#it just didn’t click at all. and the harder I tried the more I felt myself slipping away again. bc I kept getting overwhelmed. | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

storiesforallfandoms · 1 year ago

Text

herogasm ~ soldier boy;the boys

word count: 3678

request?: no

description: in which she’s trying to leave the supe orgy, just to stumble into the room of the man who started it

pairing: soldier boy x female!reader

warnings: swearing, smut (fingering, praise, unprotected p in v), mentions of herogasm (the event, not the episode)

masterlist (one, two, three)

I didn’t want to be there. There was a number of reasons why, but the most prominent one was definitely that I did not want to be involved in an orgy full of Supes.

My best friend, Maria, had convinced me to come. I had gone through a pretty hard breakup that left me basically inconsolable for days. I only left the house to go to work, and even then I was very much just operating on autopilot. Maria wanted to get me out of the house, so she came over and told me she had gotten an invite to some big Supe party and intended to take me with her to get my mind off of things.

She didn’t tell me until we showed up that the “party” was the infamous Supe orgy known as “Herogasm”.

Apparently, Maria had hooked up with a Supe who had an in to the party. She got the invite and thought an orgy would be the perfect idea to get me over my breakup. There was just one little flaw in her plan: I was not an orgy person. I was insecure enough about my body that I felt awkward being naked in front of one person, let alone an entire house full of strangers. Supe strangers at that.

Maria abandoned me the minute we walked through the door, taken by the Supe she fucked to get here. I was left, on my own in the corner, while a lot of naked people walked or fucked around me. A couple glanced in my direction, one even tried to proposition me, which I politely declined. I wasn’t sure how long I was stood there before everything became overwhelming. I needed to get away from all those people. I needed to be somewhere with no moaning or screaming or sex noises. Somewhere that I could calm myself down before I left.

I stumbled through the house, feeling my heart pounding harder and harder with every overwhelming second that passed. Behind almost every door I could hear more moaning and squelching. It felt like there was no true escape from it - there was even people fucking outside - until I turned the knob on a door that led to a seemingly empty room. I stumbled in, slamming the door behind me and sliding down it until I was sat on the floor. I brought my knees up to my chest and rested my head against my knees.

“Well, hello there.”

I jumped at the sudden sound of someone’s voice. I looked up to see I had hidden myself away in a bedroom. The main bedroom, I concluded, judging by the huge size of the room, the bed, and the fact there was a mini bar in the corner of the room. A mini bar with a man stood behind it. A very handsome man in nothing but a silk robe.

“Shit,” I sighed. “I’m sorry, I - ”

“No, don’t be sorry,” he said. “Judging by the fact that you still have clothes on, you’re not here for the orgy.”

I shook my head. “One of my friends brought me here. She didn’t even tell me what it was until we pulled up.”

He looked thoughtful for a moment before stepping away from the mini bar. I tensed up as he got closer to me. I was trying to figure out if I’d get out fast enough when he reached me. He reached over me and turned the lock on the knob.

“Stay as long ad you want,” he told me. “Not that anyone usually comes in unannounced anyways. I think you’re the first person to stumble into my room in years.”

My eyes widened as he started walking away. “Y-Your room? So...you’re the host here?”

He turned back and raised an eyebrow at me. “You serious?” I nodded. “I created this whole fuckin’ thing. Herogasm is my baby.”

That’s when it finally clicked. “Holy shit, you’re Soldier Boy!”

He grinned at me before he took a sip of his drink.

I couldn’t believe it. I had stumbled into the room of the most famous Supe in the entire world and I didn’t even recognize him at first! God, this couldn’t get any more embarrassing.

“You don’t have to huddle up by the door like a scared kid,” he said. “I’m not gonna hurt you.”

I wasn’t sure if I could take his word for it. I knew he was a Supe and all, and Supes were supposed to protect people, but he did have me locked in his room, while he was naked no less. Well, besides a robe. I’d be helpless against him if he did decide he wanted to hurt me.

