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prael · 2 months ago

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Kinktember Day 9: Spa

Newjeans Danielle x male reader smut

words: 7,422 Kinktember Masterlist

"My client, did you see her come in?" you ask.

"No, why? Is she famous or something?"

"Well, that would explain the secrecy, and it would also explain a woman barely twenty having cash to burn at a place like this," you whisper to the colleague who is far too jealous of how you just got requested by name because that usually means big tips for a good service.

"Did you get her name?"

"Supposed to be a secret." Your answer dissatisfies her, and she throws you a side-eye. "Okay. Okay. Danielle something... Marsh?"

"Shut up!" She hits you on the shoulder. "No fucking way. Let me take this one and you can have my next ten VIP bookings."

"Sorry, but she asked for me by name," you tell her. She mutters an obscenity under her breath. "Want to tell me what I'm getting into here?"

And then the girl spews out a jumble of ramblings about K-pop this and K-pop that—the kind of reaction that only the truly obsessed can have. Millions of views on this, charting on that, really fucking popular is the gist of it. So basically the whole planet Earth knows who this Danielle is. Well, shit. No pressure or anything. "Get in there already, do your best work and maybe get me an autograph."

A few forceful pushes out of the staff room and you find Danielle where you left her, her cleansing mask still on her face, sitting in that long white robe. You step barefoot over the soft wood, heat rising from underneath it.

As you draw near, you ask, "Miss Marsh, are we ready to begin?"

"Dani, please," her voice says from beneath the mask. It's hard not to be intimated after being hit with the fact that the woman before you is world-renowned. Though from here, she looks like any other delicate young woman. Her feet are small. Bare, tiny and arched, they hang just a few inches from the floor, and they are as perfectly still as the rest of her. "No need to be formal, I'm here to relax."

"Then let me start by offering you a drink." The bottle pops as you twist it. The label is adorned in cursive. "Bottled at source, premium mineral water." Your arm raises the bottle so she can see the brand clearly.

"Is it magical water?" There is a playful lilt in her voice, "Maybe it has some healing powers?"

"Guaranteed to nourish the soul and unclog those emotional pores," you deadpan.

The facemask stretches with Dani's wide smile, and she lightly chuckles. "That's good, laughter is good for the soul."

"Right." You pour from a height and a theatrical stream flows. When the flute is halfway, you stop the flow and pass it to her hands, which take it gently.

"What? You don't even hold the glass for me? Put it to my lips and tilt?" It's another tease, the joke stretching on her grin, but now it is her hands holding the flute, her fingers long and smooth around the stem.

"I serve, not control."

"Those don't have to always be exclusive." She laughs, and the sound makes you feel something. "But I appreciate the intention. I hear you're the best in the business."

"I'll let you be the judge, Miss Marsh. Now, allow me to remove that mask. I have raised the temperature in here to help open the pores, and I would like to begin with a facial."

"I do love a facial." Danielle smiles to herself. "And again, please, just Dani is fine."

You step over behind her, where her head tilts back against the chair, her long hair cascading below, shimmering in the moist air. Lightly, you place the tips of your fingers along her jawline, finding the edge of the mask and gently lifting it upwards. She doesn't flinch at all, and you watch the wet mask give way to her face. Even upside down, Danielle is indeed beautiful.

With her sun-kissed hair, radiant skin, and effortless, elegant beauty. She is, in summation of all her parts: perfect. The image the word calls up has always been fuzzy around the edges, an abstract idea more than a specific concrete thing, because real people aren't like this. That's what you believed until you laid eyes on her.

"You take good care of your skin, Miss—Sorry—Dani."

"Thank you," she says simply, no joke this time. Your fingers ghost over her chin and then trace to her cheekbones, moving lightly to test her texture, all so smooth.

"First, I shall cleanse away any impurities," you say and lean down to examine her face. Even when you are so close, there is nothing for your scrutiny—no visible crevice, no blemishes, despite there being not a trace of make-up. It's all-natural.

There's a light whisper on her lips, one that you barely make out, "Good luck with that."

You tilt your head as you reach over for a fresh sponge, run it under hot water until it is filled, squeeze out the excess, and slowly drag a path of heat across her forehead. As your other hand holds the sheet over her neck to catch stray water, your first-hand works in large strokes from above, rinsing her skin with each successive pass.

As you focus, she leans back into the chair, and a soft hum escapes her lips. "Feels nice already," she murmurs.

You say nothing, working her in silence. Her eyelids are closed, her lips slightly parted, and she remains so still that, if not for the sound of her breaths, she could be easily mistaken as unconscious. This silence has a tranquillity and familiarity to it, one that feels like home, and without thinking, you are smiling.

She stays just the same as you begin to exfoliate her, brushing across her face in ever-widening circles. It's with such tenderness that her cheeks take a pink tint as she grows hotter and she smiles as you rub in gentle swirls, one spot, then the next.

Time passes in silence as you finish the exfoliation and apply all manner of natural, topical lotions, toners, and peels to Dani. When her skin is primed, you press your fingers against her skin and, starting at her forehead, you massage her face to a rhythm of long, soothing strokes. You enjoy touching her, you admit, which isn't exactly right for a professional, but since you have no outward reaction from her, you assume it isn't the end of the world.

Throughout it all, she keeps her eyes shut. Over time you move around her face, applying more pressure in some spots than others. She shifts and sighs, soft exhalations of her warm breath tickling your arm, yet otherwise doesn't move an inch. Her shoulders relax against the leather of the seat. "You really know what you're doing," she says, with a smirk. You pull her skin with your fingertips, moving them in large circles as it comes to an end. Finally, you tap your fingers gently over her skin to soothe.

"Now, your body, Dani."

Her eyes crack open, but slowly. "Are we moving?"

"I'll wash your skin over there, but the massage will be in the next room. Now, I'll need you to—"

Dani doesn't let you finish your sentence before she rocks forward in her seat and pushes herself to a stand. She's facing away from you and puts her hands in front of her, then she throws the robe back off her shoulders and lets it slide off her arms to the floor in one quick motion.

"Good," she says. "I was for too hot in that thing anyway."

Of course, as a professional, you would never gasp in surprise, yet, at the sight of her ass, the muscles tight, small, and round, the curves of her waist so thin, hair over her shoulders threatening to hide her slender back and those long slim legs, you manage to just barely gulp.

Too hot, she certainly is, you want to tell her and not just in the sense that perspiration coats her skin. Tiny beads of sweat that, as your eyes crawl over her, are in the process of running downwards. This glistening on her flesh is hypnotic. The curve of her ass, the slight tilt of her hips forward, the way the base of her spine leads downward, right down to a crack between her—

Focus. You remind yourself you have a job to do.

"In the far corner. The stone pool. Please, stand by the edge." It takes a second before Dani's head bobs, and then she slinks forward, slow and catlike. Her stride, and every motion of her muscles beneath her flesh that accompanies it, are mesmerising. And with every sway of her hips, you love her tight body more.

She pauses, a foot by the edge, and looks down into the water. Steam rises and envelops her form in a pale white that hugs her curves.

"Please, step in," you say as you walk over to her side and take her hand. Now, you catch a glimpse of her profile, and her chest, small, round and perky, and as you avert your eyes to guide her down the step, you tell her, "Watch your step now, go from stone to stone until you stand in the middle just there."

"Got it," Dani says. She steps with confidence and the hot water reaches quickly above her ankles and then halfway up her calves. With each careful move down the next step she gasps, soft and light. The water splashes with her movement and then swallows her up to the upper thigh.

"Please, take a seat there, on the wide stone." You reach to help steady her as she sinks down, her knees bending as she perches down so the water is at her hips as she sits.

"I just sit?"

"Yes, Dani, and I will bathe you." You step into the pool until the hot flowing water covers your knees, and then you stand behind her. You reach for a sponge, submerge it, and watch it fill, then draw it out and over her lower back and drag a large circle across her soft skin. "How's the water? Feel okay?"

"Great. Wow." She goes quiet as you work up and down her back, long, relaxing, soothing strokes until all the tension has left her shoulders. "That's wonderful," she says.

You clean her shoulders and then down her arms, the sponge dipping under the surface, and caressing her in a movement that feels like worship. With a slow rhythm, you run the sponge over her shoulders and around her neck, and finally, reaching over her, down to her chest. She shifts back as you do, resting herself against your legs. You run it over her chest a few times before coming up again to her shoulders.

"So soft..." her voice says, almost a breathy moan, and you catch a hint of it. Maybe she realises how it sounds because she soon goes quiet. Next, you work downwards, to her tight, toned stomach. Slowly you make sure you cleanse every part of her body. All while her back rests on you and her breathing is warm and pleasant.

"Miss, I mean Dani, can you stand now? We need to get you clean." You prompt, a hand on her shoulder.

"Sure." Dani snaps out of it. She stretches and cracks her neck before rising, leaning forward for a moment. When she rises, ripples run out in all directions and your eyes drift over her ass. It looks plump, perky, perfect. Then you sponge it, giving purpose to your stare. You push it down, over her cheeks and Dani shivers.

You repeat your slow, languid movements. Wipe away any trace of imperfection from her hips and thighs and then when you make her slowly step out of the pool, you work down her bit by bit. Finally, she stands on the edge of the pool, looking down at you, towering over you in her naked glory. She presents to you her foot and you hold her ankle to steady it and clean each digit, scrubbing between the toes.

"You can take the towel, on the peg, Dani."

"You do it." Dani doesn't move at all, keeping her eyes on you, staring into your eyes and through you.

You cautiously nod and then climb from the pool. You keep eye contact and wrap the towel around her small, wet frame. In your arms, she feels so fragile. You rub her down, first her legs. Long strokes, left and right. Each, in turn, both legs. Then you bring the towel up. When you wrap it over her hip and move upwards along her torso, Dani presses herself to you.

"You really know how to put someone at ease," she mutters.

You nod silently in return, and finish drying her shoulders, down her arms, back up, and down her back. You remain stoic as the heat between you builds, and she turns around without prompting. You wrap her again and bring the towel all the way down. Then over her rear. Soft, short circular motions with your palm.

"The table in the next room, Dani. Start by lying on your front, you can use the towel on the table to cover yourself. Once I see you settled in, I'll join you."

She laughs quietly and starts her slow walk to the door. You take your own towel, drying your legs, the water has soaked into the front of your shorts from where she leant against you.

She's on the bed. The towel, provided for her decency, is in a pile on the floor.

"Dani, the towel..."

"I'm fine, I want it off. I want everything off. Is that a problem for you?" There's this undeniably confident quality to her like the universe just has to be as it is because she likes it that way.

"Not a problem," you tell her. "It does tend to get in the way."

You're close to the bed now, looking down at her, still so perfectly nude. So vulnerable and relaxed, and not a drop of shame in her eyes. She gives you a look that says she's in charge, and that she's been waiting for this, and now it's finally going to happen. And that smile is impossible to refuse. "You could join me if it helps. Make it feel more like an equal partnership."

"Miss— I—"

"I'm joking," she winks. Danielle bunches her hair by her head and turns her head to the side as she rests.

The first of your oils, imported, rich and infused, drip with a consistency thick as honey over her. You watch it roll from the top of her back and run down her spine. Its warmth makes her twitch gently.

Slowly you reach out, press your hands into her skin and drag them from top to bottom, following the oil, making sure you cover her.

She hums in delight.

With great care, you begin your work. Fingers sink in, and your thumbs feel her muscles. Stroking and rubbing, from the top of her back, your fingers coax and prod at the flesh beneath. Pressing it back and forth, at times as gentle as a summer breeze and then as hard as a hammer.

There are knots in her back, beneath the tender surface. You find them easily and work at them to relax, coax them into submission, untying the muscles until they go soft. She gasps at your touch as you release them. Her body responds to you in the sweetest ways. With the smallest of whispers, the little fluttering breaths, and with her skin taking on a pink glow.

When the last knot goes soft, she writhes in response, and a content, relaxed murmur comes out of her.

"Oh god, that's it, don't stop," she says, the first words to come from her for a while.

"You were very tight." You reach across, add a small amount of more oil and start working back upwards. One stroke at a time. Up her neck. Over her shoulders. She trembles when you go deep into her flesh and reaches out to grasp at something, anything, and finds the edge of the table, holding herself steady. Her arms now, you lift them one by one, prying them from her grip and then holding and rubbing and pulling to coax the stiffness out.

Oil over her legs, next. Slowly you run your hands over the outside and inside and rub them into her skin, kneading it into her. Danielle keeps her mouth firmly shut the whole time. No jokes. Nothing funny. You lean down to her, focusing on her thigh that refuses to let go. Bending down, you push into her. As you feel her tension drain, you are rewarded with another quiet hiss.

You place the oil upon her feet and work it into her soles with a finger, an instant trigger, she cackles as her foot recoils at your touch. "Sorry, that's a bit ticklish," she tells you, apologetically.

Her feet go still and she inhales deeply as you set back to your task, much to the quiet amusement of Danielle. It's the slowest you have ever worked on a client, with long, dragging strokes to make sure she really enjoys it. Each is careful, so careful, to pull and tease. "Keep working it all the way up, all the way up my legs," she orders, quietly. "Nice and slow. Can you do that?"

You agree.

You hear Danielle sigh as you move your hands slowly up her calf. So soft and firm at the same time as she breathes so gently. A trace of laughter, an easy smile. You work her in the same manner, up her thigh, as slow and relaxing as before, massaging deep and heavy. Danielle begins to roll her hips as you grip the flesh at the top of her thighs and dig in.

"Higher, please, just for me." Danielle makes a little hum to accompany the instruction. You obey, knowing where this is leading. You take the oil, and let it pour lightly onto the peak of her cheek, it threatens to roll away so you capture it in your palm, a firm squeeze of her rear, a spread of oily warmth. She shivers and pushes up her hips in silent encouragement.

Your hands trail along, smooth and oily, each touch brings more shivers. Her legs part slightly, a slow squirm of her hips. Your fingers glide on her tight, round cheeks; running across, back and forth as she breathes deep. You press deeper with each sweep and listen as her gasps become a little louder, and her body moves a little more. She bends her arm, reaching back, as you watch it shake. Her nails claw onto the side of the bed.

The more you tease her with your touch, the harder she grips and the more she parts her legs. You've known the perfection of her body, just by seeing it, but this feeling confirms it.

Your hand wanders with long, oily strokes as you glide up her back, tracing the curves of her slim back up, all the way to her neck. There, you hold her as you lean in. "You can turn over now. Let's work out your front," you say, and Dani nods in agreement.

She smiles, though she remains silent, slowly, with such care, turning onto her side, then twisting to face you, her face flush, eyes drowsy, her mouth agape. She rests upon her back, arms by her sides, legs flat against the bed, open, as you gaze into her eyes.

You apply the oil with long slow strokes down her stomach, feeling her as she flinches, watching the dimples at her waist appear then vanish with her body's twists, with every flexing of her muscles. When you trace up, her flat, beautiful chest, and slowly slide a finger beneath her small pert breast, Dani takes a deep, quick, raspy breath, then says, "They didn't lie when the reviews said you have the best hands in the world."

Your oil-covered thumbs graze upon her nipple, soft at first, gentle in pressure, but this becomes firmer, building and rising, faster. Round and round it swirls, and this delight sends Danielle's breath to hitches and sharp, shallow pants. As she squirms in delight, her legs twist, rubbing and clenching. Her teeth bite down on her lips. The flesh of her body glistens.

One hand reaches, down a thigh then back up, across her stomach and down the other. Repeated in pattern as the other thumb never ceases on her pert nipple. Dani's eyes go blank as your touch continues, circling, teasing, stroking and grabbing. Her body responds and you are delighted to witness every tremor and gasp as it arches. And finally, for the first time, a full-blooded moan rings free.

Your hand goes lower. Deeper into the pit of her thigh as she spreads her legs wide. You seek out the inevitable and when you reach her crotch, you watch her tense up. And when the touch slides between her pussy's folds, and against her clit, there's an immediate reaction, her body jumping as you make the slightest flick of motion with your middle finger. You lift and let a trail of oil roll down her slit and back down to her rear.

"I wasn't really joking before," she gasps. "You should be naked. It would make this whole experience better." Dani tilts her head, fixes her drowsy gaze onto you, and holds the stare for what feels like a hundred heartbeats. "Don't you think that's fair? The way things are going?"

You hold the eye contact and consider this, a sudden lump in your throat making any immediate reply a struggle. Her eyes don't move from yours. Even her chest barely heaves with her short, fast panting.

"Go on, I want you naked. I'm going to feel so, so empty otherwise..."

That's all it takes.

How could you deny her?

