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thexsilentxwordsmith · 6 months ago

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Simon "Ghost" Riley x Fem!reader

Fandom: Call of Duty

Character(s): Simon Riley, Reader

Summary: Two personalities that clash, you and your lieutenant rarely get along, but when it comes to light that Lt. Riley has been messing with things behind the scenes of your life, what will happen when you confront him? Is it really hate that makes you stay in the argument the ensues...or is the tension a little too heavy to ignore?

Word Count: 7.5 k

Warnings:

Author's Note: I was planning on having more out this week, but storms here where I live have set me back a bit in getting things out due to power constantly going down. I'm behind, but I promise things are still coming. We have the steamy risking it without protection fic and the angsty Truth or Dare part 6 coming, so stay tuned!

Lt. Riley doesn’t really want to be here, stuck in the middle of the loud, crowded bar right off base on his night off and yet here he is amidst it all. Just wanted to, he will repeat if pushed for an answer as to why he’s come out and a part of him might even mean it, at least that is what he will try to convince himself of because he can’t accept that he knows it’s a lie.

A strong grip wrapped around his glass from his large hand, he brings his bourbon to his lips as those brown eyes scan the place from within the recesses of his thinner black balaclava that he wears when back in civility. His dark eyes are constantly on the move to disguise their true target, flitting from Soap to Garrick to whoever else is speaking around the small group of tables the taskforce has claimed for the evening only to dart back to one person: you.

He eyes you across the bar chatting up some bloke with mid length black hair and a prominent neck tattoo, smiling and giggling in what looks to be a lively conversation of shared interests and it makes his blood pressure rise until he can feel the heat in his face. Lucky for him that the mask conceals enough, only being pulled up from time to time for him to take a drink or grab a quick smoke.

For whatever reason you both have never really gotten along with one another, even from day one. There is something about your personalities that just does not mix, a tension that always leads to an argument. Maybe it is the similarities in your natures, maybe it is because you aren’t afraid to speak out where he is more subdued and calculated. Whatever the reason doesn’t matter, whenever you are in proximity it is like trying to force gasoline and fire to coexist in the same place without causing destruction. Sure, you can both be professional in the right setting, force yourselves to work together for a common goal as sergeant and lieutenant and you are good at it, but once the threat is gone and you are back on safe ground, the feud ramps right back up.

So it surprises you when the lieutenant immediately agrees to tag along tonight. He usually isn’t too keen on this type of rowdy fun, preferring quieter company, but over the past couple of months it seems like wherever it is you find yourself he is never too far away. It is a free country and he can do as he damn well please, even though it is obvious the way his stare keeps coming back to you.

He may have everyone else fooled, but not you, no. There is no mistaking the feeling you get whenever his gaze falls on you.

You have noticed it more and more in the past couple of weeks the way that somber glare subtly finds you when you are near. Clearly you are doing something right to piss him off and there is something euphoric about forcing his attention to constantly stick to you. Why not play it up? Maybe you like the idea of making him watch as you finally score.

You hope it makes him seethe to see you happy.

Those dark eyes stick to you for a couple hours until finally he has caught what he has been waiting for. He follows your form as you get up from your seat and make your way over towards the bathrooms. He can’t stop himself from taking the opportunity and before you have even let the bathroom door shut behind you, the lieutenant is already on his feet and drawing down his mask as he stalks towards the bastard you were just chatting up a second ago with only one goal in mind.

The same goal he has had for months now anytime you start to get too close to anyone.

Your mystery man has just brought the neck of his beer bottle up and put it to his lips when the shadow from the lieutenant’s large stature casts over the table he is still sitting at. As he looks up he is met with the most intimidating face he has ever seen staring right back at him. The firm stance mixed with the glare in the lieutenant’s eyes within the skull mask gives the man pause and the confidence he once had slips away as he struggles to find his voice.

“Can I help…?” the dark-haired man barely gets out before he is cut off as the lieutenant steps up to him.

“That bird you’re talkin’ to just a moment ago,” Lt. Riley says, his thick British accent deep and viciously harsh from the very first syllable; he’s only got a few minutes to get this done. “Ya best leave ‘er alone if ya know what’s good for ya.”

The man swallows hard trying not to choke as he is caught off-guard by the intense hostility that has seemingly come out of nowhere. “Dude, if she’s with you I’m sorry, I didn’t know. She’s the one that approached me, honest,” he chokes out his apologies, hoping that it will be enough not to get his face bashed in by this hulking specimen of a man.

Lt. Riley ignores his comment and leans down closer to his face, his stare sharp and cruel as he places a heavy hand on his shoulder. His fingers dig in hard until the man winces. “Don’t let me catch ya talkin’ to ‘er anymore tonight, got it? Cause if I gotta come over again you’re gonna wish I didn’t and by then it’ll be too fuckin’ late for ya. I’ll make sure ta put ya in the fuckin’ ground. Do ya understand?”

Eyes wide in fear, the man slowly nods; there is no need to be told twice, not from a man like this. He knows the type of guys that frequent the bar as the military base is not but a few minutes from here and he isn’t looking to get pulverized by a trained professional. A slight tremble in his hand, the man grabs his beer bottle and takes off into the bar with a worried look on his face.

Lt. Riley watches as the man hides himself behind a large group standing around the L-shaped bar near the bartender and a smug sense of satisfaction fills him as he heads back to his own table to finish his drink, content that once again he has succeeded in his mission. It’s not even a couple minutes that pass before the corner of his vision catches a familiar figure exiting the bathroom and heading back to the table he had just left from.

You return to your seat only to find your new friend nowhere to be found. Looking around, you second guess yourself that this isn’t where you are supposed to be, but this is your table; your rum and coke is still right where you had left it. You take your seat and pick up your drink; it’s possible that he had just scurried off somewhere and would be back any second. But as the time passes with no man in sight, frustration begins to wash over you as you realize that this shit is happening again.

It’s been months since you’ve been able to have your needs met by something other than your fingers and for some strange reason no matter how good things seem to be going, it ends in you getting ghosted. Why? Even the few times you’ve had encounters on base the guys you had flirted with for days suddenly go cold and avoid you like the plague.

Is there something wrong with me? you question yourself silently.

Across the way, Lt. Riley downs the last swig of bourbon in his glass, setting it back on the tabletop gently as he situates his mask back down. He doesn’t say a word or offer a goodbye, opting to silently slip out from his seat unnoticed to head outside with a smirk contorting his lips beneath the fabric covering his mouth.

He has gotten what he wanted…well, not all. There is still something else that eats away at him, a specter at the back of his mind, and even as he convinces himself that he is only doing this to make you mad it still lays there in waiting.

Back at your empty table, you finish your own drink and are about to call it a night when you spot your potential lover tucked away at the far end of the bar, hunched down in his seat. It’s odd the way he is sitting; it almost looks like he is trying to avoid being spotted, but that can’t be right, can it? Moving your way through the noisy crowd of people, you make it over to him.

“Thought I lost you,” you say cheerfully and watch him choke into his drink.

He coughs a few times before he is able to get it under control and speak. “Think I’m gonna call it a night,” he says. His response is quick and dismissive as he sets his bottle down and turns to leave, but you are determined to at least get some feedback as none of this is making sense.

You block his path with your stance and watch as his whole body tenses. “Did something happen? I thought we were having a nice time.”

The man uneasily looks around the area, searching for something that he ends up not being able to find, but that only alleviates some of the tension in his brows. “Look,” he says as he turns his attention back to you, “you’re really nice and all, but I’m not interested in getting my head caved in tonight, okay?”

Your cheerful expression falls. “What are you talking about?” you ask in confusion.

He takes a breath; he needs to get out of this conversation fast. “Some big masked guy came over while you were gone and threatened to put me in the ground if I didn’t leave you alone, so that’s what I’m going to do. Don’t know if he’s your ex or something, but I don’t want any part of that,” he confirms. “So, if you’ll excuse me I’m gonna get out of here before he comes back.”

You want to convince him to stay, that there is nothing going on that he needs to worry about, that it’s just your vindictive lieutenant trying to ruin your night, but the way he is shaken up you know there is no stopping him. All you can do is defeatedly watch him walk away as you say goodbye at any chance you had at getting laid tonight.

But this encounter isn’t completely useless; with his revelation things begin to add up now. All this time you thought it was you who scared off your potential lovers somehow, that there was something wrong with you that kept driving them away, but no. It is Lt. Riley who is going around threatening people to stay away from you, you are sure of it now.

And that makes you see red. What even is his endgame? Things have always been tense between you two, but this is going too far. You need to find out why and now because this is becoming unbearable. He has messed with your life long enough without your knowledge; tonight it is all going to end.

You turn your head back over to where the lieutenant had been seated and you spot his glass still sitting on the table. He couldn’t have left that long ago if his empty cup hasn’t even been cleared yet; if you leave right now and hurry, you probably will catch him. Quickly getting the bartender’s attention you pay your tab and immediately head out into the night ready to get your answers.

Each step makes your heartbeat pound a little faster the closer you get to base. Fueled by the uninhibited state you find yourself in from of the couple of drinks you had, you don’t want the moment to dissipate; you need your anger to power your words so that your lieutenant knows just how far over the line he has crossed.

You make it back on base and head in the direction of the barracks, passing by the dark offices and other buildings that are seemingly empty for the night. It’s late so there are not many places he can be and soon you can see them come into view. That is when you catch a figure leaning against the brick, the light from a cigarette glowing orange dimly in the shadow and you know you have him.

“The fuck is wrong with you?” you spit the venom-filled words to him as you come to stand at his side, arms crossing tightly across your chest as you stop.

The lieutenant ignores you, keeping his face straight ahead as he brings his cigarette up to his lips, ignoring your presence like you aren’t even there as he takes a long drag. The audacity he has to disregard you completely after all he’s been up to behind your back makes your blood boil over and you react fast. Instantly you reach out and rip the dwindling cig out of his fingers to flick it angrily to the ground; only then does he acknowledge your existence.

“Don’t know what your fuckin’ on ‘bout princess,” he grumbles as he pulls out the pack of smokes from his jeans pocket and takes out another cigarette, placing it in between his lips as he lights it up and takes a few short puffs to get it going.

Christ, did you fucking hate when he calls you that, all condescending and shit and he knows it too. That’s why he always uses it, just to watch the way it makes your skin prickle and your pulse race as it riles you up…just like it’s doing right now.

Your cheeks are burning red hot with your anger and you know by the feeling alone that it is visible even in the low light. “You know damn well what I’m talking about,” you accuse. “Thought you could ruin my fun and I would just never hear about it, did you? Well, guess what, I did. Guess you didn’t intimidate the guy back at the bar as good as you thought ‘cause he told me all about how you threatened him into staying away from me and now things around here are starting to make sense.”

So, pretty boy talked after all that scaring he had done; fucking hell, he wasn’t planning on being found out tonight. He can’t deal with this right now; he needs to get away before this gets out of hand. “I’m not doin’ this right now,” he mutters as he flicks away his second cigarette and begins to walk off.

You are right on his heels. “Don’t you fucking walk away from me,” you say as you quickly follow him as he takes off inside to a random room not far from the entrance. You barely register anything about the place, only caring about making sure you are on the right side of the door so he can’t lock you out until you’ve said your peace.

Slamming the door, you press your back up against it. There is nowhere for him to go, not with how you are blocking the exit and it is clear that you won’t be leaving. Goddammit, why tonight? The lieutenant isn’t drunk, but he still has enough liquor running through his veins and he is weary of being alone with you.

You aren’t going to let him be, though; your anger won’t let you. “Well, you got anything to say or are you going to stay silent like a fucking coward?” you ask pointedly.

His fist at his side clenches and unclenches to match his jaw beneath the mask. Gasoline and fire; he can’t stop himself from matching your energy. “Fine, ya wanna know the truth? It was me. You’re distractin’, sergeant,” he says, that heavily accented voice harsh with his assertions. “Throwin’ yourself ‘round like a bloody slag ‘tween the men here and at the bar. Ya like that? Being a cheap piece a meat? Ya think that’s a good look for your rank on this team, hmm?”

You shake your head with a forced incredulous laugh before turning your gaze back to him. The only person who is ever allowed to make decisions about your actions is you; whatever you choose to do or not do isn’t up for debate with any outside party. “What I do on my own time is none of your goddamn business. If I want to screw every member of this operation, I will. If I want to fuck a rando from the bar, so be it. It’s my choice and you need to stay out of it.”

It’s a lie, you have no intention of becoming some barracks bunny, but that doesn’t make the point any less true. There’s nothing wrong with a little companionship from time to time and you aren’t going to let him take that from you. This job is hard enough as it is. Still you can’t shake the question that is floating around in your head.

Why does he care so much to go to all this trouble? Why not just stay away?

The Lt. peers down his nose at you, those striking amber eyes looking at you through the opening in his balaclava to give him a dangerous appearance as they are cloaked in shadow. Standing in front this beast of a man has left many shaking in their boots, but not you, never you. Fuck him if he thinks this bit of intimidation is going to do anything; it’s not.

“It is my goddamn business,” he growls. “Ya talk a big fuckin’ game, but ya don’t know what the hell your doin’. Gonna get yourself in trouble one a these days.”

“Oh, so you’re just looking out for me is that it?” you ask. “I don’t need a savior. I can take care of myself, you know.”

Even he can’t deny that you can handle whatever it is that comes your way. He has worked beside you for quite a while now and there is a reason you were selected to this task force in the first place. No, it isn’t his need to protect that causes him to put himself where he doesn’t belong, but he can’t face the truth; he can’t…can he?

“Besides, what the hell do you care, Lt.?” you spit the question harshly into his face to break him out of his thoughts. “Just like to screw with my life as a part of some goddamn powerplay? You got nothing else better to do than fuck everything up? Pathetic, even for you.”

The lieutenant’s jaw shifts as his dark eyes are silhouetted within the confines of his mask silently stare back into your own. There is a glint in their depths, a catch of the light that makes them glisten as he locks your vision in that stoic glare.

“Watch your fuckin’ tone there, princess,” he warns as he moves in closer until the tips of your shoes are nearly touching. “You are playin’ with fire and if ya ain’t careful, you’re gonna get fuckin’ burned. Ya best quit it now or else.”

Taking your pointer finger, you lean forward and poke the tip of the digit directly onto his sternum over his t-shirt and push down. “Make me.”

Hearing those two deadly words come from your mouth while being this close with emotions this high makes his brain short-circuit and he scrambles to get control of the thoughts at the back of his mind; no, he can’t let them get out. For a split second you catch a flash of something in his gaze that gives you pause and leaves you with a strange but familiar sensation in the pit of your stomach before it is gone just as fast as it came on.

Flustered and confused, you don’t notice that his hand has moved from his side until it is wrapped around your wrist as he wrenches yours off his chest and smacks it against the door, pinning it there next to your head. “You’re on thin fuckin’ ice right now,” he threatens as he gets into your face. “Keep it up and see what happens.”

The lieutenant is so close now the sensation from the warm air leaving his mouth is felt against the lower half of your face even through the fabric of his mask. You can smell the bite from the tobacco and liquor as he exhales a weighty, ragged breath. There is a curious tension permeating the space now, filling the area around your bodies until your chest begins to ache with anticipation for something you can’t put into words.

What are you wanting to happen? You aren’t entirely sure you want to admit it, but still there is a growing impatience that makes your limbs tingle as you wait for the moment to break. “You’re not going to do shit,” you scoff. “I haven’t been touched in fucking months and it’s all your fault; you think I care about showing you respect? The way I see it, you have two options: either leave me the fuck alone or I make your life a waking nightmare until you do.”

Why aren’t you shoving him away? Your wrist is still gripped in his fist and yet you haven’t even tried to free it. Sure, your words are ruthless and heated, but you’re still here and he doesn’t understand what is happening. The atmosphere is shifting and he can feel it like a perplexing magnetism, a push and pull that he is finding harder and harder to fight off. He needs you to leave and quickly as he isn’t sure how long he can last under this growing torment.

“Ya best get out, now,” he growls under his breath. “It ain’t a good idea for you to be here anymore.”

His threat does little to make you back down and instead you tilt your head with a cocky smirk on your lips. “Why’s that? Can’t take the fact that someone can actually stand up to you?”

“Not that,” he says curtly.

“Then what?” you push him for the answer.

Lt. Riley stays closemouthed to your question. How the hell is supposed to answer that when your pulse is pounding through your veins and he can count the rapid beats through his palm that is around your wrist? He can’t do it, he can’t stop the way he craves the feeling of it.

The silence is heavy and dangerous, too much and you aren’t sure what is going to happen, but you can’t leave with nothing; one of the many questions you have has to get a response at least. “Fine, you don’t want to answer that one I’m not gonna make you, but if you want me to leave you are going to have to give me something. I’ll go back to my original question: why do you care about any of this?”

The lieutenant is suffocating on the strength of the tension shared between you. It’s intoxicating, more than the whiskey he’s consumed tonight. Try as he might, he can’t stop himself from wanting more and suddenly the fingers on his free hand are lightly grazing along the waistband of your jeans in that sliver of space between your shirt and your pants where just a millimeter of skin can connect with his touch. It’s too late for him now; he can’t let you go.

Your breath hitches and gets caught in your throat at the electricity of the contact. The longer his touch lingers on your body the more disoriented your thoughts become until you aren’t sure what is happening. You desperately want to slap him, shove him off and storm out, but a secret part of you that has started to glow like a tiny ember in your chest quietly begs for him to keep going.

Why can’t you tell him to stop?

“I can’t let anyone get to ya,” he murmurs with a labored inhale. “Don’t care what it costs.” Those hazel eyes with their blown out pupils never break the connection with yours as his fingers draw a line over your warm, soft skin and suddenly it’s near impossible to pull in enough air to keep you sane.

“Why?” you ask. “Hate to see me enjoying myself? Just want to keep me miserable, is that it?”

Those rough, thick fingers risk a bit more as they slip ever so slightly up so that his palm can rest against the meat of your hip and that’s where he stops. His gaze drifts down just a moment to admire how far his touch has gotten. This is the closest you both have ever been in the time you’ve known each other and it is overwhelming.

A shift in his stance, a half step in closer, his hand still resting against that soft, balmy flesh, and is that the pounding beat of your heart you hear pulsing in your ears? You need him to say something, anything, in hopes that it will break the spell that is making you more delirious by the minute.

“Say it!” you demand as you wrestle with the flood of sensations.

His eyes drift back to your face. “ ‘cause,” he says, that gruff, masculine voice making his words firm, “if I can’t fuckin’ ‘ave ya, then no one can.”

The confession knocks the wind from your lungs and you struggle to intake a breath. This has to be a new game he’s playing at; that’s it, a new tactic to make you lose your shit and destroy you in new ways. There’s no way he is serious, right? You study his gaze for any sign of deception, for him to crack and mock you for falling for it, but all that meets you is a fervent stare that makes your body burn.

“Fucking bastard,” you snarl as your resolve to break away from him slips silently away.

“Slag,” he responds.

A few seconds drag on into eternity as you stare back into those dark eyes, your heartbeats racing faster and faster with each labored breath you intake from one another. This isn’t how this is supposed to go, you are supposed to hate each other, but is that really what it is?

You’re the only one who has always treated him like a person, not some monster to be feared. It’s true you fight and bicker and drive each other mad at times, but not once have you ever backed down from him. You’re headstrong and steadfast in yourself and that is something he respects. And more than that, he desires.

His words, why do they sound so good? If it was anyone else you would have slapped them silly and told them to fuck off, but the way he covets you feels like ecstasy. You enjoyed his attention before and now that you have all of it, it’s all you could ever want. There is an ache in you now that can only be quenched one way and that is from him.