Despite knowing this, I still slowly got to my feet. He was pouring up another glass as I walked further into his giant room. It was like the size of my living room and kitchen combined. I was in awe of it so much that I could hear Soldier Boy chuckling to himself. He extended a glass to me and gestured to the bed. I took the glass, hesitantly, and sat down.

“What is this?” I asked.

“Bourbon,” he responded. “Some of the best shit money can buy.”

I wasn’t much of a drinker. I could smell the strong, alcoholic scent before even raising the glass to my lips. I took a small sip and immediately cringed at the stinging feeling that ran down my throat. Soldier Boy laughed.

“That’s God awful,” I groaned.

“You just don’t appreciate fine alcohol,” he said.

“I appreciate it when it doesn’t taste like battery acid,” I retorted. “What are you doing in here, anyways? If you created this...thing, shouldn’t you be partaking?”

He grunted and took another mouthful of his own drink. I figured that was the best I would be getting from him.

“How did you get in?” he asked. “It’s invite only, and usually the only non-Supes invited are hookers.”

I looked down at my glass again, debating on taking another sip. “My friend hooked up with a Supe who gave her the invite. She lied at the door and told them I had been invited, too.”

“Then she ditched you?”

I nodded. “Probably getting her pussy super-stretched as we speak.”

That made him laugh. I felt some sense of pride at that. The most famous Supe in the world was laughing at my jokes. That had to be bragging rights.

“Sounds like a shit friend, then,” he commented.

“No, she is a good friend. She’s very...sexually liberated. This type of thing is very up her alley. Me, not so much.”

“Then why did she take you here?”

I gazed down at the glass of auburn liquid. The memory of my recent breakup brought back all my negative emotions. With one swift gulp, I finished the contents of the glass. I shuddered as it burned down my throat.

“My boyfriend of four years dumped me,” I said. “Just woke up one day and told me he didn’t feel the same way anymore. After we had just moved in together a few months prior.”

Soldier Boy whistled. “That sounds rough.”

“It was the worst fucking day of my life,” I muttered. “Maria, my friend, I guess she thought a super-sex party would be the best way to get me to move on. The best way to get over someone is to get under someone else, and all that.”

“That never works. Trust me.”

Oh, there was a story there. I could tell. One that was probably connected to the reason he wasn’t participating in his own orgy. Normally, I wouldn’t pry. I didn’t know Soldier Boy. He would probably forget all about me once I left his room. But the bourbon was starting to get to me. I found myself leaning forward, close enough that I could smell his aftershave.

“What happened?” I asked him. “What made you not want to participate in Herogasm?”

He looked at me. I could tell he was debating on telling me. I wasn’t sure if I should push the issue further than those questions, even if my curiosity was getting the best of me.

Finally, he sighed and said, “My girl left me because of one of these things.”

Okay, I wasn’t expecting that. I couldn’t even remember who Soldier Boy’s “girl” was in that moment.

“We used to host together,” he explained. “Once a year, we would allow each other to fuck whoever we wanted at Herogasm. One night, one meaningless orgy, and that was it. Then, a few years back, she comes to me the day after Herogasm and she tells me that she met someone that night. I don’t know, I guess they talked in between the fucking or some shit. She dumped me on the spot for the guy. Took all of her shit and left that same day.”

Okay, definitely a lot worse than my sob story. My ex completely shattered my heart, sure, but he didn’t leave me for someone else. Especially not someone that he fucked in our own house, during a party that we were hosting together. Even if they had an agreement that they could sleep around during Herogasm, that was a huge hit to trust. One that I don’t think I would’ve ever gotten over in his shoes.

“Since then, I haven’t participated,” he continued. “I’ll host, since it’s my creation, but I usually just walk around, make sure everything is going okay and everyone is having a good time, then I hide away in here until everyone gets too tired from the fucking and either leaves or falls asleep.”