Your hands, still covered in the hot oil, reach for the buttons at your collar. You slip them in order from the top and release one after another. Danielle's lips twitch, and her teeth rake them to a shine. Your clothing drops to the floor. Bared. It feels so wrong, and unprofessional, yet Dani looks on and gapes with a hungry, dark delight.

"Nervous now?" Her eyebrow twitches up.

"Never," you bluff.

Danielle's mouth stays open wide, and her breaths get caught and flicker as your touch returns to the same spot as before. Gentle, light touches flutter with your fingertips, drawing the tips of your fingers back and forth, back and forth, over her clit. You watch as her eyes widen, how her legs straighten out and she starts to kick her feet with the faintest hint of frustration as you tease.

"I paid for a deep massage." She emphasises the adjective, dragging the syllable out like a whine. "This teasing is bad for my heart," she whispers.

Her arm rises, then reaches for your chest and trails its way downward. The pressure of her finger, nails lightly scratching at your skin, trailing down to the waistline and then she wraps her slender fingers around you. It's hard. Incredibly so.

"And I'll show you how generous I can be with a tip."

She licks her lips slowly and sensually as her eyes meet yours with a mischievous gleam.

You grunt, pressing down with your fingertip, and then without a second thought, push it inside of her. Danielle throws her head back in silent bliss.

"Holy shit," she mumbles in a muffled, muted moan. "Don't hold back." You circle inside her slowly with one finger, letting the oil's moisture guide you. Then, adding a second digit, you delve back into her, pushing in deep and making sure she can feel it all the way inside as the palm of your hand pushes against her crotch.

Dani rolls her head to one side as you work, staring you right in the eyes and biting down on her lip as she throbs and you press down inside of her, moving in all sorts of subtle directions that are impossible for her to guess. With that, she moans again and there's a little grunt from deep within her. Her fist twists around you and she gets bolder with her touch.

You build it into some sort of rhythm and she moves, each time, reacting so well with your own thrusts. When she's relaxed enough for it, you introduce another finger.

"I— You can— Go a little bit faster," she pleas. Stretched wider, Dani starts to grow even more restless. This time, instead of small, languid strokes, your whole hand works, fingers rubbing and swirling, thumb finding her clit to massage it with purpose, building, always building, until she is shuddering under you, every single time, tensing and twitching with every change in direction.

"Come on—more," she pleads, bucking up against your hand, so slick with arousal.

She's barely jerking your cock, not even intentionally, just the jolts through her body causing the occasional twist of her grip or slide of her palm. You let it just rest in the loose curl of her grip and focus on doing what she commands, twisting your hand, gripping and stroking, tugging in circles and holding inside. The quivering gets worse and worse. And her breath grows heavier.

You keep working her relentlessly, as she squeals a drawn-out curse. Dani nearly loses control. She grips you hard, tightens her fist around you in spasm, a pained wince on her face, as she curls her toes so hard.

"Don't stop. Don't stop. Don't stop." It's the only thing she says, no jokes, no banter, as her eyes roll back, mouth agape as if the wind's been knocked from her, and a final, body-length spasm overtakes her. Her whole body. Back arched off the table, eyes pinched shut. It lasts for the longest time, almost impossible to sustain, you watch with an odd mix of terror and wonder. Her hair is a mess. Her naked, stretched-out limbs, glisten in the warm light.

It takes her a good half minute to fall back down, her lungs now sucking in the air as if there were none at all. One leg quivers. Her breaths slow, her eyes open again and you're holding her stare, her cheeks a faint scarlet, strands of hair plastered across her forehead.

More oil. More rubbing. From tension to relaxation again. Slowly she softens and you turn her whole body limp beneath your hands. All while you barely manage to hold yourself back from ravishing her. She keeps her eyes fixed upon you, so you force a smile, ignoring the ache clenched in her fist. You could kiss those lips, right now. Taste them. How soft and smooth would she feel pressed against you? What noises would come out of her?

You'd be forgiven for letting your imagination run wild with desire, but not forgiven for taking this service in any direction that Danielle didn't command.

She watches your thoughts as they float by, and seems to be considering the same. Then she smirks, and just with a look, reassures you that it's going to happen, and it's going to happen just exactly the way she wants it.

You're working your slick hands over her midriff, and have been for a minute or two, waiting for instruction. You work slightly up her body, perilously close to taking some initiative, but then she speaks, "That was... unexpected."

"Was it? Seemed to be your plan all along."

"Planned to tease. Planned to be touched. But did not expect it to be that good." She shakes her head softly, her cheek touching her shoulder as she stares with a fuzzy, dreamy look that is impossible to decipher. She has a cute, beautiful way of pouting her lips that's fascinating, you're struck still, hypnotised by the sight and the motion. "A few more would be perfect."

"You have me booked for another hour, and the client gets what the client wants."

Dani laughs. A light, melodious chime. "I know what I want," she tells you, gently rocking her palm over your cock. "I'm incredibly hard to fully satisfy, you better get to work."

Dani releases you from her grasp, and turns back over to her front, stretching out once more and looking back at you over her shoulder, holding a stare as she parts her legs. This stare could kill a man if his heart were too weak, and though your heartbeat quickens, your mind focuses on your purpose.

Your hands glide over her oil-coated thighs, wet and glistening. Dani rests her head back down and you are unable to stop your gaze from wandering along her spine, the gentle dimple above her ass, the two tight round cheeks below and the line bisecting between them. Up over her ass, you caress, then you slip and stroke in the valley, this, she clearly enjoys, judging from how her butt rises to greet your touch, her hips rolling once more.

Lower now. Lower and lower, until once again, your finger meets her lower lips and she hisses an inwards breath and tenses. Her body is so reactive to every touch. It makes this so easy, so rewarding, so deeply arousing. You are confident you can build her up, high, and crash her down in waves, for hours, until the sun breaks.

Two fingers again, to begin, that same twist and swirl to coax her towards delirium. Her quiet huffs and suppressed moans fill the air. With a heavy push, you dive in deeper, to watch as her whole body, muscle by muscle, starts to become lost in the sensation. And when you curl your fingers down and grind the heel of your hand over her clit, Dani absolutely loses it. She bites the sheets, body tight, hands trying to grab the far edge of the bed to give something to hold onto.

Her feet kick uselessly and a series of incomprehensible phrases fill her breath and break apart on the way out of her. Though you don't quite understand them, you grasp the meaning. This is what she wants you to do right now, to see how high you can bring her.

Her whole body starts trembling again. Tingling, quivering, shivering. It's one constant shake and her moans are louder, and longer. She struggles to breathe out a scream. Sweat begins to mix in the oil, and she lets out another unintelligible mess of words as you pull away. Dani collapses back into a quivering heap, gasping for air and stretching her hands out as if reaching out to the void, reaching out, grasping for something in the dark.

She lies there, spent, breathing deep. Her entire body is hot and burning as her muscles relax. Each breath is a moan, and her thighs clamp tightly together as if the feeling of nothing after being so worked up is torturous to endure.

Your fingers are soaked in her creamy fluids, it drips down onto the bed below. Yet somehow, this isn't over. No. There's a single goal, right in the back of your mind, that's never stopped clawing. If only you could taste her. Sink your face between her firm ass cheeks and tease her with your tongue and suck and devour her, the entirety of her.

Maybe you could ask. Or maybe you could just start kissing her lower back, your nose rubbing against her tailbone, working to the left, towards her hip and tease, trailing your lips ever lower to a spot just over the peak of her butt, until she wants your tongue to dive right in.

The thought is interrupted by her blessing, "Again. Another. However you want," her words stumble upon each other, a raspy, spent quality to her. "Whatever you want."

You kneel at the very end of the bed, lean over and take her hips and you lift them up with an abrupt strength that earns her immediate interest, judging by her sudden gasp. You put her on her knees, ass in the air. Beneath it, her lips shine and spread. You're going to drown in her. You lean over, planting kisses along her body until they land right where your fingers had been, right along her soaked pussy.

The taste is so sweet. Dani whimpers as her body twitches. Your lips part her, and your tongue stretches and laps her up with an unshakeable excitement. Dani tastes amazing, like every inch of her, hot and rich and so unbelievably delicate. She is desire—concentrated and distilled into the female form. Your mouth descends, kissing every tiny spot you can reach, your lips closing, sucking the sticky warmth into your mouth. You might spend the rest of eternity here, savouring her juices.

Each rough lick gives Dani a small burst of pleasure. This is perhaps not the most elegant approach, but you wouldn't dream of stopping and so you continue, over and over, eager to return Dani to her previous, tranced bliss. So wet and sweet and smooth as velvet, your tongue flattens over her clit.

Dani cums twice like this. Ass in the air, your face in her cunt, two more delicious releases and you lap up both. They come accompanied by Dani's musical screams and moans and swearing and mumbles and complete incoherence. Every part of her body tenses. Every movement becomes forced, with less control, until every part of her, quivering and shaking, is taken by a rapture. Her throat chokes off her moans and breathy whimpers, and then she becomes lost for a time, struggling to remember to breathe, caught up in the overwhelming, and unstoppable waves.

"Enough, enough," Dani chokes out, and so you stand back, watching as she twists back into a flat position on her back again, her hips shaking with the effort. She trembles for a while longer before lying perfectly still on the table. As you gaze at her, she still appears ethereal, unattainable. She gazes up at you with lidded eyes and the drowsy content smile that rests upon her lips—she is a goddess. Even after all those body-racking orgasms, she settles into that same elegant grace that makes you question what makes her mortal.

Dani raises a hand and curls a beckoning finger, "Come here."

And you come to her, to her smile that draws you in, a moth to a flame and the moth will burn, not the flame, it will never tire, it will consume anything. She takes you in her hand, hard and throbbing under her delicate touch, and yet so helpless against it. With a pull, Dani draws you in—to consume.

She parts those pretty, pink, curled lips and then looks up into your eyes and sighs as her warm breath runs across your length. Danielle curls her tongue to the underside of your head and engulfs it. She doesn't raise her head from where it rests, instead making you clamber up to her, so you put a knee on the wooden frame and a hand next to her shoulder. The heat grows, and Dani is swirling her tongue over your tip, making you twitch and throb in her grasp, a slave to her touch.

You're pushing forward, leaning over her, as her mouth opens wide and lets you in, then, all at once, tightens. Her tongue and lips stretch around your thickness and then enclose you, sealing tight. She makes a point of looking you in the eye, holding your stare, a curl at the corner of her mouth that only further sets a tremble to your loins. She pulls, slow, agonising and without hurry, her mouth holds tight and sucks back.

You pull out of her, an inch, and she stays clamped tight and as she draws away, she uses the time to slowly slide her tongue along and around your crown and against the sensitive underside. Once Danielle has pulled right off with a wet smack, the warmth of her breath covers your cock once more. She flicks her tongue against your tip, first as a long, sweeping, lingering brush, then a rapid flick that teases.

"Dani, fuck," you groan.

"That's the idea," she whispers, right against you, her warm, panting breath driving you crazy, her own burning desire barely contained. "Get down there and do me. Right now."

Then, in one fluid movement, her hands find her legs. She grips behind her knees and pulls her thighs up and back. She spreads her legs wide, with her feet in the air.

"Fuck me. I mean it," she states firmly, fixing you with that stern gaze. Her words send a flaming arrow directly to light the most basic of your instincts.

She has presented everything to you and wants to give even more. You can think of nothing else but ploughing her into the table until your vision fades to white. It takes only seconds and you find yourself over her, between those slim legs. You put a hand on each thigh and spread her.

Cock bearing down on her leaking cunt, you lower your body until she has all of your weight on top of her. Her hips squirm under your pressure, and she drags your arm tighter around herself until she finds exactly what she's been looking for. A rub between her folds as your length slips against her, up and down.

"Mmm, yes," she giggles, "put it in, all of it."

In an almost unconscious action, you place the head of your cock against her opening. Her wetness provides no friction, and Dani uses her nails to scratch your back impatiently. Slowly you flex forward. Every inch. So warm, so fucking hot. Tighter than anything.

"Oh, yes," is all Dani has to say as her breath cuts short. You feel the intense squeeze, you have no doubt this is a step beyond the pleasure your fingers gave her, and her entire body tightens, and she pulls you in, deep and full. Her eyes grow wide and her fingers dig into you as you draw back and drive in once more.

Another moan, her pitch gets deeper, this one drawn out from her very core. You hear it right in her chest, from the depth of her lungs, before it squeals free, right into your ear. "Worth every penny." Her words are thick and drawled, hard to make out, she can't seem to decide whether she wants to open her mouth or close it and keep it shut.

She wraps her arms tight around your neck and pulls you in deeper, you push her legs higher, folding her body up and it only makes things tighter, a thrill she clearly relishes.

You roll forward, holding her close to you, giving you a better purchase with her feet held up so high. Dani groans as you bite and suck at the soft skin along her neck. Your thrusts are still slow, so damnably slow. You push, and fill, and wait. Over and over, it's a cruel torment to both of you.

"Ah, come on. Give it to me, hard," Dani says, raking nails on your neck. She turns her head. Finds your mouth. Seals her lips against yours. Teeth nibble and then her tongue penetrates your mouth. Her hips start to rise and drop. Her sex grabs at you, pleading to pound her.

So you let go of your iron self-restraint and fuck her. Fuck her good.

Your tempo grows more powerful. Her walls squeeze and pull and writhe with a desperate need. It's tight, so, so tight, the way she envelops you, the slick warmth around you. Each stroke sends a shudder through her. Another ripple follows and with it, her high, pitchy wails. Dani's never been so loud, so demanding that her pleasure be delivered.

Number five is close, you can feel her body going rigid, the quivering, twitching, curling of her toes, the growing tension, you go faster, a force building within, trying to rush her to the inevitable. Dani screams, moaning incoherently, her eyes screw tight as you throw yourself into her with such ferocity, like an animal, with no regard for pace, or rhythm. Pure, unrelenting pleasure.

She grips so hard on your shoulder, and then her other hand goes back, over her head, gripping the edge of the table in white-knuckled desperation. "I'm... cumming," Dani spits through a clenched jaw, unable to even form her tongue around the word.

Her orgasm feels more powerful this time, so much more; it flows through her and you can't help but stare. Watching the way the pink blossom blooms on her face and how the rest of her pales. One orgasm into another, you think, it's difficult to discern. You're in no rush. No race. Instead, you delight in the absolute loss of control you see in Danielle's face and you feed off it.

Her mouth forms a soundless scream and she reaches up and sinks her nails into your chest and drags them across, not breaking the skin, but hard enough to leave marks. It feels amazing. All the more so watching Danielle break herself, willingly.

"Holy shit..." Danielle pants then sucks air into her empty lungs.

Her little, flexible body, pinned beneath yours, seems incapable of even the tiniest motion, save the trembles.

Through gritted teeth, she says, "I want— I want a facial. My face. Cum."

This is the single sexiest thing she could have possibly said at that moment. For all the time you've spent watching that pretty doll-like face contort in a hundred different ways, you want nothing more than to see it coated with your lust. To paint every last bit of that sweetness on her lips, on her cheeks—everywhere. To witness that brief moment, after climax where she is confused and awash with bliss and trying to remember how to breathe, and it's interrupted by a load of your cum. You want it.

You round the table, standing over her head, lowering down and watching her eyes spark with anticipation. Danielle knows how bad you want it, how close it is, and you watch, enraptured by the way she tilts her head up and licks her lips. Her little, eager tongue.

Dani wraps her fingers around you and strokes and pumps fast, pulling, urging you to completion, teasing you to spill over her, onto those pretty, dainty features. Your skin feels alive, like static and pinpricks and pure lightning, like your nerves have come to the surface. Pent-up energy coils low, threatening to snap. You cannot resist her anymore.

It all unfurls in a glorious, explosive instant. Blinding. A shiver climbs up your spine, spreading to every limb in one long spasm. A long, raw growl in your throat as you shoot thick and hard, some on her face, and some overshooting onto her chest. Dani gasps a cute little "Oh" and then starts to giggle as the second rope lands right over her perfect little features. And then another, this time across the bridge of her nose and her cheek and down her lips. Her tongue collects whatever it can.

Dani's small hand keeps a hard grip and keeps coaxing, even as you feel like you have nothing to give, with it all painting her face, still, she jerks up and down, until you are empty, trembling and drained. Still, she goes, forcing you through painful shivers, laughing the whole time until the pain becomes too much, and your hands take hers and pull.

You prop yourself against the table, looking down at the mess you made. Dani's happily laughing to herself, licking up what she can. "You'll need to clean me again now, won't you? Sponge away all your dirty filth," she giggles.

