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rafecameronsslut4ever · 4 months ago

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CASUAL pt.2— lando norris (angst)

pairing; fem!reader x lando norris summary: it took lando too long to realise it wasn't just 'casual'. warnings: a LOT of angst, toxic relationship, sexual implication, not proofread a/n: casual part 2 was not really a part of the plan but the audience had demands 🦧also i think this was too long lmao. AND IM SO SORRY FOR THE LONG DELAY OMG

part 1 - casual

miami grand prix: the biggest pr nightmare for every driver—especially lando norris.

the media had been all over him that weekend, going to the lengths of literally calling him 'the hottest catch on the single market'. hollywood stars and instagram models were so desperate to marry him and have his kids that they didn't catch on the fact that he was a 23-year-old racing driver who couldn't give a fuck about them.

because he was stuck on you.

for weeks, he'd waited—hoping you’d reach out, or at the very least, watch his instagram stories. he posted shirtless photos, sun-kissed photos—hell, he even threw out a thirst trap just for you. But you didn’t take the bait. you didn't take the fucking bait.

you hadn't texted him or spoken to him since the moment you walked out of that hotel room weeks ago, so he didn't try to reach out either. "would've been a blow to my ego," he'd told sainz.

but now, he didn't give a shit about his ego. he was tired of waiting.

his eyes darted across the packed club, friends and guests scattered all around. he couldn't wait to get out of there.

he hadn't been drinking. didn't really feel like it. truth be told, he hadn’t been feeling much of anything at all.

pool parties, clubs, yachts, champagne and girls.

he was tired of the glitz and glam of his life, and you were the only escape from it.

but you were gone.

his mind wandered to that morning, when you had kissed him and the two of you had ordered room service. when he had held you for the last time.

he hated how the only thing on his mind was you. how it was the only thing on his mind all through the celebrations, as hookers danced around him and people tried to pour drinks into his mouth.

for fuck's sake, he had won a grand prix for the first time in his life, and yet he was unhappy.

how did he get here?

he looked up, eyes falling on a group of men in the VIP section, the lights illuminating their faces.

everyone could tell something was off with lando. he didn't want to do any of this.

all he wanted was you. you, you, you.

the girl who had left without an explanation.

why had you left, anyway? no calls, no texts. your friends avoided him, and you avoided his friends. it was like the two of you were nothing.

lando norris was many things, but he was not a fool. he could recognise when something was wrong, or when a situation had escalated beyond his control.

he knew that there was a reason why you left, but the reason never clicked in that thick brain of his. what had he done wrong? where had he gone wrong?

"i'm not feeling too well, mate." he muttered, handing the beer bottle back to the guy standing next to him.

okay, maybe not admitting his feelings for you had fucked things up. but, what could you expect? he didn't have the time to give you what you deserved.

not right now, at least.

"what are you waiting for, then?" the other man asked, shoving his hands into his pockets.

"what?"

"just call her, bro. i know it's about a girl because there's no way any sane man would say no to expensive beers and a million hot hookers."

did lando even know this man? probably not.

"i can't call her. she doesn't want to talk to me. trust me, i've tried."

"have you?"

he didn't know how to deal with rejection. not like this, not with you. you weren't supposed to leave.

"judging by your sulkiness, i doubt you're going to find a girl like her again. and you'll never have her if you're here."

lando didn't have a heart of stone, as much as his social media persona might suggest. he didn't care for any of this. the women, the money, the fame.

he wanted to hold you again. kiss you, tell you he loves you. he wanted to hold your hand. he wanted to be near you, and only you.

so, when his feet hit the floor and he found himself walking towards the exit, he wasn't surprised.

yeah, it was foolish of him to leave a party full of women who were celebrating him (literally) for a girl who had ghosted him, but the need was stronger than his pride.

out of the yacht, he was dialling the only number he'd ever memorised. the phone rang, and then it rang again.

would she be wearing his clothes, or would she have gotten rid of everything related to him?

maybe she'd found another man, finally realising that lando was a bad investment.

as the phone rang, you were hidden in your apartment with blankets wrapped around you and a youtube video playing in the background.

it had been months since you'd heard the word 'casual' leave his mouth. months since you had fled london and monaco to move to miami.

at first, his words had echoed in your mind constantly, and you'd cried yourself to sleep a few times more than you'd like to admit.

but just like every heartbroken poet in history, the hurt faded and the pain slowly morphed into hatred. and anger.

you wanted to slam your head against a wall. scratch that, you wanted to slam his head against a wall.

it was so stupid, and you hated yourself for believing he'd been genuine.

it was just sex. that's all it ever was. it truly was just casual.

the phone was still ringing. your finger hesitated over the answer button. you weren't going to answer it.

it wasn't worth it. you didn't want to hear his voice. didn't want him to have the satisfaction of knowing that his words had hurt you. you didn't want to know if he was sleeping around, if his girlfriends were prettier than you.

so the line went dead.

lando stood by the harbour, watching as yachts and ships sailed past him. the air was humid and his t-shirt clung to his body, the heat almost unbearable. the sound of waves, the distant laughter and music, and the sound of his ragged breaths.

he ran his fingers through his hair, looking around. where was his car?

he had to find his way back to his hotel. he was a mess, and his clothes were sticking to his skin. he needed to fix his appearance, buy a bouquet a flowers.

he checked the time on his watch, and cursed as he saw the numbers. it was almost 3 am. he wouldn't find flowers anywhere at 3 am.

"fuck it." he said, running over to his car. the drive was quiet, save for the low hum of music and his occasional swearing when someone drove a little bit slower than he'd like.

lando norris had the world on his fingertips. he could have any girl he wanted. anyone, really. but he only wanted you. he was a hopeless romantic, and you were his muse.

when he pulled up outside the apartment, his nerves were going haywire. he ran a hand through his hair and took a deep breath before getting out of the car.

he knocked twice on the door and when it opened, his eyes lit up.

you stared back at him, sleepiness in your eyes and confusion etched on your face.

and god, did you look gorgeous.

he loved you, he realised. he had to cross his hands behind his back to stop them from reaching out and holding you close.

"lando?" you breathed out.

he had grown a slight stubble since you last saw him. his hair were still the same, except a little bit longer. his blue eyes were wide as he looked at you.

"hey," his voice was shaky.

"what the fuck are you doing here?"

he wanted to say so many things. ask you why you left, where it went wrong, why you moved to miami. he wanted to declare his love for you, press his lips to yours, hold you by the waist. he wanted to hear you say that you loved him too.

he was so in love with you, and you had no idea.

"lando? why are you here?" you asked again.

he was at a loss of words. what could he say? he couldn't exactly just stand there and say nothing.

"because," his voice cracked, "i miss you."

your throat went dry. he could not just say that.

it had been weeks. weeks of him not contacting you, weeks of you not speaking to him. the phone calls had stopped, the text messages had stopped, the late night chats had stopped. everything was just gone.

and now, he missed you?

tears welled up in your eyes, a lump forming in your throat. you shook your head, pushing back the tears, "go away."

"what? no, wait. wait. don't do this." he pleaded, his voice fragile and desperate, like a child trying to avoid bedtime.

"lando-"

he interrupted you, voice louder than before. "can we please talk about this?"

"what is there to talk about?" you were raising your voice. you hated him. how could he act like this after all that happened?

"everything. just—please, can i come in?" he sounded so pathetic. he felt so pathetic. his hands were slightly hovering over the door, ready to push it open and walk in.

the request took you by surprise. "i-no."

you missed him. there was no denying that.

you wanted him to tell you it was okay. wanted to go back to that night in his mclaren, the night he told you he liked you. wanted the weekends spent in london with his family. you wanted him, all of him.

his curly hair wrapped around your fingers, blue eyes staring at you, soft lips kissing you. his cold hands grabbing yours, and his voice saying your name. you wanted it to not be casual.

"i just want to talk to you."

he was drunk. there was no other way he would've showed up here, let alone begged to talk to you. the fact that he needed to be drunk to have this conversation made your blood boil.

"do you still have my jacket?"

of course, you still had his stupid jacket. the one that had his smell embedded into the fabric. it was an exclusive print mclaren had given him, and he had swung it around your shoulders after the night you had first made love to each other.

but he didn't care about the jacket, and neither did you. it was just a reminder.

you were silent for a while, taking in the sight of each other. it was his breath mingling with yours.

"i love you." he whispered.

your breath hitched in your throat, the tears finally falling out of your eyes as you sighed.

"i love you," he repeated to himself. "yes, i do. and i've known that since the day i met you."

you choked back sobs as you shook your head, "you're drunk, lando."

"i'm not," he chuckled, "maybe a little, but not enough."

then, he added, "i mean it. i love you." his voice was steady. he truly meant every word. but he didn't know what would happen now.

"what do you want me to say, lando?"

he sighed, "anything."

you laughed bitterly. anything, he said.

anything would've been better than what had happened.

"i don't think i can do this, lando."

"we can take it slow."

"you've never done slow."

he fell silent again because you were right. he'd never done slow. he didn't know how to take things slow. he was a fucking formula 1 driver, after all. slow wasn't something he did. he'd always lived life like it was the last day. and that's how he had lost you.

"i'm sorry," he began, his voice breaking. "i should've been a better person. i'm sorry for everything i did. i should've given you more, i-i should've loved you more, because you deserve so much more. i'm so, so, sorry."

"lando," you whispered, "it's not—"

"don't make excuses for me, please. i love you, i really do. and if i have to spend the rest of my life proving that, i will." and he meant every word. "i just want you back."

your mind was racing, a million thoughts running through it. it was like a movie. his blue eyes, his voice, the desperation in his tone, the way he stood before you.

"okay," you muttered.

"wait, okay? does that mean—"

"you're gonna have to work for this," you said.

"i know, and i will. i promise."

you sighed, rubbing your temple. this wasn't a good idea. "get in."

lando's face lit up, and before you could change your mind, he had walked into the apartment. he hadn't really been here before, considering you moved here after the two of you had stopped talking. but the apartment was lovely, homely. everything you.

you closed the door behind him, watching him look around the living room.

"how'd you know where i live?"

he chuckled, turning to face you. "i'm a famous driver. i have my sources."

"i'm sure." a tense silence followed, neither of you knowing what to say.

"i'm not letting this happen again," he blurted, "i'm not. i don't know how, but i won't."

"i don't believe you." you scoffed.

"fuck, baby, what do i have to do for you to believe me?" he stepped towards you, closing the distance.

"stop calling me that."

"you are my baby." he tried to joke.

"lando, i'm not joking."

"i'm serious too," his voice was sincere, "i love you, and i'll do whatever it takes for you to believe me."

you had been through a lot together. the highs, the lows. you had seen him at his best, and at his worst. the good and the bad.

he moved closer, reaching a hand out to hold yours. you didn't know why, but the moment his hand touched yours, it was like a switch had flipped inside of you.

you let his hand wander over yours like a ghost, his calloused fingertips tracing over your knuckles. he intertwined your fingers together, eyes casted down.

"i've never cared about anyone the way i care about you." he admitted in a soft voice.

and then he pressed his lips to yours. his other hand wrapped around your waist, pulling you closer to him.

and god, did he taste the same. lando had a way with his lips. it was a talent. he kissed you like he needed your lips to survive. he was desperate for your touch as if he had been starving without it.

you were so lost in the feeling that you hadn't realised how far you had pushed him until the back of his knees hit the couch, and he fell on top of it.

his eyes were wide, mouth hanging open. his shirt was halfway unbuttoned, exposing his chest and toned abs.

the two of you stared at each other, eyes searching the other's.

"i love you." he murmured for what seemed like the hundredth time that night.

maybe it was the way his blue eyes bore into yours, or the way his lips quivered, or maybe it was the fact that he had driven across the city to say this.

but for the first time that night, you believed him. and suddenly, the anger was gone. it was all gone.

"i love you, too." you whispered.

it was the only thing the two of you needed. the confirmation, the reassurance. the love.

you leaned down and connected your lips once more, hand reaching up to his curls and tugging lightly. he moaned into the kiss, pulling you on top of him.

your tongue entered his mouth, the taste of him making you lightheaded. his hands roamed over your body, the feeling of his skin against yours.

"baby," he whispered between kisses, "i want you so bad. i've waited so long."

his lips trailed along your jaw and down your neck, sucking marks into the sensitive skin.

"i want you," he murmured against the crook of your neck, "so fucking bad."

but he pulled away, flipping the two of you over so he was on top of you. he took off his shirt, and rested his head on your chest. he cleared his throat, "i should've asked this question earlier, but are you single?"

"yeah." you chuckled, running a hand through his curls.

"so, can i be your boyfriend?"

"lando norris," you hummed, "did you finally get the guts to ask me out?"

"yes," he smiled, lifting his head up to look at you, "yes, i did. will you be my girlfriend?"

"you're a dork."

"that's not an answer."

"yes," you laughed, "yes, i'll be your girlfriend."

lando grinned, and you grinned back.

yeah, it wasn't casual anymore.

(u guys im so sorry if i've tagged someone who doesnt want to be tagged i just had no idea how to let non-followers know part 2 is out bcs tumblr is not letting me reply to comments😭if anyone wants their tag removed, feel free to dm me!! i hope u liked this) @oscarpiassrri @meglouise00 @f1fantasys @technicallypleasanttree @ggaslyp1 @obxstiles @nataliambc @prudyhoo @idkwtdwml123 @ushygushybaby @emilyroxy @yootvi @fishingarden @pillowprincess4him @herexpertcollector

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valkyriexo · 5 months ago

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Silence | Bang Chan

ᑉ³pairing; Boyfriend Chan x Reader

ᑉ³genre; Angst , Smut

ᑉ³warnings; SMUT MDNI ,dirty talk, swearing, Fingering, oral f reciving, begging

ᑉ³Authors Note; 1k event Commisson giveaway winner @chrizzztopherbang (sorry it took so long :((( )

The restaurant was bustling, filled with the chatter of people enjoying their Friday night.

But at your table, a tense silence hung in the air.

Your parents sat across from you, glancing at the door every few minutes, waiting for the man they’d heard so much about. But as the minutes ticked by, Chan’s absence became glaring

Your stomach churned with anxiety, but you kept a smile on your face, holding onto the thin hope that maybe he was just running late. He had to be coming—this was the night you were finally introducing him to your parents, the people who mattered most to you.

Your phone sat face-up on the table, dark and motionless. No missed calls. No texts.

Not even a simple message to say he wasn’t coming.

You checked your phone again, the light of the screen glaringly bright in the dim restaurant. Nothing. He hadn’t reached out. No explanation. No apology. You swallowed the growing lump in your throat, trying to keep the disappointment from showing on your face.

Your mom glanced at her watch, then back at you with a sympathetic smile. “Honey, maybe he got caught up in traffic or something. We can wait a bit longer.”

Your dad, on the other hand, wasn’t as forgiving. He leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, his face a mask of thinly veiled frustration. “It’s been nearly an hour. If he can’t even make it to dinner with your parents, what does that say about him?”

You opened your mouth to defend him but stopped. You couldn’t deny that this wasn’t just an isolated event. Over the past few weeks, Chan had been slipping—forgetting dates, canceling plans last minute, or worse, just not showing up. But tonight, of all nights, was different. He knew how important this was to you. To both of you.