“Why keep hosting it if you don’t want to participate anymore?” I asked. “Why not hand it off to someone else?”

“Because it’s my thing. I created it, and it got bigger than I could’ve ever imagined. I thought about cancelling it after Countess left me, but it’s become this huge thing to Supes and their groupies. I don’t want to disappoint anyone by cancelling it, and I wouldn’t want anyone else stealing it from me and making it a shit version of what it used to be.”

Before I could respond, there was a bang against his door. We both jumped and turned towards the door. Judging by the rhythmic beating on the door and the shouts of pleasure, it was just a couple that had decided to use Soldier Boy’s door as another fuck place. I chuckled and turned back to him. My laughter died out, though, once I realized how close we had gotten to one another. My face was mere inches away from his. I could feel the warmth of his breath on my face. The closeness made my heart start pounding a little harder.

The alcohol had definitely kicked in because I did something that was very unlike me in that moment: I leaned forward and kissed him.

He was receptive right away. His free hand moved to hold the back of my head. His lips moved perfectly in time with mine. His tongue slid against my lower lip, asking permission for entrance, and I gave it to him. I let my empty glass fall to the floor, luckily the fall being cushioned by a rug next to his bed, while he placed his on the nightstand next to the bed without breaking our kiss. In one swift movement, he moved me so that I was straddling his lap, not once breaking our kiss.

His hands explored my body, running down the sides of my torso, to my hips, then over my ass. He grabbed the meaty flesh there, rocking my hips forward unintentionally (or maybe it was intentional) against him. His cock was growing hard and I could feel that the tip was starting to peak out from his robe. Suddenly, I felt very overdressed compared to him, and I wanted to change that.

I broke away and Soldier Boy watched with lust filled eye as I pulled my shirt over my head and discarded it onto the floor. I stood from his lap to unbutton my jeans and let them fall to the floor. I stepped out of them and stood in front of him, just in my lingerie. Realizing how naked I was, I felt a little shy suddenly. Like I wanted to cover myself up or make all the light in the room disappear so that he couldn’t see me. But when he pulled me forward again, standing me between his open legs, and leaned forward to start kissing over the exposed skin of my stomach, the insecurities melted away into desire again.

“You’re beautiful,” he said. “Don’t you dare think of hiding this beautiful body away from me.”

I was shocked that he knew what I was thinking, but I didn’t have time to figure out how he knew. His hands were on me again, pulling me down onto his lap and then quickly turning the two of us so that I was laying beneath him on the bed. I could feel him pressing against my inner thigh as he kissed me again, a pool of wetness starting to fill in my panties.

He moved one hand between my legs, opening them up for him, and ran his finger over the clothed material. I gasped and he took the opportunity to slide his tongue into my mouth again.

“You’re already so wet,” he noted. “How long has it been since you were touched?”

The answer was a bit embarrassing. That probably should’ve been the first sign that my relationship was going downhill, but I was too naïve to notice that we hadn’t been having sex. Or maybe just too blind to the downfalls of my relationship.

When I didn’t answer, he pulled my panties to the side and slid a finger into me. The sudden protruding felt painful at first. I dug my nails into his arms hard, but didn’t leave any marks or didn’t seem to hurt him in any way. He slowly started thrusting his finger in an out of me until the pain turned to pleasure, and then he added a second finger.

“You’re so fucking tight,” he commented. “That asshole must not have stretched this pussy out in a long time. Either that, or he had a microdick.”

His fingers gained speed. I could hear them becoming wetter and wetter every time he thrusted them inwards. I was well beyond cloud nine, probably cloud twenty at this rate. Whenever I opened my eyes all I could see was stars, and Soldier Boy’s face watching me as I came undone beneath him. He was an expert in ways I could only dream of, reaching places I didn’t even know could feel so good. He had me on the edge of my orgasm, when suddenly the pleasure was ripped away as he pulled his fingers from me.