Her giggle is intoxicating. Loving. It warms you right through. You wish you could bottle up her laughter.

"Need a minute," you grunt, and there's so much pride on her cum-strewn face.

"Aw, need time for recovery?" Dani quips. "I'll just lay here, all messy and defiled. Waiting to be tended to. Enjoy the sight of me, of your filthy cum all over my sweet, innocent face, until you get the strength to lift me. Really, don't rush, I love this feeling."

#kinktember #kpop smut #Danielle smut #newjeans smut #kpop fanfic #male reader #m reader #smut #Danielle x reader #spa #danielle marsh

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miguel-owhora · 11 months ago

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simon 'ghost' riley who behind the walls and masks and secrecy, is actually not the monster those he works with - outside the 141 at least - paint him out to be.

simon who has a collection of mesmerized dad jokes that he'll pull out with the most monotone and flattest voice ever, whose eyes twinkle in mirth when you groan at him and go on a rant about how bad his humor is, who'll crack a smile and chuckle. simon who doesn't necessarily find them funny, only likes dad jokes because of the reaction he gets from others.

simon who has a soft spot for animals, especially dogs. who'll always stop to pet them, to call them 'good lass/lad' even if they're just sitting there and letting him pet them, who probably ends up getting a dog or two of his own, his black clothing laced with dog hair. he'll complain when you eventually drag him to the petting zoo, but he goes quiet when you find him surrounded by lambs, all bleating at him. and it makes your heart flutter at the image, of this large, hulking man with blood and death on his hands, gently petting a lamb, the very animal of pure innocence.

simon who doesn't like mornings and will refuse to get up if it's the weekends. oh, you're busy that day? cancel all plans because simon will roll over and wrap himself around your body and drag you underneath the blankets. he'll smile, eyes crinkling in mirth and affection, and hold you tighter when you try to wiggle free. simon who fiddles with your matching wedding band, feeling a surge of warm affection flood through him at the idea of being married to the love of his life, that this is his reality, and it's one he wouldn't change for the world.

simon who doesn't cook because he'll burn his neighborhood down, and instead opts to watch you. he'll be your guinea pig for any new recipes, and surprisingly, despite how fucking white he is, his stomach is made of steel and can handle pretty much anything. still, he'll give his honest opinion and tell if it needs more seasoning or if it's good. and while he doesn't cook, he'll do his part and clean up afterwards.

simon whose love language is acts of service and/or quality time. he's more than happy to clean up after a good meal, and he finds the other chores grounding. it's repetitive and it's familiar, and there's something safe about it, yk? and something as simple as sitting next to you or watching you cook, or even sitting outside the bathroom whilst you do your skincare makes him feel warm and happy. he just likes to be around you, even if he doesn't talk sometimes and goes nonverbal, and well follow you around like a puppy. he enjoys going with you whenever you're out doing errand runs.

simon who's a passenger princess. this mf cannot drive, so you're the one who takes up the drive. but he's a passenger princess and whenever one of the other boys come to visit, he'll literally haul them out of the seat because that's his. he won't let anyone take it, especially not when you're driving.

simon who finds life after retirement calm, who enjoys the domestic life with you. he finds comfort in the smallest things. he finds comfort in you.

#simon ghost riley x male reader #simon riley #simon ghost x reader #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley #simon riley x you #simon x reader #simon ghost x you #ghost riley #ghost.txt #ghost mw2 #ghost cod #ghost x y/n #ghost x you #ghost x male reader #ghost x reader #simon ghost x male reader

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cheollipop · 11 months ago

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⚜ 𝙤𝙗𝙨𝙚𝙨𝙨𝙞𝙤𝙣

navi | taglist

pairing: choi san x fem!reader

w.c.: 6.5k

genre: mafia au, smut, mutual pining, some fluff, tiny bit of angst, some dark themes, slightly ambiguous ending

In a city where the mere whisper of his name sent shivers of terror through its core, Choi San's barbarous reputation proved powerless to dissuade you from delving deeper, the glint in the feline eyes cast upon you exposing a sliver tenderness hidden beneath the façade of bloodlust.

⚜ warnings: mentioned death/murder (no one significant), insensitivity from all major characters to said murder, san is lowkey psychotic, and an asshole, reader is a badass bitch, gun play (kinda?), service/soft dom!san, bratty!reader, unprotected sex (👎), kinda public sex, exhibitionism, mutual masturbation, creampie, begging, praise, some cockwarming, san gets whiny, he is whipped your honour, not your typical mafia boss ehehe, nicknames (baby, darling; sannie), I believe that's it. ^^

⚜ A/N: this is entirely self-indulgent. who doesn't want a psychotic mafia boss obsessing over their very being? happy reading! ^_^

nsfw under the cut—minors dni 🔞

Another day dragging on for far too long, tedious — incompetent employees getting paid to induce headaches rather than doing their jobs, new clients unaware of who they’d gotten themselves involved with, augmenting the torturous panging against San’s skull. His eyebrow twitched, a bead of sweat hanging onto the thick hairs, another trailing down the ink decorating his slick chest. He’d thought a late-night rendezvous would silence the ringing in his head, but the cheap perfume, the bright lipstick, the obnoxious, high-pitched tone of her voice only amplified it. And yet, the woman now laid beneath him, his fingers digging into one of her tits while pornographic moans rolled off her tongue. With her head thrown back, she missed the grimace painting San’s features, but his hips were undeterred, continuing their ruthless rhythm while her ringing voice pierced through his eardrums. He just needed release, even if it were aided by a woman he had not a lick of interest in.

The door cracked open, a bleached head of hair peeking into the hotel room before his tall frame followed to stand in the doorway. San didn’t stop, simply shutting his eyes to drown out his surroundings and the pain shooting through his head.

“We’ve got trouble, boss,” the gravelly tone dragged San’s attention away from the distractions he attempted to draw up in his mind, eyes cracking open with an irked exhale.

“Important enough for you to interrupt me?” he spat, his thrusts now pointed in aggravation.

The man’s gulp masked under the continuous moans, he averted his gaze off the woman’s spread legs to explain, “a fight broke out in our Seoul location.”

San’s rhythm faltered, an unnoticeable hitch, but enough to stir up images of a familiar face, sly grin and confident walk followed by the sweet scent of vanilla and cheap tobacco. A subtle wink as you replaced the drinks his men had ordered for him with ones that would spare him the added flush, ears and chest tinted a dusty pink while he fought off the heaviness weighing down his eyelids. Sultry voice and swaying hips, the memory of fleeting touches and fluttering eyelashes sent urgent waves of heat scorching through San’s body, unwanted, vivid images of your haunting form flashing in his mind before he could stop them. But he pushed them away, prominent vein trailing down his forehead as he fought off the unrelieved headache, slapping a palm over smudged, red-tinted lips to muffle the agitating sound.

“Is that all, Mingi-ya?” he moved his gaze to the man at his side without twisting his head, watching as he straightened up at the sudden eye-contact.

“We’ve got casualties, Sir,” Mingi added, drawing a frustrated sigh out of San.

Pistoning his hips once, twice more, he pulled out, swiping his saliva-coated palm over the woman’s trembling thigh before finding his footing over the carpeted floor. He tossed the condom into some random corner, tucking himself back into his pants before snatching the luxury coat dangling from Mingi’s hand, the taller man’s eyes flitting to the side to avoid ogling at all the exposed skin. Just as they were about to take their leave, manicured fingers grasped San’s sleeve, arms drawn closer to her body to cram her breasts together in an act of seduction, bedroom eyes peering up at the tattooed man.

“Are you just going to leave me here like this?”

San didn’t hide his grimace, “it’s late, go home,” he retrieved his coat, tugging his arm away rougher than intended to make his way to the room’s exit. He paused at the doorway, turning his head slightly to address the dejected woman abandoned on the lush, silk bedsheets, “and call your husband back, he must be worried sick.”

He didn’t wait for a response, walking into the hallway to meet with two more guards, Mingi following closely behind. “Jongho, you’re coming with me,” he addressed the broader of the two, then turned to the other, “and you,” he angled his chin towards the door left ajar, “get rid of her.”

Walking past the swung-open door resting against the frame with broken hinges, glass shards cracking underneath heavyset boots, San took in the scattered bodies splayed out over the wooden floor. He grimaced, thousands of dollars’ worth of imported liquor pooling under shattered bottles, blending into a concoction reeking of alcohol poisoning. Bullets lodged into the polished bar reflected the orange hue in which the room basked in, stools broken and thrown into the walls and windows, splintered pieces of wood lying amongst the lifeless figures scattered over the floorboards.

“What a mess,” Mingi muttered, taking in the scene with repugnance unhidden in his expression.

“Looks exactly like something the both of you would do,” San’s retort was instant, “wasn’t it just last week, Jongho?”

His tone was void of any judgement, simply recalling his men’s afternoon endeavors, and yet, Jongho’s ears flashed red as he stuttered through a flustered response, reaffirming San’s memory of the incident. His eyes shot a glare up at the taller man as soon as San looked away, “just keep your mouth shut, Mingi-ya,” he elbowed his side, unappreciative of Mingi’s attempts at earning him another lecture about the improper use of his gun.

While the two bickered wordlessly, pinching and shoving the other’s side, San walked further into the bar, looking around for another sign of life while gnawing at his bottom lip, evidence of his night-long rendezvous trickling down his temples in salty beads of sweat.

“Where’s our staff?” his voice cut through the silence, as well as the guards’ banter, the two straightening up to address his inquiry.

“Changbin called it in, ‘said most were okay but a few got caught in the crossfire,” Mingi spoke, tone steady and hooded eyes focused on San, “they’ve all left already, I believe.”

“You believe?” Narrowing his eyes at the two men, he snarled before huffing in umbrage. “I don’t pay you to fucking believe.” It wasn’t Mingi’s doing, he knew, but he’d rather berate the two men before him than admit to the anxiety crawling up his chest, blocking his airway with a lump large enough to restrict his breathing. “Did he say anything about—” he attempted to maintain the resonance in which he spoke in, clearing his throat before proceeding, “what about—”

“—Looking for me?”

A sharp turn to his side was all it took to ease the tension stiffening his shoulders, a deep breath escaping his lungs when his eyes settled on you: hand on your hip while leaning you weight onto one leg, the corners of your glossy lips upturned into a smile that sent his heart racing.

“Y/n,” he sighed, rotating his body to face yours, arms limp at his sides while his features softened at the mere sight of you before him. Choi San with his guard down was a luxury not many could revel in.

“What’s with your face? Don’t tell me you were worried about me?” you teased, swaying your hips as you took a few steps towards his broad form, only a few inches separating your bodies where you were stood now.

Close enough to run a hand over the hair covering the side of your head, San’s lips curled into a playful smirk, “oh baby, I bet you’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

You hummed pleasantly at the gentle fingers gliding over your scalp, teeth digging into your bottom lip before releasing to purr back a response, “very much so.”

The aroma of cheap cigarettes followed you, laced with hints of vanilla and caramel, the specs of ash dusting the sunken collar of your top exposing the smoke break you’d taken while chaos unfolded during your late shift.

The bullets lodged into wood glimmered in his peripheral, and his amusement dwindled as he pushed through the intoxicating haze your proximity cast upon his senses. Eyebrows furrowed, his gaze traveled over your body while firm hands ran over your sides and waist, peering over your shoulder and twisting you in front of him while he questioned, “fuck, are you hurt?”

To his surprise, you exhaled a breathy laugh, mischief glinting in your irises, “hurt?” The coyness in your tone didn’t go unnoticed, but the arm reaching behind you did, and before he could react, you had San at your mercy with the nose of your pistol dug into the skin underneath his chin. Leaning further into his space, your lips stretched further at the raised hand stopping the two men at the door from reaching for their own weapons. You tilted your head while addressing him, faux innocence painting your features, “who do you think finally killed that bastard while the men you hired were too busy shitting their pants?”

His eyes followed yours to his right, the bastard in question sprawled out near the entrance with a bullet rooted between his eyebrows. Even with the pistol firmly boring into his skin, the corners of San’s lips quirked upwards, redirecting his focus to take you in with dazed, unreadable eyes. “Oh, darling,” rough, broken knuckles grazed your jaw, his lips widening as you unconsciously leaned into the touch, “just when I thought I couldn’t want you more.”

Eyebrows shooting up — the first hint of surprise flashing over your features — a blend of amusement and curiosity seeped into your expression, “oh?”

He walked you backwards, guiding you with the pistol pressing an indent into his flesh and a hand spreading warmth over your lower back, stopping his pointed steps once the wooden edge of the bar replaced the heated touch. He towered over you, leaning you back slightly over the glossy surface with lidded eyes studying your unchanging expression, the tip of his pointer tracing a languid line down the side of your face. Despite the gruesome scene surrounding you, and the firmness in which you held onto the pistol’s handle, your features were relaxed, easy smile gracing your lips and head tilted slightly in a discrete attempt to chase the gentle gesture. Choi San was not gentle, but one thing he did was make exceptions, unconcealable tenderness breaking through a rigid exterior to bleed into his calloused touch, to glimmer within narrowed eyes, and shape the honeyed words rolling off his otherwise sharp tongue.

Choi San didn’t make exceptions, scratch that. He made an exception.

To say he had been intrigued by you would be an understatement, years passing with him making time to drop by when he rarely ever needed to, making excuses to conceal his interest in a particular bartender who knew about his low-tolerance — classified information only a select few knew of —sneaking non-alcoholic beverages his way when he got pressured into drinking after a successful deal had been made in her presence. And despite the confidence oozing off you, shoulders straight and chin lifted as you batted your eyelashes flirtatiously at various customers, San noted the tremors shaking your fingers, the wary eyes darting in each direction while the men you worked with grazed against you while passing by, and those slurring their words drunkenly calling out to you from their booths. He noticed the tension in your shoulders even as the years went by, and regulars became familiar, their orders sliding across the bar seconds after they’d found an empty seat, before a greeting could slip out their smiling lips, pleased to be served by you once again. You knew the respect this façade had brought upon you, and yet your eyes remained sharp, solid walls built up behind the sultry smiles you handed these desperate men on a gold platter. And in the restless fight to break them down, San found himself too deep into a pit he could no longer pick himself up from. A pit brimming with burning want, a yearning so fervid, it ate at him from the inside out the more he pushed it away, cheap whores and endless mistresses futile in their attempts to simmer it down.

But now, the woman he so desperately wanted to break down between rough palms was trapped between his firm chest and the bar, still holding him at gunpoint while her free arm wrapped around his shoulder. It felt like hours, the steady ticking of the vintage clock hung on the bullet-riddled wall fading the deeper San peered into your eyes, looking up at him through curled eyelashes as the longer hand continued its clicking. Playfulness glimmered in your irises the longer San dragged his silence, as though he had no intention of building on his prior statement.

“What’s this about the great Choi San wanting me?”

Your tone indicated a challenge, a ‘how will he avert the situation to his advantage this time?’ while you kept your eyes on him, fingers tangling into the short hair at his nape to watch his eyelids droop even further at the pleasant stimulation. And perhaps what he needed was a pistol threatening to blow through his brain, realizing — after a chase lasting too many years — that he was tired of the endless back and forth, tired of the eager hands brushing over your body while he sipped on some fizzy beverage you’d handed him, watching as you basked under others’ attention, his own bullheadedness and pride pushing him further away from you when all he wanted to do was break every audacious finger that dared touch your skin in his presence.

Leaning closer, until his hot breath mingled with yours in the negligible gap he’d left between your faces, his hand curved over your jaw, thumb caressing the skin of your cheek, “baby, I’d give you the whole world if you’d just ask.”

The sudden confession surprised you, eyebrows flying up and jaw slackening under his touch, but you swiftly picked yourself up, a pleased smile stretching your lips as you bumped noses with him, “Mm, I’ll hold you up to that, Mr. Choi.”

Unlike the gradually deepening kisses shared in romance novels, teeth clanged and tongues pushed against one another, San’s hand travelling down your side to grab at your thigh until your feet lifted off the wooden floorboards. He set you down on the bar, fingers digging into the washed-out denim gathered at your hips while his teeth nipped at your bottom lip. Placing the pistol somewhere to your side, your hands wandered down San’s sculpted body and over the expanse of honey skin peeking through his open coat, fingertips grazing his nipples to elicit a sudden groan from the man’s lips, parting against your own. You made a mental note of his response, the corner of your mouth lifting as you repeated the action, the hungry clash of lips dwindling into interval pecks as you toyed with San’s chest, flushed and heated under your touch.

“About time you started thinking with your cock,” wrapping your legs around his frame, you dragged his pelvis closer to feel him against your core, hard and heavy within the confines of his pants.