And he still wasn’t here.

It felt like a punch to the gut. You’d been nervous about tonight for weeks, planning every detail in your head. Your parents had flown in just for this. And Chan, the man you’d been dating for months, wasn’t even here

“Maybe something came up…” you offered weakly, though the words felt hollow, even to you.

Your dad sighed, shaking his head. “Sweetheart, a man who cares about you doesn’t let ‘something’ come up on a night like this. He makes time.”

The words stung because deep down, you knew he was right. You’d been making excuses for Chan for weeks, convincing yourself that his work, his schedule, was just overwhelming, and that it wasn’t personal. But this? This felt personal.

Your mom reached across the table, squeezing your hand gently. “We don’t have to stay, you know. We can reschedule, or…”

The thought of leaving without even hearing from him made your stomach drop. You wanted to brush it off, pretend like it didn’t matter, but it did. You wanted your parents to see the man you loved, to understand why you were so devoted to him. But right now, even you were struggling to remember that reason.

The waiter approached, a polite smile on his face. “Are we ready to order, or should I give you a few more minutes?”

You hesitated, glancing at the empty seat beside you, before shaking your head. “No, I think we’re ready.”

The rest of dinner was strained, your parents trying to keep up light conversation, but the tension in the air was undeniable. Every few minutes, your eyes drifted to your phone, but it remained painfully silent.

No word from Chan. No explanation.

By the time you made it back home, the weight of the evening settled heavily on your shoulders. Your parents had been kind—understanding, even—but their disappointment lingered. You could feel it in the hug your mom gave you before she left, the look your dad gave you as he told you to "think about what you deserve."

And he was right. You deserved better than this.

When you finally walked into your apartment, the quiet was suffocating. You dropped your bag on the couch, sitting down with a heavy sigh, staring at the blank screen of your phone once more. A million thoughts raced through your head—maybe something had happened, maybe there was a reason he couldn’t make it, maybe—

Your phone lit up, and your heart leapt for a split second. But it wasn’t Chan. It was a notification from some random app, and the disappointment hit you like a wave.

You leaned back against the couch, the realization sinking in. He hadn’t forgotten tonight. He’d just… not shown up. And the worst part was, he hadn’t even bothered to tell you.

There was no last-minute excuse, no frantic apology, no explanation. He had simply left you waiting.

You didn’t know how long you sat there, staring at nothing, feeling the weight of it all. But eventually, the front door opened, and Chan walked in, looking exhausted but casual, as if it were any other night. He saw you on the couch and smiled, dropping his keys onto the table.

“Hey, sorry I’m late. Long day at the studio,” he said, running a hand through his hair. He didn’t even look guilty.

You blinked, staring at him in disbelief. “Late? You didn’t even come.”

Chan frowned, confused. “What are you talking about? I’m here now.”

“You didn’t come to dinner,” you said, your voice shaking with a mixture of anger and sadness. “I waited for you. My parents waited for you.”

It was as if the weight of what you were saying finally hit him. His eyes widened, realization dawning. “Shit, wait—dinner. That was tonight?”

You stood up, your heart pounding in your chest. “Yeah, it was tonight. The dinner where you were supposed to meet my parents for the first time. The dinner we planned weeks ago. And you didn’t show up.”

His face paled, guilt creeping in, but it wasn’t enough. Not this time. You had waited, excused, and forgiven too many times before.

“I’m sorry, I really am. I didn’t mean to—” Chan started, but you cut him off.

“No, Chan. You didn’t even tell me you weren’t coming. You didn’t call, you didn’t text. You left me sitting there, waiting, with no idea where you were.”

He opened his mouth to speak, but you shook your head, tears welling in your eyes. “I can’t keep doing this. I can’t keep being the one who waits.”

Chan’s expression crumbled as he stepped forward, but you took a step back. “Please, I’ll make it right. I swear—”

But you’d heard it all before. And this time, it wasn’t enough.

The silence that followed your words was thick, suffocating. Chan stared at you, his face twisted in guilt, but it wasn’t enough this time. Nothing he could say would make up for the way you felt tonight—alone, forgotten, like an afterthought.

"I said I’m sorry, okay?" His voice was low, almost pleading. But the apology felt like it was more for his own peace of mind than for you.

You laughed bitterly, shaking your head. "Sorry? That’s all you have to say? You didn’t even care enough to send me a text, Chan! You didn’t care enough to let me know you weren’t coming to meet my parents!"

“I do care—” he started, but you cut him off, voice trembling with the frustration and hurt you’d been bottling up for weeks.

“Do you? Do you really? Because it feels like I’m the only one putting any effort into this relationship!” The words spilled out before you could stop them, years of unsaid feelings finally surfacing. “I’ve been bending over backwards for you, making excuses for you, and for what? For you to just forget about me over and over again?”

Chan’s jaw clenched, his eyes flickering with anger, but he kept his voice calm. “It’s not like I’m doing this on purpose. I’m trying to juggle everything—the studio, the group, the deadlines—it’s not easy.”

“Don’t you dare try to make me feel guilty for that.” Your voice cracked, and you took a step toward him, fists clenched. “I’ve been patient. I’ve understood every time you’ve had to cancel plans, every time you’ve been late because of work. But this was important, Chan! You were supposed to meet my parents! You were supposed to be there for me for once!”

He flinched, as if your words physically hurt him, but he still tried to defend himself. “I know it was important, but I can’t always be everywhere at once. I’m doing my best, and sometimes things slip through the cracks.”

You stared at him, feeling a bitter mix of anger and heartbreak. “I shouldn’t have to feel like I’m slipping through the cracks in your life.”

The silence that followed was deafening. Chan’s face softened as he realized how deeply he had hurt you. He opened his mouth to say something, but no words came out. You could see the guilt in his eyes, but it was too late. The damage was done.

You turned away from him, your arms wrapping around yourself, trying to hold in the tears that threatened to spill. “I need space, Chan. I need to think.”

“Wait,” he said, stepping forward, his voice desperate now. “Don’t shut me out. Please, we can talk about this.”

You shook your head, your voice cold and distant. “There’s nothing to talk about right now. I just… I need time.”

Without another word, you walked past him, retreating into your bedroom, leaving him standing alone in the living room, guilt and frustration etched across his face.

The next few days were a blur of silence. You avoided Chan’s calls, ignored his texts, and when you saw him, you barely acknowledged his presence. The silent treatment weighed heavily on both of you, but you weren’t ready to face him. Not yet. The sting of being let down, again and again, was too fresh.

At first, Chan tried to give you space, respecting your need for time to process. But as the days went on, he began to grow more desperate. The messages started coming more frequently—apologies, explanations, everything he could think of to get through to you. But you remained silent.

One night, you were sitting in your living room, laying on the couch and scrolling through your phone aimlessly, when you heard a knock at your door. You didn’t respond, hoping he’d go away, but then the door opened slowly, and Chan stepped inside.

He looked exhausted, his usual confidence replaced by an unmistakable vulnerability. He stood there for a moment, unsure of what to say, before finally sitting down at the edge of your bed.

“I know you’re mad,” he started, his voice low and hesitant. “And you have every right to be.”

You didn’t say anything, keeping your eyes glued to your phone. But the tension in the room was thick, and you could feel him watching you, waiting for some kind of response.

He sighed, running a hand through his hair. “I messed up. I know I did. And I can’t stand that I hurt you like this. I’ve been trying to fix it, but I don’t even know where to start anymore.”

Still, you said nothing, but your heart ached at the sadness in his voice. You wanted to forgive him, to let it go, but a part of you needed him to understand just how deeply his actions had hurt you.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, his voice breaking slightly. “I’m so sorry I made you feel like you don’t matter. Because you do. You’re the most important person in my life, and I hate that I’ve made you feel otherwise.”

You glanced up at him, and the sight of him—his eyes red, his face etched with regret—made something inside you soften. But you weren’t ready to give in just yet.

“I don’t know if I can keep doing this,” you said quietly, finally breaking your silence. “I can’t keep waiting for you to show up, wondering if I’m ever going to be enough to make you prioritize me.”

Chan’s eyes widened, and he shook his head quickly. “You are enough. You’re more than enough. I’ve just been so caught up in everything that I lost sight of what’s really important.”

He reached out, taking your hand gently, and for the first time in days, you didn’t pull away.

“I can’t lose you,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “I know I’ve been an idiot. I know I’ve let you down more times than I can count, but I’m begging you… please don’t give up on us.”

Tears stung your eyes as you looked at him, the vulnerability in his expression breaking down the last of your defenses. You could see how much he meant every word, how deeply he regretted the pain he’d caused you.

“I don’t want to give up on us either,” you admitted, your voice trembling. “But something has to change, Chan. I need to know that I can rely on you, that I matter.”

“You do,” he said quickly, his grip on your hand tightening. “I swear, things will be different. I’ll make sure of it. I’ll be better. For you. For us.”

Before you could respond, Chan sank to his knees in front of you, his eyes locked on yours. The raw vulnerability in his expression made your heart ache. “Please,” he said, his voice breaking. “I know I’ve let you down. I know I’ve been a mess. But I’m begging you, please don’t give up on us. I need you. I’ll do anything to make this right. Just give me a chance.”

You stared at him, shocked by his sudden desperation. The image of him on his knees, pleading with you, was almost too much to bear. The hurt was still fresh, and though his words and actions were sincere, you struggled with the weight of what he’d done.

You looked down at Chan, kneeling before you, his eyes filled with a mix of regret and desperation. His plea hung in the air, heavy with unspoken promises and fear. You could see how much he wanted to make things right, but the pain and disappointment you felt were still raw and unsettling.

“I don’t know, Chan,” you said finally, your voice wavering. “I want to believe that things will be different, but I’m not sure if I can just forgive and forget. You’ve let me down so many times. How can I be sure this time will be any different?”

Chan’s face fell, and he lowered his gaze, his shoulders slumping. “I understand if you’re not ready to forgive me. I really do. But please, just give me a chance to prove it to you. I know I’ve been a fool, and I’m sorry. I’ll work every day to show you that I’m worth your trust.”

Your heart ached at the sight of him, so vulnerable and earnest. You wanted to believe him, wanted to reach out and pull him up from his knees, but the scars of past disappointments were still fresh. You needed to see more than words. You needed to know that the change he promised was real and lasting.

Before you could voice your doubts, Chan moved closer, his eyes never leaving yours. The intensity of his gaze was disarming, and you felt your resolve waver as he closed the distance between you. He reached out gently, cupping your face with his hands, his touch warm and tender.

As he leaned in, his breath mingling with yours, you felt a surge of emotion that you couldn’t ignore. You wanted to push him away, to maintain your boundaries, but the vulnerability and sincerity in his eyes made it hard to resist. When his lips brushed against yours, it was soft and hesitant, a plea for forgiveness more profound than words could convey.

You hesitated for a moment, your mind racing with conflicting thoughts, but then you found yourself responding, your lips meeting his in a kiss that was both passionate and desperate. The connection was electric, and for a brief, fleeting moment, it felt like the world outside ceased to exist.

Chan’s kiss deepened, his arms wrapping around you, pulling you closer. You could feel the tension in his body, the way he seemed to pour all his remorse and longing into that single, heartfelt kiss. It was as if he was trying to erase the distance that had grown between you, to bridge the gap left by all the unfulfilled promises.

You leaned back, pulling him with you, your body arching into his touch as his hands trailed over your skin. The sensation was intoxicating, and you found yourself lost in the moment, all rational thought fading away. You needed this, needed him.

His hands continued to trail, and one made its way to your clothed heat.

Your breath hitched as you felt him rub you through the fabric, a delicious friction building.

"Channie..." you breathed out, your voice barely a whisper.

"I need you, Y/N," he mumbled, his lips grazing your neck.

The battle raged on around you. Your body ached for him, for his touch, his kisses. As his fingers slipped underneath your panties, the warmth of his skin against yours, you felt your resolve crumble.

You wanted him, needed him, despite all the hurt and disappointment he had caused. In that moment, none of it mattered. All you could focus on was the way he made you feel.

Chan's eyes were dark with lust as his fingers slipped between your wet folds, the pressure of his thumb on your clit making your breath catch in your throat.

"God, Y/N, you're so wet," he murmured, his voice low and husky. " I missed this.."

As he continued his teasing, you could feel yourself giving in, the pleasure clouding your judgment. Your hips rocked against his hand, seeking more, and a moan escaped your lips as he slid a finger inside of you.

"You like that?" he whispered, his lips ghosting over your ear.

"Yes," you breathed out, your voice shaky.

The feeling of his fingers inside you, curling up just the way you liked, was almost too much to bear. His palm pressed against your clit, the heat and pressure driving you wild, his other hand beginning to slip your clothes off.

Your mind raced, conflicting thoughts tugging at you. Part of you wanted to stop this, to keep your walls up and protect yourself. But another part of you needed this, needed him, more than anything.

"I want to taste you.... To apologize with my tounge in places my words couldnt reach," he whispered against your ear

Chan's voice was thick with desire, his eyes dark and hungry as he looked at you. Your mind was spinning, but all you could focus on was how good it felt.

As he sank to his deeper into his knees in front of you, his face inches from your heat, you knew there was no going back. His breath was hot against your skin as he leaned in, and the feeling of his tongue against your folds was enough to make you moan.

Chan was relentless, licking and sucking at your sensitive flesh, his hands gripping your hips to hold you in place. The feeling of his lips and tongue on your most intimate parts was intoxicating, and you could feel the pleasure building inside of you, a delicious heat spreading through your body.

"Fuck, Y/N," he murmured, his voice muffled against you. "You taste so good."

His words sent a shiver down your spine, and you couldn't help but let out a moan as he teased your entrance with his tongue.

"Channie..." you breathed out, your voice shaky.

You could feel the pressure building inside of you, your muscles tensing as his tongue lapped at your clit, his fingers pumping in and out of you.

The pleasure was overwhelming, and you could feel yourself losing control. Your hips bucked against his mouth, and you dug your fingers into his hair, holding him against you.

"Don't stop," you gasped, the words spilling from your lips without a thought.

You were teetering on the edge, your body aching for release but he wasnt gonna let it end there.

He was apologizing right?

You could feel it coming, the sweet relief just out of reach. You needed more, needed him deeper.

"Please," you moaned, the sound desperate and needy.

Chan responded immediately, his fingers pumping faster, his tongue swirling around your clit. He was relentless, his pace increasing, pushing you closer and closer to the edge.

Your muscles tightened, and the pressure inside you was almost too much to bear.

Then, suddenly, everything went white. You cried out, your body shuddering as the orgasm crashed through you. Your vision blurred, and all you could feel was the intense, pulsing pleasure coursing through your veins.

As you came down from the high, your breath ragged and your heart racing, you could feel the tension in the room.

But that wasnt the end for Chan

He continued to eat you out, wanting to give you another one.

You were exhausted, physically and emotionally, but Chan's hands held you in place, his tongue tracing patterns across your clit. The sensations were too much, and you could feel yourself quickly building toward another release.

"C-Chan," you whimpered, your voice shaky.

"Let go, baby," he whispered, his words sending a jolt of pleasure through your body. "Come for me again."

As his fingers curled inside you, and as he found that perfect spot, you knew you were done for. Your muscles tensed, and the pressure inside you threatened to burst.