The adrenaline coursing through his veins blurs that thin line between hatred and desire until it no longer exists. As if another is piloting his body he cannot stop. All at once something snaps and before you can fully comprehend the action, he is shoving his body into yours as his hand wraps around your throat. A wall of massive, bulky muscle presses tightly into your curves, pinning you to the surface as he wrenches that god-forsaken mask above his lips and grabbing your face between his hands, those large, rough things that have more experience holding a weapon than something soft and tender within them, he meets your mouth with an insatiable intensity that sends your fucking head spiraling.

Things you’ve both buried deep rise to the surface as the dam breaks wide open, feelings that you both had suppressed under the guise of hatred because you couldn’t…no, you wouldn’t admit that maybe there was something there. It all comes pouring out into the kiss with a feverish urgency as you unsuccessfully scramble to contain them.

There is no restraining this fire of desire from catching you both ablaze.

Lt. Riley’s grip is strong, holding your head in place so there is nowhere for you to turn as the brunt of his need is forced upon your lips until they sting the harder he presses into you while the stumble along his jaw pricks your cheeks and the skin around your mouth. The taste of the bourbon that he had been imbibing all night is on his breath, crisp and sharp as it hits your tongue with its bite, but it does nothing to deter you from taking every ounce of his embrace and matching it with your own.

You want him tighter against you still and your hands run up the back of his head through the cropped bits of hair that have popped out from below the edge of his pulled up mask. The feeling of your fingers running through the short hairs near his neck as you bear down on his mouth make that hulking military man shudder and you sigh delightedly into him at the reaction.

Is it really that easy to make that big man fold? Oh, you are going to use that against him.

Strong fingertips jab themselves into your hip so that he can pull your pelvis flush against his while he shoves his boot between your feet to pry your legs apart, widening your stance so that he can fit his bulky thigh between them. The curve of your hip is accentuated by the position and he runs a heavy hand across the length of it as he pushes up against your pussy and you both gasp into each other’s mouths from the feeling.

That instant pressure against that gnawing ache in your clit has you grinding on his thigh. “Christ, Simon,” his name falls from your lips onto his while you cling to his neck to hold your body up as you push down on him as hard as you can to get enough friction through your clothing. He lets you have at it, using his leg however you see fit until you can feel the gathering moisture in the crotch of your panties.

“Do you even know how much I’ve fuckin’ wanted to do this?” he growls, the feral lust in his words palpable on your tastebuds as he shoves his tongue into your mouth past your lips to meet your own so that they can dance.

He has a taste for you now, a craving that cannot be quenched, an insatiable hunger that eats him alive. And he needs more.

Catching your bottom lip, he sucks it in between his teeth to give it a fierce nip that smarts, but you like the pain; it only makes you feel more alive as the aggressive nature of your attraction makes you feel like you are drowning.

“Fuck, need it now,” you demand desperately. “Where can we go?”

The question makes him pause and Simon pulls from your mouth to look over his shoulder before returning his attention to you. “Ya know where we are, dontcha?” he teases.

Your eyes drift from him and really look at your surroundings for the first time since you got in here; you are in a bedroom, not just a random room like you thought. There is a small chest of drawers beside a bed not far from where you stand and on top is laying that familiar hard shell skull mask.

You’re in his room.

“Shut up,” you breathe. “Just fuck me already, bastard.”

“So fuckin’ nasty,” he says with a smirk before he is back on your mouth again.

Coarse hands desperately paw at your clothes as softer ones claw at his, undoing buttons, pulling off shirts, shoving down pants; a flurry of lips caressing while limbs frantically move until both of you stand bare naked before each other. The last is his mask that he removes himself; he is about to be inside of, there is no need to hide from you anymore.

You barely have time to take in his striking features: that strong jaw accentuated with old, faded scars, that prominent nose, that stern brow, before two strong arms pick you up and carry you the few short steps to his bed, forcing you down and shoving you onto your back so that you are pressed down against the surface as he clambers on top with you. His hands part your legs like warm butter and he keeps them spread as he positions himself on his knees between your thighs.

Quickly he leans over to the short chest of drawers and flings open the bottom most one, reaches inside, and grabs a small, square packet. Holding it between his thumb and forefinger he brings it to his lips and grabs it with his teeth, shredding the top to pull out the rubber. He tosses the packaging to the floor and in one swift motion, slips the condom over the fat tip of his girthy cock and rolls it down the long shaft.

That is it, without another sound he sits back up and clenches his abdominal muscles while his strong fingers hold onto the meat of your hips as he makes sure he is aligned with your entrance. “Ready, princess?” he asks through short, quick breaths.

Your hands grip into his shoulder blades. “Stop fucking talking and get inside me,” you order aggressively.

The tip of his cock is prodding against your opening and you are panting with anticipation as you wait to feel it break through the threshold. It’s right there, right at the point you need it to be to give you the relief you’ve been seeking after the months of agony during your dry spell. Then all at once Simon’s hips rock forward and the head slips inside, stretching you wide open.

You gasp and buck your hips as he gathers the strength for another thrust to slip it in a little more; you are taking him so well. God, he could not ask for more. One more strong thrust and his cock rips into you deep until he reaches the base, bottoming out with a loud, guttural moan.

“N-nh… ah…” Simon groans as he twitches from the constriction around him. “Fuckin’ hell princess, your so tight…oh, f-fuck.”

Breathing through the intense feeling of being stuffed full you roll your hips into him to send shock waves of ecstasy through his shaft and his head falls forward to hang limply as he attempts to calm himself enough that he doesn’t blow his load right here and now just from that initial contact.

“Gimme a second,” he growls, but you shake your head.

“No,” you say, “waited too long for this.”

You will be the death of him and what a fucking sublime death it will be.

Fine, if you want fast and rough that is what you are going to fucking get. He holds on tight as he begins to pound into you hard, making you bounce with the force of his thrusts up and down as he takes you at this unyielding pace. You are anything but fragile and he uses that to his advantage to be as animalistic as he wants.

The longer he drills his cock into you in that relentless tempo the more lost in the feeling he gets until he is completely ravenous only for the sensation of your body. He has waited so long for this, dreamt endlessly of this, yearned in secret for months for this, and it feels exhilarating to finally have it.

His primal grunts fill the room the harder he gets and you are suddenly swept up in it all as your needs are finally being met. You lose yourself in the moment, whimpering and whining as the euphoria washes over your body to make your limbs tingle. Soon you are so loud that you are surely going to draw unwanted attention.

Reaching out his fingers find your lips and roughly he pries them apart so he can shove two of those thick digits inside your mouth. “Keep quiet,” he grunts as he continues to thrust. “Don’t need anyone hearin’ us before I’ve finished with ya.”

Getting you quiet, he needs something for himself and he knows just the thing. Leaning down over your body, his hot mouth latches on to the side of your throat just below your ear and you feel the sharp sting as his teeth dig into the supple flesh. The pressure is so hard from the suction of his lips you can almost feel the skin bubble up further into his mouth; there is no question that there will be a big, angry, purple blotch by tomorrow if he keeps at it. A token of who has claimed you.

And he is going to make sure it sticks.

It is a while before he unlatches his mouth and when he does he brings his lips up from your throat to your ear to fill your mind with only his voice as his hand finds the top of your pussy so that his finger can stroke over your clit. You’re gonna come and you’re gonna come hard if he has anything to do with it. “Look at ya, fallin’ apart just for me, princess. God, I wanna fuckin’ ruin ya.”

Simon pulls his fingers out of your mouth so that he can kiss your raw lips, making you swallow all his desperation until you are gasping for air. “I’d do whatever it takes just have ya all to myself,” he says, the words husky in his throat as he groans them into your mouth. “Need ya to belong to me and only me.”

Simon leaves your mouth to sit up higher, taking the pressure off his knees and pulling your body up slightly with him, and that’s when he catches a glimpse of your bodies at the point of their union and fuck is it a beautiful sight. The way he disappears inside of you is mesmerizing and he doesn’t want to look away, but he also needs you to see it. You need to know how both your bodies are made for each other.

His hand moves to the back of your neck and tilts your face down. “Look at how well your gorgeous body takes me. Do ya think anyone else can give ya this?”

Your dreamy gaze drifts lower between both of your bodies and stares at Simon’s imposing figure with his chiseled abdominal muscles as they contract and release with each thrust, his hips plowing into you, filling you up completely as each of his thrusts go down to the very base of his shaft. Your mind is in a daze as you feel him hit that sensitive bundle of nerves within you time and again before his shaft reappears covered more and more with your juices over the condom.

There is something so primal about watching his cock slip in and out of your tight body, watching as you slowly fall into oblivion.

His amber eyes catch yours and he smirks. Your cheeks are flushed bright and it thrills him to know that it is because of how he makes your body feel. “Fuckin’ hell, you’re a picture wrapped ‘round my cock like this,” he groans, his strokes becoming more sloppy as the slapping sounds of your overly wet cunt get louder.

The longer he thrusts the more his sanity wanes until there is not a single thought left except for the animalistic need to rut into you until he comes. You can see the change wash over his face and through his eyes and it only thrills you more as he becomes a hunter ready to catch his prey; it makes you shiver.

“Ya like the way my cock feels inside ya, dontcha?” he asks in a low growl. “Fillin’ ya full, stretchin’ ya out. Ya think anyone else can give it to ya like this? Ya think anyone else is gonna make ya come as hard as I’m gonna fuckin’ make ya? This pussy is gonna belong ta me after I’m done with it.”

Ragged, broken moans escape your lips while your hips rut up to meet him at the height of each thrust as his voice begins to push you over. Your hands around his shoulders tense and as he strikes into you again your nails dig in, raking across his back in angry red lines that tingle and burn as you drag them down over his muscles. Oh, you are definitely close.

“Ya gonna come for me, princess?” he teases mercilessly, desperately clinging to you as he too is about to spill and wanting you to go first. “Do it then. Come on my fuckin’ cock.”

The way this beast of a man is wrapped around your body, you are completely at his mercy, his size letting him do with you as he pleases and you have no say whatsoever. And yet here he is furiously pounding into you harder and harder as his fingertip strokes at your clit; he is doing his utmost to get you off even though he could leave you high and dry at any moment.

Never have you ever wanted someone to take away your power more than you want him to right now.

Your hands leave his body only to gather in the sheets, gripping them so tight you can hear threads popping and feel the strain on your fingers. Each slam of that throbbing cock into you causes the warmth to grow in your stomach, each second that passes the pressure gets stronger and stronger. Finally at long last, you fall completely silent and with a few more desperate thrusts that pressure is released and shoots through you white hot as you come hard and fast.

Simon continues to grind into your pussy through your whimpers as he lets himself go and within a few more seconds he too is falling over that ledge, his torso shuddering with the force of his orgasm as he pumps all that built up frustration into the tip of the condom inside you. His hips buck and are punctuated with deep groans until he has nothing left to release and he slowly comes to a stop, his hands rubbing up and down your thighs to help him catch his breath again.

You both stay locked that way as you calm yourselves back down from the high, your legs trembling around his waist, the sound of his inhales the only thing to break the quiet that falls over the room. Once he is able to he pulls out and falls down onto the bed beside you.

Moving onto your side, you look over at him with a smirk. “Well, shit, never would have expected that,” you mutter sleepily.

He turns his head to face you. “Is that right?” he asks in that low, gravely tone that sends a shiver down your spine. “As if you haven’t been flauntin’ yourself to keep my attention. Was bound to happen sooner or later.”

“Like you haven’t been undressing me with your eyes for months now,” you push back. “I’ve noticed the way you look at me.”

Reaching out his arm, his fingers lock into your hair, tying it into a ponytail in his grip before he gives it a strong tug. “Yeah well we’re gonna change that. Cause I wanna be the only person ya look at, princess,” he says harshly so you know he means business, “the only one that holds your attention, the only that gets ta be in your ‘ead. I’m gonna be the only one that gets between your legs and no one else; I wanna be the one that knows just how ta make ya fall apart. And any bastard that tries to get in my way is going to fuckin’ get it.”

You chuckle. “Possessive much,” you say snarkily only to receive a solid tug on your hair.

“Absolutely gonna be selfish with ya,” he returns as he brings your face in closer, “cause I would rather fuckin’ die than watch anyone else take this away from me.”

Pulling your head to him, Simon licks the smile from his lips before latching onto your mouth one last time. Maybe you two can find common ground after all…can’t be too mad at each other when you’re making each other orgasm.

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poohsources · 2 months ago

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🐝 * ― 𝑬𝑷𝑰𝑪: 𝑻𝑯𝑬 𝑴𝑼𝑺𝑰𝑪𝑨𝑳 𝑺𝑬𝑵𝑻𝑬𝑵𝑪𝑬 𝑺𝑻𝑨𝑹𝑻𝑬𝑹𝑺.

Troy Saga ❛ do what i say and you'll see them again. ❜ ❛ what do you live for? what do you try for? ❜ ❛ say no more, i know tat i'm ready. ❜ ❛ the blood on your hands is something you won't lose. ❜ ❛ is the price i pay endless pain? ❜ ❛ something feels off here, i see fire but there's no smoke. ❜ ❛ we should try to find a way no one ends up dead. ❜ ❛ why should we take when we could give? ❜ ❛ i see in your face, there's so much guilt inside your heart. ❜ ❛ have you forgotten the lessons i taught you? ❜

The Cyclops Saga ❛ it's almost too perfect, too god to be true. ❜ ❛ what gives you the right to deal a pain so deep? ❜ ❛ your life now is in my hand. ❜ ❛ remember them, we're the ones who carry on. ❜ ❛ what good would killing do when mercy is a skill more of this world could learn to use? ❜ ❛ i am your darkest moment. ❜ ❛ i don't know where i went wrong but i warned ya', and you failed the test. ❜ ❛ that's just like you, why should i be surprised? ❜ ❛ unlike you, every time someone dies i'm left to deal with the strain. ❜ ❛ i'll remind you i saw you as a friend but now we're done. ❜

The Ocean Saga ❛ at this rate, we won't make it out alive. ❜ ❛ please don't tell me you're about to do what i think you'll do. ❜ ❛ yes, but how much longer til your luck runs out? ❜ ❛ you rely on wit, and people die on it. ❜ ❛ you're like the brother i could never do without. ❜ ❛ and suddenly you doubt that i could figure this out? ❜ ❛ keep your friends close and your enemies closer, never really know who you can trust. ❜ ❛ 'cause the end always justifies the means. ❜ ❛ do you know who i am? ❜ ❛ you are the worst kind of good 'cause you're not even great. ❜

The Circe Saga ❛ whatever you need to say can wait some more. ❜ ❛ there's no length i wouldn't go if it was you i had to save. ❜ ❛ wouldn't you like a taste of the power? ❜ ❛ don't thank me friend, you very well may die. ❜ ❛ did you do something to them? ❜ ❛ if you make one wrong move, then you're done for. ❜ ❛ you and i are now evenly matched. ❜ ❛ you've given me no reason to bestow you with my trust. ❜ ❛ who's to say, with the mistakes i've made that they will be the last mistakes i ever make? ❜ ❛ this is the price we pay to love. ❜

The Underworld Saga ❛ all i hear are screams, every time i dare to close my eyes. ❜ ❛ i no longer dream, only nigtmares of those who've died. ❜ ❛ when does a man become a monster? ❜ ❛ now you tell us our effort's are for nothing? ❜ ❛ how has everything been turned against us? ❜ ❛ do i need to change? ❜ ❛ i'm the only one whose line i haven't crossed. ❜ ❛ what if i'm the problem that's been hiding all along? ❜ ❛ what if i've been far too kind to foes but a monster to ourselves? ❜ ❛ if i became the monster and threw that guilt away would that make us stronger? ❜

The Thunder Saga ❛ you wouldn't have spared me. i made a mistake like this, it almost cost my life. ❜ ❛ i've got a secret i can no longer keep. ❜ ❛ you know that we are the same. ❜ ❛ we must do what it takes to survive. ❜ ❛ tell me you did not know that would happen. ❜ ❛ if you want all the power, you must carry all the blame. ❜ ❛ how are we supposed to trust you now? ❜ ❛ how much longer must i suffer now? ❜ ❛ someone's gotta die today and you have got the final say. ❜ ❛ please don't make me do this. ❜

The Wisdom Saga ❛ you've made your worst mistake here. ❜ ❛ this cruel world doesn't give out presents just for being good. ❜ ❛ you're my friend, i couldn't ask for more. ❜ ❛ did you know you talk in your sleep? ❜ ❛ i'm what you want here, i'm what you need here. ❜ ❛ you don't know what i've gone through. ❜ ❛ i know your life's been hard, i'll stay inside your heart. ❜ ❛ life would be so much worse if you had died. ❜ ❛ you dare to defy me, to make me feel shame? ❜ ❛ no one beats me, no one wins my game. ❜

#rp meme #rp memes #rp prompts #roleplay meme #lyric sentence starters #sentence starters #musical sentence starters #rph #type: meme

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slamminslamminmcgill · 3 months ago

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I need to be high off my ass while deadpool fucks me. That’s it. that’s the post. Wade wilson the man that you are. Hurfgghdhhhh. yeah. weed makes me horny so definitely that…… Deadpool….. save me………….. headlock….. his arms…. ehhshhhshhhhh

deadpool headlock on drugs inspired by my last dick appointment coming right up!!

warning: intox (weed), choking, oral, daddy kink, humiliation, transphobic slurs

anatomical terms: cunt/pussy

suggested listening: Gorillaz - Superfast Jellyfish (trying something new w/ poolposting!! i love the deadpool soundtrack and the vibes the music creates for each scene so im trying to emulate that. also discovered recently that this is a perfect song to smoke and get your pussy ate to 😌)

youtube

“What was that? Didn’t quite catch that, sugarcunt. Speak up for me, will ya?”

“F-Feels so… feels so fucking gooooood…”

“Mm, but does it? If you’re still speaking in complete sentences, then my work’s not done. Go ahead and take another hit. Or two. Y’know what? Just finish the bowl. I’ll pack you another if you’re still too smart for my liking.”

Wade punctuated his order with a sharp smack to your cunt, sloppy with his spit and your need. His mask was pulled up just over his mouth so he could service you.

This motherfucker was trying to kill you. Or at the very least, give you some form of brain damage. Every consecutive orgasm reduced your cognitive functioning. To his credit, though, it sounded like a generous offer when he first proposed it.

“You need to relax, honey-boo. How’s about you smoke up while I go down, if you catch my drift?"

He was lying on his stomach, his chin resting in his hands, his legs in the air kicking back and forth, watching as you took rapid fire bong hits. You tried your best to burn through the bowl as quickly as you could, and you got about three solid clouds out before you started coughing. Hard.

“That’s it. You got it,” Wade cooed, stroking your inner thigh, “Just cough out all those neurons for me, good boy. Daddypool’s stupid little boy, I’m so proud of you!” He used your coughing fit as an opportunity to sneak two fingers inside you, and gawked at how you hard you clenched them. “Ooh, yeah, you got some good grip strength in you, cupcake. Squeezing those fingers like a hug from a church-going grandma. 'Am I gonna see you next week at the bake sale, honey?' Oh, yes, you will, Miss Nancy!"

What? What in the actual fuck is he yapping about? Was that supposed to be a joke? You had no mental bandwidth left to even speak, let alone dissect Wade's meandering, confusing, drawn-out metaphors for your pussy. "Wh… Wha-a-a?"

"Oh, that’s sounding much dumber, baby! Good boy!" He said cheerily, sliding his fingers out and wiping them on his suit. "Seems like you’re just about ready for Daddy."

"Oh my god, look at you! You look so cute pinned down like this! Aw, you can’t move, can you, dummy? Nowhere for you to go, huh? Except back onto Daddy’s cock where you belong."

Wade had you on your back, your ankles on his shoulders, his hands gripping your thighs as he pounded into you, over and over, deeper and deeper. So deep, in fact, it was as if he was shoving your womb up into your throat. Choking on that and a mouthful of drool, you cried out for him, pawing at his arms just to feel him close to you.

“Daddy—Da-! Daddy, Daddyyy-y-y~!”