He rolled his hips, eyes dazed as he took you in through the negligible gap separating you, breathing the same air as the friction and lust glazed over his lidded eyes. “Who said this was my cock speaking?”

Fingers pausing over his chest, you took in the implication behind his words, his heartbeat frenzied and erratic against your palm as though it was communicating in its own language, desperate to be heard amongst the chaos that was your nonexistent relationship with Choi San — a game of cat and mouse, with the roles reversing each time you’d crossed paths. Playful banter and meaningless flirting remaining at surface level with no endpoint in sight, both players stuck in a turmoil of pridefulness and cowardice, none willing to relent.

If you’d known a cheap, rusted pistol would push San onto his knees before you, you would’ve blown a bullet through someone’s head three years ago. It wasn’t the game you wanted to win for the sake of your treasured ego, but the thrashing muscle beneath your palm, one many would assume didn’t beat, cold-heartedness and dispassionate eyes only a few could see through. And perhaps that’s what drew him to you, your willingness to look past the blood on his hands and the barbarism in which he carried out his business, your eyes sparkling in interest rather than fear as you sneaked an unknown drink into his hand, treating him like a customer you wanted to woo into becoming a regular, and not as Choi San.

The silence stretched, until San’s mutter broke through the stillness, “do you fear me?”

You blinked up at him, pondering over his question for barely a second before whispering back, “no.”

Huffing out a small laugh, he cradled your jaw in one of his palms while his thumb caressed the skin of your cheek, “that’s reckless.” Perhaps his response should have scared you, or at least sent an icy chill down your spine, but your heart only ached for the man before you as you took in his feeble, half-hearted attempt at pushing you away. Ironic, considering he’d unconsciously leaned into you while he spoke, chest brushing against yours with every breath he inhaled. “You know I can’t be trusted.”

“Not when you look at me the way you do.”

A dangerous glint sparked in the dark of his irises, burning as he silently went over your words in his mind, the few seconds’ wait stirring up butterflies in your gut as you resisted cowering under his fierce gaze. And before you could question his speechlessness, or attempt a teasing remark to lessen the rigid tension beginning to choke you, San’s face was lurching forwards to capture your lips in another kiss. Hungrier, greedier, as though he’d been starved of you — and he’d argue he was — and was finally offered a taste, teeth clashing with his nose pressed against the side of yours as he sucked out the last of the oxygen in your lungs.

Emotion flooded into San’s chest, and he allowed it to seep through into his actions, hands restless and wandering over your frame while his tongue busied itself with exploring your mouth after you’d given him access. Short, breathy moans left your lips when his fingers tucked into the denim waistband of your jeans, eliciting a desperate groan from his as he struggled to undo the button separating him from your heat. The dizzying haze San’s soft lips on yours cast upon your mind broke, his eyes closed as he chased your retreating touch when the sudden awareness of your surroundings jerked you away from him. Despite your sudden rigidness, he didn’t allow you to move too far, tucking his face into the crook of your neck to inhale the sweet scent of your perfume masking the sharpness of the three cigarettes you’d smoked earlier.

His mouth found your pulse, tongue peeking out to drag kitten licks over the delicate skin in between the gentle pecks pressed onto the column of your throat. His breath warmed the stripes of saliva he’d left behind, “what’s wrong?”

San’s mouth stretched against your skin when your button finally popped open between his fingers, his thumb and index dragging the zipper down until black lace peeked through the opening. You flinched slightly, eyes wandering to the side while a bashful flush rode up your chest.

“San we—” you cleared your throat, “what about…?”

The thumb toying with the dainty lace paused when you’d placed your hand over his, directing his gaze over his shoulder with a faint nod of your head, eyes fixed onto your denim-clad lap. The two guards stood awkwardly by the entrance — Jongho appeared to be unfazed, yet the red tinting the tips of his ears betrayed his nonchalant attitude, intermittent coughs to relieve the dryness of his throat not going unnoticed under San’s watchful gaze. Mingi, on the other hand, fidgeted uncomfortably in hopes of relieving the suffocating tightness in his ironed dress pants, shifting his weight from one leg onto the other in a futile attempt to be discrete, the heavy arousal pressing against his zipper too tricky to conceal.

Moving his attention back to you, San lifted your gaze back to his softened eyes with a finger under your chin, “don’t worry, my darling, they wouldn’t dare look at what’s mine,” the words rolled off his tongue laced with dizzying sweetness. Stealing a glance over his shoulder, you noted the averted gazes of the two men, as well as the obvious arousal bulging in the blonde’s pants. San’s finger guided your focus back onto him, “uh-uh, eyes on me.”

With a gentle grip around your wrist, he guided your hand down the toned muscle of his abdomen and over the luxury, leather belt, his hand cupping the back of yours to press it into the twitching lust tenting his pants. Your eyelashes fluttered at the rush of arousal drenching your panties, wrapping your fingers around the clothed girth to elicit a shaky exhale from the parted, plush lips mere centimeters away from yours, leaning forward to close the gap between them. No longer minding the two spectators, your low moan vibrated over San’s mouth, tongue running over his front teeth while you palmed over his hardness, his chest shuddering against yours at the friction. With an arm around your waist, San lifted your hips just enough to tug the bothersome denim off you, leaving you to kick it off while he revelled in the gentle friction you provided him.

He rolled his hips into your touch, one hand still covering yours at his crotch while the other hurriedly pulled your shirt up to your chest, followed by your bra to watch your tits spill out under the band. “Fuck, you’re such a good girl for me, aren’t you?”

You hummed, watching as he’d begun leaning down towards your exposed chest before your hand shot up from his pants to grab his jaw, watching as he confusedly looked up at you, cheeks smushed between your fingers and eyes glazed over with want.

“Mm, I bet you’d like that,” tilting your head to the side, a playful smile curving your lips as you watched him process the mocking tone he’d previously used on you — your refusal to comply bewildered him, but most of all, it sent shocks of burning arousal straight to his core.

The arm around your waist dragged you closer to the edge of the bar, his other hand raking through the hair at the side of your head, desperation leaking into his tone as he sucked in a sharp breath, “god, you’re fucking perfect.”

His pouted lips found yours in a sloppy, open-mouthed kiss, bodies colliding as his urgency and yearning revealed themselves in hungry nips and bites. You carded your fingers through the dark strands, wrapping your legs around his hips once he’d slotted himself between your thighs, heavy bulge pressed and rutting against your overwhelming heat.

Your own impatience clawed at your cracking composure, a man you’d watched from afar, unobtainable to all but those he’d handpicked himself, only to toss away the morning after. And for as long as you’d remembered, you’d hoped he’d never pick you, afraid of the lingering feelings he’d leave behind as his broad frame walked out the room, his scent permeating the sheets still covering your sweaty figure, fingers entangled into the cotton in a hasty attempt at preserving the memory of a man you’d wanted for years, but who only wanted you for a night.

Drawing back to take him in, the dystopian scenario your mind had drew up faded into dust as said man chased your lips, feline eyes shut, eyebrows drawn in as he registered the unreturning loss of your touch. While Choi San’s warmth may very well still be torn away from you, the morning sun shining over the world while leaving you alone in the chilling shade, you wondered if the memory of the burning body heat radiating off his soft skin would accompany you during those frosty, weary days. Barely weighing your options, you pressed yourself to the man before you, dragging him impossibly closer with the legs around his waist.

If the dawn of a new day were to illuminate the shards of your shattered heart, at least the moon would have borne witness to your undoing within Choi San’s fervid embrace.

“How about you be good and fuck me already?”

Digging his teeth into his bottom lip, San allowed you to guide his hands past the lacey waistband until your sweet arousal coated his fingertips, running them through your folds to feel you throbbing against him. His response was delayed, breathy as he struggled to focus with his hand in your panties, “be patient.”

Unlike any other statement that had left his plush lips, San’s tone was lacking, the noted detail stretching the corners of your mouth. “I can feel you shaking, Sir.”

The accusation earned you a firm glare, his gaze shifting from the indents of his knuckles against the lace to the cockiness painting your features. Was it nerves, or the anticipation? You wondered if Choi San ever felt any of those emotion, let alone allowed them to translate into his body language. And yet the unsubtle trembling continued, even as the deep baritone sounded in the negligible space separating you.

“Call me by my name.”

It seemed as though your choice of nickname was more alerting to him than the implication associated with his jitters. You wondered if this was his way of showing vulnerability, and the thought of another noticing his quivering irked you, “don’t wanna.”

To your surprise, San’s eyes softened, taking your jaw into his free hand and running his thumb beneath your bottom lip, “please, baby.” He circled his middle finger around your fluttering hole before breaching it, sinking all the way inside while his eyes studied your features. Letting out a breath at the stretch, your lips parted further when San’s thumb ran along the cracking skin, tongue peeking out to run over his nailbed. The sternness in his voice vanished and subtle whines mixed into his tone, “please, ‘wanna hear you saying my name.”

He slid another finger alongside the first, curving and running them over your walls until he grazed the spongy surface he’d been seeking, noting the flutter of your eyelashes, thighs tensing around his waist before spreading to allow him further access.

“C’mon,” he urged, fingertips digging into your g-spot as he shallowly thrusted them into your cunt, studying your face for encouragement as your eyebrows drew in and soft exhales quickened in pace. His thumb pressed into your bottom lip, and he leaned forward to leave an upwards trail of wet kisses over the slope of your jaw, mumbling against the flushed skin, “say my name, baby, let me hear it.”

You were putty in San’s arms, pleasure building in your gut as he fucked his fingers into your pussy, his hand trapped behind the lace and grinding his palm into your clit, the single syllable rolling off your tongue before you could help it, an airy repetition of his name, “San, San, San—” so sweet, melodic, bucking his hips into nothing at the sound, tucking his head into the crook of your neck and groaning into your skin, deep and gravelly, before sinking his teeth into the flesh.

A high-pitched whimper followed the echoes of his name, your walls clamping up around him as a sudden orgasm rushed through you, thighs shaking and back arching, head thrown backwards as he guided you back down with slow glides against your walls and tender kisses over the bitemark he’d left as a keepsake. Just as the tension in your muscles dwindled, San’s hand retreated out of your panties, hurriedly tugging the fabric down your legs and ignoring the audible tearing at the frantic action. He interrupted the complaint at the tip of your tongue with a look, berserk and brimming with searing lust,

“I need to fuck you right now,” his breathing was heavy, rapid, fingers digging into the flesh of your hip while his free hand rid him of his belt, tossing the leather to the side before undoing his pants and leaving them to fall to his ankles. “Can I, baby? I’ll make you feel so good.”

“Yeah,” you breathed out in a whine, wrapping your fingers around his biceps after he’d shrugged off his coat, revealing the wide expanse of soft, tan skin and bulging muscle, “want that, want you.”

San’s boxers gathered around his mid-thighs before his impatience became too much to handle, wrapping his arms around you to drag your hips closer before the burning heat of your core met his leaking cock. You breathed the same air, panting into the gap separating you as San ran his length through the slick coating your folds, once, twice, before his eagerness could no longer be held down. A visible shudder shook his toned figure as he breached your clenching hole, his cock stretching you open while you held onto his shoulders for stability, head angled downwards to watch your cunt swallow his cock whole.

“Fuck—darling, you gotta relax for me,” he bumped his forehead with yours, pressing tender kisses to your lips while you adjusted to his girth, unclenching your muscles and allowing the fullness to take over your senses. “Good girl,” he squeezed the back of your neck soothingly, planting a few pecks onto your cheekbone and temple.

He moved in shallow thrusts, craving the friction but refusing to part from the magnetic warmth of your cunt, slick squelching every time he pushed in and soft grunts leaving his lips as he cast his gaze onto your contorting face. He could tell you were still trying to hold your ground, but the pleasure soaring through your body at the languid grazes of his cockhead over your clenching walls dismantled the front you’d built up. And Choi San proved relentless in his pursuit, wanting nothing but to have you falling apart in his arms.

He snapped his hips without warning, a choked moan echoing in the back of your throat, “You’re mine, aren’t you?” he was so close, so deep, building up to a rhythm that rendered you momentarily speechless. “My own pretty girl to ruin.”

You made no effort in concealing your voice, intermittent ah’s making San’s insides flutter as he pounded into you, arms holding you firmly against his body as he seeked the tight squeeze of your cunt.

“You fucking wish,” lidded eyes not moving off him, you rolled your hips in sync with his, meeting his thrusts with just as much urgency, the heavy presence of his cock continuously fucking into you satisfying a years-long hunger you’d endured in silence.

“You can pretend all you want, but I can see the fucking mess you’re making of yourself,” the hand on your nape moved to the back of your head, pushing it down to vaunt his slick-coated cock peeking out of your pussy before stuffing it back inside, toned pelvis and snail trail glistening with your arousal as he grinded against your clit every time he sheathed himself within you. Leaning forward once again, San’s lips pressed against your cheekbone, moving over the skin as he rephrased his previous question into a sure statement, “you’re mine.”

And this time, you didn’t protest, didn’t tease, but simply nodded your head and breathed out a defeated, “yeah, ‘m all yours.”

San’s cock twitched, his hand dropping to your thigh to dig his fingers into the flesh, the other still wrapped possessively around you while he pistoned his hips into your sopping cunt, sweat beading over his temples while your foreheads remained flush, hot air circulating between your mouths as you pressed them against each other in breathless kisses, swallowing each other’s moans as ecstasy soared through your bodies.

“San—nngh fuck—" the more your back arched you away from him, the closer San drew you in, as though he couldn’t function without every patch of your skin glued to his own; until your nipples pressed together and his scent was all-consuming.

San prided himself in his stamina, but with your walls wrapped around him, his cock pulsed violently and all he could think about was fucking you full. “Gonna give you all I have,” he grunted, rhythm faltering and growing sloppy as the build of his orgasm blinded him, “you’ll take it all, won’t you?”

It seemed as though all you could do was nod, the sound of your synced breaths and skin-on-skin reverberating in the air surrounding your intertwined frame. All you could think about was San, so full of San, his scent, his warmth, his secure hold. San, San, San. The man noticed the sudden trance consuming you, moving his head back to hold your face in his palm, waiting until your eyes focused back on him to speak again,

“There you are,” it was barely a whisper, but you released a deep breath you’d unintentionally been holding, muscles relaxing despite the hurried pace of his hips pounding into you, “’m gonna fill you up, yeah?” Though you were on the brink of delirium, wanting nothing more but San’s thick cum deep within you, you remained quiet, watching as desperation seeped into his expression. “Please, baby—fuck—please let me, let me make a mess of you.”

You ran your fingers through his damp locks, scratching at his scalp to watch the feline eyes droop further. “Begging looks good on you,” you giggled, noting his slowed pace as he staved off his orgasm, a creamy ring of white forming around his cock.

An exasperated whine escaped his throat, his hips betraying him as they chased a pleasure he’d been delaying, “you’ll look so pretty full of my cum, you’ll take it so well.”

The furrow of his eyebrows, pretty pink tinting his skin and fingers trembling where he replaced them at your nape, you couldn’t find it in you to refuse him anymore, the familiar tingle of your impending orgasm breaching your brittle mask of nonchalance.

“Give it to me, Sannie, I’ll take it all.”

That was all San needed, the nickname blurring his vision as he stuffed his length into your cunt, pelvis pressed against your clit as he painted your walls with sticky ribbons of pearly white, his cock throbbing while he fed his load into your womb. You watched his eyes flutter shut and mouth form a perfect ‘o’ as he used your warm hole to milk himself of every last drop, graced with the opportunity to watch him unravel for only a few moments before he dragged you into his body, tucking your head into his neck while he grinded his twitching cock into your cum-soaked pussy. It was so much, so warm as he flooded your insides with his seed, a thin stream dribbling out of your stretched entrance while he shot a few more pathetic spurts.

You tangled your fingers into the short locks at his nape, reveling in the untamed, successive moans San let out into your ear, the mix of his deep baritone and high-pitched whimpers leading your pussy to clench around him. And despite the building overstimulation, he started up a steady rhythm once again, pulling out before slamming back inside. You felt the thick cum flooding out of you, only to be fucked back into your needy cunt. An orgasm you’d thought had dwindled away built right back up as San’s cockhead pounded relentlessly into your g-spot, thighs clamping around his hips as they guided you towards the edge.

You clung to his shoulders, hesitantly pushing your head back when he’d gripped the hair at your nape, shaky breath blowing against your skin as he watched you melt in his arms, eyes squeezed shut, “gonna come for me?”

“mhmm,” your cunt pulsed sporadically as he pumped it full of his sensitive cock, and he leaned down to pepper kisses over your eyelids.