"P-Please" You say without thinking, the pleasure taking over any rational thoughts.

"Oh no, no... this is my apology to you, baby. Im going to make you cum until i'm forgiven"

And then, with one final, torturous swipe of his tongue, you were gone.

Over and Over and Over again, until you could no longer remember why you were even mad at him in the first place.

ઇଓ Taglist

@skzstarnet @supernovanetwork @k-labels

@kayleefriedchicken @stellasays45 @beautyandmentalbreakdown @bo-fairykim @hopefulrascalstatesmantoad

@onlyhyunjin @oddracha @karatlima @everythingboutkpop @grandma143

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@chrizzztopherbang @Palindrome969 @skzruby @Miss-delaneyrose @kimahreummm

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keferon · 1 month ago

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Part 3! Ratchet and Deadlock time.

The ray of sunshine has left, leaving us in the cold dark of the angst.

Ratchet works through some stuff.

———————————————————————

Ratchet hadn’t actually meant for the conversation to start with Roddy.

The medic had wanted to fully explain why he’d left the Mecha Program for awhile. His outburst earlier cementing the fact he needed to get it off his chest, or he’d start lashing out at the wrong people.

Again.

The Kid deserved to know what staying with him could drag him into. Ratchet kept his hands busy cleaning his bowl in the shop sink.

Hot Rod, Ratchet realized, was a good enough bridge into the topic. Someone Deadlock could put a face to. Not just nameless pilots upon pilots.

“There’s a condition called Congenital Insensitivity to Pain. CIP for short. The abbreviated explanation is sometimes humans can be born without the ability to feel pain or that the sensation of pain doesn’t translate correctly to the brain. It’s a very dangerous condition to have since it means that the person doesn’t get the usual warning signs that’s something’s wrong.”

The bowl was completely clean but so long as Ratchet didn’t turn around, he could pretend he was just training a med student.

“So that question about “weird pressures”. You were checking for damage Hot Rod doesn’t know he’s sustained due this CIP condition?”

Kid was smarter than he gave himself credit for. Ratchet thought for not the first time. He almost got it right.

“Hot Rod doesn’t have CIP. Not actual CIP.”

Ratchet put the bowl down, his hand not moving from the faucet after turning it off.

“He wasn’t born with it. Because I caused it.”

—————————

“I was so damn proud.” Said Ratchet.

At the time, he was. The integration process for recruits to become pilots was horrific. Excruciatingly painful. And something out of a science fiction movie.

In order to condition the human nervous system to work with the mecha neural interface, it necessitated mapping out every nerve and neuron in the pilots body.

While conscious.

Orion came up with the best analogy for it once: You could create a perfect 3 dimensional map of an entire ant colony’s nest. Provided you poured enough molten lead down the hole.

Ratchet wasn’t one to standby watching friends or strangers suffer, so he rolled up his sleeves and set his mind to fixing the whole damn thing.

On the line between man and machine, Ratchets role in the mecha program was right on the fence.

Specifically, he’d started very close to the fence on the side of the machines, and during the course of the program, picked up enough extra PHD’s to hook a leg over said fence to reach across and start smacking the shit out of some particularly stupid doctors handling the men.

Ratchet worked for years along side Pharma and Shockwave to make the integration process less permanently damaging.

Common long term side effects were: Blurry Vision Jazz, Disassociation Swoop, Memory Loss Sludge, Paralysis Snarl, Nerve Damge Slag, Internal Hemorrhaging Grimlock, Altered Personality Shockwave, and Brain Death Orion.

There were dozens more faces Ratchet could pair with any given symptom.

Eventually, Ratchet got his lucky break. A fresh batch of recruits to try his tweaked integration process on. Hot Rod was one of them.

Ratchet had thought he’d hit a breakthrough. But he couldn’t. He couldn’t publish it yet. Not until he was sure.

Hot Rod aced the physical and mental exam. The rest of his test group did pretty well too. They weren’t cream of the crop. The higher ups didn’t want to risk loosing more valuable pilots to an experiment. When Pharma had already established an “acceptable level of care” that nicely suited them.

Ratchet personally watched the lot of them like a hawk. Just waiting for the other shoe to drop.

It didn’t come. Hot Rod was fine. The whole group was fine.

He was so damn proud.

The pilots went straight into mecha training and then-

They dropped like flies.

It was on the bad end of the bell curve for pilot fatalities. Ratchet thought it had to be the new series of mecha that had been built at the same time. He’d switched into engineering mode to rectify that. They had glaring safety issues where the flamethrowers and thrusters intersected. Plus, it wasn’t unusual for the mecha program to just have particularly rough seasons. The tentacled fucks were out in swarms. And by god was that a bloody summer for everyone.

It happened three days after the last big fight. Pretty much everyone who came back alive came back with some sort of injury. Except for Hot Rod, who Pharma gave a clean bill of health.

Ratchet was in his corner of the medical wing, looking over his proposal for the new integration method when Jazz dragged Hot Rod into his office.

Red flag number one: Jazz was a nightmare patient who avoided the med wing like a bear trap.

He tried. Goddamn it if Jazz didn’t try, but he was physically incapable of getting through medical procedures without being heavily sedated. The last time Ratchet tried to do minor stitches with only a local anesthetic, Jazz panicked and damn near broke his arm.

Jazz and Hot Rod were both wearing shorts, t-shirts and sneakers. Judging from the smell, they had just gotten here from the rec room. Probably basketball or maybe dodgeball.

Ratchet had gone through a full medical checklist before they finished coming through the door. Neither looked sick or injured. Nothing was obviously wrong beyond the clear look on Jazz’s face that said “Something is actually very wrong.”

Jazz wheeled Hot Rod in front of Ratchet.

“Show him.”

Hot Rod looked more embarrassed than in desperate need of medical attention.

“I’m fine Jazz, I probably just need to stretch.”

Jazz waved his hand cutting him off. Ratchet would usually start telling them off by now but something stopped him.

“Hot Rod raise your arms above your head. Both of them.”

The red headed pilot reluctantly obeyed. His right arm lifted straight up above his body. His left. Hot Rod made a face of concentration, as his left arm refused to go any higher than his head.

Three days.

Hot Rods shoulder had been dislocated for three days and no one fucking noticed.

Ratchet chewed out Jazz at first thinking he’d caused it. Then he chewed out Hot Rod for not coming to medical as soon as he knew about the injury.

And then, something very cold settled into his stomach the more and more Hot Rod swore he didn’t notice. That it didn’t even hurt.

“Ratchet, I’m fine!”

He should have been in pain. In agony after three days.

Later, Ratchet would go through each medical file of every pilot he had been responsible for. They had all had ailments in their files. Minor visible injuries that were all taken care of. Major ones went surprisingly smoothly. Patient notes praising the med staff for keeping them so comfortable. Praising him. Not one pilot had made a single pain med request since going through the integration process. On his files, there was one surviving active duty pilot from the same integration process.

Ratchet’s integration process.

————————

“Hot Rod said he forgave me.” Ratchet laughed. A little too wet and little too rough.

“Just like that.”

When’d he start shaking?

Ratchet still didn’t, couldn’t look the Kid in the eyes. “I left, not long after. There’s so much fucking more that was happening. That was the last straw, because when I told Shockwave and Pharma, those heartless fucks wanted to make it standard across the board. Soldiers that can’t feel pain? Of fucking course they wanted that. Didn’t matter the fatality rate was nine times as high.”

Ratchets voice was getting worse. But he couldn’t stop. “I thought I could fix it all from the inside. I thought as long as I stayed I could be some, fucking moral compass to a bunch of greedy, prideful, fucking deranged people. I was an egotistical IDIOT that thought I could somehow save every doomed kid tricked into walking into that “necessary evil.” I actually believed I could-”

Ratchet was abruptly cut off from his ranting as two massive hands grabbed him around the waist and deposited him on a ledge, at eye level.

“Kid, what-“ Deadlocks eyes looked shiny.

“I-I can’t keep looking down at you.”

The two of them sat in silence.

Neither seemed to know or want to start talking again right away. Ratchet was used to stewing in regrets on occasion. That had felt more like putting those regrets into a blender and then forgetting the lid.

Deadlocks plating was pulled tight. Ratchet had almost forgotten what he looked like when he was stressed. He wanted immediately to take it all back. Make it better. See him laugh drunk and cozy again like yesterday.

“Kid, I’m sorry. That- that was too much to put on you.” Deadlocks hands weren’t gripping him anymore but resting on either side of the ledge. Ratchet pet small circles on a thumb that twitched slightly under his hand.

Deadlock straightened and looked at him with a steely expression, mouth tense, eyes determined.

“You are one of the most intelligent, stubborn, and caring people I’ve ever met. Nope.” Deadlock corrected himself, lifting a hand. “THE most intelligent, stubborn and caring person that exists.” He dragged out the syllables of that last word.

“You!” He poked Ratchet in the chest. “Saved me. And I’m fragging terrible.”

Ratchet took offense to that, “You’re not terrible and you’re worth saving!”

Deadlock grinned, “The worst thing you can possibly say about yourself is that you care too much to put up with some kind of slagged up torture facility. Which, by the way, I am still fully offering to blown up.”

“Still full of innocent people kid.”

“Okay kidnapping then. I say we nab Hot Rod first.”

Ratchet leaned back against the wall and made one of those desperate chuckles you only hear when someone has their face buried in their hands. “Kid. The quintessons.”

That took a little wind out of his sails.

“The system is fucking broken and trust me I want to see it all burn someday. But we’re in a goddamn war. And as much as I hate the mecha program, it’s the best shot at survival we have.” Ratchet watched Deadlocks finales pin back again.

He offered a palm to Ratchet, who after a moment’s consideration, not very gracefully scooted on. Instead of lowering him to the floor, Deadlock brought him to his face. His eyes closed and he gently bumped his medic with his forehelm.

“Whatever you need. Just ask. Please.”

Ratchet sighed and rested his own forehead against the cybertronian. “I want you take care of yourself. I told you all that stuff so you understand why I’m fighting giants here and you can decide to back out. They can hurt you kid. Kill you. I don’t even want to think about what would have happened if Shockwave found you instead of me.”

Deadlock snorted, “Please, do you think any of those suits could handle me?”

Ratchet tapped his hand to put him down, which Deadlock obliged. He hummed.

“Well I can think of three candidates off the top of my head, but one got lost in space and the other might technically be a zombie.”

“What’s the third?”

Ratchet started shrugging on a coat, “Hot Rod.”

He smirked a bit as Deadlocks finales snapped up in offense. “What? Absolutely not. No fragging way that little rust spot can beat me in a fight.”

Ratchet began packing a go bag of medical supplies, “Well I was going to keep it to myself, but part of the reason I brought him in was because I asked Hot Rod to look out for you where I can’t.”

He slung the heavy bag over one shoulder. “Plus, I knew Hot Rod was going to love you. He sees the best in people. And kid?” Ratchet paused at the door.

“You’re someone special.”

———————————————————————

It’s always darkest before the dawn. This…has become a four parter. Dang. Good news is the ray of sunshine will return in style next time.

Some extra tid-bits, I got a head canon that the main side effect Jazz got from the integration process (other than PTSD) is blurry vision. He can see fine while hooked into a mech but can’t get his eyes to focus properly as a human. So Ratchet whipped up a visor that tricks his eyes into thinking he’s still looking through a mecha so he can see normally.

Also, a lot of you guys guessed correctly what was going on with Roddy! Good job everyone!

Lastly I have nothing personal against the dinobots if you love them I’m very sorry.

The next (last?) part will be much brighter. Because the suns coming back.

- SSTP

Oh.....oh fuck....wait WAIT THIS HAS SO MUCH MORE LAYERS THAN I WAS EXPECTING OH MY GOD

I was like. Okay huh. So Roddy can't feel pain right? He must be having this rare condition and? I don't really see where this is going? Huh. Guess it's time to find ouUUUUUH FUCK.

Please. Oh my god. The fact that Ratchet was the one who made him to be like that??? This gives both of them and their dynamic more layers than in a freaking onion. And Roddy didn't just suffer from Ratchets actions. He forgave him. Because OF COURSE he did, he's always giving everyone a second chance I LOVE THIS CONCEPT SO MUCH YOU HAVE NO IDEA

#maccadam #transformers #tf mecha universe #mecha writing #mecha rl writing #mecha dr writing #mecha art #mecha rl art #ratchlock #Hot rod #deadlock #ratchet #Pharma and Shockwave continue to be evil

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d-emeter · 2 months ago

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Simon Riley who loves to watch you shower (though not in the way you think). — plus-size!fem!reader x Simon 'Ghost' Riley

CW: plus-sized reader but can be read as body neutral, non-sexual nudity, simon being smitten

You're not sure when it became a habit, but you remember the first time it happened. You had announced you were going to take a shower, and Simon had sprung up, asking if he could quickly brush his teeth before you went in there. You snorted a little at that, telling him he could do it while you were showering — he'd seen you naked plenty of times before, you didn't even think twice about it. And always one to follow an order, he did as he was told.

It took you a second to notice how he had stilled his movements, toothbrush still hanging from his mouth and his eyes focused on you through the mirror as it slowly fogged up.

"Something wrong, Si?"

"N'thin, baby, jus' do y'r thing."

It became almost ritual not long after that. If Simon spotted you with a fresh set of clothes in your arms, he padded over to the bathroom behind you, not a word exchanged. He'd sit on the closed toilet seat, insisting you left the shower door open.

"Si, the whole bathroom's gonna get wet..."

"Don't matter. I'll dry it after."

And then he just... watches. In complete silence, he just gazes at you. Watching how you wash your hair (doing it twice, because someone on social media told you it was better for your hair), inhaling deeply as the scent of your shampoo fills the air. He watches how you work the conditioner in, letting it sit while you continue with the next step of your routine. He watches you scrub away with a washcloth, suds covering your skin before rinsing it all off under the hot water. He particularly enjoys what you call your 'everything showers'. If you're in the mood to shave, he wants you to put your foot up on the toilet seat, right between his thighs — he'll handle the hard to see parts, lovie, don't worry about it. He's a little confused about the concept of scrub, but you have no problem babbling an explanation as you rub it all over your body (you find a whole array of newly acquired shower products the day after — scrubs included). He's still watching when you get out, how you dab yourself dry instead of rubbing, almost hypnotized as you smear serum after serum and layer cream after cream on your face and body.

"No fuckin' wonder your skin is so soft- Y'got a whole apothecary in here."

"What, you think this happens naturally?"

—

The first time he actually joins you, he doesn't really know how to get the question out. It's a day and a half after he came back from deployment, and as much as you would have loved to smother him in affection, you knew he needed time. Time to ground himself, to stop seeing the blood on his hands even after scrubbing them raw, to go from being Ghost to being Simon. He's been holed up in the bedroom since he came home, and only moves to leave once he hears the bathroom door open. You only smile at him when he appears in the doorway, assuming he'd take his usual seat. He doesn't. Instead, he's gesturing awkwardly to the shower. You know what he means.

"Can I- D'you mind if-"

"Of course you can, Si."