I whined, trying to reach for him to get the feeling back. But he pulled away from me, putting the two fingers covered in my slick into his mouth and sucking them dry.

“You taste just as sweet as I thought you would,” he said.

“Please,” was all I could manage. It almost sounded pathetic how desperate I sounded.

He smirked down at me. “I’ll give you what you want. I just want you to cum on my dick instead of on my fingers.”

He sat up and untied his robe, throwing it to the floor along with the other discarded clothes. His cock finally sprang free, standing at attention against his stomach. My eyes widened at how big he was. I should’ve anticipated it, I figured most Supe men were probably well hung, but it a shock none the less. I wondered if I would even be able to take his whole length.

He spit on his hand to lube himself up, moved my panties to the side again, and then lined his tip up with my entrance.

“Ready?” he asked. I nodded and he began to push into me.

My gasps and moans filled the room as he slowly slid into me, inch by inch, almost at a painfully slow rate. I felt so full with him completely inside of me. I could feel the burn of him stretching me out around his girth, but even the burn felt like pleasure. I wrapped my arms around his shoulders and pulled him back down to me. I kissed him again, hungrily, desperately, and he got my silent message to start moving.

His thrusts were slow at first, testing the waters. It felt so good to feel him pushing in and out of me. His dick was so long that I could feel it not only poking my g-spot, but absolutely abusing it with every thrust. It sent shockwaves of pleasure through me that I wasn’t even sure I had felt before. My head fell back onto the pillow, letting moans tumble from my lips as they felt the need to.

“F-Fuck,” I breathed. “S-Soldier Boy.”

“Ben,” he said, not breaking his pace. “Call me Ben.”

“Ben,” I moaned instead. Definitely a better name to say in bed. “Fuck, it feels so good.”

“Yeah? I think I can tell.”

I didn’t have to open my eyes to know he had a cocky smirk on his face.

I ran my hands from his shoulders down his toned back to his ass. I gave it a squeeze, urging him to go faster. I could feel my high coming back, and I desperately needed to chase it. He did as I wanted and his thrusts became faster, rougher. The sound of skin slapping against skin filled the room, along with my moans and his grunts. He took hold of my legs and wrapped them around his waist, giving himself a better vantage point for his rough thrusts. I screamed out as his dick pounded against my g-spot, bringing me closer and closer to the edge.

“I can feel you’re close,” he said. “I can feel this fucking pussy getting tighter. Cum all over my cock. You can do it, beautiful, I know you can.”

His words of praise and encouragement sent me toppling over the edge. Stars exploded from my vision as my body trembled and convulsed around him. It was the hardest I could ever remember orgasming in my life, and it was definitely the best orgasm I could remember having. I felt like I was flying off of the bed and high into the sky, never to return to Earth again.

If it weren’t for Ben above me, still thrusting and whispering words of praise into my ear, I probably would’ve thought I had actually floated away.

His release came shortly after my own. I could feel his dick twitching inside of me before he was coating my walls. His arms tightened around me as he rode out his own orgasm, grinding into me until he has squeezed every last drop into me. He pushed himself up so he could look down at me again.

“You look fucking gorgeous after being filled with my cum,” he commented.

I felt myself grow hot at the compliment, but my body felt too heavy to cover myself.

“Are you...are you on the pill or anything?” he asked. “I probably should’ve thought of that before, but I was kind of...busy. I can get you a plan b. We have plenty of those lying around for this day.”

I lazily shook my head. “I’m good. I’ve been on birth control since I was a teenager. Besides, I don’t think Supes can reproduce, can they?”

“We’ve been unsuccessful in that field thus far. Thank God.”

I started to chuckle, but it turned to a gasp as I felt him pulling his soft cock out of me. Even when it was soft, it was big. I could hardly believe all of that fit inside of me.

He took hold of my panties and pulled them down my legs, gazing at the mess he had left between them.

