pomegranatepip @cordidy @an-ever-angry-bi @thejysemongko @deusfoundry @hawtlineblingz @that-lost-one