You're gentle with him; coaxing him out of his clothes and mask, turning the shower on and letting it get to temperature before guiding him in with you. He's stiff as a board still, but you see the small exhale at the hot water hitting his skin. You reach for his shampoo (the one you picked out for him — you nearly broke up with him when you first saw the single 5-in-1 bottle he had in his bathroom), but he's faster, grabbing your own and handing it to you, and you know what he wants. You don't say a word as you squeeze some onto your palm, and go to reach up when you realize-

"Simon, baby, could you bend down a little? I can't reach..."

He's on his knees before you know it. His eyes close when your hands start working through his hair — it's longer than when he left. His hands find their way to your thighs. You know he doesn't need it for balance. His forehead rests against the pudge of your stomach as you rinse him out. You can still see the remnants of his eyeblack when you tilt his head up.

You take him through your whole routine. He lets you wash him before you take care of yourself — he just watches, like second nature.

You know you have your Simon back once you turn the water off.

#this becomes a regular occurrence too and then he starts insisting on everything showers too #the whole shebang #he's making you shave and scrub him and WILL want to try out your facemasks #texts soap saying he feels like a whole new man and has he ever tried mango-scented body lotion before? it's fucking fantastic mate #ghost x reader #simon riley #simon ghost x reader #simon riley x reader #ghost imagine #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley imagine #cod mw2 #cod x reader #141 x reader #task force 141 x reader #ghost x you

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dizplicity-draws · 3 months ago

Text

Happy asexual awareness week!

I wanted to celebrate with these aspec icons 🖤🩶🤍💜

Characters and their canon sexuality explanations under the cut!

From left to right:

Peridot - Steven Universe: canon asexual aromantic. Peridot was confirmed to be aroace by Maya Peterson, a storyboard artist for the show. She said in a post on Twitter, “She’s not about fusion. She’s the ace and aro rep.” And true to her words, in the episode Log Date 7 15 2, peridot was shown to have a disinterest in fusion in a scene where she backed out of fusing with Garnet. I know fusion isn’t a direct allegory to romance or sex, but as an aspec person, this scene was super relatable. Also, my personal headcanon is that she is in a queer platonic relationship (qpr) with Lapis :)

Perry the Platypus - Phineas and Ferb: canon asexual. Perry was confirmed to be asexual by Dan Povenmire, a co-creator of the show. He confirmed this in a comment on TikTok, where someone asked “Hey is Perry part of LGBTQ+”, to which he replied, “Does asexual count?” Some believe he only said this because he didn’t like the idea of Perry being shipped. But that doesn’t mean we can’t still claim him!

SpongeBob - SpongeBob SquarePants: Canon asexual. In 2002, Stephen Hillenburg, the creator of SpongeBob said, “I always think of [the character] as being somewhat asexual.” Technically, this was not said as a positive reference to asexuality, but in order to deny that the character was gay. However, Nickelodeon later posted a pride month post featuring a few lgbt+ characters and SpongeBob was included. A lot of people, including myself, chose to believe this was meant to be in support of SpongeBob being canonically asexual.

Zim - Invader Zim: This one is just my own headcanon, but I wanted to include him because he’s a character that’s very important to me and, as an ace, I have always related to. Also, it’s shown in episode 3, Parent Teacher Night, that irkens reproduce by cloning rather than any natural means. And while I know that doesn’t really prove anything, I think it does add to my headcanon :)

Alastor - Hazbin Hotel: Canon asexual aromantic. Vivziepop, the creator of Hazbin Hotel first confirmed Alastor as being ace when she posted a drawing for national coming out day in 2018, which featured Alastor holding the asexual pride flag. Later, she confirmed during a Q&A that he is canonically asexual. During season 1 of Hazbin Hotel, Rosie, Alastor’s friend, jokingly calls him an “ace in the hole.”

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arabellasleopardcoat · 8 months ago

Text

Muña (Aemond Targaryen x Reader)

Summary: At the start of the Dance of the Dragons, you host a familiar face. But it is not your husband who darkens your doorstep. It is his nephew.

Warnings: Daemon haunting the narrative. Smut. Body image issues, self-esteem issues. Tully! Reader (Reddish undertone hair) Implied mommy issues. Vaginal sex. Breeding kink

A/N: I got no explanation for this. Might end up writing a part 2 if this does well. Pt 2

“THERE IS a dragon at our gates.” One of your guards announces. You get up from your seat, a wave of nausea already beginning to make herself known. You would rather not face your husband. Not today. Not ever, if you are being truthful with yourself.

You have gained weight. The slim figure that you flaunted at sixteen is long gone. There is more weight in your hips and chest, a bit of softness around your middle. You know he will mock you for it.

“Open them.” You order, bracing yourself for the uncomfortable encounter. You can’t bar him entrance to what is his home too, despite him not visiting in years. “Tell him to leave the dragon there. I’ll send it some food.”

The guard bows and exits the room. One of your companions, Lady Whent, starts to pace the hall. She fears what your husband coming here might mean for you. The rumors said he had loudly proclaimed he would deal with you himself.

Your choice to keep the Riverlands out of the war effort is controversial, but predictable. Surely, no one in their right mind thought you would aid your husband install his Queen. Not even him. Not after he had left your shared home and started living in sin with her, shaming you in front of the whole realm. Yet again, no one would have called Daemon Targaryen the epitome of saneness.

You go sit on your throne, placing your embroidery aside. Your tenants are happy enough that you don’t hold court as often as the other lords. And when they are not, they still refuse to bring their problems to you unless absolutely necessary. No one wants to burden their poor lady more.

You wish they did. The days would seem less empty that way, rotting away in this castle, your house’s sigil mocking you from every corner. Family, Duty, Honor, they had promised you. None had come.

The guard comes back. You remain sitting on your throne, the one you hardly use. You intend to receive your husband from a position of power, not allow him to cower you. But when you look at the man next to the guard, your breath catches.

This man is not your husband. This man is not even one of Rhaenyra’s men.

“Lady Tully.” He says, taking a deep bow. Very respectful, which would make you doubt his relation to your husband were it not for the fact he shares his silver hair.

“Prince… Aemond.” You say, looking at his face. It’s your best guess as to his identity, considering he has a green banner and an eye patch. He wears all black, the color of House Targaryen. You stand up, and curtsy.

“My lady.”

“My husband is not here.” You say, hurriedly. It’s your first instinct. You do not want that dragon of his torching your tenants.“You are welcome to check the castle and my lands, but there is no love lost between us. I assure you I am not hiding him.”

“I know.” He answers, lips twitching into a smirk. You find nothing humorous about it, but you do not dare voice it. You do not understand what he is doing here, if not chasing after Daemon. “I understand your people… Resent him.”

“It is not our place to judge.” You say, voice firm. This man is at least ten years your junior, you will not allow him to intimidate you. No matter how he towers over you, no matter how menacing and mean his features seem. He is no Daemon Targaryen, this green boy. Your husband is the only man you had truly feared. “Only the Seven are perfect, and thus, entitled to judge others' actions.”

“Very devout.” Aemond steps closer to you, his smile widening. The way his face contorts, sharp and with too many teeth, reminds you of one of the piscivorous fishes you have seen swimming up the stream during summer. The look in their eyes is the same he sports now, right before they decide to feast on an unaware trout. “Just like us. Seems like we have a lot in common.”

You gulp. You wish you were less easy to intimidate.

“We do?”

“We do. I don’t like your husband either. The tales of his prowess have been overly exaggerated. And I do not think you are too keen on bowing to Rhaenyra, considering your marriage will be annulled.” A pair of his fingers pluck a stray curl from your up do, twirling it between his fingers. The slightly copperish undertones of it glint under the candlelight.

The threat looms in the air, uncontested by you. Both Prince Aemond and you know that Queen Rhaenyra would be dissolving your marriage as you speak, were it not for the fact that your husband and her need your lands and men for her war. Annulment in exchange for your life would be a much less cruel punishment than whatever they are cooking.

If you were a quieter woman, a less brave one, you would accept your fate. You would say your marriage had been unconsummated, that you will aid your new sovereign and your ex-husband in their war. But you won’t leave your people to their tender care. With the privileged position your lands have, they are also in the privileged position to be amongst the first to burn.

You are not so craven as to save your life in exchange for the ones of your subjects. Hence, neutrality. Hoping it will spare you. All of you.

“Do you think I want to still be married to him? After all this?” It is not enough, you see it now. With the green banner inside your hall, with the one eyed prince himself sent to rally you behind their cause. Neutrality won’t save you. You need to resist Daemon, not just sit praying he won’t attack you. The Seven know he has no such qualms.

“Perhaps we can make a widow out of you yet.” Aemond says to you, a hint of a smile making his expression turn even more menacing.

Tasting freedom on the tip of your tongue for the first time in years, you smile back.

YOU ARE on your side, Aemond thrusting into you from behind. His hand envelops your hip, greedily grasping your flesh. His other arm is under your head, serving as a pillow. For once, you are not self-conscious.

How could you be, when he had practically begged for entrance to your bed? He wanted you, and the thought of that was as thrilling as it was foreign. You hadn't broken your marriage vows ever since you took them. No man had dared voice interest, considering who your husband was.

Aemond had to convince you to get you here, and you had fumbled like a maiden every step of the way. You didn’t dare defy Daemon either. Despite your loneliness over the years, you had never taken another to your bed. No matter how tempted you had been.

When you had seen Aemond, you weren’t planning to, either. He was your good nephew, Daemon’s family. It was utterly scandalous, yet here you were.

You weren’t too sure how you had ended up into this predicament, though. One second the two of you had been making plans, your Lord Commander eager to be at his service, and the next, Aemond was crowding you against a wall and kissing you with unparalleled hunger. Your doubts had been quieted by his warm hands and eager mouth, as he forced you to writhe on his arms and try to divest him of his clothes. Perhaps he had carried you to your room then. You can’t remember, you just hope no one saw you.

“Did he fuck you like this?” He mouths at your ear, lightly biting. No matter how much you want to banish the thought of Daemon from your mind, Aemond doesn’t let you. It makes you feel guilty, breaking your self-imposed celibacy with your nephew in law, but he seems to get a secret thrill from it.

You don’t have the heart to tell him Daemon and you have only gone to bed together once. The night of your wedding.

You stay silent. His hand slides over your stomach, down to your mound. A single, long finger, slips through your folds and starts to rub circles on your pearl.

“Did my uncle ever make you peak?” Aemond asks you, still rubbing those maddening circles. You can’t think. All that is on your mind is a cloud of pleasure, warm and shameful. You shouldn’t be in bed with Daemon’s nephew. Nor should you be breaking your vows.

Aemond bites at your nape, sharply. Just like his uncle, he doesn’t take kindly to not being the center of attention.

“I asked you a question.”

“No.” You tell him, closing your eyes. Your face burns with your shame. Perhaps it is the embarrassment at your husband hating your bed so much he never visited It any longer, or perhaps it is the fact that you are breaking a vow you had really believed in. But Aemond doesn’t seem to like it, pressing soft kisses into your shoulder in an attempt to relax you.

“I'll give you one.” He promises, rubbing your pearl. His thrusting slows down, allowing the head of his member to hit deep inside you. “In my bed, you won't want for anything.”

The way he says it startles you. Dark, possessive. As if he doesn’t intend to let you go after one night, as if he intends to keep you.

“I don't belong in your bed.” You moan, trying to resist the pleasure that seems so sinful in your eyes. You clench around him despite it, not wanting him to leave your body. His free hand, the one serving as your pillow, grabs at your hair, the auburn mane as a bracelet in his pale arm. The pain of the tug only heightens your pleasure, making your body soar above the wave that threatens to crash and drag you under on the pools of hedonism.

Never before had you felt like this. In your encounter with your husband, as he huffed and puffed over you, you had only felt a quick pain and a vague feeling of shame. He had focused on his pleasure first, kicking you out of bed as soon as he was done.

But Aemond. Aemond stares at you, proud of how you unravel in his arms. He encourages you to do it, taking great delight in watching you fall apart.

“You do. With your gorgeous hair and your delicious cunt, I won't allow you to go elsewhere. You are a gift from the Mother herself.” He whispers, darkly. “I’ll worship you how you deserve, Muña.”

The last word seems to amuse him greatly, for it prompts a chuckle out of him. It’s an odd sound to hear coming from him. He seemed the kind who took himself too seriously. He licks at the shell of your ear, at your face, slobbering all over you.

It should disgust you, yet you can’t help but sigh in his arms. Surrender tastes cloyingly sweet in your mouth.

“I… Married.” You repeat, trying to get Aemond to see reason. You claw at his hands, trying to stop him from bringing you this overwhelming ecstasy that makes your body tense, and your thighs quiver. Your mind feels foggy, your wit reduced to half whimpers and softly spoken words.

“I'll wed you, and place my son on your belly.” He grins against your nape, contemplating his final triumph against Daemon. “My seed will take, where his never could. He is weak.”

“I am already married.” You repeat, a bit more firmly. Aemond laughs, rubbing at your pearl once more.

“Shhh, quiet. Quiet, Muña.” He whispers, pulling you to lie under him. He enters you in a single thrust, not giving you a moment of respite. You cry out, nails raking down his back. “I'll kill him. He is just an old man.”

You mutter something. Maybe a reply. Your lips move, incoherent, and you are screaming, the wave of pleasure finally crashing and pulling you under.

“That’s a good aunt. Squeeze your tight little cunt for me.” He grins, and you think this is it. The two of you are going to the Seven Hells.

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eunandonly · 2 months ago

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( 양정원 ) ⸻ 𝒶𝓁𝓁 𝒾 𝓌𝒶𝓃𝓉 𝒻𝑜𝓇 𝒸𝒽𝓇𝒾𝓈𝓉𝓂𝒶𝓈 𝒾𝓈 𝓎𝑜𝓊 ! ⟡

IN WHICH ⸻ jungwon gives you a little christmas surprise

( pairing ) ❜ jungwon x f!r 1092wc + fluff, christmas, angst if you squint contains ! kissing, skinship, swearing / archive

"are you really not going to be here for the christmas?" you ask as you talk to jungwon on the phone. you're sitting by the armchair near the window, staring at the snow pile up outside as the fireplace cracks near you. "sorry princess," jungwon said on the other end of the line. "maybe next year."

you can't help but let out a sigh, looking longingly at the winter wonderland outside. "i was so excited to have you over so we can build a snowman and have some time together. it snowed here, you know." jungwon left town last year for university leaving you behind, and despite what you've been telling yourself, you miss him. a lot.

you had been counting down to christmas all year, the days marked not with numbers but with quiet, vivid imaginings. you’d pictured you and jungwon sitting together wrapped in a soft blanket in the living room, surrounded by fairy lights whilst sipping on hot chocolate. a day spent outside building a snowman, recording the chaotic process with your ancient camcorder. jungwon is all you want for christmas, but it’s already christmas eve now, and jungwon isn’t here.

"gosh, i miss you so much wonnie," you say, pouting. "can't believe i'm left behind in this stupid boring town whilst you're in the city. there's nothing to do here- more sheeps than humans, i swear."

jungwon's laugh makes you smile despite your sadness.