“That’s a fucking beautiful sight,” he commented. I rolled my eyes and tried to close my legs, but he quickly held them open. “No, let me see this for another little bit at least.”

“You’re fucking weird.”

“You just fucked me, what does that say about you?”

He eventually climbed back into his bed next to me. I could still hear the orgy raging on outside of the door. I chuckled to myself, causing Ben to look over at me and arch an eyebrow.

“I fucked a Supe at the Supe orgy,” I explained. “But just one Supe, and it was the guy who created the whole fucking thing. I was planning on leaving when I stumbled into your room.”

“Well, thank God you didn’t.”

He put an arm around me and pulled me into his chest.

“Maybe getting under someone does help you get over someone,” I said. “I don’t even remember my ex’s name now.”

His chest vibrated as he laughed. “That is a good thing. If you find yourself remembering, though, you know where I live. You can always come over and I’ll help you forget again.”

I looked up at him. “Really? This wasn’t a one time thing?”

“I don’t intend for it to be. Did you?” I shook my head. “Okay, good. Since we’re on the same page, my offer still stands. Although, the offer actually extends to any time you want to come over, for any reason. Not just for some rebound sex.”

“That’s a dangerous offer. In a house this big, a bed this big, I might never want to leave. I might just live in this bed, honestly.”

“Is that a threat or a promise?”

We both laughed as he pulled me in to kiss my forehead. I made a mental note to thank Maria for dragging me to the super-fuck party when I finally found her again. Turns out, it wasn’t such a bad time after all.

#soldier boy #soldier boy imagine #soldier boy smut #soldier boy x reader #jensen ackles #jensen ackles imagine #jensen ackles smut #jensen ackles x reader #the boys #the boys imagine #imagine #one shot #smut #fanfiction #fanfic #fandom

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xxsabitoxx · 1 year ago

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Look, Don't Touch

Gojo Satoru x Female Reader

Warnings: Major DUBCON, pervert Satoru, somnophilia, jerking off, whiny, whimpering, need Satoru.

A/N: this is literally a dream I had so naturally here it is in written form... hehe

WORD COUNT: 2,148 | Not proof read (forgive me)

“Sa-to-ru '' you drawl slowly, giggling as he only whines in response. “I can walk ya know, Sa-to-ru~” but the man refused to put you down, carrying bridal style down the streets of Tokyo with your apartment as his end destination. “Stop talking.” But there was no malice in his tone, he was just getting antsy, and it was all your fault.

You had been teasing him relentlessly, in the club, at the bar, even now as he carried you home. You weren’t even that bad off but he still didn’t trust you to walk by his side if he set you down. Given the fact that Satoru himself had a couple drinks, he was in no state to chase after you. “Never, you know you love the sound of my voice, Sa-to-ru.”

He did, and the way you drew out his name was sending shrills of need down his spine.

“You’re so mean to me… so fucking cruel.” He whined, not caring how desperate he sounded as he rounded the next corner. “You love how mean I am to you, makes you hard, huh?” You whispered the last part in his ear, giggling softly as you felt him tremble. “So cruel.” was all Satoru could mutter in response, nearly crumbling when your building was in sight.

“Tell ya what, Sa-to-ru.” You started, head swaying a bit before you decided to rest it on his shoulder. He didn’t answer, trying to ignore your hand gently trialing across the broad plains of his chest. You could feel his heart racing, it excited you to no end. “C’mon, answer me.” You pouted, fingers still trailing along his chest before finding your way to his neck.

“Go ahead…” his voice strained as he spoke “...Tell me what you want to say.” He knew he’d regret it, the moment you shimmied in his grasp so your lips could ghost his ear. “If you can remember the code to my apartment, I’ll let you spend the night.” You laughed softly as he sighed. “I don’t need a place to sleep, sweetheart.” He tried to sound uninterested but dammit…

“Not to sleep, silly boy.” You teased him further, dragging your nail under his chin and watching him try and fight off the shiver that it sent through his whole body. You watched his throat bob, the grip he had on your body tightening a bit. “I wanna play with you.” You whined softly, legs kicking a bit where they dangled in his grasp.