Wade could see the desperation on your face, that yearning for closeness, and dangled it over your head. “Aw, poor baby, you need a hug? But you’re already hugging me so tight, with that—f-fucking wet honey-pot cunt you’ve got there—ah! Fuck! Ah… shit, I got’cha, come here.”

Wade withdrew his hips, leaving you gaping and empty without his cock stretching you out. He leaned down to wrap his arms tightly around you, though before you could hug him back, he flipped you onto your stomach. He pressed a firm hand onto your back to keep you lying prone on the mattress. With you trapped beneath him once again, he pushed back in.

“Ooooh, that’s it, babyboy, that’s the ticket.”

You sobbed into the pillows, keeping your sounds timid and muffled, and your dignity somewhat intact. But Wade wouldn’t let you off that easy. He hooked his arms around your neck and yanked you up into him. The pressure on your windpipe turned your moans into weak gasps and sputters. The lack of oxygen set your nerves alight, burning with hypersensitivity. And to make matters worse, he wouldn’t stop growling filth right into your ear.

“God, I can feel my balls smacking your tiny little tranny dick like this… Can feel you twitching… So fuck—so fucking wet… Mmmm, I’m gonna shoot the biggest fuckin’ load into you... Not… not yet though… No, I’m not done with you, yet, slutter-butter. I can just… mmm, edge myself inside you… keep you nice and full… All. Fucking. Night.”

#anon #ask #deadpool x reader #deadpool x you #deadpool smut #deadpool x trans reader #deadpool x ftm reader #deadpool #wade wilson #wade wilson x you #wade wilson x reader #wade wilson smut #wade wilson x ftm reader #wade wilson x trans reader

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thestarfishinjootsoffice · 4 months ago

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Old writing especially on Bo's and then Vincent's part. I realised that I was writing as if their s/o showcased their strength during later on into their relationship in the first three slashers, apologies.

A/n: I am no longer writing for Hannibal or any hannibal characters as I myself have forgotten my own perspective of them.

Slashers x reader who's stronger than them but doesn't look like it!

Warnings: blood and death on the ghostface duos part, very slight mentions of nsfw. But mostly fluff.

Slashers in this: Bo sinclair, Vincent sinclair and Thomas Hewitt, Michael Myers, Billy Loomis and Stu Macher (poly)

Relationship: romantic!!

It clawed at his ego, he's a pretty mean bastard and you know it 🫵.

He first thought of you as the most fragile and weakest person ever (and cutest), I mean, could you even lift a pot half filled with water?

Undoubtedly he used this assumption to 'help you' or more so at times tease you. He loves seeing your reactions and most definitely not because you're so small and kind to him, pfff of course not.

He just absolutely loves lifting you up and over his shoulder and he's definitely an ass guy. He loves ogling and smacking your ass but he won't get to that level until many many months later on. But he's still going to stare.

“Oh Bo, I think there's a rabbit under the truck!” You exclaimed to Bo as you noticed something white and moving below.

"An animal? *sighs* hold on, I'll get rid of that p-" He suddenly loses his ability to formulate words as he witnesses you lift the goddamn fuckin truck with one arm, and indeed there was a rabbit underneath.

“*gasp* it's so cute!” Bo cannot believe what he just saw. Damn, he gotta stop smoking so much it's messing with his brain. He's just staring at you as you pet the timid rabbit with your 'scrawny' arm.

He must admit he does fantasize about you lifting him up and shit, or topping him in bed. Whatever he's feeling that day, and he would rather swallow sand than ever admit that last part.... But y'know if you're up for it-

His cocky and prideful attitude seemingly making an apparent change, he would hold a cup or item you need above your head with a shit eating grin watching you get frustrated with him. Or when he would make jabs about you being too weak to lift three chairs at a time and would offer to help you. (So he could walk beside you.) But now... He still fucking makes jabs at you being weak, just to fuck with you even though he knows it's far from the truth. He loves making you seem like the little helpless princess and him being the asshole shining knight in armor.

You wouldn't mind tho would you? It's a win-win, you get to spend more time with your boyfriend and he gets to spend time with his girlfriend.

Vincent

So gentle and caring with you. He's gentle and caring with whoever he is with but your size just makes him think one wrong move and he's accidentally breaking your arm. And cause of this he can't help but be a worry wart at times and way too protective. Not budging even if you reassure him you're perfectly capable of doing something that requires strength.

During one of the dark evenings you walk with your lover in the forest, the side of the forest where there isn't roadkill so that you can breathe without torturing your nostrils. And finding some fire wood to spend the next dark hours star gazing and ranting to him while the sound of the fire crinkling and burning the wood serves as a nice background music.

Every step you take you hear the crunch of the dead leaves get crushed under your foot, both of you holding your flashlights. You have the warm and slightly calloused hand of your Vincent holding yours affectionately as his thumb brushes against the back of your hand and knuckles, gently tracing over and feeling the ridges and bumps.

You notice some fallen bark and shine your flashlight on it. "Vinny, look there's some firewood over there!" You exclaimed and shined your flashlight elsewhere, looking around more until you had shined it directly on a tree right in front of you that was occupied by a scary looking arachnid, its front limbs moving in a sluggish and relaxed fashion.

You let out a startled yelp and out of instinct your fist went to swing at the spider who somehow successfully managed to not get hit in the nick of time. This also startled your boyfriend who looked worriedly at you, his eyes scanned over to see that you were.. Fine! But the tree you punched wasn't. It has a big dent in it while the flesh of wood was cracked and damaged severely around the impact along with many splinters.

"I'm so sorry Vincent! There was a spider and I got scared!"

He almost let out a breath of relief knowing it wasn't anything serious but he can't get his eyes and mind off the injured tree. Did you... seriously do that? He gently took your hand and examined it, it seemed perfectly fine except for redness, light bleeding and a couple splinters on your knuckles.

He slowly raised one of his hands, pointing towards the punched tree. 'Did you do that?' Is what's probably going through his head. You chuckled sheepishly and nodded in confirmation. He sighed. For now, he'll worry about your fist.

Does this interaction change how he treats you?... Kind of. He isn't too pushy as he was since he now knows how capable you are of handling yourself but there's still that feeling in him, something that gnaws at his inner core for him to help you. He wants to feel useful and to serve you in any way he can, so...please let him dote over you still..? (Of course you will, you can't say no to him.)

If you want to pick him up he'll entertain you, though he'll be extremely flustered and giddy about it. He likes this way more than he should (in his opinion). How comical is it? He's a large 6'1 grown man being carried princess style by his tiny s/o. Despite all this, he still hopes you need him as much as he needs you.

Thomas

Trust me when I saw it really took Thomas by surprise. He's a really big guy and you say this little thing is stronger than him? Oh please, humor him after dinner.

He's a busy man with a lot on his plate, and you seemingly looking like the most harmless person in the world doesn't help, he constantly feels like he has to tend to you and supervise you from a certain officer.

Will usually not allow you to help him when he's working, it depends. He feels guilty letting yourself get caught up with all this but if you insist he'll gladly accept the extra hand with honest gratitude. But generally- 'Back away honey, you might get dirty.' Is what he wishes he could say.

In his eyes you're a saint, an angel. Made perfectly to fit in the space between his thighs he's sitting down and there's no flaw in the way his large hands cups your cheeks with those pretty eyes of yours staring into his – no room for mistake or complain. You're adorable.

The first time he allowed you to help him you admire your handsome behemoth of a lover chopping wood. Appreciating the rolled up sleeved that gave you a good view of his arms, his muscles flexing as he brought the axe down – after he was done with the first small batch of logs you hurried to grab the others.

Tommy watched with amusement and adoration before shifting his weight to help you but stopped as you started walking towards him five logs resting effortlessly in your arms. It didn't even seem to faze you as if it was just you were only a bunch of baby ducks.

Tommy watched in silence as you laid them out on the table, still kind of processing it before nodding his head in gratitude and resuming to chopping them up. He'll bring this up later, maybe. For now he'll focus on getting his work done and spending more with you, and your soft words.

He doesn't really care if you're stronger than him or not, as long as you love him and don't try to run away it's all good. If you want he'll stop trying to do everything for you even though he knows you don't need any assistance – he's so used to working around the house he feels restless not doing anything at all.

If you want to carry him, do it. He's all yours but please do it in private he won't be able to handle the embarrassment if his family sees it. And although he prefers to be the dom he doesn't mind it if you wanna take charge every once in a while and throw him around.

Plus, it creates something pleasantly warm in his stomach.

Michael.

He thinks he's going insane. (He already has.)

He's Michael Myers, the most ruthless killer Illinois has ever seen for the past decades. And you're saying this small creature that he's inhabited has greater strength than him... Yeah, no.

And then he sees you picking up three bodies out of the house with your bare hands while cleaning up the evidence of his the murder he left, quietly observing you. He won't admit it but it kind of irks him. He's supposed to be the one with power in this relationship and quite frankly he doesn't know the true extent to your power.

He warms up to it eventually – although it's more of he doesn't give a fuck anymore. You're not completely weak and helpless? Great, he doesn't have to worry about you as much. Key word: as much. He still does worry a lot when you're out for long hours – he's not worried you're injured or in danger (not anymore) but more as in you're not leaving him, right? Or ratting him out to the police?

Do not ever attempt to pick him up or anything even remotely close to that unless you want a glare from those void, soul-less eye sockets of his mask Or if you want a love tap on the head and cheek. If you give him enough guilty smiles and let go of him he'll let you off the hook. if not, bear the consequences. (They don't even do anything anyways, lmao)

He feels so incredibly annoyed when you start treating him like a child, telling him to go sit down or lie down in bed after he pulled a few all nighters and the fact you successfully manage to pull him back into bed: God dammit, why the hell are you even so strong and you're so small!? Grumpily he does stay put but only if you're with him too.

A man feared by hundreds, if not thousands because of the sheer power and mercilessness he leaves in trails of every step he takes in public... And then there's you, you're half his size and you have more control over him than he'd like. He'd never kill you though, not intentionally, but that will also most likely not happen.

Speaking of killing, don't think he won't murder someone if they attempt to hurt you and gets their ass kicked by you anyways. You attack, he lands the finishing blow. Don't protest, he won't listen.

Billy n' Stu

They're both pretty lean so you can believe it, if not for your given figure. They both adore it, so who cares? Billy and Stu will, eventually.

It was in the heat of the moment, you tell yourself but you remember in vivid detail the day where you saw the bloody escaping victim running towards you – adrenaline pumping in your veins, your mind immediately went into fight mode and swung a fist at their skull. You remember the sickening crunch as blood slowly pooled from their fractured cranium when they lifelessly fell down to the floor.

They first helped you with the lingering guilt first before Stu started annoying you.

''Can you punch me like that next but with a bit less-''

"No!"

Alright, no worries but now he's asking you to lift him up to reach things that he does not need help on. Maybe even just carry him and run around the house. (Don't be fooled, he just wants to be carried around like a child again.) Fluttering his eyelids at you and holding up a jar of pickles. 'Y/n, I can't get this to open!' Yes he can.

Billy, although tries to act neutral but can't help but let his thoughts wander. 'Wow... Strong girl... Can choke me...' He thinks to himself as he watches you and Stu. Not as if he'd ever admit that. He pretends he's disinterested in getting in your arms - no, he just doesn't wanna embarrass himself. But if you persist he'll begrudgingly agree. He indeed liked it.

Stu obviously takes a positive reaction, he loves getting dominated. You can take that however you like. Billy on the other hand feels conflicted, if he's not stronger than you then how will he stop you if you try to leave them or plan to rat them out? Assuming this is during the beginning of your relationship. But overtime the more he takes a good look at your face those thoughts will slowly drown away, there's no way you would, right?

The slashers will probably swoon if you agree to help them place the bodies where they want them to, like hanging them in the trees or something.

Billy keeps it more lowkey. Preferring to keep you in his lap and rest his chin on top of your head. Stu takes your strength to his advantage. When he gets drunk he'll whine and ask you to carry him to bed, and take his socks off. Annoying fuck but you love him either way. And Billy too.

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heartsofminds · 4 months ago

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if you could see my thoughts, you would see our faces

“I do a lot of things you don’t do. Doesn’t mean you should be knockin’ yourself out to try ‘em.” or Carmy takes an impromptu smoke break and you're begging him for a drag.

A/N: just a sweet little blurb that's been sitting in my back pocket for a while. hope y'all love it as much as i loved writing it!

Smoke breaks never last forever.

The cacophonic slam of a door, the pliable edges of a pack of American Spirits, the grooves of a lighter’s spark wheel, the mix of brisk Chicago wind smacking your face, and the heat of a silently shameful cigarette caressing it in a false sleeve of comfort – The world is silent during a smoke break.

Until the door opens and someone asks to bum a light. Or until you get called back in because everyone and their goddamn mother in River North decides to come in to try the dinner special, yet pretend like they’re actually fucking curious to know what you think the best thing on the menu is. Or until the ignored panic in the back of your mind knocks the wind out of you when taking a particularly long drag that leaves you stifling a deep and hearty cough.

The small moment of peace before it all still remains good. The moment of peace is fine. The moment of peace is all you can afford to get sometimes.

A smoke break never lasts forever, but the temporary solace it provides is enough for Carmen, whose brain never seems to stop spinning no matter how fast or slow the world is turning without him.

He’s gotten better, he thinks, about voicing his discomfort and finding ways to “cope” with his feelings of metaphysical spiraling. He’s still getting the hang of this whole “finding meaning outside of the kitchen” thing, but he figures that twenty-eight years of having your worth summed up in how well something was chopped or seasoned or sautéed or whatever the fuck is ridiculously hard to disengage from.

His therapist would kill him if she knew that he credited a portion of the advancement of his well-being to you. He can hear Erin tell him that he can’t rely on people to make him feel better; that the only person who can determine Carmen’s worth is Carmen himself, but quite frankly he doesn’t give a fuck.

And then he remembers that not giving a fuck is him making his own decision about his life (which he was never allowed to do before, which is why he thinks he was damned to hell to pick the profession he has), and his heart swells a bit with pride. He cares about something for once that has all to do with him and the meaning of life and living and being alive and in charge, and that idea is no longer a room with a false ceiling that can cave in at any moment.

He doesn’t give a fuck because he does give one, and he has never known that something as simple as being loved, fully and authentically, was something that would make all the difference.

Despite not being stressed out nor having a “real” reason to smoke (except for the fact that he’s a creature of habit, and you seem to love the word “addicted” even though he disagrees), he finds himself lifting the window near the fire escape of his apartment and stepping out onto the rusted steps that are less than functional and whips out his lighter and the red cardboard package harboring his cigarettes.

The lights are off in the apartment and the soft whistling of the heater helps him make sense of the foggy window glass. Chicago is nightmarishly cold in November, yet his body doesn’t seem to mind the teen-digited temperature that plagues the indigo-hued 1 AM sky.

Carmy loved in living in the city (and the actual city of Chicago and not Naperville or Joliet or Downers Grove like all the other self-proclaimed “Chicagoan” jagoffs that littered the outskirts of the city for sleep, but polluted it for play).

He liked living in New York City but he loved living in Chicago. New York was too noisy which, he knows, is so fucking ironic given the fact he lives in the heart of all things bustling and boisterous.

But New York had the kind of noise at night that was isolating; the sounds of cars honking and the squeal of the subway telling the stories of a million different lives of a million different people that he didn’t know.

New York City is the largest city in the United fucking States, yet a twenty-two-year-old Carmen could not have felt lonelier while he was there. New York City is the perfect city in the United fucking States to go soul-searching in, and yet a twenty-two-year-old Carmen could not have been more clueless about who he was at the time.

And he’s still figuring out this “thing” called having an identity and finding peace, and he’ll never feel like he knows a whole lot about anything, but he does know two things for certain.

He fucking loathes feeling lonely and he fucking despises feeling clueless.

Chicago is noisy, but the kind of noise that sends an irritated streak of comfort down your spine; the hatred of your twin bed and its mismatched sheets in your childhood bedroom, but the comfort of knowing a refreshing and safe sleep is to follow that night. It was the kind of noise that filled living rooms on Christmas Day or the backyard on the Fourth. It was the sound of a vacuum cleaner running on an early Saturday morning during the first week of summer break and the ticking of kitchen timers and arguments and laughter and tears of all kinds.

He was always reluctant to come back. His pride is something he holds close to his chest but wears with quiet confidence. He would rather die than it seem as if he ran away from New York back home with his tail between his legs. He would rather die than admit to himself that Chicago is where he was meant to be and where he should have always been. He would rather die than admit that through his fucked childhood and even fuck-ier adulthood (Thank you Mikey and Mom and NOMA and Chef David), the city is his safety blanket.

Carmen hasn’t been back to the house since the incident five Christmases ago. Everyone mutually (and very silently so as to not piss his mom off even more than she always perpetually seemed to be) decided that Christmas Eve dinner is much better suited for Uncle Jimmy’s house. When Natalie called on the phone to let him know about the change of venue the following year, he had known from her tone that another Richter scale meltdown had occurred once their mother found out.

From then on he found ways to stay away; to stay put and to put his life on hold and it was the closest thing he could get to not breathing with, you know, still actually fucking breathing.

And it worked for a while. It worked for one thousand eight hundred and twenty-five days, to be exact.

But then Mikey died and then there was a restaurant and then there was every relative that had ever known of his existence knocking down his door and begging him to let them in; asking him if he was okay and prodding him with questions about any and everything in between his mom driving her car into the fucking house and his brother deciding croaking was better than sticking around this hell hole.

And it’s crazy, he thinks, how him simply observing the weather and thinking about possibly smoking a cigarette before bed created this rabbit hole of what would usually be the beginning of an anxious spiral.

Fucking Christ, I need a cigarette.

His fingers create an unrecognizable beat on the package of cigarettes in his hand and he takes the first step out onto the fire escape.

Carmen’s body weight bares down on a piece of the wired metal and it groans in protest. The sounds of tires passing through slush on the road create soothing white noise for his ears. The thin blue henley shirt he has on does little to shield the wind from icing his skin, but he doesn’t mind.

He can’t chance going back inside to fetch his jacket. The coat rack near the front door lies at the end of a pattern of creaks from your apartment’s shitty floorboards. You’re not a light sleeper in any sense of the word (nor are you entirely sober right now), but he knows that he never places that one particularly decrepit plank of wood right, and the noise will jolt you out of your slumber.

His nimble fingers swiftly pull a cigarette out of the carton. He cups it with his left and uses his right to cradle the flicker of his lighter. The orange flame disappears as fast as it had been kindled and he inhales deeply and his exhale is shallow.

Carmen had been smoking since he was fifteen, but he never really had a reason to do it other than Mikey did, and it was a way to spend more time with him. It was their little secret; something that was his and Mike’s and something that seemed like a big deal at the time but would mean jack shit the second he turned eighteen. He never really loved the way cigarettes smelled. He could hardly stand the taste and the constant health class lectures about them being bad for your lungs freaked him out.

But now that he knows what it feels like to have no thoughts in his head and be left alone in the solace of smoking a cigarette in the dead of night, he thinks he gets it.

The silence is cut in half by the sound of the rickety floorboard groaning out in a warning. He doesn’t have to peek his head inside and look around to know that it’s you. You never sleep well after a night out and even though he had to carry you up the stairs, drag a damp washcloth over your face to remove your makeup, and bribe you to stand up long enough to take out your own contacts, he should have known better than to be anywhere but in bed next to you.

Your drunkenness has started to fade and you’ve gone down on the meter from “off your ass” to “slightly tipsy.” Him picking you up from your girls’ night at one of the clubs downtown was more than two hours ago, but he figured you would’ve came and found him by now.

You have such a fear of missing out and while it’s not Carmen’s favorite thing about you, it does warm his heart to know that you want to spend time with him or that you’re scared he’s doing something interesting without you around. He wishes your ‘fomo’ was based on some issue that he could tangibly fix and not on what he knows is your badly bruised self-esteem. It makes his chest heavy that sometimes you can’t see how great you are; that sometimes you don’t understand why he wants you around and loves you so dearly.