"i miss you so much as well. i've got to go now, y/n. i promise i'll see you soon, okay?"

you roll your eyes, leaning back in your chair frustrated. "yeah, when is soon, jungwon? when is soon-"

jungwon ends the call, the line disconnecting with a little beep. you stare down at your dark screen in disbelief before letting out a huff.

asshole.

you wonder for a split second whether he's not coming back because he's not interested anymore. perhaps he found a prettier, smarter, nicer girl in university whom he's going to spend time with for christmas.

no, jungwon won't do that. he loves you.

right?

but if he did, would he really not come back for christmas without a proper explanation as to why?

and the way he ended the call with you so abruptly- maybe another girl was with him, holding his hand as he called you.

you throw your phone down on the sofa next to you, shaking your head.

"no, jungwon won't do that. he loves me." you say to yourself, saying it out loud as if it'll help convince you.

but can you really blame jungwon if he's found someone else? you aren't that pretty, and you don't even go to university with him.

amid your worries, there’s a knock on the door.

it’s soft, almost hesitant, but it breaks through the stillness like the first note of a song. your brows furrow.

you get up from the armchair, wondering who it is. it's definitely not the delivery man- you haven't ordered anything recently. a friend, maybe? no, they're all away, some of them to the city, some to the beach and some to warmer countries to flee from the biting cold of december.

so who is it?

"coming!" you call out, walking over to the door. you take in a deep breath, bracing yourself for the gust of icy cold air that's sure to blow in if you open the door.

you turn the door knob, immediately met with the cold wind and blizzard. and then you see him.

jungwon.

his cheeks are flushed pink from the cold, his dark hair peeking out of his knit beanie. he stands there, bundled in a thick coat, a dust of snow covering him and a small, gold wrapped box in his hands. he looks impossibly perfect against the pale winter backdrop, his smile soft, a little shy, but warm enough to melt away all your doubts and worries and frost in an instant.

“umm, merry christmas,” he says, his voice gentle and soft.

you stare for a moment or two, your breath caught somewhere between disbelief and relief, before stepping forward and throwing your arms around him. jungwon’s laugh is muffled against your shoulder as he lifts up from the ground to swing you to and fro like a little kid before putting you back down.

“you’re here,” you whispered. “i thought you couldn’t come.”

he pulled back from the embrace justice enough to look at you properly, and he sweeps away your hair from your face. “of course i’m here,” he murmurs. “i’ve been busy with university, couldn’t even talk to you on the phone that much, but i had to come.”

you feel your cheeks grow warm. “i thought you found someone else.”

“what?”

it sounds silly now, but you continue. “i thought you found a smarter, prettier girl at uni. thought you weren’t coming for christmas because you’re spending it with her.”

jungwon just laughs now. “you think i would replace you? princess, you overthink too much. i would never go off with another girl when you’re so perfect.”

he leans down to give you a sweet little kiss on the lips, and you smile.

“alright, let’s go in now before all this blizzard and cold gets in. let’s make a snowman together, and we can watch old disney together…”

✉️ : @icyy-hoon

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pha55ed · 2 months ago

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War is Over || F1/F2

type :: fluff

tw/cw :: none

contains :: carlos, charles, lando, oscar, max, ollie, paul, pepe

summary :: the 2024 is finally over, which means they get to come home and finally relax with you

xmas celly here! || f1 masterlist || f2 masterlist

Carlos Sainz | 55

Skiing sounded terrifying for you. The risk of injury, the freezing cold, not being to control your movements, all of it seemed so scary. But Carlos peer-pressured you into it, which you couldn't be more grateful for. Although he's already experienced, almost at a pro's level, he still waited for you and taught you everything he knew.

There was no embarrassment in it either. He was so gentle and understanding when teaching you, always holding your hand, tucking your hair back into your cap, and cleaning your visor. It was hours filled with giggling at your mistakes and Carlo's poorly worded explanations.

But in the end, you managed to get the hang of it slightly, only doing small ramps and gliding around. He's never been prouder. He starts filming you like a facebook mom and he WILL 100% post it on his story.

Charles Leclerc | 16

Being so busy with driving makes him unable to do what he really loves, which is piano. So once it's Christmas time, he has get back his skills. But even though piano is usually played solo, he always tries to add you into it.

Either by letting you sit right next to him and sing the lyrics. Or letting you play the right-hand notes while he does the left-hand notes. He's very passionate about his music, always going into long rants about the musical choices he made and his biggest inspirations.

You can't help but just admire his nerdy-ness. It's so fun to hear the calming piano and his long rants, which helps you sleep. Which he doesn't even get mad at, instead he just drapes a blanket over you and continues playing.

Lando Norris | 04

Winter isn't something Lando wants to experience often. Of course, he loves to go snowboarding or watching the snow fall, but his comfort comes from the sun. So when the season ends, he's instantly telling you to pack your bags and prepare for an Australian "winter".

Which is perfect, since that's Oscar's hometown. So now you're stuck in Australia with your dumb ahh boyfriend and Lily's not-as-dumb-boyfriend. But you don't mind, it's great to get a bunch of double date time, discuss the grid drama, and more. Lily is basically your sister, you're almost more excited to see her than you are to see Lando.

But of course, he'll go back home to London with you so you can meet his family and have the true winter experience. He'll play in the snow, make an unbelievably disproportionate snowman, and possibly,,, just maybe,,, make a drawing in the snow with pee...

Oscar Piastri | 81

Christmas time means it's time for him to be his real self: a professional bed-rotter. Going out is so tiring for him, and he's sick of it. So prepare for weeks on end of just staying indoors, cuddling, ordering take out, and debating over movies.

Even though you're staying indoors mostly, it's never boring with him. Mainly because he has awful movie opinions. For example, he watched "Home Alone" with you, only to root for the kidnappers to take Kevin... Or when he was rooting for Voldemort to kill Harry just to thicken the plot.

Truly awful ideas, but you love debating them and hearing his logic behind it. Despite being drama free on the grid, he can't help but love the drama on screen. So, once you're done with every Christmas movie: it's time for Love is Blind, Love Island, and more shitty TV shows with even more shitty opinions.

Max Verstappen | 01

Racing was fun for Max, of course it is. But so is just staying home and being able to be a normal person. He really enjoys having time to himself just to think and enjoy the peace and quiet before he's forced to be back into a world filled with cameras, mics, and more.

So you two just do domestic tasks. Like grocery shopping, picking Christmas gifts, cooking together, and more. It's simple, but he loves it to death. There's been so many times throughout the season where he just wanted to call in sick so he could do something chill with you.

The only con is that he's an awful cook... And awful for grocery shopping... And he's not up to date with the kids,,, and picks the most awful gifts...

But thank god you're there to help! You'll be there to laugh at his stupid mistakes and help him do better, which he loves.

Oliver Bearman | 87

Family is one of the most important things to Ollie. He's who he is because of his family, so be prepared to be with his family almost every single week. Although it was scary at first, his family greeted you with open arms.

His sister loves you and gets to be girly with you. You go shopping with her and talk about the gossip at her school. His brother and you both team up to bully Ollie and prank him. His mom is so sweet and always treats you like her own daughter, giving you the best dinners and gifts. And his dad is so caring towards you, being more protective of you than Ollie.

It makes Ollie start to feel like HE'S the in-law instead of you. But he never complains, instead he's so grateful to have you. He couldn't ask for anyone better.

Paul Aron | 17 <3

You know those dumbass shirts at Walmart that say "Eat, Game, Sleep, Repeat"? That's the exact moto Paul lives by, but except it's training instead of gaming. Which means he's never had the chance to be able to fully relax. Even during summer vacation, he would sneak away to go to the gym or even fucking sneak a hand-grip onto the plane. This man is ADDICTED.

So you help him calm down, which is very needed. You take him to do all the fun stuff that he should be doing. But you know he's very concerned for losing his abs and muscles, so you make sure to make it a physical activity.

This means going to ice rinks, walking for miles in winter-themed towns, and even trying most aggressive ice sports. Things like skiing, snowboarding, and even hockey. Although you're not good at all of them, Paul is there to help.

Despite him just starting these sports too, he's already a pro at it. So now it's a time filled with giggles and laughs as you try all of these new activities together.

Pepe Marti | 21

It's well known by everyone that Pepe is one of the very few drivers in university. So this winter break is used by him to not only study, but also catch up with friends. You and him get to experience and cozy winter, filled with cuddling, procrastinating on homework, and hanging out with friends.

You hangout with not only his university but of course, the trio. Christian and Sebastian are so fun to hang around with and they're super sweet to you. It's as if they're your brothers who annoy the shit out of and Pepe.

100% Chris is the oldest sibling, Pepe is a middle child, and Sebs is the annoying youngest. You guys all mess around by playing stupid games, screaming karaoke, riding carts in Target, and more. Just a true college experience with the nicest people ever.

xmas celly here! || f1 masterlist || f2 masterlist

#f1 #f2 #f1 x reader #f2 x reader #formula 1 #formula 2 #carlos sainz x reader #charles leclerc x reader #lando norris x reader #oscar piastri x reader #max verstappen x reader #ollie bearman x reader #paul aron x reader #pepe marti x reader #xmas celly!#christmas #formula reserve drivers #cause lwk idk what to tag paul as...#but love him to death anywayssss

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unorthodoxfaithxx · 1 year ago

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Yandere JJK - Yuta Okkotsu

When you leave for a month long mission without telling your close friend and maybe crush, Yuuta. You come back and he’s cracked.

It’d been two months since you left on a mission, only now being able to return back to Japan. When you arrived home to your shared apartment, you had expected a warm welcome from your kind and courteous friend, Yuuta. You imagined he’d tell you, “Welcome home,” ask how your trip was, and offer to make dinner like he usually did on days he felt adventurous enough to cook. The two of you lived pretty harmoniously together, both being capable sorcerers with similar demeanors and all.

What you didn’t expect was to be shoved against the wall of the flat’s narrow hallway kabedon style, body pressed flush against your roommate’s, who had a look on his face like he hadn’t been sleeping for weeks and just found out the cure to his insomnia was something ridiculously simple, bordering on relief and hysteria.

“Where. Have you been.” He practically growled, your heart beating at an odd pace since he was barely an inch away from your face.

“Uhnn, on a mission. But great news-I’m back home and won’t be working for a bit, aha?” You broke eye contact, unable to withstand the cold intensity of his dark eyes.

“And you left without telling me? Without telling anyone?”

“Well, to be fair it was a secret mission! It wasn’t to be disclosed and even then I knew it’d only make you worry and you’d probably end up trying to tag along somehow. I didn’t want to distract you from your work, Yu.”

Your explanation didn’t do much to help calm his nerves. You could tell he was obviously worked up, he was breathing hard, his arms were shaking, and his newfound grip on your shoulders was soul crushing. You knew your friend was strong, but the fact that you couldn’t move at all from your position was impressive.

“So you just up and left? That’s not fair,” His languid voice spoke with quiet rage. He was never one to raise his voice, not even now. “You don’t get to decide that. What if you had died? What if something happened and nobody from home knew anything about it? Would you be okay with leaving everyone behind? Leaving me?”

“No…I mean…I wouldn’t want that. I mean hey, I’m here! We’re good now, right? I’m fine! We’re fine.” You said this last part with no confidence, “…Are we?”

Yuuta took a step back, staring at the wall next to you because he couldn’t stand to look at you. “No. We’re not.”

He let you go, moving to turn back to his room. You grabbed his shoulder. “Hey-wait! I know you’re upset. I would be too. But please, don’t ignore me. I was so lonely on my own, now that I’m back I…well, is it too selfish to say I want you by my side? I missed you a lot.” Your abandonment issues were about to be the death of you.

“You trampled on my feelings, completely disregarding how I’d feel, and now you want pity?”

You deflated. “No. Just. I just want you. I’m sorry for hurting you, Yuta. I didn’t mean it, really.”

A minute of silence passed you both. You felt like you were about to cry. You sniffled. “I really am sorry.”

He stared at the ground, muttering a soft curse before looking back at you, slowly opening his arms. He sighed. “I can never stay mad at you. I missed you too. C’mere.”

And you nearly leapt into his arms, hugging him tightly. His scowl broke, turning into an ever so slight smile.

Coming home wasn’t such a bad idea after all.

You thought the two of you were cool and were about to offer to order take-out when he threw you over his shoulder, went to his room, and threw you on the bed, locking the door promptly behind him.

“Uhhhh, Yuuta?” You asked. “Watcha doing?”

He chuckled darkly. “You confessed to me before your mission, right? And then you bolted before I could even respond. Well, I’ve had a lot of time to think about how I should reply in the past months you were gone. And this is my response.”

Your face grew red. How could you have forgotten about that?

He crawled on the bed after you, leering over you like a tiger would its prey.

“I love you. More than anything in the world. And when I noticed you left and had no idea when you’d be back, or if you’d come back at all? I thought I’d go crazy. It took everything in me to not kill the elites that ordered you on the mission and drag you back home myself.” He had you caged between his arms again, voice dropping to something thick and heavy at his next words, “I decided that when you came back, if you ever came back, I wouldn’t let you go anymore. I want you by my side forever. And even then forever’s no where near enough.”

“Quite the romantic, are you big guy?”

He smirked at that. “I’ve had enough time to study up on the type of guys you like.” You shivered when you felt his lips glide across your neck, a rough hand slowly sneaking up your stomach, beneath your clothes.

“You’re mine tonight. And forever.”

Tonight was going to be a loooooooong night.

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bluemerakis · 3 months ago

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┌── ˚*❀*̥˚ ─── ˚*̥❀*˚ ──┐

✐ᝰ bluemerakis

┗━━• ❃ ° •° ❀ °• ° ❃ •━━┛

❝ Scout’s Honour ❞

⤷ Word count: a lot

!! 18+ ONLY !!

Pls imagine he has his sexy beard in these gifs

═════════════════

WARNINGS:

Billy x fem!reader, cussing, very mild angst, smut, fingering, oral f receiving, unprotected sex p in v (wrap it pls), cock-warming, lmk if I forgot any

SYNOPSIS:

Billy slips into the apartment in the early hours of a new day, after having abandoned you for a few nights in order to tend to business. You never minded a busy schedule, so as long as the time spent at your side balanced it out. However, he’s been slacking in his efforts, and you’re not one to be brushed aside whenever things got inconvenient.

He attempts to curb your anger with his god-given charm and bedroom generosity, and you’re almost tempted to forgive him—almost. But after a very generous, very convincing tongue to your cunt, and a good few of his inches stuck within you, you’re eventually compelled to give him another chance.

═════════════════

The creak of the apartment door plucked your consciousness from the chasm of sleep. Your eyes split open without a breath to spare, your body still fuelled by the pent up adrenaline of the past shit-filled week. The door made a muffled click of closure before a sequence of heavy thuds pulled forth from you a more urgent sense of alertness. You lifted your head in a swift motion to spare a groggy glance over your shoulder, your agitation laid to rest by the scene of your beloved intruder traipsing across the dim, open-plan apartment—but the annoyance surrounding his prolonged absence quickly took its stead.

What was usually a temporary work setback that would only keep Billy away for a night or two had turned into a painfully drawn out week of his absence—without the courtesy of a notice, might you add. Not that you’d ever admit it to the bugger, but the atmosphere of his apartment had been unbearably dull without his effortless, colourful charisma, and his endearment for the word cunt.

You hadn’t minded that Billy was a busy man, and in any case, you’d made no official obligations to one another that would warrant your feelings. However, the bastard’s pattern of disappearances and reappearances without an explanation had started to wear you thin, and quite frankly, you’d started to feel like cheap company.