“Don’t close your eyes, baby. Look at me,” he muttered over the delicate skin, his smile dripping with sweetness once you’d done as he asked, faltering slightly when your walls finally clamped up around him, “that’s it—fuck—that’s a good girl.”

Vivid flashes of colour painted your vision, muscles spasming in San’s hold as you finally tumbled over the edge. He coaxed you through it with languid glides over your trembling walls, honeyed voice mumbling praise into your ear while ecstasy rocketed through your body, going completely silent through the first wave before a broken moan ripped through your chest. Your cunt squelched with the added slick, a mixture of your release and San’s simultaneously being fucked into and out of the used hole, and San wanted nothing but to spread you open and swallow your combined taste until you squirmed and thrashed under him, pulling at his hair and squeezing his head between your thighs. But exhaustion was apparent in your eyes, body going limp in his arms as you finally came down, spasming and whimpering while weakly pushing at his bicep.

San didn’t pull out, but simply slid his whole length back inside you and stilled, waiting until your features relaxed before leaning in for a kiss — slow, deep, breaking apart to plant a succession of feathery pecks over your pouted lips.

As he tucked you closer once again, nuzzling your nose into his pulse point, you wondered if this was how Choi San treated all his women, lulling them into a false sense of security before ripping their heart out of their chest, leaving them with the bitter memory of what could have been and the retreating shadow of his broad frame. But one peek over his shoulder, you took in the wordless conversation shared between the two guards, bewilderment and questioning glinting in their widened eyes, frantic hands flailing at their sides in an attempt to dissect the situation. The peculiar scene eased your concerns, and the steady heartbeat of the man you’d longed to hold you for so long laced the air around you with a comforting aroma.

Twisting his head, San studied your dazed expression for a few moments before you’d met his eyes, earning you an easy smile and dimpled cheeks that sent your heartrate on a frenzy, and with your chests flush, San’s lips only smiled further at the realization. The man had warned you about the recklessness of trusting him, and while you knew it to be as such, you were content to live in this warm aura of comfort he’d provided you so long as you could bare witness to this side of vulnerability unknown to many. And even if this moment were to be fleeting, leaving you to grieve the short-live tenderness instead of revel within it, San’s overwhelming warmth and the fervency of his embrace would eternally linger, casting a comforting glow on any desolate, bitter days to come.

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natalievoncatte · 6 days ago

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31. Spookycorp

(Yes I know it’s late. I have a permit. I can do what I want.)

Lena adjusted her cheap plastic tiara, which she’d had chosen herself at a Spirit Halloween. Though she would never admit it, Lena felt giddy when she went shopping now. She used to just send Jess or use a high end shopping service; Lena Luthor had neither the time nor the patience to fumble with checkout lines and coupons, but post-L-Corp Lena, private citizen Lena, head of a charity org and retired from corporate sharkery Lena delighted in it. In a sweater and leggings with her hair in a simple ponytail and glasses not contacts, she felt human. Normal.

Her costume was simple, the tiara and a goofy floofy mini dress she’d picked up at a thrift store, and a wand to top it all off. Kara recognized her immediately.

“Let me guess, a good witch?”

Lena stood in the door and beamed, nudging her glasses. She was still getting used to them every day but her therapist had insisted she stick with the changes she made.

(The penthouse was going on the market and she was selling her Louboutins. Most of her Louboutins. She was finally telling that little voice in her head that sounded like Lillian to SHUT THE FUCK UP YOU’RE NOT MY MOTHER whenever it admonished her about not being perfect enough)

Kara was dressed in an all-green ensemble with a pointed hat resting on her head and a cheesy plastic bow on her back.

“Robin Hood?”

“Of Locksley,” Kara bowed.

(If I’d know, I’d have dressed as Maid Marian.)

She beckoned Lena to enter in an expensive gesture and watched her step inside, her gaze lingering in a way that made Lena tingle all over, goose flesh rising on her arms. She hopped up onto a stool and smiled when Kara handed her a beer.

“They make pumpkin spice beer now?”

“Mmmm,” Kara said, nursing her own. Lena’s eyes widened when Kara tipped a flask into it; a sticker on the side read Not For Humans.

“Just a little to loosen me up,” said Kara. “It’s a party.”

Kara sat down on the other side of the table and just… looked at her. She looked at Lena with her chin resting on her fist and a soft distant look on her face, and Lena stared back just as intently, entranced by the way her sunny curls escaped her sloppy ponytail and framed her face.

The spell, as it were, was broken by a knock at the door. The snacks were coming, an absurdly huge order that Lena had placed while she was on her way. As the bewildered delivery boy accepted her excessive tip, Kara carried the bags into the apartment, and together they began laying it all out on the kitchen island.

Brainy and Nia were the first to arrive. They wore matching silver body suits and Nia had put on a gloss of green makeup: Querl simply disabled his image inducer.

“We’re aliens!” Nia chirped. “Lena I love your outfit! Wait is Kara Robin Hood? Lena, why aren’t you Maid Marian?”

Lena froze, suddenly aware of Kara’s tense presence beside her. She didn’t dare turn her head and gauge Kara’s reaction.

“Did you purchase every potsticker in National City?” Brainy asked, almost pointedly snapping the tension.

Kara laughed. “I think Lena just wants to keep me from eating everything else.”

Alex and Kelly also showed up in marching costumes, making the moment even more awkward. They were married, of course, so they were supposed to coordinate.

Alex strutted into the apartment, grinning, and threw back the cowl of her Batman costume, as Kelly rolled her eyes behind the mask of her Catwoman outfit.

“That’s cute,” said Kara. “Did you guys like flip a coin to decide who was who?”

Alex poked the gray fabric over her stomach. “You know what, Kara? Sometimes I want people to know I have abs too. And unlike some people I have to work for mine.”

Kara poked out her tongue and shoved a beer in her hand as Kelly pulled Lena into a hug.

After a toast to James, and J’onn, and Winn, and absent friends, Kara started the first movie of their marathon. Each couple had selected one film, and Alex’s selection went first: a really weird movie called The Keep.

“This was originally three hours long before the studio butchered it, but it’s still a classic,” Alex explained. “It’s Michael Mann’s only horror movie.”

Lena found it largely incomprehensible and not very scary, and there were some scenes, especially the nonsensical sex scene, that made the experience a tad awkward.

“If I was in an ancient castle in Carpathia and the crosses in the wall started glowing, I would not mess with them.” said Kara.

“Yes you would,” Alex snorted. “Your approach to danger is to shove you arm in it.”

Kara drained her beer and rolled her eyes. Lena glanced over at her and giggled, nursing the last of hers.

“Want another one?”

Lena nodded, and Kara got up to get them more drinks. Lena lost interest in the movie as she watched Kara cross the apartment and bend low to grab two more bottles from the bottom shelf of the fridge, bending at the hips. The bottom of her tunic pulled up over her muscular backside and the buns of steel strained her green leggings.

(She would annihilate me with a strap)

When Kara stood up, Lena snapped her gaze around and found everyone staring at her, Nia suppressing a giggle. They all looked endlessly amused, except Brainy, who had a self-satisfied smirk, as if he’d beaten her at chess.

Kara sat down and passed the cold beer to Lena, saying, “these movies would be scarier if they didn’t all have a bad guy I could just toss into space.”

She looked at Lena and raised her arm to curl her bicep.

Lena felt her soul almost leave her body and took a drink from her beer to hide the shivers.

The movie ended and Nia jumped up to put on her selection, which she proudly announced to the group. “ARMY OF DARKNESSSSS!” she shouted, clapping her hands.

Lena hasn’t seen this before and even though there was a ten minute prologue explaining what the hell it was about, Lena finally just decided to stop caring about the plot and just go along for the ride.

Kara had apparently seen it and she and Nia went back and forth quoting the dialogue back and forth at each other and gobbling snacks. Alex and Kelly seemed more interested in each other and had gone fairly quiet.

Lena was more interested in Kara. Her joy was infectious, especially after a third beer.

It was getting cool in the apartment by the time they were ready for the final movie, and Lena’s outfit was hardly warm. Kara felt her shiver and got up, coming back with a stack of blankets, which the others accepted.

Kara then took her cape and spread it over Lena. The fabric was stout and heavy and lay warmly about her as she tucked it under her chin.

“Uh oh,” said Alex. “Lena gets the Superblankie.”

“Oh, shut up,” Kara said.

“Lena always gets the Superblankie,” Nia agreed.

“Guys!” Kara said, sounding a little panicked.

“Start the movie already,” Kelly yawned, breaking the tension.

Kara put on the final movie, her choice: Bram Stoker’s Dracula.

No one remarked that for movie choosing purposes, Lena and Kara had been expected to act as a couple. Kara sat down on the sofa with Lena and pulled the cape around them both, tucking them tightly together and sharing her blessed, glorious body heat. Kara ran about three or four degrees hotter than a baseline human and it made her a living space heater. Lena adored it.

She adored a lot of things about Kara, like her laugh and her smile and that funny little scar, the only imperfection on her invulnerable body. She adored the way her blue eyes glittered like sapphires in the dark apartment, and the soft pillow of her bottom lip and her big strong hands and the way she was always laying a protective arm across Lena’s shoulders, making her feel so safe and…

Lena turned her attention to the movie. It was a comfort choice of hers and she knew it by heart, so it was easy to relax into Kara and not worry too hard about how much she was utterly, irrevocably, cruelly in love with her unattainable best friend.

The apartment was quiet. Lena was fairly sure that Alex was asleep and Kelly was mellow, too entranced with her new wife to care about anything else, and the way that Brainy and Nia were tucked under their blanket and whispering to each other made Lena hot with jealousy.

Kara’s chest hitched and Lena turned to her sharply.

“What is it, darling?” she murmured.

“Nothing,” Kara lied, then whispered. “This is so sad.”

She took Lena’s hand and Lena almost died on the spot, and it got worse when Kara nuzzled her chin into the crook of Lena’s shoulder.

Out of nowhere, half an hour later, Kara murmured, “if I lost you I think I’d become a monster too.”

Lena flinched, then turned to her. Kara was looking at her with big puppy dog eyes and that crooked little smile of hers, at once an honest smile and a smile for the keeping of secrets.

Everyone else was asleep, and would probably stay that way until morning.

“Kara,” Lena whispered.

Kara took it as an invitation, gently shifting so that Lena was now in her lap, and tucked Lena under her chin. She wrapped her arms around her and just breathed, chest gently rising and falling against her.

“I want you to know how sorry I am for all the things I’ve done,” Kara whispered into the top of her head. “I’ve never told you, I was gone before I could and after I got back I was scared.”

“Kara,” Lena murmured back, “darling, it’s alright.”

“I was so scared when I was there,” Kara said, not daring to name the Phantom Zone. “That place messes with time. I was terrified that if I ever got back you’d all be gone. You would be gone. I was so afraid it hurt.”

Lena went still, just listening.

“I’m so sorry, baby. You deserve better than me.”

“No I don’t,” Lena insisted, almost too loud. “No I don’t. There is no one better. God, Kara,” she softened her voice, “I think I fell a little in love with you the day we even met. I never used to believe in love at first sight or soulmates but… I am a witch after all.”

Kara let out a slow sigh. “Lena, are you saying…”

“Even when I was trying to tell you I hated you, I was telling you how much I love you. It’s you, Kara. It’s always been you.”

“I love you so much,” Kara said whispered, “I’ll love you forever.”

“Kara, everyone else is asleep,” she forced out, her jaw trembling from excitement. “Take me to the bedroom. Please.”

Kara said nothing but stood up in a single motion, lifting Lena with ease and curling her up in the cape. Lena didn’t think her feet ever touched the ground as they slipped into the bedroom and Kara laid her down on the bed, quickly and quietly closing the door before lunging into the bed, pressing Lena into the mattress with a barrage of hot, aggressively desperate kisses.

They were both quiet, Kara pausing only briefly to implore Lena with her eyes and wait for a murmured yes. There was something thrilling about the quiet, they way they swallowed their gasps and passed their moans softly through one another’s lips, and Lena would never forget the way Kara delighted in her, virtually worshipping her.

Lena returned the favor with with enthusiasm.

By morning, Lena was exhausted in every sense of the term and was curled up in a tangle of blankets and a snoozing Kryptonian.

There was a knock at the door.

“Well lock up on our way out,” Alex called. “By the way, you guys forgot about the whole keeping quiet thing about halfway through. Thanks for etching Lena yelling “daddy” into my brain.”

Kara snorted.

“Alex, I love you, but get out.”

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globalphotoeditt · 6 months ago

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arjudy224 · 1 month ago

Text

Death of a family

The Intern Collection:

Prequel: Death of a family

The Intern: Day one

The Intern: The Laughing Fish

The Intern: Busy Work

The Intern: Outreach Gala

The Intern: Visiting an old friend

The Intern: Chemical Valley

The Intern: Billionaire Boys Club

Once the warehouse went up in flames, the world went silent. A blinding light stuns my senses. Before I can react, Nightwing shields me from the shock wave as we both go tumbling down. For a couple seconds, the only sound I can hear is the pounding of his heart. Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump. Frozen, I see my horror reflected in his pale blue eyes. We didn't make it in time.

The ash slowly descends while the two vigilantes rummage through the debris. Staying out of the way, I do my best to be productive by prepping the med pack. Prepping for the worst, but hoping for the best. A slight glimmer catches my eye from a hundred yards.

Narrowing my eyes, I stumble through the wreckage. Drawing near, I dust the fallen ash away from a metallic pendant. More specifically a metallic bird... no. oh God no. It's a Robin. Dropping the med pack in shock, I manage to choke out "Dick..."

Nightwing rushes to my side within moments.

"What is it?" He questions, "Are you hurt?"

His eyes dart across my face looking for any signs of injury. Following my gaze, he mutters.

"Oh..."

When the body is revealed, I feel nothing. I should be screaming. Crying. Cursing at a god I don't believe in... but I don't say anything. Time slows down. Once Batman takes vitals, I work on breathes while Nightwing does chest compressions. 30 compressions. 2 breathes. Every other rotation, Bruce and Dick switch out. CPR is brutal. It's hard to ignore the cracking of the sternum or the fluid spilling into the one way mask. Attaching the AED, I pray something changes. Pausing Bruce's CPR, we clear the area to deliver the first shock. Then the second. Sandwiched between rounds of CPR, the AED gives us nothing to go off of.

After a while, it becomes hopeless. Most hearts restart after the first two shocks. Bruce's determined gaze grows frantic. Using his entire body, Batman's chest compressions progressively become deeper. Too deep. I avoid looking at the face of the limp carcass. If I look at his face, then it means this entire afternoon actually happened.

"Bruce, STOP! This isn't doing anything. " Dick argues tearing the man away from his fallen son, "He's... gone."

My chest tightens at Nightwing's voice crack. This cannot be real.

Pulling himself together, the Bat's eyes meet mine. For the first time since I've met him, the calculated facade has fallen to the wayside. Pure anguish stares back at me. From the slumping of his shoulders to the tight line of his lips, it's clear as day. Straightening himself, the Bat swiftly moved the body back to the plane.

"I'll prepare Alfred for the service."

Service... Is that it? That soon?

Dick excuses himself claiming to need a bite to eat. With a lingering hug, he tells me that he'll whip me something up too. Haphazardly, I decline the offer. Dick's right of course. I haven't eaten in over a day, but... Every ounce of hunger left my body the moment, I smelled burnt flesh.

For the first time all day, I look at him.

Covered in soot, the burns are the first images that are seared in my subconscious. Black bruises lace around every external patch of skin. Underneath all the brutality, my jaw clenches. Did he always look this young? For a kid who was starting to develop a jawline, I forgot how round his cheeks were. How long ago was his birthday again? A few months? Fifteen. His thick dark lashes stay completely still while I brush the hair out of his face.

No... No.. This isn't right. This is not how our story goes... Prom. Graduation. We were supposed to be dumb kids in love. Not some high school cautionary tale.

Suddenly, it all sinks in. I can't breathe.

No more study dates at Wayne Tower.

No more reading together

No more lazy Sunday morning smiles.

No more late-night Robin visits.

Sliding down the wall, a single tear drops down my face. The pressure resting on my chest prevents any more tears. Everything in me wants to wail. Throw a fit. Kill the bastard who did this. Instead, I stare wordlessly at the smooth metallic wall furnishing.

I am too young to feel this old.