He can hear your footsteps approach the window ledge and he wordlessly holds his arm out for you to grab onto. Your fingers come out from under the blanket you’ve thrown over yourself like a shawl and grasp his like a lifeline.

Your body effortlessly molds to him; your front pressed to his back and his unoccupied arm pulling you closer like a seatbelt on your waist. The subtle pressure on your midsection comforts you and your body lodged into his helps alleviate some of the sting he’d been suffering from the cold.

“You’re mad at me,” you speak. Your voice is small and soft; gentle just in case he really is mad at you and this isn’t something your drunk mind conjured up as you lay in bed alone.

He sighs and turns his head to take another drag from his cigarette. He makes sure that your hair is out of target of his smoke exhale. A subtle whine leaves your throat as he steps away from you and he grins. Carmen loves when you’re like this; when you’re clingy and being near him is never enough to satiate you.

“M’not,” he says. You shift from one foot to the other and his eyes momentarily gaze down to make sure you put on socks before you come out here to join him.

Even though he can’t see your face, he knows that the corners of your mouth are posed in a frown. You hate it when he doesn’t elaborate. It makes you feel shut out. He’s not helping his case of denying your accusation. You may just burst into tears if he doesn’t provide more dialogue.

Your nasty habit of feeling like everyone is upset with you all the time is swelling. His nasty habit of smoking more cigarettes a day than he knows he needs is bulging.

Another drag from his cigarette. Another exhale of smoke. Another attempt at trying to be better for you.

“Can’t ever be mad at you, baby. Not with a face like that,” he croons. The words come out of his mouth so easily; endearment dipped in honey and love warmed by sunshine. Adoration is easy when it comes to you. He’s never known a peace like this.

“Sly dog,” you mutter. The brain fog from the four tequila lemonades you downed earlier makes you slow in finding a smartass thing to say. Carmen fights the urge to poke fun at you because he knows that you’ll take him seriously.

“I love you. I love you. I love you,” your words silently praise.

“You make it easy,” his hold on you acknowledges.

Your face is numb from the cold and the alcohol making its way through your system. The lips pecking a kiss against your temple can barely be felt, yet you contently hum once the damp seal of them releases the affection you’ve been longing for. He never makes you work hard for his undivided attention when he readily has it. Wordlessness crafts a cradle of comfort for you both. Soulmates in ways that soulmates usually aren’t.

Another drag from his cigarette. Another exhale of smoke. Another show of actually being better for you.

A beat of silence passes with the whistling of the wind.

“Can I try?” your voice is small with unacquired confirmation of what his answer will be.

He giggles and you’re mesmerized by the way the smoke exhales with each minuscule twitch of his chest. You turn around at the feeling and press your palms to his torso. It’s impossible not to admire him. You’re always starstruck but he makes it easy to be that way when he looks so peaceful and sweet and good.

Good for you. Good for your heart. Good for each other.

You make a mental note to tell him that he should wear this shirt more often but know deep down that you’ll forget to do so until it comes back clean in the laundry basket in a week. You need to work on that, you think; telling him that you love him when you feel it. Moments like this don’t last forever, and you fear for the day that the ooey-gooey feelings of love in its purest forms are fleeting. You know that Carmen makes it impossible, but you can never be sure. Much like he, you’re always half expecting the ceiling to cave in.

“Sweet baby wants to be a smoker?” he chides. He doesn’t feel bad when you flash him a pouty frown.

“Carm!” you gripe. Your cheek presses to his pec. You hate when he does this; when he can’t give a straight answer. It isn’t something that needs an answer, but the satisfaction of having one, of being connected to him and the inner world of his mind he tries so hard to keep from everyone, would feel nice.

Carmen’s tattooed hand snubs the cigarette out on the dish left on the ledge of the window. His fingers curl to let his knuckles brush the hair on the top of your head. You try your hardest not to melt into his touch. He’ll have a field day if you let him have the satisfaction of making you visibly weak in the knees.

“Didn’t even say no yet, sweetheart.”

“Yeah, but you’re being mean. Just tell me “no” instead of making me suffer.”

He quirks his eyebrow and brings a gentle hand to guide your chin upwards, forcing you to make eye contact with him.“Well, m’gonna if you don’t lose the ‘tude, baby.”

The shift in his tone of voice and the forced eye contact sends a beam of warmth down to your stomach. He has a way of leaving little leeway for negotiation and argument. It’s abstract to his everyday life, but that was complicated, you know. When it’s you and him and him and you, there is never a need for a fight for dominance or a clarification of authority. You both understand each other on a level that is molecular. There is never any need for guessing.

His finger flicks your lip playfully before swiping a calloused thumb gently on the plush of them. You had fought him so hard earlier when he tried to swipe the lipstick and liner you had put on earlier off with a washcloth. He finds it wild that you’re wide awake and coherent after witnessing the mild temper tantrum you had thrown about it not even two hours earlier.

Carmen spots the gentle gleam in your eyes and his heart instantly softens. He sighs, momentarily taking his hands off of you and reaching back in his pocket for his carton of cigarettes and lighter.

“Fine, but you gotta light it.”

The aforementioned cigarette sits unlit between his lips, the end sticking out like an invitation and the filter hid between his teeth like a dirty secret. He half expects you to chicken out when he hands you the lighter. You always freaked out a little about the flame being so close to your fingers. Something about feeling the heat so close to your hand made you insanely nervous and he could never seem to fully understand.

His expectations are exceeded when your thumbnail crafts friction with the spark wheel and the illuminated peach of his lighter of the month spurs to life. You don’t cup it with your hands to shield it from the wind. You let it grow and shrink as you lift it up to the unlit butt sticking out of his mouth.

Your eyes watch in childish awe as the wrapped paper gives way and reveals the hearty smell of tobacco and a sunburst of ashes upon making contact with the manufactured heat. You had watched Carmen smoke hundreds of times, but something about seeing it now right in front of you kindles a spark of curiosity deep in your belly.

“Can’t believe my sweet girl wants to puff on a cancer stick,” he says. You know that he’s joking, but his trying to get you to change your mind strikes a nerve deep within you.

“You do it so why can’t I?” you huff, agitated with him seemingly withholding the cigarette you so desperately crave.

“I do a lot of things you don’t do. Doesn’t mean you should be knockin’ yourself out to try ‘em.”

You roll your eyes. “It’s just one. Don’t be so mean.”

He pulls the stick from between his lips and creates a perfect “o” ring with the smoke in its wake. A dopey-eyed grin plants a home on his face and his eyes look deep into yours.

Fucking show-off.

“All it takes is one to get addicted,” he continues to smoke and the cigarette butt starts to diminish with each puff he takes, “You sure you wanna bite, sweetheart?”

“One won’t hurt.”

His gaze lowers to your lips and back up to your eyes. “Don’t wanna end up like me. All sad and addicted to cigarettes.”

“Carmen, please. I just want one,” you huff, lightly pushing his chest away. He moves slightly with your force and has to stifle a laugh.

“They ever show you Teri the Smoker in health class?” Carmen takes the cigarette out of his mouth and pretends to examine it, faux and forced curiosity at the cylindrical tube sitting between his lithesome fingers. He’s not giving into you on purpose, you know, and he’ll give in eventually, you also know, but him trying to delay the gratification of getting what you want is starting to annoy you more than it usually would.

“Yes? What does that have to do with anything?”

He pops it back in his mouth and takes an obnoxiously long drag. “Nothing,” he breathes out the smoke with his statement, “Just funny that you know that and here you are, damn near hands and knees, gagging for a cigarette.”

“Carmen.”

He laughs and you can’t help but love the sound.

“You know, it’s real fucked up of you to ask for a drag from my cigarette that I get with my hard-earned money,” he says and you roll your eyes, “You should know I love you too much to let you stick a cancer stick in your mouth.”

“It’s just one!” you plead.

“It’s never just one, sweetheart.”

“Well, who says’m gonna get addicted like – like you and Teri the Smoker?”

“The nicotine content on the carton. That’s who.”

He’s not paying you any attention and it’s starting to ache your heart a little. You know that he’s distracted; that he’s just trying to prevent the ashes from getting on your blanket and from getting the smell of smoke in your hair, but him biting at your insistence a little less than he was previously sends a pang of gloominess through your chest.

“You smoke all the time, and if you get a hole in your throat because of that then you’re so mean.”

His lips upturn in introspection.“M’mean?”

“Very,” you answer dryly.

“Humor me.”

“Because then I’ll have to live the rest of my life without hearing your voice again and then I’ll be so sad.”

He shrugs, half knowing that you’re joking but half expecting something more to come out of what you’re getting at. “Ehh, don’t think anyone at the restaurant would miss it.”

“I would!”

You smack at his chest again lightly and he remembers how touchy and wild you get after you’ve been drinking. It’s never bad or out of control, but you’re more affectionate than usual and less gentle than you normally are.

“Yeah, baby? Gonna miss my voice?”

“Mhm,” you purr, leaning up to get closer to his ear, “Gonna miss how you call me a good girl. And how you whine when I pull your hair and how you tell me that I’m the tightest and wettest little th-”

“Jesus,” he laughs, playfully pushing the side of your face away as your teeth nibble a tiny bite on the thick of his palm, “Fuck off.”

You like to play around, too. That’s also something he sees more of after a night out. He never indulges; knows you get too riled up and in your head when it goes somewhere he’s not comfortable with, but he loves it nonetheless. Being together has helped the other not be so scared of permanence. Moments like this confirm what he knows, and he realizes that you’re a saint and he wants to marry you.

The stuff that comes along with it has been plaguing his mind as of late, but he realizes how little it matters when he sees you all happy and grateful to be around him and doing the most mundane of things. He’ll get you that ring and that house and those babies and the happiest fucking life in a heartbeat, and he’s oddly comforted by the fact that he knows you’ll let him.

Carmen’s never been the best at not wearing his feelings on his face and you know he’s deep in thought when the banter dies and the whistling of the wind takes its place. You hope he isn’t spiraling. He tends to do that a lot. You tend to feel powerless when it happens.

Your eyes study his face; the lightness of his irises, the spiral of curls, the slope of his nose. The tequila from earlier remains in your system, but it doesn’t change the fact that you love him so deeply.

“You know, it’s bullshit that you’re giving me hell about putting a cigarette in my mouth.” Your voice cuts through the quiet and he starts to grin again.

“Hey, s’only bullshit because you’re sittin’ here beggin’ and then telling me I’m gonna have a fuckin’ hole in my throat from smoking too much.”

“I never said that it was gonna be bad, Bear. I just said I was gonna miss hearing your voice is all.”

His free hand comes out to sit on the base of your neck. A calloused thumb draws small semi-circles on the bottom of your hairline.

“You know, her quality of life was probably amazing,” he speaks, “Like didn’t she have kids and grandkids and friends and shit? Health class is fucked up for making her out to be the ‘throat hole lady’.”

“You shouldn’t say that,” you grimace and he plants his lips on your forehead.

“Yeah, you’re right.”

You make him softer. If it was anyone else, he wouldn’t think twice about how insensitive it had come off. His therapist is always saying people can’t make you better, but she clearly hasn’t met you.

“But that was kinda the whole point? You shouldn’t want to be like her?” you pause and the frown lines in your eyebrows write “pensive” on your face before you even realize it, “. . .Because she does have a hole in her throat. And her quality of life was just very. . .different?”

Carmen nods. “They’re fucked up for that.”

“Jesus, Carm. Do you think smoking is bad or not because you’re giving me soooo many mixed signals here,” you sigh, your forehead moving forward faster than you intended and hitting the bony composition of his collarbones.

He hums softly; part listening to what you’re saying and part acknowledging that he wants to move on from what you had said.

“Did you know that your life expectancy goes down by eleven minutes or some shit like that each time you smoke a cigarette?” he swiftly changes the subject.

You pick your head up and narrow your eyes playfully. “Oh, you don’t even love me enough to let me smoke one so I can be put out of my misery a whole eleven minutes earlier when you die from smoking a gazillion packs a day and leave me all lonely and wrinkly.”

“I think you’d be hot wrinkly,” he replies matter-of-factly.

“I think you’d be hot if you let me smoke one.”

“You’re probably not gonna like it.”

“Okay.”

He realizes that the cigarette has pretty much burned itself out. There’s possibly one or two more drags left before he has to ash it out completely. He debates on whether he should let you have at it or silently take the last two and usher you back inside. If he chooses the former, he knows that he’ll feel bad if you don’t like it, and he worries that your realization will kickstart the unraveling of something almost perfect he’s found for himself. He can’t bear to take another loss in his life. If he chooses the latter, he knows you wouldn’t even be aware that he had smoked it entirely by himself, and that you’ll gripe and complain for the rest of the night and table the conversation for another time when he’s in a less resistive state.

“Carm, you have to give me a puff from it,” you complain, snapping him out of his thoughts.

He’s giving in to you. He always does. He doesn’t know why he pretends like he has free will when it comes to you.

“C’mere,” he beckons your face closer, “And don’t use your hands. You have that blanket on and I don’t wanna have to call Chicago Fire tonight.”

Carmen lifts his hand up to your mouth and gently laughs when you go cross-eyed to eye the filter sitting in between his pointer and middle fingers.

“You just inhale, hold it, and then breathe back out,” he instructs. He feeds the filter to your lips before suddenly pulling it back. “Don’t choke yourself out though. That uh – that won’t be good and then you’re really not gonna like it.”

Your neck extends to get closer to Carmen’s hand and you do what he says. You inhale, hold it, and exhale. You don’t think you’re doing it right (and he knows that you didn’t, but doesn’t say anything because he knows it’ll make you whiny) but you’re satisfied that he trusts you enough to try.

“Took it like a champ, baby,” he cheers, “So proud!”

He pushes the butt of the cigarette into the dish and your blanket-covered hands come up to palm his face gently. The plush of the cover feels soft against his stubble-covered cheeks, and your gazes catch each other’s.

A moment of tranquility. A moment of peace. A moment of love.

He so desperately wants to marry you.

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july-19th-club · 1 month ago

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a while back i read jane eyre for the first time since high school in anticipation of watching the 2006 wilson/stephens miniseries. it's incredible to reread these classic novels as an adult, because while i got all the words and understood the *content* as a teenager, i didn't at all find the book interesting or fun to read. anyway i think one of the reasons that book stood the test of time isn't so much the gothic intrigue and how fucked up rochester and his wife are . he sucks so bad in so many ways . but he keeps needing rescued from stuff and only jane can do it . he fucking breaks an ankle falling off a horse early in her employment with him and she's the one who helps him back to the house . his attic wife sets his bedroom on fire and jane's the one who finds him and puts it out before he dies of smoke inhalation . then attic wife sets the house on fire after jane leaves and the whole place burns to the ground, grievous death and permanent injuries, etc, etc. jane comes back yippee everything's okay again! austen heroes don't get wounded like that because they're far too sedate and busy engaging in social seasons and heathcliff is like not wounded physically so much as destroyed emotionally . but this dude strikes the balance for readers who best enjoy when a man is collapsing of various problems and literally cant survive a day without some governess to pour water on his four-poster so he doesn't fry to a crisp

ALSO . i particularly was interested in the passages just after jane first meets him where she talks a lot about how if he was a normal polite person, or even just like a normal Lord with like, a sense of propriety and good manor house manners, she'd have been shy and awkward and uncomfortable and would have hated him. but i think where some interpretations get it wrong is that she doesn't think his rudeness is HOT. she thinks it's good for her own confidence, in that she knows her own self-esteem and social comfort levels are so low that all the scripts of peerage and society make her crawl into herself and disappear. she doesn't know how to follow the scripts convincingly, she's been emotionally abused her whole life so she has no sense of self-worth, but he doesn't follow the script. which means she doesn't have to worry about following it either. which does wonders for her confidence levels because when she can just act in ways that make sense to her rather than second-guessing whether she will be Approved Of, she can actually be a person. and that's what she first appreciates about him: his ability to (more or less without trying or even noticing) facilitate that for her.

"The incident had occurred and was gone for me: it was an incident of no moment, no romance, no interest in a sense; yet it marked with change one single hour of a monotonous life. My help had been needed and claimed; I had given it: I was pleased to have done something, trivial, transitory though the deed was, it was yet an active thing, and I was weary of an existence all passive."

#like she genuinely is not Brooding Guy Hot #she's like. guy with no social graces got me feeling confident about my own lack thereof!#and 'random asshole needs a hand and i provided it. damn this whole taking actions of my own volition thing feels good'#otherwise this book is like. ~okay~ . but it does have a surfeit of rescuing this guy . which is what im there for in the first place #jane eyre #q

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charlottecutepie · 9 months ago

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｡ꪆৎ ˚ Bully (Michael Afton x fem!reader)

while I'm writing fics with William (and making some people’s requests!), i decided to post Michael smut bc there’s lack of content about this boy :)

summary: you're mad at both Simon and Michael for not helping you with project. But guys only mock you, saying stupid jokes about your ex. Wait, was it you or Michael’s voice sounded rather… jealous?

tags: Michael is jealous and kind of possessive, bully!Mike, mention of break up, smut, vaginal sex, fingering, multiple orgasms, kind of rough sex?? (Michael can’t control himself), William Afton mentioned

"Stop smoking." in a loud, angry tone, you tell to a couple of guys beside. One of them turns around and blows smoke right in your face, laughing. "Fuck you, Simon."

"Don't tell me what to do, tuts," Simon frowns and leans against his friend Michael, who was busy reading comics, not paying attention to you. "You've been too nervous and angry lately." guy notices. "Is it because of your ex?"

"Of course, no dick and she's all worked up." Michael adds fuel to the fire without even bothering to turn to you. However, his back stiffened.

"What are you talking about? What does this have to do here? We have a fucking project together and I'm only one doing something, that's why I'm mad at you!"

Simon didn't answer because he just didn't know what to say. You were right. He and Michael didn't do shit, only you worked on the task. Simon just gave you a blank look, raising his eyebrows mockingly. There was a rage boiling inside you that almost made your face turn red.

"Ran after him like a tail." Michael lets out a strangled laugh, finally turning to you, his fingers clutching the comic. "You really loved that boy so much, didn't you?"

Now it's your turn to shut up. Insults and obscenities rise in your throat, threatening to jump out. Michael's face didn't flinch for a second as he continued to pierce you with blue eyes, as if trying to make you uncomfortable, which was puzzling. Michael has always been like this: aggressive, with cruel and stupid jokes, cheeky taunts. But why do his words sound like he's jealous now? Why so much attention to your personal life?

"You two are completely useless, I'll have to ask teacher to pair me with other students." you sigh, putting all your notes, notebooks, sunglasses in your bag, and the next second you leave both guys behind.

Their behavior, especially Simon, who was like Michael's faithful dog, doing everything just to get approval from its owner, infuriated and caused indignation. But more than that, you were hurt their comments about your personal life. Your ex has nothing to do with it.

You go back to school walking through empty corridors since classes have already ended. Of course, you'd have been home a long time ago, too, but thanks to a couple of jerks, you're stuck here until tonight. You angrily punch Michael's school locker, ripping off the poster of his favorite rock band.

"Fuck you, Michael Afton!" you swear, crumpling the poster in your hands and throwing it on the floor.

You had no idea that someone was following you slowly and carefully through the corridors.

Upset and frustrated, you enter lady's bathroom, go to the mirror and look at yourself carefully. Why, you think, he broke up with me? What happened between us?

You straighten your hair, carefully laying it on your shoulders, without interrupting eye contact with your reflection. You need to push these thoughts away, now is not the best time for self-reflection, you need to gather your strength and finish this damn project.

You try to find something in your bag as you take out a lip gloss from your makeup bag. And again feeling of sadness and longing comes through. Now it feels wrong and hurtful whenever you look at that gloss. Your boyfriend always liked it when you applied it. And now it's a painful reminder that will haunt you for a long time. It's just not fair.