You birthed a groan at your premature departure from sleep and turned your head away from Billy’s wandering figure—you’d begrudgingly missed him, but you could hardly be arsed to entertain the questions of his whereabouts when exhaustion so perilously perched itself on your eyelids and burnt your eyes teary for as long as they remained open. This was one of very few occasions where sleep really could solve the problem, so you manoeuvred your body between the sheets and wrapped your arms around your pillow, trapping it against your cheek—a forceful plea to indulge your need for a longer rest.

Your eyes fluttered closed, not needing much prompting, especially with the added bonus of ignoring Billy’s presence entirely. But the voice you’d violently craved throughout your desolate nights traversed the room as a deep echo, plucking forward your consciousness once more.

“D’I wake ya, Love?”

You burrowed your face into the pillow and heaved a frustrated sigh. “It’s either that or you’re talking to a bloody ghost,” you pushed out groggily, your voice rough—breached by the night’s sleep—and muffled by the satin pillowcase.

You heard Billy chuckle half-heartedly from across the room. “D’ya sleep all right?” He asked—an attempt to brush off your foul mood. On a good day, which were most days, he could easily drink up and reciprocate your wit. Clearly, whatever he’d abandoned the bed—and you—for had taken its toll. You didn’t know whether he’d slept at all, when he was out doing whatever it was he so often left to do.

The initial agreement of your whole relationship—if you could call it that—with Billy, was never to ask questions about what he did, where he did them, and why he’s doing them. I don’t want nobody perched on me fuckin’ shoulder, houndin’ me around and playin’ devil’s advocate all bloody day until me head is done in. No babysittin’, no collar round me neck, no fuckin’ fuss, eh? Those were more or less the terms Billy had set forward, but your relationship had evolved since that point. The more nights your bodies had spent entangled, there came a mutual realisation that the company you both provided one another had become more like a deep-rooted, carnal need, rather than a impish way to pass time. Billy was pretty good in getting his cut of it from you, but had been failing to reciprocate the effort on his side. It felt like exploitation, and you’d just about had enough of that.

You came to it eventually, shrugging off the chain of thought that had shackled your brain. “Haven’t slept nearly enough,” you offered curtly.

There was a brief pause from Billy’s side, before he asked, “somethin’ been keepin’ yer up?” Your attention latched onto the hesitant undertone of his voice—barely noticeable, but undeniably there. He was far too good at his reserved facade, but you’d long since trained your ear to tell the truth men just like him would not. “Bet both me bollocks it’s tha’ cooing shit machine tha’ done set up base on the window outside. Annoying li’l fucker—you give me the word, Love, and I’ll evict the plumy wanker.”

His avoidant rambling triggered an involuntary clench of your jaw; you could almost envision the smug, lopsided smirk hitching up the corner of his lips. The moment of silence that had preceded his words made perfect sense—it was an acknowledgement of the truth he refused to directly admit; a rhetorical question he very much knew the answer to. He was no dumb man; he knew he’d gotten his stylish boots stuck ankle-deep in a fat pile of shit with you.

You weren’t nearly sleep-sober enough to entertain his bold query, so in an attempt to purge your exhaustion, you peeled back the comforters and finally sat yourself up to face him. Billy’s head tilted as he drank in your appearance, his expression glazed with the apartment’s dawn gloom, but you could make out the ruffled, jagged peaks of the hair crowning the top of his head—clearly ploughed through by one too many stressed hands.

“And there’s me dashin’ lady. Sincerest top o’ the mornin’ to you, Love,” he said, inching a few steps closer to your corner of the apartment. He hesitated beside the dining room table when his words didn’t enlighten your expression and hummed dramatically. “Knackered, are we?”

Around you, the warm glow of dawn began to creep its way through the crevices of the curtained windows, casting the apartment with an ethereal glow that almost made Billy’s figure appear angelic from where he stood at the other end of the modest quarters. The burly shape of his black-coated silhouette was traced with a line of liquid fire, perfectly encapsulating the true beauty of his essence when he was vulnerable enough to show it—and a beautiful soul he was, minus his impulsive need to play the absentee partner.

You leaned your back against the headboard of the bed, your knees retracting into your abdomen while your arms wrapped around them to trap them against you. “I am knackered,” you mocked matter-of-a-factly. “What was that you asked earlier—has something been keeping me up? Boy, what a question that is, Billy,” you said thinly, and Billy’s eyes narrowed in preparation as the nonchalant smirk was plucked from his lips.

“Well, for starters, these last few nights, the bed has been unbearably cold and empty. Now, I used to share it with a man to keep me all warm and toasty, but that same man? He’s one heck of a busy fucker. He’s always goddamn working—says he’s got his own little enterprise going on, but I’m not allowed to know the first thing about that—so who knows if it’s at all true? He could be out getting a full-course serving of pussy for all I know, while I’m left behind to keep his bed warm until he’s had his external fill of it and comes running back.”

Your convicted man hovered about, the usual furrow in his expression no deeper than usual, but you could tell by the faint tilt of his head that he’d been listening to your rant intently, and the squirming motion of his lower lip implied a tense biting. You squinted your eyes at one of his eyebrows that seemed to be thickened at the arch; you didn’t doubt that it was from the mean kiss of a fist, since he tended to collect enemies and wounds like medals.

“Not to mention the countless times he’s crawled into bed with unexplainable injured littered across his body, and I’m to pretend they’re not existent as I run my hands over them,” you added pointedly. “He’s a strange, mysterious man, and he’s gotten far too comfortable leaving me alone for nights on end and demanding everything his way the moment he returns.” Your brows furrowed sarcastically. “Now, what do you suppose I do about a dick like that?”

“Ya ought to give it a good ol’ wank and a tickle o’ the balls, and just before his shit hits the ceiling, yer give the tip o’ his knackers a diabolical twisty,” Billy suggested flippantly, his hands raised to mimic the theoretical scene.

“Cut the Billy-bullshit,” you snapped. “It’s bloody well been a week since I last saw you—and the shit you do is so goddamn sketchy, I had no fucking idea if you were even still alive. You couldn’t have even said goodbye, or, I don’t know, told me where the hell you were going to fuck off to?”

Billy’s hands were spread open into a scoff of a gesture. “Oi, gimme a bit ‘o credit there, will yer, Love? No Supe cunt has managed to put me in a grave for a good kip just yet.” He torqued his chin in that characteristic manner of his. “And I ain’t goin’ out without a nuclear bang; you’d have seen me face all over that shite news channel with me bloody arm stuck half way up that Homelander’s Comp V arsehole—like a good ol’ rectal exam.”

Confusion took the stead of annoyance at his mention of Comp V, but you were far more interested in the mention of Supes and the Homelander himself. This was the first time Billy had ever let on a fraction of information about who he was routinely involved with every time he disappeared—a royal fuckup, no doubt. You’d always been a determined girl with a knack for satisfying your curious itch, and that combination didn’t bode well for Billy’s need of discretion.

You’d have been a slow fool to question who Homelander was. While you’d never personally taken interest in the leader of the so-called gifted band of heroes who practically governed the state, you’d heard of enough incidents to know that The Seven were far from do-gooders. So, just what the hell would a man like Billy be doing with them? He was no angel—gods, you knew that, but he was not nearly tainted enough to sit and share bread at the table of the Superheros. Comp V, however? That term didn’t place among your knowledge. You wanted to—needed to know more.

You leant away from the bed frame and tilted your head with blunt scrutiny. “What business do you have with a freaky man-Supe like Homelander?” You asked sceptically. “Have you got friends up in higher places that I don’t know about? And what the hell is Comp V?”

Billy’s expression seem to buffer over your words, his shoulders lightly tilting from side to side as his brain took to working around his apparent slip up. “Ne’ermind you that, Love,” he averted eventually, reaching up a hand to swipe a quick scratch across his bearded chin. “Nothin’ to pick yer pretty li’l brain ‘bout, eh? Now, ya fancy a nosh? Me appetite’s just ‘bout burned through me stomach wall.”

You ignored his divergence, your expression hardening with warning. “You’re going to play games with me at this very early hour of the day, William?”

The use of his full name made Billy’s head tilt back in the slightest manner, his chin lifting with a notion of denial, then acceptance. You watched him furrow his thick brows and offer a low grunt before his head dropped to shrug off the weight of your accusing stare. His gaze remained averted as he rolled his shoulders to shed his signature black coat, and with that, his hard-ass facade he so often paraded under the public’s eye. In here—around you, he was afforded to step out of that role every once in a while.

The forsaken coat made for a gracious reveal of Billy’s fine-toned pair of biceps, the very set that had pinned you against this bed on far too many occasions. But you didn’t allow yourself to entertain those lustful memories for too long, knowing the power they possessed in their ability to completely eradicate any ill-will you currently bore him.

You followed the whisk of his arms as he moved to drape the coat across the nearest chair that bordered the circumference of the circular dining table, then watched as reached across to snatch a half-drained bottle of whiskey from its surface. A low fuckin’ hell split his lips as he sank himself down into the coat-crowed chair, his figure perfectly positioned to oppose you. You heard the whiskey bottle gurgle as he titled the nozzle into his mouth and eagerly began draining the beverage.

You squinted at the nerve of his nonchalance, then pushed on more pettily. “What, nothing to say at all?” You scoffed. “Never could get you to shut up, and now when you talking would actually offer something valuable, you choose to bite your tongue?”

Billy’s adam’s apple dipped with a large gulp before he lowered the whiskey bottle and dragged a brisk thumb across his froth-kissed beard, his hand falling away to offer a lopsided smirk. “I meant what I said when we first started this sweet, little rendezvous o’ ours, Love—no hounding me on me own fuckin’ business,” he warned. “That were our deal, weren’t it?

“Yeah, well , I’m no business man,” you retorted. “But by all means, continue with your shady shit. All I’m saying is give a girl a warning or two from time to time instead of pulling a hit and run in the middle of the night like some prepubescent asshole.”

Not sparing him the luxury of a back and fourth bicker, you sank yourself back into the centre of the bed and laid your head onto the pillow—deliberately facing yourself away from him. You didn’t even care to wrap yourself back underneath the comfort of the sheets, you just needed to shrink away from this conversation.

“Just do what you do best—leave and let me get some sleep, please,” was all you murmured.

“All right, don’t get yer pretty knickers ina twist, now,” Billy soothed.

You heard the distant rustle of fabric, followed by a grunt of effort, before the thump of his boots escalated toward you and then ceased to exist entirely. The clank of the whiskey bottle settled on the bedside table at your head, and a few seconds later, you felt his knuckles graze a light trail from your exposed shoulder down to your elbow—a beckon for your attention, but when you stubbornly kept your head turned the opposite way, his hand retreated.

“Oi, would you just look at me, Love?”

“Can’t,” you said curtly, eyes forcibly screwed shut. “Sleeping. Now, shut your trap.”

You thought that the last of it, until the mattress at your back suddenly gave slight way and Billy sat himself down beside you. His arm reached across your thigh, his hand finding sanctuary at your knee, which was tucked into yourself as you laid in foetus formation. You tried hard to ignore his imposition, but all hope at fashioning that mask began to crumple as his thumb began wiping aimlessly along your skin—a rhythmic back and fourth motion that was oddly soothing to your stress-riddled, exhausted body.

“Look,” he began—it was a tone far more genuine than you’d ever thought him capable of, and it piqued your interest enough to open your eyes. “I know I been doin’ a mighty shite job at stayin’ around here—bein’ with you and all tha’. I ain’t exactly fuckin’ Romeo with a loyal pair o’ bollocks when it comes to relationships, but tell yer what—” he paused to boldly trail his knuckle down your thigh. “I’ll try and do better by yer—I mean tha’, even if I’m a ripe, stinkin’ cunt at times.”

You listened keenly to Billy’s words, but his lack of a clear apology still leered at some petty part of you. The sensational line that he began to draw down the skin of your thigh was an unexpected and very difficult arousal to suppress, your legs subtly drawing together to safeguard the root of all lustful feelings, which began to brew with the threat of bubbling over should he continue his actions. You made the conscious decision not to give into his ministrations so easily, so you pushed aside your growing arousal and decided to focus on the fat lump of unresolved anger still wedged in your throat—a hard pill to swallow.

“Is that supposed to be an apology?” You asked, your field of vision falling into obscurity as you focused on nothing in particular. You could see Billy shift in the very edge of your periphery, the hand tracing patterns on your thigh removed to welcome the cool air of the morning. That same hand didn’t forsake you for long. Within a few seconds, he had a grip on your jaw, his thumb and index finger gently, yet firmly bracketing your chin.

“Spare me a look-see,” he mocked gently, your head forcibly turned up to him. Obliged beyond choice, you allowed yourself a closeup of the man you’d so dearly missed, shifting onto your back to better your view of him.

There was a lot to appreciate about Billy’s face, but for once, it wasn’t the bedroom eyes or the devilish smirk that captured your attention off the bat. Instead, your eyes flickered about the red lines etched across his face—markings that had not been there only a few nights ago, when you’d littered kisses all along the contours of his face. These cuts were fresh, the blood in the trenches of flesh still clotting and very shy of a scab. The discovery caused annoyance to prick at your chest, but you’d long since forsaken anger. If you’d ever managed to successfully talk Billy out of a fight, you’d have cracked a billion dollar contract by now.

“I look dashin’, don’t I?” He poked at your mindless glaring, then his expression softened as he drank in yours—reserved, save the unimpressed scowl. “Me face looks like a slapped arse, I know—bet yer half wishin’ to add another spank to this shitshow, eh?” He chuckled.

“Don’t temp me,” you scoffed, jutting your chin to the side to dislodge his hold on you. “God, did the other guy stick you through a paper shredder?” You shot, then added, “you look like absolute shit, I’m almost starting to believe you get off on a good beating.”

Billy Butcher was a man infamous for modelling a face of cuts and bruises, always managing to enlist a fist to the face through one interaction or the other. He wasn’t a particularly adored man, but you’d never found fault with that—it only meant more him for you, after all. You’d have appreciated that fact more if he’d been around enough.

“Oh, come off it,” he scoffed. The hand that had been robbed of your jaw now moved to swipe an aimless scratch across his beard, his gaze averting to the other end of the apartment with a forlorn expression. You recognised the turmoil in his features as an attempt to find the right words to express his more mushy feelings—not an easy feat for the asture, balls-of-steel Butcher.

“Look, I’ve been a plus-sized arse, I know that. I warned ya, ladies like you don’t stick around men like me for too long. The shit I do? Diabolical stuff, Love. Trust me, yer better off left behind in this bed where none o’ that can pucker up to yer arsehole like a good, mean case of diarrhoea.” He paused to soften his expression. “Just tryin’ to protect ya, is all,” he added softly.

You sniffled softly as you held his earnest stare, then forced yourself to sit up, while Billy simultaneously shifted to give you space. You searched his features for a few seconds and only saw sincerity—an eerily, misplaced emotion on his brute features, so the lump in your throat began to loosen an inch, permitting you swallow with more natural ease.

“Fine,” you relented softly, allowing the tension moulding your features to soften. “All will be forgiven, Billy Butcher—only if you start making an effort to treat me like less of a stress-reliever, and more like a person who wants a genuine connection with you.”