Tag list: @jjsmeowthie

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photo1030 · 2 months ago

Note

Heyyy I have a suggestion to make it’s kinda stupid whatever so it takes place at the mayor’s party where Arthur Morgan and Dutch is meeting mr Bronte and reader come running to Mr Bronte for some random reason and sense she’s wearing a corset she can’t get all the air in her lungs AND SHE PAST OUT so Arthur or Dutch (I LUV THEM BOTH teehee) gotta RIPS her out the corset.. that’s all I got LOVE YOUR WRITING BTWW MWAH! ❤️❤️❤️

Hi there @lizzie2980 So sorry this has taken me forever. Thank you for being so kind and patient (and hopefully still interested?) This was a great prompt, had a lot of fun with this one.

This is a bit out of the canon story, hopefully that is OK. This is a little bit of flirty and protective Arthur, with a smidge of charming Dutch in there...lovely combo, if you ask me....which you did...(This is not part of my existing fic, Leather and Lace, btw)

(The images used here were found on a lovely blog that is apparently designed to help fanworks. Check it out! Thank you to whoever put that together. https://reddeadreference.tumblr.com/post/679731317406072832/the-gilded-cage )

*Special thanks to @appalachiancowboy99 for being my sounding board.

DON’T MAKE A SCENE

Summary: You are at Angelo Bronte’s house for a fancy garden party when you meet a certain group of outlaws.

Your hands clamp down tighter as the plump elderly matron apologetically yanks the strings of the restrictive corset. Nails of already shaky fingers dig into the wooden bedpost that you use to support yourself with as you stand on wavering feet. You wince on the verge of painful tears as Bridget stands behind you and pulls the threads of the already too tight garment even tighter still, testing the limits of its stitching and causing a gasp to quickly get sucked into your folded-up lungs with each pull.

Sunset has already begun, the brilliant orange disc settling itself softly behind the horizon line for the day, and your room slowly dims to a pastel dusk as you get ready, the wall sconces glowing against the ivory painted walls of your lavish private quarters inside Angelo Bronte’s mansion. The garden party below will be starting any minute, and the shadows that dance along the walls inside the house mask the dread inside your chest. It is as if your hope and spirit are diminishing with the quickly-fading sun. You are hoping that Bridget doesn’t see the trepidation creeping into your expression as she flits about you, but the older woman is too shrewd for that.

“You know...Mr. Bronte…he isn’t going to wait much longer for you”, she murmurs as her weathered fingers begin to run over your frame, smoothing out the fabric of your dress, picking at errant threads. “He will eventually want what he feels he is due.”

The obvious statement hits your gut like a prize-fighter’s punch. “I know,” you utter with a dejected sigh, your voice almost a whimper in the air.

The thought of the man’s pock-marked, oily skin against your own makes you sick to your stomach. It would be like a vile lizard rubbing up against you.

But Bridget is not unsympathetic to your situation. She is definitely a woman of experienced years, as the graying hair of her loosely tied-up bun gives testament to. And she knows a thing or two from her twenty-some years in service to upper-society households.

“You know, sometimes when you’re a woman, you just have to do what you have to do. Close your eyes and let your mind go somewhere else when it’s happening.” She waves her hand dismissively in the air as if speaking about the most matter-of-fact thing in the world. “Just tune it all out, let the man have his way, and then it will all be over quickly. In fact, it’s usually over quicker than you think.” She gives you a whimsical wink as a sharp cackle snaps out of her throat at her own joke. Whether Bridget is speaking specifically about Bronte, or any man for that matter, you are not sure, as this seems to have the feel of a rehearsed speech she has given many times over.

When Bridget sees the distaste of such a thing clearly coating your face as you silently stand there with your hands fidgeting over themselves, she continues.

“If you’re clever enough, you could let him have what he wants, but then have something for yourself on the side, you know.”

Your eyes immediately shoot up to hers to find that knowing twinkle in her eye. The thought causes a humorless huff from your lips.

“I can barely manage to look after myself, Bridget. I couldn’t manage that cat-and-mouse game.”

“Suit yourself,” she shrugs and continues to primp and preen your outfit.

Despite the odd advice, you are grateful for Bridget’s counsel. She is the only friend you have here in Angelo Bronte’s mansion. You are not a hostage per se, but he has made his opinions very clear on how he feels about a woman, especially one indebted to him, leaving the premises to socialize without him as your escort and chaperone; so improper, so ungrateful.

It is especially warm tonight on the evening of the garden party that Mr. Bronte has been planning for weeks now. The whole household buzzes with excitement and anticipation for the fancy event, despite the sweltering weather. St. Denis is dreadfully hot and muggy, making it difficult to breathe on a good day. You’re not used to such heat. You come from the northern state of Massachusetts, which is much cooler. The heat here is bad enough, but the humidity clings to the air like a wet blanket.

And this damn dress doesn’t help in the slightest.

The dress that Angelo Bronte hand-picked for you to wear tonight is way too tight, making you lightheaded already. You watch in the full-length mirror as the constricting fabric pulls your body into shape under Bridget’s strong, able fingers, transforming your voluptuous figure into an hourglass. A deep midnight blue hued fabric that shimmers in the light is cut to hug and accent your physique, leaving little to the imagination of the observer.

If the origins of the dress weren’t so distasteful, you may have very well liked the beautiful gown that currently clings to your form and drapes over your hips in a cascade of silk. But you know Bronte did not provide this gown to please you. No, he did it for his own inflated ego. Bronte will parade you around tonight like a prized horse out of his stable, showing you off to all in tonight’s attendance. And he’ll treat you as such too - like something he’s purchased and owns outright.

You curse yourself for letting yourself get into this situation. You hate that you have to rely on this man for a place to live. You arrived new to St. Denis a month ago and were promptly robbed upon arrival, leaving you with nothing. So much for civilization.

Bronte noticed you at the train station, frazzled and lost, and totally beside yourself as to what you would do now. You came here with no relatives, no contacts, just the promise of jobs and new adventure out West from an ad you saw in the newspaper back home. The man quickly made your acquaintance, preying like a vulture on your vulnerable situation. He was charming with a note of authority, like he knew exactly what to do and where to go. But it quickly became apparent that he offered you his home as a sanctuary in hopes to win your affections. You’ve managed to play coy for awhile, however, agreeing to be on his arm and accompany him to various social functions in town in exchange for residency in his home. But you have denied the man what he wants most - you in his bed.

An involuntary sigh passes your cherry lips as Bridget takes your hand in hers, patting it in the same way a grandmother comforts her troubled grandchild, and leads you to the vanity along the opposite wall so she can set your hair. Your body mindlessly drifts to the tapestry-padded stool, like a lost flower petal in the wind, void of any energy or enthusiasm.

Bridget’s nimble fingers curl your hair and pin it back to showcase your pretty face, adding in beautiful crystal clips for decoration and she even weaves a few flower buds from the garden into your locks. You sit silently in front of the vanity mirror with a blank stare, a melancholy overtaking your soul as you watch her prepare you to be the perfect accessory to the rich man’s life. The motherly woman’s presence comforts you, but she is also serving you up to the master of the house like a slice of beef on a silver platter for him to devour.

“There, now. Don’t you just look breathtaking?” she breaths in awe. The deep-set lines around Bridget’s hazel-colored eyes crinkle as she admires her masterpiece. Your eyes refocus to catch the old woman’s proud gaze in the mirror, and then back over your own reflection.

“Yes, Bridget,” you whisper with a sad smile, your lower lip quivering just slightly. “You did a fine job. Thank you for your help tonight.” She catches the reluctance in your fluttering eyes and can only nod in agreement. She lovingly pats your arm in an attempt to comfort your growing uneasiness.

“Well, I had better get downstairs and tend to the kitchen, then. Don’t hide up here too long, miss.” And she wipes her hands on her apron as her wide hips carry her to the bedroom door before she slips out and you are alone with your thoughts once again.

With a deep sigh, you haul yourself up to stand. You swish the heavy fabric of your dress-skirts to the side to allow you to amble over to the balcony doors of your private room. Pulling the double-doors open wide with both hands, you step out onto the freshly painted wood as a rush of humid air hits you like a wall, causing you to take a brief pause to try to catch your breath. Your hands eventually find their place upon the smooth railing as you step up to the edge to look out over the balcony at the garden party below.

Jovial music floats up to your ears from the string quartet that is playing on the patio beneath you. String lights delicately criss-cross over the open garden area, resembling a net that has caught a thousand fire-flies. Bronte’s guests have already started to arrive and their chatter fills the air, alternating with the clinks of champagne flutes. You casually observe as greedy fingers grab at the delectable food and free alcohol that is meticulously displayed along elegant tables that dot across the property, the delicious aromas wafting through the evening air.

The scene laid out before you is like a page out of the society section of the newspapers. Always over-the-top, always impressive, Angelo Bronte spares no expense in his functions. Decadent food, expensive wines, extravagant decor. Always to impress the upper echelon of society. And yet, you have no desire to mingle with the high-society of St. Denis. From what you’ve seen, it’s hardly impressive to you.

You watch with disinterest over the crowd, observing from the elevated vantage point as people collect in small groups, then turn to whisper to each other like conniving socal piranhas the moment one of the fold turns to leave to join another circle. With a scornful roll of your eyes, you have no idea how you are going to make it through this evening unscathed.

And then, a collection of unknown men catch your eye. You’ve never seen them in Bronte’s circle before. And they clearly don’t belong. Under closer observation, this is an assembly of rugged looking gentlemen, a sharp contrast to the other guests in attendance tonight. Though they may have donned fancy tuxedos and hats, the way they carry themselves indicates they are not used to wearing such garb. Their eyes nervously shift all around instead of at whoever is addressing them as if more interested in what is happening around them rather than trying to assert social connections. Your bottom lip gets pulled between your teeth as your curious gaze lingers on them, trying to determine if they were invited or snuck in with the crowd.

As if he can feel your eye on him with the sixth sense of a trained outlaw, Arthur instinctively looks away from the men he is standing with and looks up towards the balcony of the great house and notices you. He doesn’t smile or even move for that matter, other than a single eyebrow lift as if in confusion. Your breath catches a bit at being caught staring. But yet you cannot bring yourself to break eye contact with the startling blue eyes gazing back at you from across the garden. And you can’t help the soft smile that blooms across your blushing cheeks at the ruggedly handsome man.

When the mystery man eventually turns his attention back to his companions, you shake your head back to reality and decide you’ve stalled long enough. It’s time to begin to make your way down to the garden party and get this over with. You leisurely stroll along the length of the wrap-around balcony of the house to the stairs that will carry you down to the patio. Your hand has to grip the railing of the staircase as you walk, as your dress is so tight that descending the stairs makes you out of breath. The boning of the corset digs painfully into your ribs and hipbones as you move. Such a dreadful, masochistic thing, you wonder why on earth women put themselves through such torture for the sake of fashion. Once at the bottom, you attempt to take a deep breath, bringing your fingertips to your temples before bracing yourself to join the guests.

First order of business, you scan the crowd to locate your host. It takes a few minutes, but you eventually lock-in on him when you hear his boisterous, condescending laugh echoing over the throng of people. Angelo Bronte really is a toad of a man. And despite his money and power, he is rather socially inept. Maybe it’s the fact that he's not from this country. Or maybe society is held differently in Italy. But either way, the elite here in St. Denis have mixed feelings about the wealthy man. Mixed as in, they like his wealth but do not care for the man. And that is where you come in.

Bronte’s idea is that having a beautiful, refined and charming woman on his arm will make him appear more distinguished. Your role in this little arrangement with him is to be the doting young paramore, helping him to navigate the social circles. No one needs to be the wiser that the two of you sleep in separate rooms on completely different ends of the house. But for appearances sake, Angelo Bronte has acquired himself quite the crown jewel with your presence.

As you meander through the crowd, you keep getting intercepted by random party guests, each one handing you a new glass of champagne. Your eye catches Bronte’s a few times as you mingle, as he checks to make sure you are performing as expected. Of course, the witty jokes, effervescent laughing and demure little smiles that emanate from you work according to plan. You can see Bronte pointing you out to guests from across the garden, a crude grin of approval splitting across the faces of the men he leans into, all chattering with hushed tones and hungry eyes. It’s enough to make your corset-restricted stomach turn.

After about forty five minutes of false chuckles and empty smiles, you are desperate for fresh air and peace and quiet, so you discreetly head to the rose garden which is off to the right side of the party, hoping to find less people there.

Wandering aimlessly through the maze of hedges and rose bushes, you manage to find a quiet little corner away from prattling visitors and raise your tired eyes to the heavens above. The smog of St. Denis covers the night sky and it leaves you with a heavy feeling of disappointment that even the vast galaxy of stars is being kept from you in this dreadful place. With a dispirited sigh, your tear-misted eyes slowly roll shut, attempting to find some sort of solitude from this hell on earth.

“Is this a safe place to hide?”

The sound of a deep, gravelly voice suddenly cuts into your mind, causing your eyes to snap open as you spin to see who is speaking to you.

And there he is. The handsome fellow who you were staring at from the balcony. He stands quietly, a slight smirk of amusement on his face. It takes you a few moments to realize that he is indeed real, no fantasy apparition to come to stand before you. Confused blinks skitter across your face as you take in the sight of him. Now that you are up close to him, you can see just how tall and broad-shouldered he is.

“Sorry, miss, I didn’t mean to startle you,” he offers when you hesitate to answer, his simple apology carrying little fanfare or bravado. Just a simple statement with no malice, no ill-content and no agenda towards you.

“Oh…no…you didn’t startle me,” you manage to stammer as you try to regain your composure.

The stranger’s ocean-blue eyes float across your frame, head to toe, assessing you with a slight tilt of his head. “You sure about that?” he jokes as he gives you a deeper smirk now.

Picking up on his genuine humor, you release the breath that you didn’t realize you were holding. “No, you’re fine,” you assure him. “I just needed a minute, is all. I didn’t expect anyone to be back here.”

When you lob a smile back at him in return, Arthur takes a gamble and begins to move slightly closer to you, specifically intent on maintaining this conversation. “Hmm, needing to get away from the herd? Is that it?”

The term causes a chuckle to erupt out of your throat. “Yeah, something like that.” You begin to step towards him as well, both of you moving slowly yet purposefully towards the other to close the gap between you until you are about three feet from each other. The air surrounding the garden is like that before a thunderstorm, exhilarating because it could be both beautiful and dangerous at the same time. The two of you stand quietly, simply staring at the other like a couple of clumsy teenagers not knowing what to say.

“No offense, but you don’t seem like you belong here,” you finally break the amorous spell with a raised eyebrow. As your words hover like a butterfly in his ears, you note the faded scars along the man’s chin, embedded into his tanned skin and nestled beneath his rugged beard that you can see was probably hastily groomed for this evening.

He doesn’t deny it, but counters almost playfully with “I could say the same for you.”

You flirtatiously narrow your eyes at him. “What makes you say that?”

He waves his large finger towards you. “You carry the same disdain for this place on your face that I do.”

Well, you have to admit, he’s got you there and all you can do is nod in agreement. “That obvious, huh?”

“Just a bit,” he chuckles, bringing his hand up to pinch his fingers together to accent his point. “It's ok, though. Glad I’m not the only one who doesn’t want to be here.” And he tosses a perturbed glace back over his shoulder towards the noise of the party.

“I guess that makes us two peas in a pod, then, doesn’t it?” you muse with a glittering smile that makes his chest tight.

A grin pulls at the corner of the stranger’s plump lips, causing his scarred chin to wrinkle. “I guess it does, doesn’t it?”

“My name is Y/F&LN”. You extend your hand out and his large hand completely engulfs yours, dwarfing your delicate fingers with his own. You immediately notice how his skin is rough, yet warm to the touch, his hand strong in a comfortingly protective way.

“Arthur Morgan.”

And the two of you hold each other’s gaze like a spark of electricity pulsing through the air to connect you. You can feel your fingertips go numb as your heart beats faster within your perfume-dusted chest. And Arthur hopes that you do not notice how he thickly swallows, flexing his now-sweaty hands before awkwardly kneading his thumb into the opposite palm.

But your beautiful little moment together is short-lived when you hear your name being called out into the night, snapping you back to the real world. And before you know it, a very anxious-looking Bridget appears from around the hedges, her eyes darting around, her lips pressed tightly together in worry.

“Miss Y/N, there you are! Mr. Bronte is asking for you.” She gives you a sharp wave in her direction before her eyes quickly slip to the burly gentleman to your right.

An embarrassed school-girl blush dusts your cheeks as you clear your throat. “Yes, of course, Bridget, thank you. I’ll be right there.” You turn back to Arthur. “Well, Mr. Morgan, it was very nice to meet you. If you will excuse me, please.”

“‘Course.” Arthur dips his head with a respectful nod as you float past him, your fingertips nervously tucking a few tendrils of hair behind your ear.