Just when you're about to throw that lip gloss in the trash, someone comes into the bathroom. You think it's another girl, so you don't pay attention.

"It was my favorite poster." Michael's voice is slightly angry. An unpleasant surprise is reflected on your face as you turn to him, pressing lip gloss to your chest. This is definitely not what you expected to see in the women's bathroom.

"What the fuck are you doing here?!" you hiss at Afton, looking him up and down. "You've been following me?"

"Knowing what a crybaby you are, it was the right decision." Michael shoves his hands into the pockets of his ripped jeans, leaning against the wall. "What if you went to hang yourself? And then Simon and I would be accused of driving to suicide."

"Stop your idiotic jokes at least now! Can't you see that I feel too bad?" you grit your teeth and frown. Your voice sounds offended. Michael's behavior has always been infuriating, but now it crosses all boundaries.

"My father taught me that if a girl is upset, she needs to be supported. That's how all gentlemen behave." the young man says with a sneer.

"Fuck you and your dad, Mike," you shout. "you're just like him, you selfish jerk!"

"Mmm," Michael nods, grinning. "the apple doesn't fall far from the tree."

You are silent again, not knowing what to say to this insolence. Does Afton really think that in eyes of other people, he's all cool and cocky? Doesn't he realize how stupid his behavior is? Yes, he is certainly a copy of his dad, Mr. Afton, but with a slight difference. The last one has at least some brains.

"My eyes are up here, honey," Michael grins, noticing your gaze. You blink in surprise, raising an eyebrow. "Come on, aren't you ashamed of yourself?"

"I didn't even look there, you idiot." you fold your arms over your chest and turn away, lifting your chin. That's when Michael pushes you against the wall, towering over you.

"Sure." he can't help but smile stupidly. "I must say, you have beautiful eyes, princess. That's what he called you, right?" there was something wrong with Michael's intonation, even this mockery sounded like he wanted to hurt not you, but himself. There was definitely a hint of jealousy in the young man's tone, although you didn't pay attention to it.

With every action and word of Michael, anger grows inside you, which has been accumulating all this time. And then the mixture of all the negative emotions finally reaches the top. You can't get over how much of an asshole Michael is. You'd do anything to shut him up, just to show him his place. But it doesn't take much time, the anger breaks out. Putting the lip gloss back in the bag, you raise your hand and slap Michael hard in the face.

Afton's cheek burns from your blow, it hurts unpleasantly so it takes him a couple of seconds to come to his senses, then he raises his head at you. His hand instantly reaches for the red mark, stroking it to ease the pain. Yes, it was insulting, even a little humiliating, but again he hides it behind an arrogant and satisfied grin.

However, his next words are strangely surprising.

"You know what?" Michael says in a calm voice. "That was hot."

You look at him, not even hiding your disgust at his words. Michael is such an asshole, even much worse than Simon and their two other bully friends. No wonder why Afton is the leader of their stupid bully four.

Just as you're about to slap him again, Afton grabs your wrist, pulling you closer to him. Your eyes widen with shock from his his behavior, you try to break free. Your heart is beating faster from misunderstanding. Being in the hands of a bully, in such an intimate position, when anyone can enter here, makes the situation even more dangerous.

"How stupid of him to lose a beautiful girl like you," Michael whispers, looking at your face, at how your lips are trembling. "I'll repeat, my father taught me to support when girl is sad." the last thing he says before leaning in for a kiss.

For a second, everything in your body, especially brain, stopped working, you froze. Even though Michael is holding you, you don't even try to pull away. Afton's actions become bolder because he sees no resistance, so he tries to get his tongue into your mouth. And that's when you finally realize what's going on and push him away.

"Fuck off, you idiot." you mumble, looking at him point-blank.

"I see that such support isnt enough." Michael bares his teeth and pushes his knee right between your legs what makes your skirt rise a little. At that moment, you blush and try to pull it back, but Michael's hand stops you.

You froze in another shock from another sudden kiss. You expected him to do everything but that. You try to push him away, but it's hard to get out of his grip. Or is it you who's fighting too weakly? At first kiss doesn't seem so pleasant, but then Michael deepens it as his hand moves to your waist, hugging you. The kiss gets more intense when you start responding, your body melts under Afton's touch. You don't even have time to keep up with your thoughts, confused by your own actions.

His lips suddenly feel so warm and pleasant which makes you want more, crave even more of this feeling: to be held like this, to be kissed like this even if it's Michael damn Afton. You wrap your arms around his neck, kissing him harder. This isn't what you planned when you went here.

When he pulls away from you, you are in oblivion, heat is burning inside. Michael looks at you hungrily, not understanding why you responded. He lets you go and you stumble away from him, but after a moment your back hits wall. You're trying to figure out what just happened. Did he really just kissed you? And you responded with same? Why did this happen at all? There are more questions than answers.

Your heart is pounding as you stare at him, into his eyes, trying to read the answers in them. He caught you off guard, but you didn't push him off right away, you even started responding. The bitter truth is that you liked it more than you wanted to admit. The way he kisses, kind of rude but so hot… It caused an exciting pleasant feeling. But you don't understand how you can be attracted to this bully, in fact, a tormentor, a brute. All thoughts are fucked up and your legs feel like cotton wool.

Michael is elated to see the confusion on your face.

"Little miss hard-to-get," he says, running a finger over his lips. "always trying to be unapproachable." you're staring at him, heart is still pounding from the kiss. You can't find words. Michael feels your vulnerability and it only gives him confidence. "Don't pretend you didn't like it," he says with a sly grin. "I know it by the way you melt in my arms.

So he's also a romantic. However, he sucks at making tremulous speeches.

Feeling of annoyance reappears.

You try to deny it, but deep inside you know that Michael's words are true. You hate what's happening, what you've gotten yourself into. You blame yourself for enjoying it. A feeling of incomprehensible and inexplicable resentment grows inside: why couldn't HE make you feel like this? Why does it have to be Michael? It's unfair.

It's wrong to be aroused by Michael, to feel a pleasant tingling in the lower belly. Wrong, you keep telling yourself. You need to slap that cocky face one more time and get out of here. Forget about everything that just happened.

Why the hell does it have to be Michael? You have to act like this with your boyfriend, it's almost cheating. But a second later, a bitter realization comes to your clouded mind. Right… You don't have a boyfriend anymore.

Michael sees the contradiction on your face and decides to try his luck, as if reading your mind.

"Maybe I'm the one you should be with," he leans closer. "I mean look at me," he says, pointing at himself. "I'm handsome, confident and I know how to treat a girl." he chuckles softly.

No way! You shake your head trying to come to your senses. You know what he's doing, trying to manipulate emotions by hitting on your weak spot: ex. But for some reason, you don't deny his words. It's strange, the feeling of impermanence, misunderstanding is infuriating. And Michael is like some kind of drug right now that you can't resist. Your palms sweating.

You're trying to regain your composure, push him away. But you don't don't strength, especially moral one, to do that. So you just look into his blue eyes, trying to understand the strange feeling inside.

"Have you been jealous all this time?" you ask, without realizing the question yourself, now you are acting only on emotions.

That's when the picture finally starts to show up… Michael's words, actions. All those stares, all those sneers. It was Michael's jealousy, which he could only show in this way.

"Jealous?" he repeats, his eyes widen slightly at your question. Michael was even surprised that you understood so quickly. "You have a rich imagination."

But you know better now. You didn't notice it at all before, spending all your time with your boyfriend. But others, especially Michael's friends, noticed the way he looked at you. Now it's getting clearer, now you see it. He was motivated and is still by something more than just hatred and the desire to mock you forever.

"Don't lie, you're really jealous." it seems that your words hurt him more than you thought. He looks away, staring at the floor.

"Maybe," Michael admits quietly. "maybe i am."

You feel a strange sense of victory, realizing that you've figured out reason of his stupid behavior. But at the same time, you feel guilty. You shouldn't like how the situation is developing and where it's all leading.

When you look into Michael's eyes, the tension only increases. It's as if all the pent-up emotions have been spilling out for so long, turning into an inexplicable lump that confuses both of you.

Suddenly his hands pull your hips closer to him, and you feel his erection through his pants. You both sigh from the close contact. Michael leans in kissing you again, his fingers sliding under your t-shirt, tracing the outline of your breasts. You moan softly into his mouth. Afton pulls away and begins to cover your chin line with hot, wet kisses, then your neck. You tilt your head back, closing your eyes, surrendering to the sensations. You don't want to think so you drive common sense and thoughts away.

Michael slips his fingers behind your bra, unbuttoning it. After that, he gently rolls your nipple in his mouth, sucking on it a little. You exhale, clutching at his hair. This is madness, it's impossible to stand it anymore. Michael's lips leave a trail of passionate kisses along your collarbone, his fingers teasingly descend to your stomach. He stops for a moment to look at you, a smirk playing on his lips.

"You know," he begins, his voice already hoarse with arousal. "I can get any girl I want."

You bite your lip, trying not to show how much you enjoy it. You realize that Michael is just trying to play on your nerves.

"Yeah?" you ask, trying to hide a groan. "Then what makes me so special?"

Michael grins darkly, his fingers tracing your sensitive nipple.

"I don't know," he replies, and gets a menacing look from you that says he's about to get a smack on head. "Maybe it's because you're so damn sexy when you play hard to get."

His compliments and flirting, if you can call it so, are pretty stupid and dumb, but then why do they cause pleasant goosebumps that cover the whole body? You want this. You need him. You can feel desire intensifying with every second, body craves his touch. You turn to face the wall, pressing your butt against his hard-on, letting him know exactly what you want, even though Michael understood everything a long time ago. And he wants the same thing.

"That's it," he breathes, giving you a kiss on the neck. "You want me to fuck you, don't you?"

"Yes," you're squirming. "I want you to fuck me." you meet his gaze, giving him puppy eyes.

Without wasting a second, he lowers his hand down, his fingers push your soaked panties aside, exposing your already dripping pussy to the cool air.

"God, you're so fucking wet…"

Michael's fingers slide between your folds, exploring your wet cunt. Your knees are buckling, and you have to lean against the wall to keep your balance. Michael smiles slyly, his fingers sweetly toying with your clit. You're whimpering, snuggling up against him, pushing up your skirt. He sighs noisily, thrusting two fingers into you at once, sliding them deeper and deeper inside, stretching you as your body shudders with pleasure.

"Lovely, such a good girl." he mutters, still moving his fingers. "cum for me, cum on my fingers." he whispers.

You grab onto the wall as a pleasant shiver runs through your whole body. Michael continues to stimulate your clit, making you arch. And you reach the peak, your body shivers.

"I've wanted you for so long." his hand turns your face to him, Michael looks deep into your eyes. "Your ex," he says in a low and angry voice. "he's a loser, a real idiot, because he couldn't satisfy you. That's why you're here, with me, in my arms."

Your desire is mixed with guilt, realizing what Michael is hinting at. You think you've somehow betrayed your ex by falling into the hands of someone else. But it's not like that. And Michael will prove it to you.

"You're mine now. That bastard missed his chance." Michael says, pressing his lips to yours.

As soon as Michael's words reach you, he straightens up and pulls your body closer, spreading your legs. He rubs his hard cock against your wet entrance and you shudder again in anticipation, responding to his caresses.

Michael pushes inside you, trying to stifle the desire to fuck you hard and rough, to make you cry, to make you forget that you ever dated anyone before him. Jealousy devours him and a disgusting picture forms in his brain… of you hugging and kissing HIM. But not Michael.

He stops, he pulls almost out only to slam back inside again, this time much deeper. Your walls tighten around his cock, waves of pleasure overwhelm both of you. Michael exhales loudly, squeezes your hips and picks up speed, furiously driving into you.

He can't control himself.

You scream into your own fist, all thoughts of the wrongness of the situation disappear, Michael hits all the right places, causing you to moan sweetly. Each hard thrust echoes with vulgar sound of skin slapping against skin, which only excites you both more. Michael holds you tightly, fucking you as you move your hips in response to his thrusts. The orgasm grows again, a tight knot of pleasure twists in your lower abdomen.

"Michael, I'm… I'm gonna!…" you whimper.

Michael growls in response, already breaking into a wheeze. Sweat rolls off his forehead and he frowns as he continues to ruin your sweet pussy. He likes to hear you lose touch with the world around, knowing full well that he's reason of it. Pushing into you harder and faster, he lowers his hand between your legs, finding your clit with his thumb, ripping off another moan from you.

You cry, arching your back, his finger starts tracing your sensitive nub. The additional stimulation pushes you to the limit, your pussy walls clenches hard around his dick. Orgasm hits you like a wave, forcing you to swallow air.

But even when you're shaking from overstimulation, Michael doesn't stop. He continues to thrust, desperately driving deeper, already reaching your cervix, determined to show you what good sex is. Aggression, jealousy and resentment flare up inside him, regardless of the fact that you're completely his now, he cannot contain his emotions. He grabs you by the neck, squeezing just a little. Michael buries his nose in your hair, hiding his face in it and breathing heavily.

Michael fucks you so hard, so furiously, so fast that there's lack of air in your chest.

"His cock wasn't good as mine?" he pulls back slightly, leaving a kiss on your shoulder. It's like he purposely leaves bite marks and kisses to make sure that you really belong only to him.

You can't think, your eyes roll back in pleasure. You can only mumble plaintively to yourself.

"Yes! Your cock is so good, so good!. . ." you admit between ragged breaths. Michael smiles dreamily, feeling a sense of triumph, such recognition fills him with pride.

"That's right, baby," he bites your earlobe. "all you need is me."

The pleasure becomes all-consuming, hitting right into brain. Michael growls raggedly, feeling that hes also close. Another orgasm snaps in you, a discharge passes through your body. Mike also reaches his climax. His body is shaking. He pulls out of you at the last moment, cumming on the wall, moaning through clenched lips.

Both of you are just standing there, panting and trying to come to your senses. But you feel weak, still not understanding a single bit of what happened. You almost fall, but Michael holds you tight, both bodies sweaty and hot. Michael closes his eyes, breathing down your neck. Unlike you, he is aware and understands well what happened because he planned it all. Anger leaves him, but not jealousy. Michael is a very jealous person, especially when it comes to you.

The muscles begin to relax, a pleasant fatigue covers your body. Suddenly you feel his teeth digging into your neck, leaving a small painful bite. Michael runs his tongue over the small wound, at the same time his hands begin to squeeze your breasts, as if he is afraid to let you go.

"You're disgusting." you're mumbling.

"I take after my father." Michael answers you, not hiding the joy in his voice.

Though Michael will throw away the lip gloss anyway.

#fnaf x y/n #Michael afton smut #fnaf x reader #fnaf smut #michael afton x reader #michael afton #michael afton x you #michael afton fnaf #fnaf x you #five nights at freddy's

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fayes-fics · 6 months ago

Text

Breathe (In The Air)

Pariring: Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader, 1970s AU

Summary: A night camping out under the stars

Warnings: 18+ smut, minors DNI, recreational drug use (cannabis), body hair used in foreplay, vaginal fingering, blow job, woman on top, unprotected vaginal sex.

Word Count: 2.6k

Authors Note: Request fill for Anon (HERE) asking for a sequel to 1970s hippie Benedict, travelling around in his VW bus selling his artwork at music festivals. Sorry for the gif; there was nothing else that remotely fit. The original story is HERE. The title is a Pink Floyd song. Thanks as always to @colettebronte for the beta. I hope you enjoy Nonny. I do enjoy this AU ngl. <3

“What do you want from life?”

You loll your head to the side to observe his handsome profile as he stares towards the dome of vibrant stars above.

“I have no idea,” you confess, turning to look skywards again, moonlight glowing through the swirl of smoke you exhale, your fingers toying with the tassels of the soft cotton blanket you both lay upon.

“I want adventure…” he declares, rubbing a hand over his bare midriff absentmindedly.

“Hmmm, that sounds wonderful,” you admit, handing him back the joint, that languid feeling enrobing your mind as the THC kicks in.

It's a temperate summer night, and you are lying together naked, tinny strains of music from a portable radio as you camp in a wildflower meadow en route to the next festival. After a series of magical nights with Ben in his VW bus at the last one, you couldn't resist when he offered for you to continue the journey onwards together.

He takes a deep drag, the tip glowing like the campfire you are lying in front of, before placing it aside into a metal ashtray and rolling over so he hovers above you, warm skin upon yours.

“I am glad you are on this adventure with me,” he remarks with a lopsided grin, the captivating beauty of his face dancing in the firelight.

“Same.” you concur, reaching to touch the daisy chain buried in his halo of riotous curls, somehow the blooms looking more vibrant in the serene state you are slipping into.

His hand slides languorously down your body from your throat to your lower belly, mapping your fire-warmed skin before lacing his fingers into the downy hair at the apex of your thighs, stirring that nascent buzz between your legs.

“I think this beautiful garden needs some flowers,” he opines silkily, his fingers circling in the strands there, petting gently as his brow twitches into a tempting arch.

He leans over you and plucks a few forget-me-nots from the tall grass, carefully separating each bloom on your stomach. Then, delicately, he weaves each tiny flower into your small thatch of hair, a mild tickle as the stems brush over your skin, making you giggle quietly. He smiles softly, your eyes meeting, then both tracking down the plane of your body as he continues to work quietly, humming gently along to the music.

“There… perfect,” he pronounces proudly; a few moments later,

It does indeed look pretty: bright blue tiny flowers that contrast strikingly with your hair and skin.

“Even in this, you are an artist,” you quip blithely.

He smiles demurely through his lashes, shuffling lower and resting his head upon your diaphragm, his fingers tracing soothing patterns around your belly button, his breath puffing warm over your flesh. Allowing the jangle of electric guitar from the radio to fill your bones, your fingers run idly through his luscious locks as your mind floats like cotton in a breeze. The moment seems fleeting but everlasting all at once, profound but insignificant, being so small under the twinkling constellations above. It all coalesces into a sharp need to feel rooted in your body. So you draw your knees up and allow your legs to fall open—a blatant invitation. The apple of his cheek presses into your belly as he smirks knowingly without looking up at you, sensing your need without you needing to voice it, so in tune with your body and desires since the night you met.

“Every beautiful garden should have a sacred fountain…” he rumbles, fingertips spidering down again over the floral weave to tease your splayed inner thigh before sliding casually lower, parting your folds, exhaling roughly at the wet warmth he finds there.

You moan; the mellow cloud you float upon heightens the sensation rippling through your being as his fingers circle your clit, his warm lips suckling gently on your stomach as you writhe under his touch. His name is a sigh upon your lips, his movements unhurried but the perfect amount of pressure. He huffs sonorous praises into your belly as he forms a tighter circle over your swollen bud, moving faster now, your hands flying to the blanket, scrunching in your fists as your head rolls to one side, wanting to bite down upon something, the pleasure coursing through you amplified by your high.

Whimpering as he slides his fingers lower, two breaching your body, desire thick and viscous dripping upon him as he pushes further in your pussy. The sensation of his knuckles dragging over your walls makes you gasp and call out, your body arching up off the blanket, a heavy throb in your abandoned clit.

“Please, Ben…” you implore, greedy for more.

He shushes you and unfurls slightly, his fingers flexing inside you as he rearranges to press his whole body into your flank, his cock teasingly hard against your hip, using his free hand to haul one of your legs over his, pulled open to his attention now.

“Don't be impatient; we have all the time in the world,” he tuts sinfully, his lips hot on your throat, grazing the tip of his teeth lightly over your jugular.

Your protesting mewl is cut short by his fingers twisting inside you, a dragging sensation that makes your eyes roll and your whole abdomen clench.

“I could do this for hours,” he confesses silkily, his breath hot on your temple. “I love the look on your face when I do this…”

He curls his fingers, a probing sensation that makes you groan and your face contort, your mouth now hanging open. He chuckles triumphantly before twisting his wrist again and beginning a rocking motion, wringing a sound from your body that, before you met him, you may have been ashamed of, but he lauds every time. Him murmuring how proud he is that he can do this to you.