He gave a cheeky cock of his head. “Wha’, ya don’t like the way I blow off steam? Yer cunt ain’t ever said the same thing.”

“Classy,” you scoffed. But not wrong. Billy sniggered with his all-knowing grin.

You shifted yourself onto your knees as you began to make your way across the mattress and towards him. He watched you through a calculating look, his attention making a mischievous dip toward your thighs, so perfectly displayed in your finely cut pyjama shorts. You ignored the innuendo in his wandering eyes, reaching out an arm to clasp his shoulder for support. You leaned onto his broad frame as you meandered your way onto his lap, and his hands found grip at your hips as he aided your movement to straddle his thighs, his eyes hounding your every move.

“Makin’ yerself right at home, eh?” He remarked suggestively.

Once you settled in position, his hands trailed up to your waist to deliver a light squeeze to your neglected body, his palms then settling flat against the exposed stretch of skin deserted by the length of your cropped tank. His touch was warm—almost too warm, like he had something to prove following your very dramatic claim of the cold, lonely nights you’d endured. His hands began dragging a sensual pathway along your frame before settling at the small of your back, where he held you firmly against him—you wouldn’t be shunning him again anytime too soon, as fortified by his hold on you.

You curled your one hand around the nape of Billy’s neck, the other moving to frame the side of his head. “You look worse than a bruised prune,” you said, making a point to press your thumb across the fresh cut forming a vicious, bloodied trough through the arch of his brow. It was almost nasty enough to rival the scar tracing the opposite end of his forehead.

“Oi!” Billy protested, his head momentarily tilting away from you. “Yer got a bloody thumb on ya, fuckin’ hell. Save yer fingering for the little miss cunt down there.”

“Oh trust me, I have,” you retorted, to which a meld of surprise and admiration hitched his brows. You returned your finger to the cut in his brow, more tenderly this time as you felt across the surrounding blotchy purple-yellow bruise and then flitted to caress another cut along his cheek and the opposite temple. “After all, somebody’s got to keep me satisfied when you’re not around, and be thankful it was myself, you dick.”

“All right,” he said. “Fair enough, but I ain’t been dipping me wick in another woman’s wax, Love, so how’s ‘bout we lay off the poncy pouting—make no further delay in the inevitable amalgamation o’ pleasure the both of us are ‘bout to be?” The hands at your back burrowed under the waistband of your shorts and underwear with slick ease—a far too rehearsed and perfected performance. The way his large palms spanned a considerable area of your buttocks never failed to get the groin going; he knew that.

“You’ve got a lot to atone for before you get a good milking,” you warned, hand falling away from his face. Though, Billy’s grip on your ass began to tighten persuasively, and you thought that he could potentially work a few, unfair angles in order to knock off a good amount days from that sex-deprived sentence.

You partially turned your torso to reach for the whiskey bottle he’d set on the bedside table, snatching up the beverage at the neck of the glass. You turned back to him, and his eyes lowered to the drink with a cheeky gleam.

“Fancying a swig at the peek o’ dawn?” he poked. “Been learnin’ a thing or two from me, it seems.”

“It’s for you, obviously,” you said, lifting the nozzle to the wound in his brow. “A toast to your idiocy—cheers.” You tilted the bottle to free the whiskey, and the beverage formed a bubbly waterfall as it cascaded through the reddened cleft in his brow. The amber liquid slithered down his cheek and through the wilderness of hair framing his jaw, then reappeared at the base of his neck to seep into the collar of his floral shirt.

You never did miss the glint of the chain always wrapped around Billy’s neck like a lifelong claim of ownership, adorned with a St Christopher medal—an oath of some sort—which dangled from the steel-linked wreath. And it didn’t escape your notice now as a few of the silver links gleamed with rogue beads of whiskey. It must’ve been a keepsake from a past relationship that had meant a large deal to Billy, but the mystery of its continued existence around his neck was a secret barred from your common knowledge. If it had been a gift from somebody who meant a lot to him, it was a rather odd one—he didn’t particularly strike you as a man who dabbled in religious beliefs of protective saints. Then again, how much did you really know about Billy Butcher?

Either way, Billy had never once spoken about it, despite the many times you’d openly assaulted it’s presence with curious eyes. And there were some things you just would not push, despite your tendency to get brash. So, you’d made peace with the fact that perhaps he would never grant you the key to that particular cell of memories, but you couldn’t honestly say that the implied emotional ties of it all didn’t bother you—and more so, how that influenced his regard for you.

You were plucked from your gnawing thoughts at the sound of Billy sucking air. His teeth were bared as he stifled a guttural wince, and his eye had collapsed closed under the assaulting burn of the whiskey.

“Bloody fuckin’ hell!” he barked, his hands shifting up their position on your arse to rest on the upper curves, gripping them tightly like they were a lifeline for support. “Stings like the kiss of a bloody bee’s arse.”

“Always a pleasure enlisting your colourful poetry.” You retreated with the bottle and burrowed the glass body between your thighs, your hand then returning to aid his face. You swiped your thumb across his closed eye and along his half-drenched face eradicate the film of whiskey. “The prick did a number on you,” you remarked.

Billy tilted his head away from your prying thumb, “Yeah, well, that wanker takes the win on this one,” he insisted. “His lips done looked like a fat cunt by the time I finished him.”

You hummed absentmindedly in response, then felt as one of his hands abandoned the seize on your buttocks to capture your hand at the wrist. He lifted it up into the space between your torsos, his head slightly tilted to fix you with an unwavering stare as he released your wrist and his fingertips began a soft, upward trajectory along the tender skin. Your attention lowered to the work of his fingers as they passed into the gentle rise and hollow of your palm, before each digit diverged to claim a spot between your own fingers, and there they interlocked with near-perfect harmony.

Billy often reminded you that hands were meant to exist in pairs other than your own two when he performed gestures like these. It made sense, really, considering how perfectly fingers could interlink with one another—as though intimacy had always been engraved into the DNA of their skeleton.

He made a gentle twist of his wrist to expose the backside of your hand to his exploitation, and he lowered his lips in an antagonisingly slow manner to press a kiss to your knuckles, all while drinking in the look on your face.

You savoured the warm and gentle flush of his breath against your skin while it lasted; it reinforced the truth of his return and his presence right here before you. The loneliness had gotten overwhelming—a thought that scared you. The moment you admitted that Billy’s absence had an effect on the daily flow of events in your life, you’d have to admit that you’d gotten far too attached to an inevitably temporary situation.

You’d always been vulnerable to emotional investment, forming attachments with anybody you’d been afforded the opportunity to properly flesh out your five senses with; the prolonged touch of handholding, a connecting glance, being adorned with a cologne-scented clothing item of theirs, the sound of their laugh in response to a poorly made joke, or the taste of a shared kiss. It was a gift to love somebody the way you could love, but a curse when cast upon a man like Billy Butcher.

“Oi, Love,” he beckoned to you, the remaining hand on your ass squeezing lightly. You averted your gaze from your intertwined hands to glance at him, his head was slightly tilted as if to gauge a better understanding of the thoughts holding your speech hostage. “S’a weekend, so tell tha’ busy brain o’ yers to take a bloody day off, eh?”

You lifted your chin lightly, your nostrils flaring with a breath to reset your thoughts. “There’s been a lot going on lately, all right?” You said, wriggling your hand within Billy’s in an attempt to shake his hold, but his grip on you only tightened, so you accepted defeat and allowed your hand to fall limp.

He tucked your conjoined hands into the warmth of your thighs, careful not to knock the whiskey bottle. “Got places to be?” He asked insincerely, a mischievous grin peaking through.

“Apparently not,” you answered with a beleaguered sigh.

“Atta girl—right ya are!” Billy praised, then leant his head forward in an attempt to press a kiss to your lips. Your other hand that you had comfortably nestled atop his shoulder moved to intercept the action with an index finger to his lips, which left him with a frown of disappointment.

You pressed your finger into his lips slightly harder than necessary before sliding your fingertip down into the bearded divot of his chin, adorned with the moisture of whiskey. There, you prodded him away meanly, his chin jutting into himself with the motion.

His eyes drooped with disappointment. “Clenchin’ the arsehole outta spite, are we?” He said snarkily because Billy Butcher didn’t like, nor tolerate rejection. You knew that his ego had taken the front-seat, now.

As much as you’d have loved to further emasculate him with some petty banter, you merely reached for the whiskey bottle trapped between your thighs and eagerly brought the liquor to your lips. You managed a few, generous swigs as you held Billy’s stare—a mixture of surprise and respect dancing in his hazel depths. You felt a stray line of whiskey escape your swallow at the corner of your lip, slinking down the side of your jaw. You also noted the way Billy’s attention lowered to that same escapee bead of liquor, his eyes narrowing as though entertaining some internal thoughts of his.

Once you’d decidedly had enough of the whiskey, you lowered the bottle with a hearty swallow and held it out before you to see how much of the drink still remained. There was a decent amount of it left—enough to fill a glass and a half. Satisfied, you brought it back up to hover it over Billy’s head with a sarcastic smile.

“Bottoms up,” you cheered.

“Don’t ya fuckin’—” he was silenced by the stream of whiskey being inevitably poured onto his head and he dropped his chin to avoid a direct assault on his eyes—his generous and voluminous field of hair took the brunt of the force and flattened under the foamy weight of it all. Very little strands of hair were left unmarred by wetness, and the floral patterns in shirt had darkened considerably, mostly at the base of his neck. He released his grip on your hand and ass to run a hand through his hair and across his face. “Fuckin’ son o’ cunt,” he spat, his lashes fluttering with a strained attempt to open his eyes.

You tossed the empty whiskey bottle across the bed, watching as Billy managed to lift his head and part his screwed eyes at last. He was still dripping at the brow, and upon making eye contact with you, he passed an angry swipe of his tongue across his lips with the intent to scold you—but you didn’t give him the chance to fume as you gripped either side of his jaw and forcibly pushed your lips against his.

He made a noise halfway between a grunt and a moan in response to your imposition, but shortly returned the kiss with an aggressive push of his own lips. You lapped up the amalgamation of whiskey and cigar smoke that basted his tongue like a starved street mutt while his large hands came down harshly on your ass—the reprimand that he hadn’t verbally been able to deliver, but you had a feeling that this was only the beginning, and that he’d have well made his point by the end of this heated, physical debate.

You felt the twinge of his nails even through the fabric of your shorts as he gripped you there and pressed your pelvis into him, the act so possessive you felt as though there were an unspoken presence in this room that Billy had a point to prove to. But his hold on you hadn’t come to a standstill—instead, he began to forcibly guide your lower half into a rhythmic dance akin to the waves of the ocean, to and fro, riding the shore of his ever-growing erection. His steering of your hips was godsent, the angle just right enough to provide sensory input to your own sensitive mound. Billy might’ve been self-serving in the pursuit of pleasure when it came to the bedroom, but he never neglected your own needs.

You bit your tongue to stifle the moans threatening to flee your lips. The last thing you needed was for your musical pleasure to whisper directly into Billy’s ear, cooing to his erection. Although you’d already given him exactly what he’d wanted by initiating this steaming mess, you wouldn’t make the entire process that easy for him.

As you were forcibly ground against Billy’s manhood, his kisses grew more impatient and sloppy, his teeth periodically seizing your lips somewhere in the mix. Your hands trailed down his bearded neck—further smearing the whiskey—to take grip at his shoulders before running your hands over the defined muscles, flexed while he worked at kneading your hips, waist and ass in an erratic, patternless desperation. The added stimulation of your skin-on-skin contact with his shoulders seemed to spur him on, his throat reverberating with a gruff moan that you instantly plucked from your shared kiss and shamelessly drank up.

Billy’s one hand shifted from his grip on your ass up to the small of your back; you felt the way his fingertips had grown sticky with the whiskey, puckering your skin every time he made contact and then abruptly moved away. Without warning, his palm curled supportively around your waist and he effortlessly hoisted your body against his navel, the other hand curling across your bottom. He pulled away from the kiss, his thick brows furrowed with focused intent as his eyes flickered all across your features.

“Yer a bleedin’ pain in me arse, y’know tha’?” Billy said in rough, breathy syllables. He then stole one last kiss to silence the stinging retort that was sure to accompany the indignant twist in your expression, and in an effortless motion, he had you on your back in less than a second.

“You aren’t exactly all sunshine and rainbows, either,” you countered through a huff, hands wrapping supportively around the nape of his neck as you suspended yourself from his overhanging frame. Your expression turned challenging. “Besides, you seem to enjoy pain,” you say pointedly, eyes flickering to the gash in his brow. “So I’m actually quite on-brand company, don’t you think?”

He gave a relenting torque of his chin, charming smirk plastered to his lips. “S’pose yer right. Must be why I fancy ya, then, eh?” He straightened up onto the support of his knees, his hands shifting to find place at your waist before he slid them up your frame to peel back the tank top concealing his desired view. “Now, lemme see me neglected pair o’ girls,” he demanded in an impatient grunt. “Tell ‘em daddy’s home.”

You grimaced lightly at Billy. “Don’t be gross,” you told him, hands falling away from his shoulders to aid his stripping of your torso.

“Bollocks,” he replied almost instantly, “yer love it.” You did—deep down, you devoured his crass attention. He had no difficulty sliding the tank over your head and raised arms, instantly chucking the clothing to some other end of the apartment.

Your hands flew to cover your exposed breasts, your expression alight with cheek as you flashed Billy a toothy grin. He leered you over, an approving smirk on his lips before his hands made an advance towards you. You almost thought he’d make a move to pull back the curtains on your breasts, but instead, his hands cupped your waist.

“All right,” he began—an entertained air about him. “You play it tha’ way.” His hands dipped into the waistband of your shorts, his calloused fingertips teasing at the skin of your back before they found the seem of your underwear and began stripping away the last of your clothed dignity. “Shit’s always arse about face with yer—ne’er the easy way.”

“Easy’s boring,” you told him. He tugged harshly at your shorts & underwear, managing to strip it from your lower half without a struggle. You watched as he shimmied the clothing items down the expanse of your legs, pausing half way to press a greedy kiss to your thigh.

Your legs instinctively squeezed together as the arousal between them became unbearable. Your feet were lifted from the comfort of the bed as Billy stripped the last of your clothing and bundled it aside.

“There we are,” he said with an undertone of accomplishment, his hands moving to curl under your thighs and take steady grip at the skin. Without warning, he tugged you a short length down the bed toward him. You gave a small yelp at being whisked across the sheets, the friction providing a momentary warmth that soothed the skin of your bare back.

“What you say we get the ball runnin’ on this thing, eh?” Billy remarked, and you felt as he encouraged widening of one of your thighs, his other hand making a motion towards your heated mound. You burrowed the back of your head into the sheets almost instantly as his fingers rudely acquainted your folds, teasing at the area that had grown slick with his mere presence.

“Blimey,” he said—an action that made you a tad bit self-conscious. It hadn’t been too long since he’d last seen you down there, but the conditions had already started to become less kept. He’d never been the one to judge, though. He was man enough to be unbothered by trivial matters of body hair. “D’ya have a good weep down here? It done look like a bloody water slide, and I ain’t barely laid a hand on ya,” he said amazedly, fingers grabbing ahold of your clit to deliver a brash squeeze.