Bridget gives Arthur a good look up and down before she turns and follows behind you back towards the music of the garden party with a sly, smug smile drawn on her lips. “Maybe you’re more clever than you think,” she whispers impishly in your ear. You shoot her a cautionary look as you smooth your hands over the fabric of your dress, making sure that you are presentation-ready before you make your way to your host.

As you navigate the crowd to approach Bronte, you take notice that he is talking to the other men that came with Mr. Morgan. The moment he catches sight of you, Bronte’s face lights up.

“Ah, Miss Y/N! There you are! Come, Come!” He waves you over to stand next to him. “I’d like you to meet some special guests.” Bronte crudely clutches your hand, bringing it to his saliva-slick lips before eagerly wrapping it around his arm. “This is Mr. Van der Linde, and his associates, Mr. Williamson and Mr. Matthews. Gentleman, this is my…’companion’, Miss Y/LN.”

You force down the bile in the back of your throat that the toad conjures up as a graceful nod and accompanying smile adorns your pretty face when you turn towards the men you are being presented to. “Gentleman, it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

“Miss Y/L/N,” Mr. Van Der Linde greets you as he flashes a sultry grin in your direction, boldly reaching his ringed hand to take ahold of yours that sits tucked in Bronte’s elbow. He brazenly brings your digits to his warm mouth to place a tender kiss along your knuckles. “Call me Dutch.” His dark eyes fully take you in with a glitter of mischief behind them. “Mr. Bronte is indeed a lucky man.”

Unlike Angelo Bronte, you find this new social contact of his to be quite charismatic and charming. And while most of the attendees of this event carry some level of bravado, this man standing in front of you seems to be quite different, the type to put his money where his mouth is.

Interest flashes through your eyes at this dark-haired stranger. And Bronte is quick to notice. With a deep scowl of disapproval, his arm quickly snakes around your waist, holding you possessively against him in the presence of these men, so tight that it makes you squirm against his grip. You are about to protest the moderately painful discomfort when Mr. Morgan suddenly joins the circle, his azure eyes immediately targeting the meaty hand that grips your hip before lifting to meet your grimacing expression. The sight makes his face turn dark with a menacing presence to it. It almost shocks you to see the stark contrast to his demeanor from your encounter a few moments ago.

“Quite the shindig you got goin’ here, Bronte,” Mr. Morgan says cooly, his statement breaking the tension of the social circle. “You always run things like this?”

The disapproval in your new friend’s voice causes one of the other men in his group (Mr. Matthews, is it?) to shoot him a glare of warning, to which Mr. Morgan shrugs off.

Bronte lifts his nose at the rub, but he will not be made a fool of so easily at the challenge. “Ah, I’m sure you country folk are not used to such luxury, yes?”

“Personally, I don’t care for it,” snarks Arthur with a snort of derision. “Hard to enjoy myself like a gluttonous pig when there’s people right outside the gate starvin’”

As you stand there next to Bronte listening to these men throw thinly veiled contempt at one another, you begin to feel dizzy. Your head starts to swim, spots dancing before your eyes, making your stomach lurch. But no one notices at first, except for Mr. Van Der Linde.

“You alright, miss?” Mr. Van Der Linde questions you with concern skipping across his dark features.

“Oh, yes,” you wave him off. “It’s just…just this heat…” You begin to fan yourself, desperate for some cool air to caress your face.

And suddenly the world around you starts to spin and your knees give way underneath you as if they move of their own accord. You begin to crumple in front of everyone and Dutch is quick to catch you just before you hit the ground, his strong arms shooting out to enfold you and ease you into the grass. The moment Arthur sees that you are in trouble, he promptly hovers over you as well, catching your hand into his own and placing himself between you and Bronte as things go dark in front of your eyes.

A collection of curious guests begins to gather around the spectacle, whispers and fingers discreetly pointing in your direction.

“The lady needs some air,” asserts Dutch as he kneels behind you.

Arthur is at a loss on what to do at first, but is quick to notice how restrictive the corset of your dress is, as your chest can barely move as you desperately gasp for air, your face turning red from the heat of the evening.

With a look of determination, Arthur’s rough hands wrap around your biceps and carefully lift the upper part of your limp body to lean against Dutch, who cradles you into his chest for support. Without a word, Arthur grabs at the fabric of your dress and quickly rips the corseted area wide open, easily tearing the seams under his hands, to release your lungs, exposing the delicate silk undergarments and bare skin hidden beneath. Shock slaps Angelo Bronte in the face as he stands behind Arthur, helplessly watching this embarrassing little scene unfold before his eyes.

Ignoring the judgemental gasps of the partygoers, Arthur then proceeds to snatch a glass of champagne out of the hands of one of the nosey women craning her neck to see the spectacle and tosses the liquid into your face. The moment the bubbly fluid hits your skin, your eyes instantly pop open as you deeply gasp, desperate to expand your lungs to draw in fresh air.

Arthur cautiously watches your face in anticipation as you rapidly blink the sweet nectar out of your lashes. Your eyes land on Arthur in confusion as to what has just happened before looking down at yourself and realize that you are now exposed to the whole party. But Arthur immediately takes off his jacket and lays it overtop of you as you sit nestled safely against Dutch who is still behind you. And Arthur breathes a sigh of relief when he recognizes the threads of alertness brightening your features once again.

“Get the hell outta here,” Arthur orders the crowd, waving them away with a wide arc of his long arm. “Nothing to see here, just a woman needing some air, is all.”

“Can you stand, miss?” Dutch’s deep voice carries softly over your shoulder and into your ear, anchoring you back to consciousness.

“I think so,” you venture, although the wavering in your voice is not entirely convincing. Your head is still swimming with confusion, but at least you can breathe now and the pounding in your temples has started to recede.

Arthur takes your hand again, his other slipping under your arm to guide you to your feet as Dutch carefully steadies you from behind.

“I don’t know what to say,” you say sheepishly looking up into Arthur’s worried face. “Thank you.”

“Thank you?” Bronte suddenly bellows, finally finding his voice of outrage. “Thank you?! You make a scene in my house and you say ‘thank you?!”

“Easy, leave her be,” Arthur growls out, turning his threatening gaze to the party’s host. “Can’t you see the lady isn’t well?”

“No, she most certainly is not!” Bronte spits back in anger. His heartless, burning eyes now land back on you, his nostrils flaring wildly with impatience as his expression screws up into a hateful scowl. “Nuisance! I knew it was a mistake to bring you here” he hollers at you, flecks of spittle flying in your direction. “Should’ve left you at the station where I found you!” His finger thrown in your face causes you to shrink backwards, leaning your back into Dutch yet again, where the man’s hands protectively come up to cradle your arms.

But Arthur is not having any of it, protectively placing his large bear-like frame between you and Bronte, towering over the other man and desperately trying to refrain from landing his massive fist into his face. “You best keep that finger to yourself, Mr. Bronte, else I'll break it clean off.” Arthur’s tone is low and deep, his threat making a shutter cascade down your spine as you watch with baited breath for what is to happen next.

“Get out! All of you! Get! Out!” Bronte screams, waving at the group of newcomers. “And take that bitch with you, too!”

Your heart sinks as you watch the Italian spin on his heels and storm off towards the house, his arms flailing wildly as he vents his frustrations and anger out into the ether. The party has clearly ended now, as the guests murmur and whisper amongst themselves about the outrageous scene and begin to file out of the garden to leave.

Your head hangs a bit in shame as you nibble nervously on your pink bottom lip, holding Arthur's jacket over your chest like armor. You have no love lost for Angelo Bronte, but the idea that you now have nowhere to go is a little terrifying. You have no money, no provisions. Nothing.

Arthur turns to look at you, seeing your soft face frozen in stunned silence. His own countenance turns sheepish as he now realizes that he has cost you your home. “Sorry about that,” he mumbles, his hand coming up to rub behind his neck in embarrassment. “I didn’t mean to get you tossed out.”

“Don’t trouble yourself.” You shake your head and place a grateful hand along Arthur’s arm. “You probably did me a favor.” Your smile is warm and forgiving, but it doesn’t make him feel any less responsible for your new predicament. “But I meant what I said, Mr. Morgan. Thank you,” you whisper emphatically. Your gentle voice causes butterflies to flutter in his belly.

“You have anywhere to go now?” Arthur asks, his blue eyes burning into your own. God, how you could get lost in those eyes for hours.

Sadly, you shake your head, confirming his suspicions.

“Well, then,” interrupts Dutch from where he still stands behind you, “If that is the case, you are welcome to come with us, Miss Y/L/N.” He offers you another of his charming smiles as he holds open Arthur’s jacket as you slide your arms in, and he pulls the oversized garment protectively over your shoulders. He then offers you his arm to escort you away from the party, with his entourage in tow.

Arthur gives a lofty eye-roll to the heavens at Dutch’s attempt to swoon you, causing Mr. Matthews to chuckle at the interaction. But you smile graciously at Mr. Van der Linde’s offer as you gladly accept his arm and begin to walk with him. You look back over your shoulder and give Arthur a demure little grin, which he returns as he follows you and Dutch out to the front of the property towards the awaiting carriages with Mr. Matthews and Mr. Williamson close behind.

“Thank you, Mr. Van Der Linde,” you smile brightly up at him. “I just may have to take you up on that offer.”

Masterlist for more Arthur goodness

Taglist: @appalachiancowboy99 @rivetingrosie4

#arthur morgan #rdr2 #red dead redemption 2 #arthur morgan rdr2 #arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan x female reader #dutch van der linde

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sgrplumditz · 6 months ago

Text

Simon falls for Johnny’s wife…

render by @ave661

a/n: I’ve been working on this for a hot minute, but ended up having it sit in my drafts for a couple months :(. these images were released and it definitely struck a chord in my delulu mind. hence why i decided to finish it..

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"I've got a bad feeling about this one, Johnny," she said to the Scott with a shaky breath. Their toddler clinging to his mother's leg while keeping a tight grip on his father's finger. His little hand too small to grip the entirety of his hand.

She couldn’t help but notice his worrisome sigh as he looked for the comforting words, "Eh, don't you worry, Darling. I always come back don't I?" he replied enthusiastically as he embraced her figure, his chin resting on the top of her head and his free hand caressing the back of his son’s head. Johnny always knew how to comfort her, but she couldn’t shake her nervousness and doubtful thoughts as he said goodbye to her husband and the father of her only child.

The memory of their final interaction as a family replayed in her head continuously as the rain created soft tapping noises on her black umbrella. The pattering of the water creating an almost hypnotizing effect on the new widow that kept her mind on the only aspect that was left of her late husband -- memories.

The toddler, a three-year-old boy, who like most of the time clung to his mother's body. Except this time he was fully embracing his mother, his little face placed into the crook of her neck as the pair stood together at the outdoor memorial service. She could only stare blankly at the urn that held the remains of the love of her life. Through her observant stare she took note of the simple, yet lovely set up of white roses, numerous awards and medals. All of which surrounded a framed photo of her Johnny — her favorite photo. A candid picture snapped of the blue eyed, dark haired man by his wife — the woman he kept a secret from his work life. Not out of shame, or malicious secrecy — Johnny loved his wife and his child. Love them so much that he couldn’t be bothered ever putting them in any sort of danger.

She could feel numerous pairs of eyes prying into her and her son as she stood amongst the medium sized crowd of individuals. She assumed all of them were teammates, Co-workers, or people simply paying their respects. she knew he was a highly decorated soldier, but he was far more than that. None of them knew about his personal life, and nobody knew about the widow and small boy he had left behind. Nobody but Captain John Price knew about Soap’s little family. In confidence, Soap had asked Price to maintain word of his wife and son under the rug of the sake of their safety. Although they were hidden, he always carried pieces of them with him wherever he went — attached to his dog tags were two small and silver flat pendants that had been engraved with his wife and son’s fingerprint, his wedding band usually accompanying them on the same chain whenever he was deployed.

When Johnny was home he never removed his ring. He would often complain about how difficult and stubborn the piece of jewelry was when it came time to remove it for work. Johnny thought he was as discrete as he could be when it came to protecting the two most important people in his life, but there was a certain masked individual who took notice of the tan line that marked his left ring finger, the sudden dark under eyes and disheveled appearance that started 3 years ago when they would meet early in the morning for briefings, and when he caught sight of a vomit stain decorating the left shoulder of his black t-shirt — he just wasn’t one to pry.

Those same observant eyes were glued to the grieving widow and the blue-eyed toddler.

Her mind was pulled out of thoughts as Price approached her with a warm and tender expression in his eyes. In his hands were the dog tags, along with his keepsakes of his beloveds and in a small box was the wedding band. All of his personal belongings packed neatly into a box. Price knew he didn’t have to say anything to her for her to know that he was paying his respects to Johnny’s wife. Prior to the memorial service she had made it clear to Price that she wanted him to keep his ashes. She found they would get at least some closure from releasing them.

As Price drew her small frame in for a polite hug her son grew restless in her arms. She knew he was too young to understand that his father was gone, but it was clear that he was uncomfortable and upset from the lack of him. "Mama, it's cold" he fussed as he smushed his face farther onto her neck, "and your feet are getting wet. You're gonna catch a cold". She gave Price an apologetic smile as she turned her attention to her son now — Price had taken it as a signal to retreat. He now stood with two other men.

She couldn't help but smile at the innocence and kindness that exuded from her son. She gently patted his back to soothe his discomfort, "How about we get out of here and get some lunch?" she tried to speak in her most joyful tone, but even then it was coated in sorrow. The boy did not catch on to her somber response, and instead eagerly nodded his head as he perked up to look at his mother. That is when she realized how similar their son, Samuel, looked to his father. He mirrored him in nearly every aspect -- the eye shape and color, the dark hair, and even the mannerisms were similar. This could all be a fragment of her imagination -- she thought. Maybe it was part of her grieving process. She missed him so much that she began to look for him and could only find him perfectly in their Sammie. She was so consumed by her thoughts, that she had not realized the single salty tear that slipped out of her eye and down her cheek. Samuel hated to see his mother cry, he quickly brought his tiny hands up to her cheek and wiped it away with a slightly heavy palm. Usually, he would verbally comfort her — as best as a toddler could do, but all he did was lean forward to place a gentle kiss on his mother's forehead, "This always makes you feel better when Daddy does it". Does -- in present tense.

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She could not tolerate being at the memorial service for much longer, and neither could Samuel. She had buckled him into his car seat and handed him a strawberry and banana squeezable fruit pack and crackers to ease his rumbling tummy in the meantime.

However, as she closed the car door and turned her back to face the crowd of people one last time she was instead met with a tall, burly build of a man. His face was hidden by a balaclava, leaving only his eyes on display. But the rest of his face was not necessary to note that he was also grieving. She noticed him within the crowd of the memorial service as well -- she assumed that was one of Johnny's friends, but did not bother to congregate with anyone since Johnny kept his personal life completely separate from his work life. And if she was being honest with herself, she did not have the emotional stamina to socialize with people that spent months out of the year with her late husband.

"Sorry. Can I help you with something?" she asked the brute man. She stared up at him with her eyes slightly shut to avoid water from getting into them.

"He’s Johnny’s" was his only reply. For a moment she only blinked and stared at him and noted the heavy English accent. The mention of her late husband’s name stung as she now was fighting back tears. Yes, he is Johnny's son. His pride and joy -- was what she wanted to say, but she could barely muster up the strength to nod her head.

She could tell that the individual's lips tightened into a line by the way the fabric of his mask slightly stretched. "My name is Simon. I was a friend of Johnny's..." he attempted to continue speaking, but all he did was nervously rub the back of his neck. "Johnny meant a lot to me, a real friend of mine..." he trailed off again.

She knew he was grieving, but it was a different type of pain. She sensed guilt within his sadness, but she knew better than to ask about any specifics. Her kind nature and maternal habits took over as she saw Simon struggling to find his words. For whatever reason this man decided to make himself emotionally uncomfortable to introduce himself, she figured there would be no harm in easing his mind.

She knew who Simon was since Johnny would bring up his friend "Ghost" every now and then "I know who you are" she smiled warmly trying to be the emotional rock between the two, "How about you join us for some lunch. I think Sammie would love to talk to and get to know his Uncle Ghost" she spoke eagerly in an attempt to lighten the mood -- something that was usually Johnny's role.

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The three of them sat in a booth within a homely diner. The rain had completely let down at this point, the large drops of water hitting the roof of the diner with loud individual pats. Her hands were wrapped around a warm mug of coffee as she stared out the window watching blades of grass be temporarily smooshed by the inclement weather. The waitress had refilled her mug causing her gaze to turn towards her, her eyes softened and she gave the waitress a subtle nod to thank her. It was then that she realized that her son was wearing the ghost mask that was once on Simon. There was a glimmer of joy in Sam's eyes as he stood on the booth and gently hopped toward his mother to show her the "cool mask".