But it is not quite enough to push you to the edge as fast as you are craving, more of a slow swirling ascent that has you lighthearted and with laboured breathing, your abdomen rippling as all your muscles tense and release in waves, as if willing your orgasm closer, an itch in your brain you need to scratch. It has you pleading with him to take pity, go a little faster, rougher, anything…

“Syncopate, sweet girl…” he purrs, “listen to the music, breathe in the air, float away with the universe…”

Each word is a lyrical wave tumbling from his lips in a rhythm that matches the movement of his fingers inside you. So you relax back, savouring the multisensory journey, allowing the flow to take you rather than chasing immediate pleasure. Something morphing in your body as you do so, a serenity that is bone-deep, riding the gentle waves of pleasure that lap at your edges while his fingers dance lightly upon your g-spot.

“That’s it….” he rumbles approvingly, intuiting your surrender.

He slips down to enclose your areola in his hot, wet mouth, once again causing a spike of pleasure that has you clenching upon his fingers and canting up. A firm hand on your solar plexus pushes you back down with a chuckle that vibrates your nipple, now firm under his tongue. And so he continues the slow, wondrous torture, swapping to your other breast.

You swear you can feel every blade of grass under your shoulders through the soft cotton weave, the energy of every star above you in the sky coursing through his touch deep inside, every note of the song playing reverberating under your skin. A high, so delicate but earthy, as if everything is turned up to eleven on a dial, tangy and bright, like popping candy throughout your entire being.

It's then he swipes his thumb over your engorged clit; you could swear a supernova fires in your synapses, the sensation all at once too much, and with a few flicks, you are clawing at the blanket and his skin, biting your lip, circling that phenomenal bliss.

This time, he doesn't relent, his lips sucking your neck as with a cry that you are sure startles every animal burrowed in the surrounding fields; you are breaking. Almost febrile, your entire being flushing hot, every muscle tensing, your pussy grasping his fingers to the point he growls, driving his stiff cock into your hip, precum smearing over your skin. Still, it’s something you barely sense, your entire focus pinpointed on the sensations coursing through your body.

At last, you fall back, exhausted and panting, feeling his fingers slip slowly from your body with a gush of moisture that leaks across your bottom. You turn your head to look at him, mind awash, unable to form words. His responding smile is smug, crooked and sheer debauchery, his fingers still wet with your arousal, tracing soothing patterns over your ribs as you come down.

“May I return the favour…?” you croak finally.

Before you know it, he is rolling onto his back next to you, an expectant, joyous look upon his face, eyes tracking pointedly to his navel as do yours. His cock standing proud and leaking slightly—a mouthwateringly inviting sight.

He howls, and his whole body flexes as instead of taking him in hand, you dive low and bring his cock into your mouth, so rigid and searing. That tart taste is strong on your tongue as you suckle upon his head, allowing your tongue to press against his frenulum in a cresting wave. He groans staccato, his pelvis tilts, unable to resist the urge to push a little deeper, one hand landing heavy in your hair, twining some strands between his fingers, an anchor he needs as you begin to bob up and down sucking hard, your cheeks hollowing.

The wash of your high enhancing every second, as if in tune with his body—the micro spasms rippling across the plane of his washboard stomach, the flutter of his long eyelashes, the blunt scrape of his rounded fingernails over your scalp, the pulse of his vein on your lips as you slowly allow him to pass through the tight ring of your mouth, teasing him as much as he did you.

You chuckle as he huffs as you pull away and instead lick the length of his shaft with a questing tongue, your hands encircling his base and squeezing softly, enjoying the handful he provides, watching a bead of precum form that you lavishly lick up. He groans again, his head thrashing upon the blanket, the delicate fronds of daisy petals scattering like confetti into his chestnut waves as he does so, his lip flushing magenta where his incisor worries it.

It makes you sit up and stare down upon him wantonly, so utterly beautiful in his untamed arousal. His eyes fly open, glassy and pleading in the campfire glow, pouting fractionally at the lack of your mouth upon his cock, your hand still pumping him gently. Instead, you swing a leg over his and, without a moment of hesitation, sink onto him, inhaling shudderingly at the invasion, your pussy still inflamed from your recent orgasm.

The look of absolute pleasure and reverence that claims his handsome features feels burned into your retinas as his hands fly to your hips, pushing you down flush to his body, his pubic hair tickling your distended slippery clit, his tip rocking into your hilt in a way that makes your eyes roll.

“Don't move, not yet, just feel…” he counsels, his eyes closing, licking his lips and encouraging you, with the flex of his fingers, to rotate your pelvis, to feel him drag against all your walls.

And so you do, scratch your nails delicately down his abdominals as you stare out to the inky horizon where the navy sky meets the blackened outline of the hedgerows in the distance—again, letting the melodic song seep into your bones, feeling the heat from the dancing flames.

You lean back and arch your spine, placing your hands upon his kneecaps, his legs bending slightly to meet your grip. His hands roam upwards, over your belly and ribs, enclosing each of your breasts in his large grip, a beeline right to your core, already a live wire again, desire coursing in every fibre of your being.

Then in a deliberate slow drag, you rise slowly before dropping swiftly, revelling in the way his cock pushes you open. A groan from deep inside your being a match to his—throaty, low, wrecked. You begin to set a languid pace, riding him, gripping his knees behind you and staring at the stars above, feeling as if they surround you, tiny lanterns floating just beyond your reach.

“Look at me,” his call is soft, unfocused, imploring, and you tilt down, your breasts squashed into his palms as your eyes meet, something profound in the glimmer you find in the dilated blackness.

Sex has never been this unrestrained before now. Being with him is liberating, wild and luxuriant every time, be it under the influence or not. But tonight, somehow greater than the previous, an inherently verdant setting, alone in the wilds on a balmy night, away from the crowds always in your periphery at the music festival. A large part of you wanting this to be your new forever—naked and feral, entwined together for a blur of future days and nights. A want to live a primitive life of base urges, to feast and to fuck, to be at one with the land, the seasons and the bounteous simplicity of nature.

Time feels elastic as your thighs start to burn from the exertion. Still, you do not stop, not for a moment, too caught up in the tide slowly rising once more and sensing the same in him. A growing desperation in the way his fingers dig into your flesh, in the wild beating of the prominent vein in his neck, in the rise of his hips to meet yours, spearing up as you bear down so it feels like there will always be the imprint of him inside you.

He calls your name, the callus where he holds his paintbrush catching perfectly over your clit as his fingers quest between your legs, hooking you with unerring precision. Catapulting you fast towards a dizzying high again, his movements growing urgent, his jaw tight, so close to breaking. It is barely a moment before you snap again, stilling upon him as you scream with abandon, fluttering around his rigid cock. He groans loudly and, with a few final jerky spasms, comes hard, his toes curling over, his ropey thighs turning rock solid under your bottom as he fills you, a symphony of praise falling from his lips, some not even in English.

And then you are slumping on top of him, his smooth chest tacky under your cheek as you gulp for air, the rustle of the breeze through the nearby trees and the hiss and pop of the logs upon the campfire the only sounds now, the radio falling silent, likely needing new batteries. He slips from your body as you curl your hands around his biceps and snuggle upon him. His long, lean arms wrap around your torso, enveloping you within the large blanket you were lying upon and dropping a kiss upon your dewy brow.

“We can bathe tomorrow in the river,” he hums gently into your hairline.

You nod drowsily, the pull of sleep too beguiling to resist. And that is how you drift off, resting atop him, his heartbeat strong and steady under your ear, the burbling sounds of nature encircling you.

Benedict taglist pt 1: @makaylan @longingintheuniverse @iboopedyournose @colettebronte @aintnuthinbutahounddog @severewobblerlightdragon @writergirl-2001 @heeyyyou @enichole445 @enchantedbytomandhenry @chaoticcalzoneranchsports @nikaprincessofkattegat @baebee35 @crowleysqueenofhell @fiction-is-life @lilacbeesworld @broooookiecrisp @queen-of-the-misfit-toys @eleanor-bradstreet @divaanya @musicismyoxygen84 @miindfucked @sorryallonsy @cayt0123 @hottytoddyhistory @fictionalmenloversblog @zinzysstuff @malpalgalz @kinokomoonshine @causeimissu @delehosies @m-rae23 @last-sheep @panhoeofmanyfandoms @kmc1989 @desert-fern @corpseoftrees-queen @magical-spit @bunnyweasley23 @how-many-stars-in-the-sky @sya-skies

#benedict bridgerton fanfiction #benedict bridgerton #benedict bridgerton smut #benedict bridgerton imagine #bridgerton fanfiction #bridgerton #bridgerton smut #bridgerton imagine #benedict bridgerton x reader #benedict bridgerton x female reader #benedict bridgerton x you #benedict bridgerton x y/n #bridgerton x reader #bridgerton x female reader #bridgerton x you #bridgerton x y/n

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shirecorn · 5 months ago

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I want to vape water so bad. It looks like fun and I remember sucking the mist from my mom's miniature rock fountain and laughing out clouds of distilled water and a little bit of dirt.

Tiny horses we dipped in and out of the fog, mistepped and broke their tiny legs, left them too close to the little motor which somehow sprouted blisters on their plaster hides.

Spinning sticks in the embers trying to make smoke rings before we get scolded for playing with fire.

Ok I'm an adult now can I play with fire? Can I play with water?

What are they packing into those pens that rots our lungs and blisters and scars and does such fun things we call "popcorn" like it's a snappy bright flavor of addiction?

Can I just play with it?

I don't trust anyone to make toys in an industry whose mission statement is to hurt and harm in 10 colorful new flavors!

Literally it's just clouds. You made clouds into polkadot poison and gave it to kids like bubbles and a wand.

We have to laugh and mock and boo and try to make it uncool to somehow stop the damage but fuck, it IS cool! It's dragon's breath without the biting cold of winter but you went and made it sick.

Man what the hell. Imagine if bubbles could kill you.

Why did they do that?

I'm going outside to find cool sticks. I just wish I could bring the clouds with me.

#I have to be very careful about literally everything that could be addicting #cause I immediately dive into it #havent played the sims at all this year because I don't have the time to lose myself for a couple weeks and stay up all night #so no weed no video games no booze no nothing #Once I got addicted to showers and started taking multiple per day because I guess I was self medicating something going wrong somehow #i dont know #shire screams #shire writes #yall enjoy whatever this is

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peppermintquartz · 1 month ago

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Praiseworthy

"Tell me about how it's been for you these past couple days."

With a soft moan, Buck releases Tommy's neck from his mouth's exploration and peers at him, confused. "I already did."

Tommy weaves his fingers into Buck's curls and scratches lightly on his scalp. Buck's eyes flutter shut at how good that feels.

"Tell me how you saved the days," Tommy amends. "Without mentioning that old git. Tell me. Start with how you saved the little girl and her mom from the bee-covered car."

Buck is trying to remember how to form words, his skin tingling from Tommy's gentle caress of his scalp and the not-so-gentle petting of his belly. That same hand is drifting down to his hip.

"Um. We were using CO2, didn't work," Buck murmurs. Losing himself to Tommy's touches, Buck lets the words unfurl freely, his legs tangling with Tommy's. "And the intake was jammed. Couldn't - ah! - couldn't hose the bees away."

Tommy hums, his left hand rubbing soothing circles into Buck's hip, while his right is still giving Buck the best scalp massage in a long while. "So what did you do?"

"Something had caught fire, and. And I remembered that. Smoke. Beekeepers use smoke to dampen bees' senses, make them - ohh, please, Tommy, that feels - make them docile." Buck feels a little lightheaded. That is a common symptom of making out with Tommy, but today every move Tommy makes seems purposeful. Buck moans softly when Tommy's fingers dip under his waistband, even as Tommy encourages him to keep talking. He swallows, licks his lips. "Told Eddie. Told Eddie to direct the smoke. At the car. I, uh, ahhh. Tommy. Tommy."

Tommy's hand is inside Buck's shorts. "Yeah? Come on, keep talking," he says innocently, as if his index finger hasn't just been nudging at Buck's hole moments ago.

Gulping in another breath, Buck continues. "The smoke worked. The bees... calmed down. Got them off one side of the car, got the mom and girl out." He gasps when his boyfriend slides his big hand from its place on Buck's ass to the front to gently grasp his hard, leaking cock.

"You're so well-read," Tommy murmurs approvingly. "Keeping all that knowledge in your gorgeous and adorable head. I love how much you know about the world."

"Yeah? Really?" Buck feels like he can melt into Tommy's voice.

"Mm hmm. Now tell me about the perfume launch."

Rolling his hips slowly as Tommy starts stroking him, Buck murmurs, "The perfume... Oh, oh, please Tommy, more, please?" When Tommy doesn't tighten his grip the way Buck wants him to, he whines, "Please, Daddy?"

Tommy huffs a laugh. He knows what Buck is trying to do, and two can play at that game. "Tell me what you did, baby boy, and Daddy will give you what you want," he says. Promises, with a wink.

Buck pouts, but the effect is lost when Tommy twists his wrist a specific way, which instead makes Buck shudder.

"Perfume launch lady. Um. Told us that, that her assistant is stuck under water, breathing through a hose." The words tumble out. Buck hisses in a sharp breath when Tommy runs the pad of his thumb over his slit, and whimpers again when Tommy does it a second time.

"And what did you do to get her out of it?"

"I overheard. Someone, um, someone. Talking about. Perfume, and-and asked to, to see it." Buck closes his eyes, floats in the sensations of Tommy's voice rumbling in his chest and his warm grip of Buck's erection and strong fingers still massaging his scalp. "The scent was floral... But it had, um. Banana."

"And what was so special about banana, sweet boy? Can you tell Daddy more, please?"

Buck whines high in his throat. "Floral scents attract pollinators like bees," he manages, "and banana riles them up, makes them - mmm - defensive."

"You're so brilliant," Tommy praises. "I didn't know that. I'm so lucky to have a clever and beautiful boy." He pauses his ministrations to kiss Buck deeply, drinking in a faint whine. Then his hand resumes moving. "But it doesn't answer my question, darling. How did you get the bees away from that poor assistant?"

Now Buck has to giggle. "Made Eddie bait." He nuzzles Tommy and says, "He was already suited up, and, mmm, he looked so cute with that dumb moustache. Chimney and I doused him with the perfume. Made him run really fast. Mmmm. Daddy, don't stop."

Tommy is laughing, his whole frame shaking, and his hands are on Buck's hip and shoulder now. "You made Eddie killer bee bait?"

"Yep." Buck preens and nudges Tommy's cheek with his nose. "It worked very well too. We got the woman out. Any longer and she'd have died."

"You're really amazing," Tommy says, turning his face into Buck's arched neck, kissing tiny nipping kisses all along that exposed column. Nothing that will leave marks. "You're really something else, sweet boy, you make me so proud of you every time you show just how capable and resourceful you are. I wanna show you off to the world so so much."

"Really?" Buck asks breathlessly, his chest tight from emotion. Before this moment, he didn't think he needed to hear all that validation, but the praise flowing so freely and sincerely from Tommy is making his skin tingle and his heart pound, even more than the purposeful petting and groping. His throat feels like it's closing with tears, and he buries his face in the closest part of Tommy - his big, strong shoulder - and his eyes are stinging.

With another gulp of air, he gives himself over to pure sensation, letting Tommy's words wash over him and fill him up, letting Tommy's hands draw pleasure from his core out into the open air, letting Tommy's love soothe the thousand little hurts he's been enduring at work. It's not that long before his teeth are pressed to Tommy's shoulder, tongue flat against his skin, as his hips jerk helplessly against his lover and he comes and comes, wrapped in a hazy cocoon of praise and adoration woven from Tommy's voice and sure handling.

Afterwards, when his mind is more his own, he murmurs, "You must think I'm so needy. It must be exhausting to deal with me. With my... I don't know, my neuroses."

"Where did you get that idea from?" Tommy asks, draped partly over the younger man, nose pressed to Buck's soft cheek.

"I don't know why I can't just do my job and not, you know, want an Attaboy now and again. Like, Chimney and Eddie just get on with it. Hen doesn't even seem to be mentally present some days, and she is still incredible at her job." Buck sighs. "Sometimes I feel like I never did leave behind Buck 1.0."

"You're you, whatever version you think you are," Tommy replies. "And the Evan Buckley I know is a quick-thinking, spontaneous, resourceful, and kind man. You're not needy for wanting validation, especially since you have put in work to know that much. It's nice to be seen." With a grunt, Tommy leans over Buck and peers down into the younger man's eyes. "And you're not exhausting to love, Evan. You're so easy to love. So deserving of it. I'll praise you every damn day until you see that for yourself."

#bucktommy #tommy kinard #evan buckley

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lacollectionneuse1967 · 11 months ago

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remembering you

Theseus Scamander x Reader

summary: the year is 1916 and you live with your family near the western front in france. after a chance encounter with a wizard soldier during the war, you don't think you'll ever see him again, although you're sure you'll always remember him.

nine years later, you find that the man not only works with you at the ministry, but he also happens to be the annoying auror who keeps accidentally sending interdepartmental memos to your desk. you develop a friendly, albeit anonymous, banter through sending each other notes, but the question remains--does he know who you are? and, if he does, does he remember you?

fem!reader. theseus scamander x reader.

category: office romance. smut with plot.

warnings: 18+ smut scene. unprotected penetration. oral sex (fem receiving). dirty talk. mdom/femsub. fyi he begs for it.

author's note: i am not an expert on the wizarding world nor am i an expert on wwi / world history! with respect, i do not claim to be. this is a work of fanfiction.

1916, Northern France

How strange it was, being at home when it no longer felt like home.

Your memories from childhood were precious and few, almost unreal. It was uncanny to be back with your father at that small, unchanging farmhouse on the far outskirts of Verdun. Your school waited until the last possible minute to send its students home, as they would have been sending many students home to die.

The perpetual afternoon, summery quiet of the countryside that you were so used to took on a disconcerting edge, an unspoken terror. This was the silence of a stalemate, of a breath being held. Not far from here lay the trenches and, beyond that, the Germans.

The flat, low-slung lines of Meuse were an additional shock to you. You'd spent the last five years of your life in the high, rocky mountains of the Pyrenees, at Beauxbatons Academy of Magic.

The river-run grasslands around you now had a vacant, exposed quality to them, the trees bare of birds, the squat buildings in town possessing the hollowed-out feel of an abandoned amusement park.

Even before the soldiers came you'd felt like a sitting duck.

Your sister's scream was the first noise to break the deadlock silence of the night.

You run from the windowsill without looking back. Smoke smell pricks your nostrils.

Your front door is swinging frenetically on its squealing hinges, left open, gapingly and awfully so. There are three uniformed men in boots, heavy gear, standing in your living room, looking around your small, low-ceilinged house with barely concealed reproach on their faces.

The wooden floors creak weakly underfoot. Through the doorframe you can make out some distant fires burning, you can't see them but you can smell them.

The sharp, whistling sound of war planes tears through the air.

"Parlez-vous anglais?" One of the men says in mangled French. He's redheaded, maybe in his early forties. There's black soot on his face which makes his irises look so light blue they're nearly white. "English. Anyone speak English?"

Your younger sister cowers at the booming cadence of his voice, she doesn't speak English. One of her bare feet takes a step back.

So they're English soldiers at least, but you don't recognize their uniforms. The redheaded one is brandishing a wand. But that can't be...

"[Your sister's name]," your father is too sick to rise from his chair, but he beckons to your sister, feebly, calling her away from the door in French. "Please, darling. It's okay, he's a soldier."

"There are no wizard soldiers," you step forward, placing yourself between the men and your family members. They look to you in plain surprise. Your English is unaccented. "The British and French Ministries of Magic abandoned us, forbade any wizard from involvement in-"

"I'm here, aren't I?"