Your lower body tensed with the jolt of stimulation his action elicited, and you lifted your head to glare at him. “I almost forgot what an absolute ass of a tease you are,” you told him with the beginning of a frustrated frown.

Billy thumbed an almost apologetic, circular motion around your sensitive area, flashing you a thin-lipped smirk. “Ease off the stick in yer ass, Love, s’all part of the process. Now, you just lay that head o’ yers back like a prissy li’l pillow princess and let good ol’ Billy take care o’ the brunt of things goin’ on down here, all right?”

You didn’t verbally scoff, but the flick of your eyes conveyed the gesture well enough. The hands on your breasts fell away to prop up your torso as you told him, “I’m not a pillow princess. You’re just a greedy—borderline control freak bastard that wants everything his way.”

Billy’s eyes dipped to your exposed chest, and you knew your words had escaped his notice entirely. “Ah, there’s me cheerleaders—come to give me a word of encouragement, have they? Always did love a good audience.” His hand continued to work at your sensitive areas as he brought himself up to your face, other forearm planted supportively beside your head as he leaned over and pressed a firm kiss to your lips.

You kissed him back eagerly, letting yourself fall back against the mattress as you took grip at the base of his neck before blindly reaching down for the buttons of his shirt. You felt the cold pendant of his necklace tease at your neck as he leaned deeper into the abyss of your lips, grunting at your efforts to undo his shirt. You felt his fingers grow impatient between your folds, making a sheer dip into your entrance—and it invited him in without a hassle. You broke off the kiss and sucked air through your teeth at his sudden intrusion, your lower half reflexively tensing with suspense and desire all at once.

“Relax, Love, s’just me—nothin’ new,” Billy murmured breathily against your lips. “Just like we done a thousand times, eh?”

You nodded wordlessly, lips brushing against his—it was well within Billy’s talents to ease the freedom of speech right on out of you, especially with a bedroom talent as skilled as his. You tried consciously to relax your muscles, and Billy had slowed his pace only momentarily to augment your efforts. The success of your attempt was confirmed by his fingers reaching a deeper, warmer depth with each continued thrust, and it wasn’t long before he began to brutalise his pace once more. You gulped hazily, hands hesitating against the fabric of his shirt as his work within you became too much to bear.

“Tha’s a good girl—swallowing me hand whole,” he husked against your jaw. “I know tha’ greedy li’l cunt o’ yers is havin’ a rave down there, but put them hands to work and take me shirt off, will ya, Love?”

Moans of pleasure began to stew in your throat as Billy curled his fingers into you—a foul move when you were already grappling with the near-debilitating euphoria of his lesser ministrations. You tried your best to make headway at undoing the buttons of his shirt as he patiently hovered over you, his kneading of your insides beckoning forth the familiar knot within your core. Once the last button relented, you slid your hands under the middle part of the fabric, palms sliding up his ribcage and across his hairy chest, then toward his shoulders where you tugged the sleeves down his forearms.

The hand buried snugly within your entrance took an abrupt leave as Billy straightened himself and manoeuvred his arms to shed his shirt. He dived back down almost instantly, as though not wanting to lose momentum on the events playing out, both of his hands taking grip at your waist. You felt the slick and warmth of the fingers he’d burrowed within you claw hungrily at your skin, then your attention drew to the upward trail his nose drew between your cleavage, where his lips dawdled greedily.

Your head sank further into the depth of the mattress as you allowed his skilful lips to dance across your skin, his tongue playing fair as he took turns twirling with each of your nipples. Occasionally, he’d deliver a cheeky bite to the sensitive bud, coupled by a husky chuckle when you’d release a wince of pleasure. Your hands took root in his full head of hair, fingers intertwining with the luscious locs and yanking them meanly to even out the playing field of Billy’s work on your breasts. His fingers began to grip harder at your waist, thumb pressing divots into your abdomen, only adding to the pressure that had long since amassed at your core.

“Fucking hell,” you breathed out as Billy’s tongue dragged a warm snail trail down your stomach and across your navel where he settled just shy of your mound with teasing, bordering kisses.

“Fuckin’ hell, indeed,” Billy echoed busily, palms flattened as he grazed them down either side of your hips. He ghosted over your thighs before reaching for your calves and pushing them upward in a gesture to prop up your knees. Once you lifted your legs from the bed, his arms diverged between your legs and curled around them, where he found grip at your inner thighs.

You propped yourself onto your elbows to glimpse your lower half now perfectly presented to Billy, who met your gaze with that scheming smirk of his. “Brace yerself, Love, I’m ‘bout to make a lovely nosh o’ yer cunt,” he warned before his head dipped into your yearning core.

The first greeting of his mouth came as a gaping hole, swallowing your entire being whole. With each lap of his tongue, his sharp nose prodded at your clit, which caused your core to bloom with debilitating pleasure. You tossed your head back, lower lip hauled into the firm clench of your teeth as you drowned the moans attempting to escape the depths of your throat. Straddled at your sides, your fingers furled into the disrupted duvet, ferociously groping the fabric as though it were the tether keeping you from getting swept up into the whirlwind of endorphins.

You adored the way Billy’s beard chafed your folds—coarse hair grating against pliable flesh, and you sought out the stimulation with such eagerness that you began to lift your pelvis deeper into his wet warmth. But the broad hands curled around your thighs proved their strength in the way that Billy kept you pressed against the bed, fingers melding into the flesh of your inner thighs as a feat of authority—control. His jaw began to swivel erratically as his tongue picked up the pace, swirling around, above and below your mound—even making a momentary dip into your slicked entrance. That action plucked an unorthodox moan from your chest, your hand flying to take grip at Billy’s hair.

“Oh, fuck me!” You exclaimed breathlessly, toes beginning to curl against the sheets as his tongue carried you to your climax.

“Tha’s well the plan, innit, Love?” Billy murmured against you, hand patting against your thigh as a teasing gesture of reassurance.

He went on and on, as unrelenting and greedy as the beginning, and the anticipation ricocheting about your lower extremities began to draw into a closely-knitted ball of stimulation just waiting to implode on itself. Your breathing shallowed, your fingers in his hair tightened, your shy noises became more boisterous, but Billy’s tongue pulled away from you, and with it, he quelled the ball of fire he’d lit in the first place.

Your expression furrowed with a mixture of disappointment and exhaustion as you sank back defeatedly into the mattress, the hand in his hair falling onto the sheets as you took a moment to replenish the stock of your lungs. “Asshole,” you huffed—barely audible.

“Oi, shut yer gob and gape yer cunt, ‘cause I ain’t finished with you just yet,” Billy said gruffly, hand reaching for yours. His fingers wrapped around your forearm and tugged suggestively.

Too tired to resist, you curled your fingers around his arm, and you were pulled up effortlessly from the mattress and into his frame. His hands came to rest at your waist, his lips finding yours in a desperate brawl. Your hands cupped his chest, ready to settle in their position as you intended to get lost in his overwhelming presence, but the kiss was abrupt as Billy pulled away to find your neck. He gave your collar bone a little nip, then eased the sting with a kiss before the hands on your hips turned you around and pushed you stomach-first into the mattress.

You gave a light yelp, but his tough fondling of you wasn’t a foreign practice, so you succumbed to his flow. You felt the cool metal of his chain graze up your back as he leant over you, his arm popping into your view as he reached for the pillow and snatched it up. He retreated and withdrew his frame, hand curling under your lower stomach and making the motion to lift you from the bed. You obliged and lifted your hips, to which Billy slid the cushion beneath your lower stomach, and you gladly settled back down into the cushioned support.

“There we are, all prepped for a good poundin’,” he remarked, the sound of his dropped zipper coming shortly after. You cast a glance over your shoulder just in time to witness Billy discarding his jeans and boxers to reveal the buoyancy of his hard-on—a view that you gladly drank up.

“Somebody’s missed me,” you poked.

Billy flashed you a grin, his hand moving to prep his hard-on with a good few strokes. “‘Course,” he said. “Been deprived o’ all worldly pleasures for a whole, bleedin’ week.” He released his manhood and shifted closer to your sprawled frame, hands reaching for your ass. “And yer cunt’s missed me, too.”

“I guess you could say that,” you sighed dramatically, fully aware of the self-forged dam between your legs. You flashed a cheeky grin before turning your head forward, crossing your arms and laying yourself into the support. “Well, have at it, then.”

You felt Billy’s palms caress the curve of your cheeks before he hooked his fingers below your pelvis and pulled your arse into an upward position. “C’mon, up we get. Ain’t s’pose to tell yer what to do—yer a right expert by now.”

You were—it was the same damn position every single time. Billy had a knack for seeing you bent over below him, face down and arse up as you lay all bare and presented for his very generous exploitation. “I’m just making you work for it, for once,” you said.

“Ne’er minded a job,” he answered, hand dipping into your slicked cunt, where he manoeuvred his fingers through the area and gathered and distributed enough of your slick to aid an easy insertion—and it wasn’t long before you felt his length insert into you with a slow and controlled ease.

A deep, hearty grunt of appreciation spewed from Billy’s lips, a low fuckin’ hell thrown somewhere into the mix. You mouth parted with a moan as you felt his girth ascend your entrance, glad for the gracious accommodation of your walls that practically welcomed him with open arms. Your eyes fluttered closed as you bathed in the initial bliss of his penetration, and you purposely perked your arse to deepen the sensation—and to spur him on.

Billy’s hands found a sturdy grip at your ass as his pelvis began to shift against you, the length within you retreating and returning with a steady pace. He held that speed for a good few minutes, feeling out the limits of your entrance, and once he’d reached a decent depth within you, he began to accelerate his movements. A hand slithered up to burrow into the small of your back, your abdomen pushed into the cushion below.

“Fuck, Billy,” you breathed out, pressing your face into the cushion as your arms strangled the feathered mass—his thrusts becoming too much to bear. You’d already endured his fingers & lips, and now the actual prize of the evening was proving too much of a mouthful—perhaps you’d bitten off more than you could chew, but it was far too late to spit out this particular morsel.

“Lovely arch you’ve got here—a bloody gymnast’s dream, that,” Billy teased, palm pressing harder into the small of your back, stomach further buried into the pillow—placed at your navel for the support he’d very much intended you to use. “Doing so well, Love, hang on f’me just a li’l longer, yeah?”

Blissful moans marinated within your throat, the sound hitched rhythmically by the slam of his pelvis against you. The bed rocked and creaked with the commotion, your propped lower half beginning to sag with exhaustion to the point where your entire weight was supported in Billy’s grip. You gnawed at your lip as his thrusts got harsher, faster—a means to an end.

The hand on your back moved to wrap within your hair. “Go on, use yer lungs, Love,” Billy demanded in a breathless grunt, using the hair he’d seized into his hand as leverage to hoist your head from the muffled comfort of the pillow.

Your head snapped into full extension, forcing you to take in the view of the pristine white ceiling overhead, not that the flecks of white dancing across your field of view allowed for much appreciation on your end. The compliance came like a reflex, shameless noises of pleasure streaming from your gaped jaw.

“Yeah, tha’s it,” he praised gruffly, his movements growing erratic. He paused his thrusts only to fold himself over you, his chest pressed against your back and his pelvis flattening your own against the mattress. He resumed his brutish movements, plunging your bodies with a motive that felt akin to reaching the depths of hell. His lips brushed against your ear, exhaustion latched onto his voice. “What you say we fill ‘er up, eh? Ya want that?”

His hand in your hair tightened, your neck further craning with the motion. “Need it,” you muttered thinly, your eyes growing watery with the overwhelming sensations flitting all about your being. “Please.”

“‘Cause yer asked so nicely,” Billy grunted into your head, then pressed a kiss to your temple. With a last bout of rocking, he delivered one last thrust that struck your core with all the pressure it needed to implode.

Your hair was released from his grip and your head fell into the crook of your folded arms, chest heaving as you fought to cling to the little sense you still possessed. Billy’s figure loitered on top of you, and you felt the way his own chest mirrored your exhaustion—if not worse. You sometimes forgot that he was riddled with a good few years of life, but he very rarely let that on in the bedroom.

The warmth of your shared arousal trickled from your entrance and watered the sheets below, but Billy stayed burrowed within you as you both laid motionless on the mattress. You didn’t mind it, though.

“Fuuuckin’ hell,” Billy groaned hoarsely, eventually slipping from your proximity and shifting onto the mattress beside you. He wasted no time in wrapping an arm across your back, hand tugging to pull your back into his chest so that you were comfortably spooned within his broad frame.

You melded yourself into his body, his arm sliding beneath your neck to offer your head some support while his other hand curled over your waist. His lips brushed against your shoulder, where he pressed a few, tender kisses—as if to compensate for his lack of playing nice for the entirety of the morning. You offered a light noise of contentment, a soft smile spreading your lips as your eyes fluttered closed.

All your worries? Forgotten as of now. Nothing mattered for the time being—you just needed to melt away into Billy’s presence. You knew he likely felt the same—a silent ghost whose hand on your waist dragged sensual lines across the skin, his breathing slowed as his jaw rested against your head.

“An Eggs Benedict would complete this morning,” you eventually spoke up, craning your head to glance at him with a suggestive hitch of your brows.

Billy grunted, his chin jutting in defeat. “Yeah, yeah, let a man catch ‘is breath first, then I’ll tend to me lady’s needs. Deal?”

You grinned with a sense of accomplishment. “Deal,” you replied, puckering your lips for a kiss. He leant over to press his lips against yours, and you turned away with a cheeky grin. “Old man,” you murmured cheekily.

“Oi,” he warned, hand on your waist delivering a light squeeze. “This old man fucks yer better than any other cunt ever did, innit?”

You shrugged dramatically. “All right, Billy, whatever you say.”

He scoffed with amused defeat. “Like I said,” he began, “yer a bleedin’ pain in me arse.”

“And don’t you forget it.” You bit the inside of your cheek, mind wandering back to the events of the morning. You had to admit that the anger you’d been harbouring towards Billy had long since eased away—might have very well been fucked right on out of you. If he could keep up this newfound apologetic package of his, you’d happily forgive any of his future shortcomings.

“Wha’s on yer mind?” Billy asked.

“I forgive you.”

“Well,” he remarked smugly. “Ain’t ya adorable?”

“Yes,” you answered instantly. “I am—so don’t fuck it up.”

“Don’t intend to, Love,” he said, pulling you closer against him. “Ain’t got the universe on me side next time yer work up a storm about all me shit. I’ll do right by yer, like I said.”

You turned to face him, your expression earnest as you gazed up at him. “Promise?”

Billy mirrored your stare with a soft smile. “Scout’s honour,” he said. “And yer give me a bloody ear if I break it, all right?”

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Thank you for reading!

I’m literally so sick of this piece I just want it out of my drafts 😭 apologies for any typos, it’s not entirely proof read towards the end. I hope y’all enjoyed it regardless!

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Other Billy Butcher / Karl Urban works:

I M A G I N E S

Carnival for Kisses

Lover Boy Butcher

S M A U s

Pov you hardlaunch your relationship with Karl Urban

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Tags: @violent-darkness @gibson-g1rl @shirley-girly @kus-babygirl @internetitgirl17 @dwinchesterspie1967 @babyfri3dric3