"I look so cool!" he exclaimed which only caused a chuckle to leave both her and Simon's mouths as the toddler's face was completely exposed through the eye hole on the mask -- his features obviously too small to fill the mask in the same manner. Upon hearing the slight laugh she turned to look at Simon, who she was surprised to see with dirty blonde hair. He was overall a handsome man, something that anyone would notice at first glance, but his eyes always conveyed a lot of emotion. Right now it was amusement tinged with pain as he stared at Sam. She knew he also noticed how strongly he resembles Johnny, and a part of her found comfort in knowing that she was not grieving alone. The way he looked at Sammie made her feel warm. She sensed that Simon knew Johnny deeper than most of the people at the memorial service — knowing that she found herself smiling at the thought of her being able to cherish Johnny’s memories with someone else.

The waitress had arrived with everyone's meals. Sam did not hesitate to dig into his plate. The toddler abruptly grabbed the bottle of syrup and drenched his pancakes in it. His careless behavior causing some of it to spill onto to the table, "Use your table manners please" she spoke sternly, but softly to the boy as she slipped him a napkin and a set of covered utensils.

"He looks just like him" he spoke in a gentle and respectful tone. His eyes rested on Sam -- who was now too focused on using his utensils properly to pay attention to the conversation happening in front of him.

Her hand wiped a strand of dark stray hair away from his forehead before she turned her attention toward Simon, who was now looking at her, "Yeah. Carried him for 9 months and he's got the nerve to look just like his father" she shrugged with a pained smile — her attempt to lighten the mood once again failing, "but I wouldn't have it any other way".

Simon took note of the sorrow hidden within the smile as his own face mirrored it out of empathy.

A few minutes had gone by and Samuel was still working on his meal, Simon had quickly eaten his, and she played with her food, tossing it around all over her plate in a desperate attempt to distract herself. How embarrassing would it be to break down at a family diner. "You should eat your lunch" he spoke. The deep voice dragging her out of her spiraling thoughts.

She glanced down to look at his empty plate and her contrastingly full one. Casually shrugging off his suggestion she set her fork down and let out a soft sigh, "I'll just take it to go. I don't really have an appetite at the moment" she spoke in a casual tone — too causal of a tone. She was normally a social person, the type to be able to engage in conversation with any type of person for hours. Her personality was magnetizing in the sense that she was an incredibly open minded person, which only made her a vessel for hundreds on conversations, all of different topics and tones — a quality that Johnny loved about her. She was one of the few that would keep up with his mindless thoughts and nonsense ideas. That is where she was at the moment. In her mind she was thinking about the woman she was before she got the gut wrenching knock at her door. The knock where she was told by Laswell and Price that her husband was gone. “Killed in Action” were the words they used. “He died saving the world” was something Price added.

Sure he had died saving the world, but her and her son’s was destroyed. She was never a selfish person, but in that moment she wished the world would burn if it meant he was in her arms instead of merely a memory. She hadn’t noticed until recently that tears were flooding her cheeks and spilling onto her meal. Simon had been observing her for a moment as she watched her fall into deep thought, but once he saw her tear stained face he acted quickly.

He swiftly took his wallet out of his pocket and placed a $50 bill on the table to cover their meals and a decent tip, “Come on” he spoke in a demanding voice, his tone remaining soft enough for her and Sam to remain calm. Sam was oblivious to his mother’s current state as he had now distracted himself with the crayons and the kids menu.

She looked at Simon as she attempted to regain her composure. It was long gone, she was an emotional mess at the diner — exactly what she was trying to avoid. “It’s alright.” he coo’d as he took Sam into his arm. With his free hand he guided her out of the booth and to the exit.

He took the initiative to get the mother and son home as soon as possible. The three of them approached her car, “Get in and take a few deep breaths, yeah?” he instructed while simultaneously holding the door open for her. Sam had been buckled into his car seat, which Simon struggled to figure out, but the toddler being incredibly intuitive had seen his mother and father do it hundreds of times and was able to talk Simon through it.

If that had happened under different circumstances she would have been able to congratulate Sam and let him know how proud she is of him, but she was far from being in that state of self awareness and state of mind.

She was a wreck in the passengers seat of her own car. She was heartbroken in the passengers seat of her own car. The severity of it all finally setting in making it nearly impossible for her to get ahold of herself.

Is she just exhausted from the days leading up to the funeral? A weeks worth of concealed emotions finally spilling out in front of her. She is definitely overwhelmed, but this time she subconsciously feels safe and secure enough to let go of her broken front.

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Months had gone by since her meltdown in front of Simon, and he never once brought it up. He was well aware it wasn’t something she was proud of, nor did she want to talk about her grief. Simon had been coming around her and Samuel a couple times a week just to check in on the pair. He felt it was his responsibility to keep them safe now — the least he could do for his recently deceased friend. Everyday he spent with the two of them he realized why Soap had kept them a secret. They were truly too special to put into any risk; especially her. She was a walking breath of fresh air, not something anyone encounters often in their lifetime, especially not in their line of work and the lifestyle it supplies. Now it all made sense. Johnny was always the most eager to return home when they’d be out in the field, said he had “something special” waiting for him, but everyone would shrug it off.

He grew to understand Soap’s decision to keep his family hidden from the world he worked in.

Even though Simon was consumed in his own thoughts he was still able to be completely alert as the mother and son played on the playground.

Her laugh. It stripped him away from his spiraling memories and muses. His gaze snapped to her body on the floor covered in wood chips, she had clearly tripped and stumbled while playing with Samuel. She was laughing at her clumsiness, laughing at how attentive Samuel was to his mother as soon as she hit the cushioned floor, “Sammie, I’m okay” she soothed him as he clung to her — small and gentle laughs leaving her full lips as she reacted to the entire scenario.

That was the first time Simon had heard her laugh.The sound of her sweet tone intoxicating to him. He couldn’t get enough, is what he mentally told himself as he walked over to her to help get back on her feet. Her soft and polished hand nestled and firmly gripped onto his rough and calloused one as he pulled her off the ground.

Guilt lingered in his being upon realizing how much he liked being around her, but he needed to be there for them. The conflict was clear within him, and something he figures he’ll eventually learn to accept and move forward with. He knew he would have to set aside his audacious feelings to respect her and more importantly to respect Johnny. He would be there to protect them as much as she allowed him. He wasn’t planning on getting emotionally attached to the the pair, or her alone.

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Later that same evening, Simon had made the decision to pay her and Sammie a visit. He stepped out of his car with a bag of Chinese takeout in his hand. Chinese food had become the only thing she would willingly eat ever since Johnny passed. A swift hand smoothing his plain black t-shirt before he began walking toward her front door, but as soon as his hand left his clothing he realized what he was doing. Bringing her favorite food to her and her son with no real reason to be seeing her, checking his appearance — something uncommon for the typically aloof man. A lingering hint of guilt settled in the pit of his stomach as he treaded towards the front door of her house. No, Simon was only supposed to be there for the mother and son duo as an aide during this severe loss. He felt that’s what he owed to Johnny since he felt partially responsible for his death. A cocktail of traumatic thoughts and memories invaded his mind . The grip on the take-out bag grew stronger, the same strength being felt in his chest as his heart pounded in its cavity

Upon reaching the front door he heard what sounded like a glass had broken — as if it had fallen off of a surface, which isn’t a big deal, she had a bad habit off leaving glasses on the edge of countertops and tables, but the yelp that followed only made Simon react in the most instinctive manner. He rushed inside the house and into the kitchen where she was found with a dish towel wrapped around her hand and a grimace on her face. Her nose scrunched in reaction to the pain.

Simon raised an eyebrow at her as he approached her with swift and long strides. His demeanor was urgent, alarmed and slightly panicked as his body was still in a reactive state from his memories, but how could she know that? She stared at him with the same expression, but she had more reason to. His breathing wasn’t heavy but it was slightly sporadic. At the same time, it was still controlled, his body was tense, but most significantly, his eyes looked panicked and unsettled. “I didn’t know you’d be visiting tonight. You should have let me know,” she spoke casually as she continued holding pressure on her fresh wound, “Or else I wouldn’t have-“ her words stopped flowing when Simon grabbed her hand and began to examine the brand-new cut. She watched his concerned expression lighten when he confirmed that the abrasion was small enough to heal on its own, “- let my mom take him for the weekend.” She finally completed her sentence when his large brown eyes met hers.

She knew exactly what was happening to him. She recognized the wide, alert eyes, uneven breathing, and tense mannerisms. This was a common occurrence that she witnessed Johnny experience. Her husband was gone, but there were constant reminders of him everywhere -- and one thing she hated seeing was Johnny struggling with his PTSD. Just like Johnny, she couldn't tolerate seeing Simon in the same condition.

Using her unharmed hand, she grabbed Simon's calloused one. Her movements were gentle and fluid as she guided their hands to the left side of her chest. With his palm now resting on her chest she looked into his eyes before speaking in a nurturing tone. "Slow and steady. Count it for me" she said as she placed her own hand over his chest. It was then that she noticed how hard and fast his heart pounded. "I’ll count yours until we match pace. One, two, three..."

Eventually, Simon counted with her, his heart rate slowing gradually as his mind remained distracted from the trauma and focused on her. On her beating heart, on her nurturing voice, on her full pink lips, on her long dark eyelashes, on her soft delicate hands. Her. His mind consumed by images of her, his newfound serenity.

Simon cannot help but feel guilty, but his pleasure and serene state strongly blinds him from this feelings. This is exactly what he didn’t want, but he can’t help but relish in it.

#step dad #ghost cod #ghost mw2 #ghost x reader #simon ghost riley #simon ghost x reader #simon riley x reader #simon riley x you #soapghost #john soap mctavish #dad ghost #john soap mactavish #soap cod #dad!soap #dad!ghost

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mistydeyes · 1 year ago

Text

suppressed feelings of hatred

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summary: With the 141 gone and transferred to somewhere unknown, your life should've returned back to normal but you still find your self haunted by a singular man.

part i - behind closed doors part ii - hollow apologies and avoiding glances part iii - half empty glasses with unchanging perspectives

pairing: Simon "Ghost" Riley x gn!reader (but like not even a pairing at this point lol)

okay real talk here and same psa as before but please do not read if you are not comfortable with ANY OF THIS! it is upsetting in all aspects!!

warnings: mentions of torture/violence/cuts/scars, swearing, blood, abusive language, ANGST GALORE

a/n: AS PROMISED here we have part iv! not as heavy as the previous ones but trust me it sets up the next part of their story. i also have a few asks in my inbox with some amazing ideas and thoughts on the story so be sure to look for a q+a coming up!

💌 @nadinesabre @casualunknownrunaway @originaldeerhottub @justpasssingby @missroro @josieguts @miss-i-ship-it @sicknasty03 @jojoblossom @azwong @shadofireshinobi @caramlizedtomatoes @deltottoro @kenz-ee @teehee-47 @tiredmetalenthusiast @hollowmasque @strawberrychita @capricorn-anon @rapture2009 @studioghiblijiji @bitchoftoji @mikeswifie

and for @lirikonjaa mmmmm just gotta be searching for that happy ending bc HAHa DARK TIMES ARE BACK FOR ECLIPSE

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“Love, it’s time to wake up,” you could hear a voice reassure you as you stretched your tired limbs in the warm sheets. You lazily moved the hair out of your eyes as you adapted to the stream of morning light. The room was warmly aglow and smelled vaguely of cinnamon and pancakes. Despite the unknown location, you felt comforted by the figure by your side. “Did you sleep well?” the voice asked as you turned over. In your bed, lay Simon with a boyish smile on his rested face. His torso was exposed and revealed a soft web of silvery scars.“Well enough,” you replied as you put a hand on his turned side. He moved an arm to caress your form. His touch was soft as he ran his fingers along your naked body. As you embraced the radiant sun and his smile, you could feel his arm move up to your shoulder and neck. “What are you doing?” was all you could muster out before you felt his hands tighten ever so slowly around your neck. “I’ll make sure to do the job right this time.”

“GET OFF OF ME!” you screamed as you jerked forward. Your forehead was slick with sweat as you gripped the cold sheets. You tore them off, exposing yourself to the night air of your quarters. You couldn’t help but throw the bottle of Trazadone that was mockingly sitting on your nightstand. It was added to your hefty regiment after you complained of insomnia and the inability to relax. Now you were blessed with horrifying dreams and the image of a singular masked individual.

Mere hours later you made the quick jog to your workstation. You could see your reflection on the shined letters of the wing. THE EDUCATIONAL & TRAINING SERVICES SECTOR it read and you couldn't help but scoff. Rather than a decorated and experienced sergeant, you were relinquished to be a glorified teacher's assistant. As you entered the bright desk space, you greeted your commanding officer with a monotone, "Good morning." He followed you as you sunk down at the sturdy wooden desk with the current files of the newest recruits. "Fresh from Pirbright," he commented before patting your shoulder and walking away. Even at the slight, platonic touch, you could feel shivers envelop your body. You dug your fingernails into the woven fabric of your khaki trousers as you tried to slow your breathing. "Everything alright?" your colleague asked as she looked around her stack of the newest training programmes and manuals. You gave her a slight wave of the hand and returned to the files. "Someone needs their coffee," she commented under her breath and it took everything in you not to throw the stack at her bun.

The day dragged on painstakingly slowly as you flipped through the confidential files of young teenagers, so full of life and energy. You envied their excitement in the photos as through their stoic smiles, you could see light within their eyes. You were like that once, 16 and ready to serve your country. Emphasis on once. "You don't know what you're getting yourself into," you could feel yourself repeating internally. When it came to the next file, you immediately slammed it closed, cutting your index finger in the process. You held your finger to your mouth, feeling nauseous at the taste of iron on your tongue. You could feel the pressure mount as you felt the piercing gaze of the office center on your hunched-over figure. Before anyone could rush over with fake sympathies, you slowly opened the file as it lay mockingly on your desk.

You held in all emotions as you looked at the singular picture of the newest recruit. The name and details of the potential soldier grew hazy in your eyes but that wasn't what you found yourself focusing on. The boy's eyes were brown, almost black in the darkened lighting of the Pirbright intake center. The darkness dissipated into his deep eye bags which conveyed sleepless nights and perpetual insomnia. However, what made your throat rise in anxiety and ears ring with white noise was the way the deep-set eyes and feathery lashes stared into your soul. For those weren't the eyes of this random recruit, they were the eyes of a pre-mature killer. The eyes of a future torturer who coincidentally resembled the singular man who haunted your every dream. They contained the aura of a cold-hearted man, the eyes of Ghost.

As you felt exposed under the strong gaze, you could hear someone clear their throat behind you. "Something the matter, Sergeant?" your commanding officer said, a hint of kindness and concern in his voice. You struggled to keep your cool as you turned back to him. "Just a little tired, Captain," you replied to the best of your ability, "you know the eye strain and all." As you covered your lie with a hollow laugh, he shook his head. "Take the rest of the day off," he instructed, "Pirbright isn't bussing them over until next week." With that, you got up from your desk and pocketed your few belongings. You could feel your fingernails pierce into the thin flesh of your palms as you exited. You wanted to scream the minute you entered back into the hallway to the barracks. You hated the way people looked at you like a kicked puppy or the sympathetic tones that laced every conversation. Hell, ever since last month, you should've been ecstatic.

"We're transferring," Gaz said after a surprise visit to your side of the base. You were enraged at the bold gesture as he stood there in his stupid cap. He was in your safe space, the only place you could run away from it all and not have to have any reminder of them. To his "farewell", you nodded as you gritted your teeth. It was a thoughtless gesture that he saw through. A pitiful attempt to keep up appearances to the gazes of the office. "That's great news," you said, fake enthusiasm coating your voice. His smile faltered as he stuck out a hand to you. Staring back at it, you let your facade fall and put your hands back behind your back. "Goodbye, Gaz." you simply remarked before retreating out of his pitiful sight.

Yet as you returned back to your dim room, you felt like you were drowning in a sea of emotions. You kicked the closed door before turning on the lights to reveal a small manila folder on the ground. You cautiously approached it before picking it up gingerly and laying it on your desk. As you opened the folder up, you were distracted by a singular bold color in your periphery. A red post-it note. You found yourself grinning at the sight of it as you held it in your trembling hands. The file's contents were the least of your concerns as you smiled at the words scribbled in black ink. It practically looked like a calling card that answered your frustrations, as if someone knew and shared in your deep hatred for the 141. “Heard you needed someone, contact P.G. You know where to find him, Eclipse.”

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