Your gaze shoots to the man who spoke.

He looks young. He has a long face and short-cut, curly brown hair. Handsome but not roguishly, not like a soldier ought to be. Handsome in an upright, gentlemanly way, the kind of face that exudes goodness and inspires trust. He almost seems out of place in his uniform, dressed for combat.

"What do you want?" you ask warily.

The third, sunken-eyed man gawks and lets out an incredulous sneer.

"Ungrateful little-"

"Quiet, it's fine," the brown-haired man says, silencing his comrade before turning to you. "We're here to evacuate all magical families in the area. We've received prophetic intel that invasion is imminent, the battle will begin moments from now and will span months. Hundreds of thousands will die. Pack your family's things."

Your brother lets out a noise of trepidation, turning to your father.

Your father--paler every day, made older by his illness, slumped over in his chair. He could not even make it out to the front garden, nevertheless survive an evacuation. His eyes are twinkling acutely, buried like gems in his wrinkled, ruined face.

"Come on!" Says the redheaded man in frustration. His blackened, ash-covered face is frightening to your siblings, as is his anger.

He pulls the man standing in the back towards him roughly by the shoulder to hiss in his ear.

"I'd understand if it was an estate that had been in their family for centuries, some of the pure-blood families that we…" For a moment his whispers are unintelligible, but you make out the last words well enough. "But this little farm?"

"Little farm?!" You step forward again, bristling. "This is our home. Can't you understand wanting the dignity of dying in your own home?"

The handsome one looks sharply to your father in his chair then. It is like he is seeing him clearly for the first time, you can see it click in his mind.

"Your father is a Muggle..." he says sympathetically.

"And he is sick. He won't survive apparition. Besides," you protest. "The Germans haven't broken the line since the Battle of the Marne."

The other two soldiers are stilled in shock, aghast at the fact of you, a young girl, arguing with them at all.

"Please," you entreat them. "There's been no movement. This is trench warfare, sir. They won't-"

"They will," the redheaded soldier's voice is grave, uncompromising. "Tonight, tomorrow. I don't know when, but the Germans intend to bleed the French white. They will break the line at Verdun. It is certain."

If what they said was true, if there was a prophecy....

Your hope sinks away from you, you feel your palms go limp and bloodless.

For a moment no one speaks. The silence of the night returns from wherever it fled to, creeps and settles around you.

When you find it again, your voice sounds heartless to your ears.

"Take my siblings," you say.

[Your brother's name] shouts in objection, your little sister cries out.

"No! Y/N, you can't-"

"Not another word!" You order. The words burn you to say. "You will go with these men, I won't hear anything about it."

The redheaded man grabs your sister by the forearm swiftly, and the sullen one extends a hand to your brother. They apparate away in a solitary whoosh. You feel the last remnants of your heart tear away and leave with them.

When the last man, the handsome one, steps towards you, you shake your head and retreat, backing up against the wall.

"I'm not going, sir."

You speak firmly, but the man scoffs anyway.

The front door is still erratically swinging on its hinges like a weather vane. Your father's neck has drooped forward, his chin buried in his chest. He falls in and out of sleep like this lately. He grows worse every day.

The lone soldier purses his lips, his eyes gleam testily. You think he might grab you then, and it sends a tingle down your spine.

"I'm a war nurse, you know?" Your hands are trembling suddenly. No one to pretend to be brave for now that your siblings are gone. Your courage takes on a raw, desperate quality. "Or I want to be. I know enough to help."

"Miss," the man speaks sincerely. Unlike his comrades, he really looks at you when he talks, looks you dead in the eyes. It should be unnerving, but it isn't. You can't name what it does to you.

"I vow to take full responsibility for your father's health and safety. Home or not, he won't be better off here. I will personally care for and protect him, I promise you."

You swallow and nod. He's about to grab your hand when you speak again.

"And them?" You say. "The Muggle soldiers? Who protects them? You can take my father, but I will stay."

He makes a noise of gentle surprise.

"Miss, we're here to minimize the global wizarding community's losses. No magical blood needs to be spi-"

"I don't care about all that," your voice is sharper than you intended. It appears to have cut him to the core. 'Magical blood,' he'd said. But you've never been ashamed of being a half-blood. You've never been ashamed of being your father's daughter.

He frowns in contemplation, more to himself than at you.

"You want to stay so badly. Why?"

"I told you, I'm a nurse."

"You're a child."

"I'm sixteen," you bite back.

"Like I said," his rebuttal is delivered with a sly smile. You amuse him, though you're not sure why. "A child. Not even old enough for Muggle conscription."

"I'm no Muggle."

"No, you're... You're something else."

You bite your lip. Your words are braver than your feelings now.

"If what you say is true, the Muggles--the Allied soldiers--will need medical attention. A woman in town has been training me as a nurse. I've been to the front, I can help. I couldn't live with myself if I didn't."

His eyes don't leave your face, some silent assessment taking place within him. You're already thinking of what else you can say to him, how else to convince him.

"Okay," he says, unflinchingly. "You can stay." He'll turn a blind eye.

Your shoulders slump in relief.

He walks towards your father, who is still sagged over in a worrisome-looking unconsciousness, too deep to be sleep.

'No,' you think. 'Don't go yet.'

Mindlessly, senselessly, you feel a blooming alarm. Some death rattle, some dying burst of life.

"Wait!" You call out to him, stepping away from the wall.

The man turns. "The handsome one," you'd called him in your head, fancifully, maybe even teasingly. Nothing about it seems funny now. It never had to mean anything to you, people being handsome or beautiful. It didn't have to be about you. But this, it feels serious, personal.

You don't know what overcomes you, how you could act so boldly. He'll probably think you deranged, hysterical.

But you can't imagine he'll deny you.

You've seen enough soldiers these last two years of war to know what they want from women and girls, what they all inescapably hunger for.

"Kiss me," you say, and then add, "Please. Please kiss me."

He halts completely. When his brows knit together your heart shutters closed, meekly.

"Why?"

"I..." It's hard to admit, even now, the world burning around you. "I've never been kissed. I want to be kissed, just once, before I die. In case I do..."

You're losing your breath as you speak, your stamina sputters out.

You know how he must see you--naive, insane, maybe even pathetic. You can bear the rejection, but, suddenly, can't bear to face him anymore.

You don't hear his footsteps. His touch is so gentle you barely feel it, are still turning away when you notice his fingertips resting on your wrist.

When you look up at his face it's so unexpectedly close that you gasp. His eyes are blue, a deep and true blue. You were a fool to think him anything like the other soldiers you'd encountered. No, his expression was achingly kind and perceptive. Devastatingly handsome.

He smells like engine smoke and soap and spearmint. He smells like a man. It's intoxicating. It makes you shudder.

You close your eyes tight and hold your breath. There is the smell of fire and the echoes of distant warfare around you, but your entire body drones that out, pauses and prepares for this moment, readies itself to be kissed.

The man rests a hand on the side of your face, that alone is as intimate as any kiss, the warmth of his palm. He hesitates.

His lips on your forehead are not what you expect, but your body thrills anyway when you feel them press there.

But you are sixteen and you want a real kiss.

You don't even care who from. You want just this one selfish, childish thing in a warring world where no one is afforded childhood.

You stare at him in unhappy perplexity when he pulls back.

You might cry, you realize, and the swelling tears in your vision, they stun you.

"Live," he says, softly. Insistently. "You'll live to be kissed."

He turns to leave, but stops midway. Your siblings gone, soon your father too. The Germans invading. Your whole life taken in one fell swoop, one night. The last trace of your girlhood will be the sight of this soldier's back as he walks out the door of your childhood home. This, you know.

The man looks back at your face and asks you a question no soldier has ever bothered to ask you, not when they burst into your home, not even when you were cleaning their wounds and saving their lives at the front.

"What is your name?" he says.

"What's yours?"

"Theseus Scamander," he doesn't miss a beat. He's an open book. "Do you not want to tell me your name?"

"It won't matter soon enough..."

"Do you so badly not want to live?"

"No, I do. I am just no longer afraid of death."

The look in his eyes is so tender and considerate, it's almost painful.

"I don't need a name to remember you," he's smiling again, it's so strange and out of place and, you admit, heartening. "Good luck. Goodbye."

Theseus Scamander leaves with your father in tow, closing the violently fluctuating door, at last, on his way out.

----

1925, London, Nine Years Later

'It can't be,' you think to yourself. 'Improbable.'

It's just too soon. You've hardly sat down at your new desk when you receive the interdepartmental memo. It unfolds from its airplane shape mid-air and sways delicately, falling in a rocking motion until it's flat on your desk.

A memo already?

You have just been moved to the Department of Magical Games and Sports from the Department of Mysteries. The man who sat there before you was moved to a bigger, better office, had been some hunching, Quidditch-loving Old Boy who wore long socks and smelled of moth-eaten cotton. Allegedly his name was Mr. Byrne.

A real success story in his department, or, rather, your host department, as you'd been appointed Interdepartmental Liaison for the Department of Mysteries. A new position. In fact, the only "above ground" position in your department, which was, expectedly, shrouded in mystery and sunken deep within the depths of the British Ministry of Magic.

In truth, you were also here on a mission. There had been rumors of conspiracy, political mutiny. Grindelwald supporters who had infiltrated the British Ministry of Magic. And the top suspect was the Head of the Department you'd been moved to. You'd been instructed to investigate, discern the truth of the rumors.

This would usually be a job for the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, but they had also been compromised. Or so you'd been told...

Your new position meant that you were to be kept in the dark more often than not, but it also meant having a desk above ground and being around other people. Luxuries.

No more time travel experiments, thought experiments, or, thankfully, demented blood purity experiments that always made your half-blood boil. You could live without all of that.

Still, none of that explained you receiving an interdepartmental memo before you'd even settled in.

You lift it from your desk in annoyance.

You do a double-take at the words, blinking hard at them.

"Holy hell," the memo reads. "When I told you I wanted to investigate some cursed Gobstones I didn't mean I wanted you to send them to my office, fuck's sake. Next after-work pint is on you, my friend."

You scoff.

It must have been misaddressed. The unfortunate writer must not know about Mr. Byrne's relocation.

It's beneath you, and childish, but you can't help but write back.

It's the sort of enchanted parchment that you can just write your responding message on. The ink disappears into the scrap of paper and appears wherever your mystery correspondent may be.

For your own amusement, you try to picture their reaction the best that you can.

"First of all, 'Holy hell'? 'Fuck's sake'? How dare you," you write. "Second of all, I'm not your friend and I most certainly will not be paying for an 'after-hours' pint. If I'm not clocked in, I'll have nothing to do with the Ministry."

It takes him so long to write back you nearly forget about it, have already gotten to unpacking all your silver nibs and ink pots and lining them up in the drawer like little soldiers, just how you like.

"Who is this?" Comes the message.

It's so dry, the response, so worried and perfunctory, that you nearly laugh out loud.

But something about the formality and genuine concern in your mystery messenger's script compels you to reply with mercy.

"Relax. Mr. Byrne's desk has been moved. If you want to write him, he has the big office on level seven with the view of the Atrium now. Lucky bastard. I'm at his old desk. Was just kidding about being offended. You can say 'fuck' and 'hell' all you want to me."

His reply comes quickly this time.

"Oh, good. Fucking hell, I was scared for a moment there."

You smile in bemusement. Who knew anyone at the Ministry could have a sense of humor? You'd thought you were the only one. You can't help but write back eagerly.

"Damn, I should have lied and said I was the Minister for Magic."

"Have mercy. I think I honest to God would have cried."

"So, no after-work pint for me then?"

"Forgive me, where are my manners? Today. The White Horse. Not sure who you are, but pint is on me, sir."

"*Miss!!" You correct. "And I was only joking. I really meant what I said before about not wanting anything to do with the Ministry unless I'm at work and being paid for my time."

"How very patriotic."

There's nothing in his writing to indicate sarcasm, but it practically drips off the page. This person is cheeky, you realize. Sarcastic. And a little annoying.

You like it.

The Department of Magical Games and Sports is a sleepy, uneventful affair compared to the work you'd been engaged in for the Department of Mysteries when you were "below ground." You look around at your colleagues, your dreary officemates. They were relatively sedentary outside of Quidditch season. Sleepy, slow-moving creatures.

As interdepartmental liaison for the Department of Mysteries, a fabricated position, really, you were already bored out of your mind.

Maybe that's why you write back with unfounded enthusiasm.

"Mystery boy: Tell me something about you. Tell me something true."

----

London hadn't been kind to you.

It seemed you had a hard time of everything: finding a flat with your sister as two unmarried, unchaperoned women, making friends outside of work, making sure to look the right way when crossing the street to avoid getting hit by a bus ('They drive on the left side, Y/N. Get it together'). All these things had proved to be excessively difficult. Especially the not-getting-hit-by-a-bus part.

During the war, while you served as an underaged combat nurse on the frontlines, your father died, but your siblings lived.

They told you the soldier from that night, the one who denied you your first kiss, had kept his word. He'd done the best he could to care for your father and, more importantly, he'd stayed with him until the very end.

Your brother was still in France, working with magical aquatic beasts around les Calanques de Cassis, but your sister was here with you. She worked in some Muggle field you didn't quite understand.

Her, your brother, and, now, the mystery man you'd been writing to every day were the only real people in your life. The only people who really talked to and knew you.

Day by day you'd grown closer to the mystery man. What had started out as vaguely funny, sometimes hostile banter had developed into something more. You'd both genuinely warmed to each other.

"Morning, sunshine!"

You were so accustomed to reading his greeting with your morning coffee that you reached for it automatically, as soon as you arrived, hand sweeping wide over the expanse of your desk to pick it up.

"Hope you caught some bad guys today. Or at least got to enforce a law or two. Bye-bye, idiot." You sign at the end of most days. Or some other joking farewell.

It's a constant correspondence between the two of you, scrawled-in between assignments and research. On your desk there is your inbox, your outbox, the stack of parchment (whatever you happen to be working on), and, just to the side of that, the discreet piece of paper you use to correspond with the mystery man.

However, you do try to mitigate the sharing of identifying information. Even when he learns you're an "Unspeakable," or someone working for the Department of Mysteries, it does little to deter him.

"Keep your department's secrets," he writes. "I just want yours."

He volunteers information about himself, his initials ("TS") and even his department (Magical Law Enforcement), in the hopes that you'll reciprocate.

You do, but you offer unimportant, silly facts about yourself. Nothing that will help him identify you, though he's insistent that he'd know you anyway if you ran into each other.

"I'm an Auror. I fought in the war," he reveals one day. "Your turn now."

"Fine: I never learned how to swim. So if you want to kill me you should probably drown me."

"I'm considering it. I'll bring a bottle of water when I finally see you. Why won't you tell me something more about yourself?!"

"What do you want to know? Can't a girl working for the Department of Mysteries be mysterious once in a while?"

"It gets old."

"You're a liar. You love me."

"True on both counts. But one of these days I'm just going to show up at your desk. I know where it is, you know... Mu-ha-ha."

You write back dismissively. "Why show up? So I can berate you in person?"

Your heart pounds stupidly as you watch the message sink away. You don't want to encourage him.

It's been one whole month of your daily exchanging of magical notes.

You know his biggest stressors at work, you know what he finds irritating, what he finds funny. Know his hopes and dreams.

You hate to admit it, but you'd be completely adrift without it, without him. Even when you're back at your flat with your sister you find your hands moving to write whenever something weird or funny happens, just to tell him, instinctually. You find yourself missing him.

It makes you shudder, the thought.

You don't want anything more... You're both comfortable and satisfied with how things are now. It's really only him who jokes about meeting up sometimes. But you? You're afraid meeting him in person would ruin that.

Maybe it's easier to have a close relationship with him across the merciful distance of anonymity.

"Night night." He writes at the end of the day. He seems to get to work earlier than you and leave later, but he's learned to say goodbye right at 6:00pm, when you usually leave.

For some reason, the words don't disappear from the page, even when you write back beneath them. His boyish script stays put.

"'Night night?'" you write back. "Ouch. I'm not a grandmother, I do intend to go out for dinner after work. Why the bedtime message?"

His words fade in and your heart swells.

"I wrote it so you can put it in your pocket and save it for tonight. I get to say goodbye to you, and good morning, but not goodnight. Just trying to cover all my bases."

You smile and tear off the message, putting it in your pocket. On the remaining paper, you cast a spell for the same, lingering text that he'd gifted you.

"Okay. You can save and reuse this message: Goodnight then, T. Sleep well, I'll talk to you tomorrow, and tomorrow. And the day after that, too."

----

You're prone to daydreaming, you'll admit to that.

"You live in a world of your own!" your favorite professor at Beauxbatons would say fondly.

"Ditzy girl, that one!" your least favorite professor would scowl within earshot of you.

But it's so easy to slip away, especially when you have something, someone, to dream about.

You watch your feet sweep across the dark green tiled floors of the Atrium, but hardly pay attention to anything else as you make your way to the elevators.

You're chuckling to yourself, remembering something your mystery correspondent wrote yesterday. It was some outrageous story, so ridiculous you wouldn't have believed it if it came from anyone but him, who was honest to a fault.

It was about a disastrous trip he took with his younger brother and involved camping on a storm-logged beach, an angry Graphorn, and frantically singing some maritime folk song they'd been misinformed would calm the beast.

You're still smiling at the floor when you step into the elevator, or, more correctly, step directly into a tall man in a three-piece suit. You crash into him with a crushing momentum.

"Oof!" you redden immediately, try to catch your breath and sputter out an apology at the same time. "I'm so sorry, forgive me!"

But the man is engaged in a conversation with two other men in the elevator, laughing.

He doesn't look over to you, he just stills you with an attractive casualness, steadies your frame with a firm hand on your shoulder. You know you hit him hard, his nonchalance is for your benefit.

"S'alright. Sorry, miss," he says with a half-glance, before turning back to his conversation.

A half-glance is all you need.

The profile of his face in the elevator light. His exact height and the feeling of being next to him. His voice, for Christ's sake!

You go stiff, your face wan.

It was him. Unmistakably. The English soldier from that night at your father's house in France. From the last time you saw your father, the last time you felt like a girl...

You couldn't speak if you wanted to. You feel something like seasickness come over you, you don't dare open your mouth.

"Theseus Scamander," his colleague is joking. "I mean it when I say well done! We should've known our young war hero would make the best Auror in the department!"

"Really, really spectacular job, son!" The other man claps a hand over Theseus's back in agreement. They're both older, sort of brash men, they don't seem to sense Theseus's discomfort at being complimented.

Theseus is grinning bashfully.

"Just doing my job," he delivers with charm, shrugging.

"Nonsense! Tonight, we celebrate. I'm not taking no for an answer. I've actually felt somewhat of a mentor to you, when you first started out-"

"We ought to invite Mr. Byrne out with us!" The third man exclaims with revelatory fervor. "How has the old chap been? Do you still go down to the pub with him, Theseus?"

It is the second, overlapping wave of nausea that really does you in, digs in its claws and drags downwards. You feel your feet physically sink into the floor. You can't bring yourself to move at all, you drone out the rest of what they're saying. It's white noise, the buzz of flies.

Mr. Byrne.

War hero.

Auror.

Initials T.S.

God, how stupid could you be? No, that's not fair.

The chances of seeing him again were slim. The chances of the two of you working together were even slimmer. The chances of him, the soldier from that night, Theseus Scamander, being your mystery correspondent these last weeks.... It should've been impossible.

When the elevator doors ding open at level seven, you step past the men quickly, rudely, afraid they'll turn to say something to you. Even a belated greeting or perfunctory farewell you couldn't bear.

You don't know why you feel so shaken.

'It's not a big deal,' you tell yourself consolingly once at your desk. 'You were sixteen. So what if you asked him to kiss you?'

But deep within your core, in a space beyond words or reason, you know that it was more than that. You weren't embarrassed about a stupid non-kiss. No, you haven't been able to shake that night, to shake him.

You'd connected. Or, rather, he'd seen you. Something about his gaze and his words had cut through the fat of life, of circumstance, and he'd seen you for who you really are.

And he'd promised to remember you.

It's gutting, harrowing almost. Realizing he'd been writing to you all this time, unaware. Some sick joke from the universe with no punchline--because you decided then and there to stop writing to him, immediately.

Theseus realizes long before the end of the day.

After you crumple his unanswered "good morning" memo and push it to the far corner of your desk, another flies in.

"URGENT: Is it just me or is Mr. Byrne particularly dapper today? The magenta top hat I can forgive, even the monocle is pardonable, but the polkadot bowtie? Inexcusable. Unbecoming of the Ministry. Need your thoughts immediately."

You had seen Mr. Byrne's polkadot bowtie today. You still found the magenta top hat more scandalizing. You wanted to laugh, but felt too much like crying to give way to the urge.

Then:

"I'm dying. Dark wizard lead in Suffolk but I can't be bothered. Tell me some funny story about you telling the professors off in school. I'm relying on tales of your genius to boost my morale. The fate of the Aurors Office depends on you alone. T."

It's three hours before the next memo comes flapping around the corner like some wounded bird.

"Have I done something wrong?" Shortly after, "More importantly--Are you alright?"

You don't know why you can't leave them be, why you keep reading them with no intention of responding.

"Scaring me here, mystery girl. Write back and I'll stop harassing you, write anything at all. Even a little drawing or scribble will suffice."

"You're not liaising very well, Liaison... Sorry, that was a joke. Ha-ha. I know the Department of Mysteries isn't expected to answer to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement but I'd always hoped you'd still answer to me..."

You throw yourself into your work with rigor.

Even your Department of Magical Games and Sports officemates comment on it, commendably. They don't realize you're just trying to occupy your brain, distract yourself from the sizable pile of memos lying formidably on your desk until you can go home.

The last one comes late in the day: "Really--Are you alright?"

Your heart aches weakly.

But no, you know how persistent and how persistently optimistic the mystery man ('Theseus,' you correct yourself) could be. If you wrote back he'd want an explanation, which he'd inevitably refute, and, besides, you weren't ready to tell him the truth or to face him again.

Your head is a jumbled mess of half-formed truths and complicated emotions.

It's a few minutes before 6:00pm, but you click off your desk lamp anxiously and begin to organize your things.

The nature of your position for the Department of Mysteries required you to lock your work up before you left. It involves two spells and four charmed latches and bolts, and it takes some time. You sit back in your chair with a sigh, waiting for the process to finish. The soft, mechanical whirring and clicking noises are a comfort to you.

The frosted glass door to the office swings open thunderously, with the unnecessary force of someone unfamiliar with the delicate door.

You sit up straight in your chair, startled. A few of the workers behind you even look over in alarm, heads shooting up from their desks.

No. Fucking. Way.

Theseus's chest is heaving softly. He's looking right at you, purposefully.

He actually showed up to your desk like he always joked about doing. You want to feel angry, indignant that he'd betray your trust, but all you feel is a numbing shock.

The sight of his face alone would've been a shock. Blue eyes. High cheekbones. Wavy, dark hair. Handsome as the day he left you.

He seems genuinely rendered speechless. The open part of his lips suggests that he had come with some speech prepared for you when he first burst in, although now he is, evidently, lost.

His eyes keep flitting up and down your form, lingering especially on your lips. It makes you flush. Yes, he gets a good look at your face, and at the small pile of his opened memos shoved to the far corner of your desk.

Whatever he expected to find, expected you to look like, this clearly wasn't it.

"Mr. Scamander!"

Your officemate Ana's voice from behind you makes you jolt again.

She walks over and places a hand on your shoulder tenderly. She seems to be completely unaware of any tension between the two of you, speaking to Theseus with ease.

"I'm sorry to steal Y/N from you, but I have to talk to her about an interdepartmental issue before she leaves. Can't wait!"

You wince at the mention of your name, but you're standing, bag clutched like a shield, and Ana is already whisking you past Theseus and through the frosted glass double doors.

"Y/N..." you hear Theseus echo, dreamily, as you pass, just before the doors close in his face and sever you from him completely.

-----

The next day you see him at a far distance.

You feel less shaken about things after having screamed to your little sister about it all last night. But she'd said something stupid about some "string of fate" that irritated you so much that you'd ultimately resorted to screaming into your pillow.

Regardless, you feel more secure. Less unsettled.

Still, the sight of Theseus's open expression in the Atrium, looking back at you in recognition across the crowds of businessmen and women just as the doors to the elevator you're in close--it's a bit haunting.

You gulp once in the safety of the elevator.

He saw you.

His eyes had drifted up and down your form, unreadably, before settling on your face. You didn't have time to react, and he was too far away besides.

Later, later than usual, a small memo floats onto your desk.

You don't hesitate, reaching for it, but the words aren't what you expect. No "good morning," not even anything referencing what had happened yesterday.

The words are so unexpected that his handwriting is the only indication that it's from him.

"You were so beautiful in that skirt this morning. So fucking beautiful. You look so enchanting in blue."

You flush deeply. So, that was what his look this morning had meant.

The relief comes delayed, second to your shyness at his flattery.

"Oh, thank God," you think.

He'd seen you, twice now, and hadn't recognized you.

He didn't remember. Or maybe he just didn't recognize you, it'd been nine years after all and you were no longer a scrawny, scrappy sixteen-year-old. But it was more likely that he just didn't remember.

You decide his not referencing your awkward encounter yesterday either is another mercy, so you go along pretending nothing happened.

"Are you flirting with me, sir?"

It's a comfort to be writing to him again.

"No," he writes back. Then, "Yes."

You laugh aloud at his candor.

"Y/N, I apologize for my outburst yesterday. I shouldn't have sprung on you like that, unannounced. Uninvited. I wish I could say I was afraid something had happened to you, but really I was just afraid you had stopped writing me for good. But then I just stood there like an absolute idiot, you probably had no idea who I was."

You huff at that.

"I knew who you were. I'm no Auror but 'Department of Magical Law Enforcement,' 'war hero,' and 'initials T.S.' aren't exactly subtle hints."

"Hey! I mentioned the war but never called myself 'hero.' I have a strong sense of propriety and I pride myself on it."

"How British..." you write back mockingly, unthinkingly.

"Are you not?"

Fuck. Well, you've already met.

"I live here now, and have for years, but I'm French."

The ink feels seared into the paper, how black your scrawl is, how you can't take it back. You don't know what you want from him. You wish he'd go away. You wish he'd never stop writing.

You wish he'd remember you on his own.

"Hmm..." he writes back.

Your heart is pounding. When he writes again your anxiety dissolves but your heart continues its steady, heavy drum.

"You're beautiful."

Your head is a scattered, overstimulated mess. You can't think straight.

He's still writing. The words fade in one by one.

"Why didn't you tell me you were beautiful? God, I didn't expect it, it took any coherent thought or word right out of me yesterday when you looked up at me with those eyes. And this morning, that skirt. Y/N, you should've warned me."

You laugh at the words on the paper, but your body's reaction to the thought of him writing them, thinking them, thinking of you, is anything but funny.

It feels overly warm in the office suddenly, and you are agitated. You stand and pace around your desk, fanning yourself with your hands.

Your fingers are shaking around the quill when you bend over your desktop to write back.

"Don't be dramatic, you'll live."

You worry you sound cruel so you add.

"And thank you. I don't think anyone has called me beautiful in a very long time."

He writes back: "Any time. And I highly doubt that. Y/N, I'm sure you've been beautiful your whole life. I can tell just by looking at you."

You don't know what possesses you when you write the next words:

"Can I come see you?"

There's a few, atypical beats before he writes back. It's excruciating.

"What, you mean at lunch?"

You look down at the small, oval face of your wristwatch.

Lunch is too far away. The bundle of nerves and anticipation you feel about Theseus, that swarming anxiety, is too unbearable to wait for lunch. You need to get him out of your system now, get him over with, and then you can move on and focus on your work.

"I mean now. In your office." You write back.

'Am I being presumptuous?' The thought makes you furrow your brow and bite your fingernail in worry. But then you remind yourself, 'Beautiful. He called you beautiful.'

It takes so long for him to reply that you almost write again to tell him never mind. But then his words come, like the sweet relief of rain:

"Yes, please. Level two, the very back left office."

You leave at once, smoothing down your skirt and brushing your hair back out of your face.

The anxiety ebbs and peaks at random. On the elevator ride you feel like you're dying. You recollect your confidence while walking to the wooden door of the Aurors Office only to feel another stab of panic as you make your way down the curved hall.

You feel so frazzled and worked up, too distracted to work or even ponder work. But you don't understand why until you push open Theseus's door, not bothering to knock. Until you're alone in the room with him, just the two of you behind closed doors.

He stands quickly upon your entrance, like a soldier.

For a moment the two of you just stare.

'Oh, God,' you realize with mounting dread. 'I am attracted to him. I am like this because I'm attracted to him.'

It feels terrible, awful, that sapping loss of power, that weakness in the knees. You haven't had a crush in your adult life, it's a trampling blow, the realization.

Theseus looks just as handsome as he always has, the crinkle of his eyes when he smiles, the sharp curve of his jaw.

He laughs and it breaks the spell of silence.

"Hello, you," his tone is fond but he still hasn't walked over to you, which is confusing and makes you shuffle aimlessly in place.

"Hi," you say, stupidly.

"Hi is all I get?" he jokes. "You know you've become something like my best friend in the office this last month. Actually, you probably know me better than my entire department."

You laugh bleakly, and you hope it dissipates the electrified energy between the two of you. That live-wire tension.

"I could say the same about you, actually."

He makes a strange, indecipherable expression then. It's both wry and lamenting.

"I don't want anything to change that, Y/N."

You frown.

"Why would anything change that?"

He doesn't answer you, changing the subject and turning his attention to the cup of quills on his desk, fiddling with the feathers.

"I... I didn't expect to react the way I did to seeing you for the first time yesterday. I've never reacted that way to anyone, anyone. When you told me you wanted to come see me here today, I panicked. I almost said no."

That hurts your feelings. "Why?"

He looks up from his desk. Your face burns at the sincerity of his expression.

"Because I knew it'd be harder for me to control myself if we were alone together. Harder to be a good friend and... behave."

He says the last word carefully. If he is calculated, delicate, you are anything but.

"I don't want you to behave," you whisper.

You step up to him, boldly. The tension is unbearable now.

"Y/N," he says warningly, disapprovingly. But the look in his eyes is agony.

"Kiss me," you say. The words come to you from far away, a train at the end of the tunnel, you pull them from that night in Verdun, from nine years ago. You need him just the same as you did then.

Theseus smiles reluctantly. The sideways tilt to his mouth is so captivating, it makes you want it more. God, he's attractive. Even more so now that you know him, are his friend.

"I can't," he says, pitifully.

But the look on his face, the way he's standing steadfastly behind his desk like having it between you will protect him, the way his eyes are flitting from yours down to your lips and back up again and again, that isn't saying no.

"Okay, have it your way. But I won't ask you again," you warn.

You want to admit that this isn't the first time he's denied you. He promised you'd live to be kissed, you've come back to haunt him for it now.

You would not ask him a third time.

Theseus groans loudly and puts his head in his hands. When you laugh he looks up at you disparagingly.

"You think that's funny, do you?"

You do. You find it cute. Maybe you don't realize the extent of his distress.

You reach forward to pinch his cheek, jokingly. He bats your hand away with an unwilling smile.

Then you're falling into him, losing your balance. He grasps both your hands in his to keep you from toppling over, the both of you laughing.

"Get off!" you shout gleefully.

"You get off," he retorts jokingly.

Pushing and pulling and touching, it's something like play-fighting the way you're both falling into and catching each other.

At last, he wrangles you onto his desk, so you're sitting there at the edge.

Your head is spinning. He grabs both your wrists, holding them together in a single, large hand.

"Hands to yourself, Y/N," is his gentle reprimand.

But you know, know from the soft pant of his breathing, the undone look on his face, lips half parted, that you've already won.

He doesn't cave into your will so much as collapse altogether, soundlessly, undetectably.

You don't blink, big, innocuous look in your eyes, staring up at him. Even when you're raised up, sitting on his desk while he stands, he's so tall that you have to look up at him.

"Please," Theseus says, and it's so attractive, his broken whisper. "I'm begging you, Y/N."

He drops down to his knees, one leg at a time with the heavy, hypnotized motions of a man defeated.

You gasp softly when his warm palms grip your kneecaps, rubbing gingerly over the sheer material of your tights, reverently.

A man on his knees, his curly head between your thighs. Your stomach plummets, burning low in desire.

You want him bad. Mind-numbingly bad, your whole body tingling underneath and keening to his touch. But it's too addictively sweet, him begging for it like this. You want to draw it out.

"Hm," you sigh, not responding, but you let your legs fall open under the guidance of his hands.

He moans at the sight. When he speaks again his voice is weak and ruined. Rough and pleading.

"Please, I'll do anything. Let me touch you. You're killing me, please."

It's almost a whine.

You can see that the fabric of his pants is stretched taut across his crotch--he's already hard.

His chest is rising and falling softly. There's a needy, trancelike glint in his eyes. He wants it bad, it's plain on his face. It's different from impatience, it's anguish.

"Kiss me," you say again. It's a demand this time. He gives in without a fight, rising up and capturing your open mouth in his.

It's a deep, languishing kiss. He kisses you like he wants to taste you, like he can't get enough of it. He grips your head by the jaw to kiss you better, deeper. When his tongue presses into your mouth you moan into his.

His hand sweeps blindly across his desk, clearing it with a crash. You jump at the sound but he grabs your face again, turning it back to his roughly.

"No," he murmurs. "C'mere."

And he's kissing you again, humming in approval when you tentatively push back against his tongue with your own.

With effort, you pull back to look at him. His pupils are blown out with desire, the collar of his dress shirt pulled open, revealing a collarbone.

"Theseus," you say, your whole body tingling with warmth. You say his name just to say it.

You're too shy to tell him that this is your first kiss, that you'd waited all this time.

It's startling, how quickly the tables turned. How deftly he took control of the situation once he had your permission to.

His hands pull down your skirt, worshipfully, that blue skirt he loves so much. He sets it aside, you're just in your sheer black tights now.

You understand why he cleared his desk now. You fall back with a moan when he flattens his massive hand across your crotch, spreads his fingers. It covers the entire expanse between your legs easily. It feels so lewd for him to touch you there now, but then he drags his hand up, sliding it over your stomach, the middle of your chest, up your neck.

"You'll let me touch you like this?" he asks.

You nod, quickly.

"Only me?" he inquires, sounding pleased. Maybe amused.

"Yes," you say, nodding again with urgency. "Only you. Nobody else."

"Fuck," he curses. He pulls open your blouse then, and disposes of that as well. You half sit up to help him with your bra. Whereas his movements are devout, seeming to worship every part of you, yours are frantic, crazed.

It's not just that you're in his office, at work, but it's that you want him badly. So very badly. It feels like the only thing that can make it better.

Once you have your bra off he pushes you back on the desk again. Places open-mouth kisses your neck, drags his teeth over the skin there then moves down. You gasp when he puts his mouth on your breast, circling your nipple with his tongue. He pinches your other nipple with his hand, rolling it gently between his rough fingertips.

"Hngh," you can't help but moan, writhe, throw your head back against the wood.

You almost want to cry out in disbelief when his head leaves your chest, sinking lower. He's on his knees again, pulling down your tights. You don't understand.

"Theseus, what-" you start, but you are silenced, the breath stolen from your chest, at the sensation of his mouth on your clit.

The moan that leaves your mouth this time is recklessly loud, carelessly so.

Theseus doesn't seem to mind.

"You taste so fucking good," he pulls back to say, his voice is ragged.

You're shy. The idea of him tasting and licking you, putting his mouth there makes you shy. But the pleasure that rocks through your entire body is too strong to deny. You'd never ask him to stop. You weren't capable of it.

Your hands go to his head, fingers wind through his hair automatically.

"Fuck," you say, involuntarily.

He's sucking your clit so well, you hardly notice when he brings up a hand, finger tracing the line of your wet slit, prodding in and out of your tight hole just barely, just to the knuckle. Kitten-fucking you with it.

He stops sucking to lick you up and down with his tongue, again and again in quick, steady rhythm, flicking the firm tip of it against your clit until you have to bite the back of your hand to keep from crying out. When he sinks his two fingers into your pussy fully, stuffing them in forcefully despite the restrictive tightness, still licking, that's all it takes for your orgasm to overtake you in pulses of unbelievable, unknown pleasure.

He removes his fingers and rises. His plush lips are slick with your arousal. He has a dreamy, dazed look in his eyes. The ravaged, destroyed look on your face seems to do something awful to him.

"Let me fuck you," Theseus says. It makes your stomach flip.

He doesn't ask, didn't say 'do you want to,' or 'can we.' He wants to take it from you.

"Yes," you mutter, spreading your legs again without thinking, head still laid back on his desk. Your orgasm made your limbs feel loose, compliant. Anything he wants. Anything at all.

Even the clinking sound of him undoing his belt buckle makes you swoon with yearning, makes your mouth water. He doesn't bother to take off his pants, just pulls his dick out, still staring into your eyes.

'God. Mercy,' you think. Even in his hand it looks huge. It's pretty.

He smiles crookedly at the widening of your eyes.

"You like my cock, baby?"

"Yes," you whisper. "Please. I want it."

He leans over you to kiss your forehead. You don't have the chance to reminisce, for it to remind you of anything, because then he is pushing into your wet warmth. He slides in so snugly, so smoothly, fits like a glove despite the stretch. The feeling of being so overfull is lewd and perfect.

He presses a hand to your lower stomach. He can feel himself inside of you there.

You gasp at the applied pressure.

He keeps his hand pressed there as he angles his hips back and then begins to fuck you. He wants to feel it underhand, how he's moving inside of you.

"Fuuuuucckkkk," you're incoherent, you know. But you can't help but swear, your whole body is vibrating with ecstasy as he drives his dick in and out of you.

"You're beautiful," he groans, throwing his head back. His entire world narrows down to this, fucking you, pumping his dick into your tightness and feeling you flutter and flex around him.

"Wait, Theseus I-" your second orgasm takes you by surprise. Your back arches off the desk, it hits you like a train, it's like an out-of-body experience.

"Fuck," He grips the back of your thighs to the point of pain. But you hardly notice that, you only feel his dick grow achingly hard. He pulls out at the last moment, coming into his hand. It spills out and between his fingertips anyway.

He makes a face of sore regret at the mess. You knew how badly he wanted to come inside of you, you could feel it, but you are grateful he didn't.

You have the strangest urge to get up and lick his fingers, but realistically you're too wrecked to move.

It takes a solid two minutes before either of you return to breathing normally and regain your bearings.

'What did we just do?' you think as you put your clothes back on.

You glance over to Theseus, he's fixing his tie in the small mirror next to the closed door of his office.

It was like you were a woman possessed. You can hardly believe your actions. But, strangely, you don't feel guilty or regretful. And your feelings for Theseus are stronger than ever. Consummated. You feel safe with him. Overjoyed, really.

He catches you looking at him in the mirror and turns. The look on his face is one of total contentment.

He comes over to you, runs his fingers through your hair gently. There's nothing but adoration in his eyes as he beholds you.

"I don't know how I'm expected to just sit back down and continue to do work on my desk now, after that. I'm gonna go insane, just knowing you're only a few levels away."

You laugh. It's an airy, light-hearted sound.

"I like you so much," he admits, brazenly, before you can even respond to him.

Your head is still a muddled mess, but this here is easy to admit. He could probably see it on your face anyway. Read you like a book.

"I like you too," you say. "I miss you already. Keep writing to me."

"I promise."

-----

part two here

author's note: what will happen when the truth of their past comes to light?? part two incoming!!! please leave feedback :)

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