“Play with me?” he huffed out, legs carrying him quickly as you spoke. “Yeah, wanna play with your co–” but he cut you off with a choked “Woah!” which only made you laugh harder. “Sorry, Sa-to-ru. The drinks make me feel more than I should.” But the white haired man only shook his head, if he spoke he was certain his restraint would go out the window.

He wasn’t mad nor was he uncomfortable. Quite the fucking opposite, he was seconds away from taking you up on your drunken offers. He was shouldering the glass double doors open, ignoring any glances the two of you may get by any passersby. He knew your apartment code just like he knew your phone number, he spent enough time over at your place to know.

“So what you’re telling me…” he clicked the button for your floor as he stepped into the elevator, strong enough to hold you with one hand as he did so. “... you’ll let me fuck you if I remember your apartment code?” He finally smirked down at you, trying not to chuckle at your lidded eyes and smeared lipstick. “Mmhmm, thats exactly what you can do… fuck me really good.”

His moment of confidence fizzled away at your tone, so seductive, so needy.

Fuck he wanted you bad…

By the time the elevator door opened, Satoru was uncomfortably hard. It was the only thing he could truly focus on, the way his cock was stiff in his boxers, straining against the material and slowly leaking. Every step sent shivers up his spine, the material brushing his sensitive cock just right as he stopped in front of your door. “You better know it, Sa-to-ru.”

Your words had begun to slur from a mix of alcohol and exhaustion, you could feel your own arousal dampening your underwear but you had a funny feeling you wouldn’t even be awake by the time he got you in bed. It took three seconds for him to type your code, door clicking to signal it had been unlocked. “Ha…” soft and triumphant as he pushed his way inside.

You had been right of course, Satoru hadn’t bothered looking down at you again until he was moving to place you on your plush mattress. “No way…” he choked as he set you down, your eyes shut and chest evening out as you began to snore softly. “Such a fucking tease…” he whined, he should have expected you to pass out. He could feel his own exhaustion the entire walk here…

But you had worked him up so well that his tiredness was long forgotten. Now all Satoru could think about was the aching hard-on he had in his pants. “You’re lucky I’m a gentleman.” He mumbled to you despite you not being able to hear, carefully taking off the shoulders of your dress and pulling it down your body. He would only undress you and tuck you in, that's it.

At least that was what the rational portion of his mind was saying, the other part was starting to lose its cool at the sight of your bare skin. “You’re so fucking perfect.” Satoru muttered again, trying to restrain himself as he pulled off your pantyhose to toss into the hamper as well. Your panties had dragged down a bit with it, revealing soft skin that made him salivate.

“This is a form of torture.” he whined, moving to place you up against your pillows. He admired the way you looked, peacefully asleep in nothing but a lacy bra and panties… teasing him thoroughly even in your sleep. The thing is, Satoru couldn’t seem to pull himself away, not even to pull the blankets up and give you some modesty. His feet were glued to his spot on the floor.

“You… you wouldn’t mind, right? Surely you would understand…” he babbled softly, hands moving to hook in the waistband of your underwear. “Just… just to look. I won’t touch…” His breathing stuttered as your cunt was revealed to him, so soft looking and utterly perfect. Satoru’s cock twitched, reminding him of what he really needed.

Large, warm hands were spreading your thighs, revealing the sticky, shiny arousal coating your pretty cunt, leaving Satoru’s throat dry. “Fuck…” he was shaking as he undid his pants, pulling them off completely and letting them drop to the floor before stepping out of them. His boxers followed, slightly soiled from his precum dampening the front.

Satoru was careful, climbing onto your bed and sitting on his knees. You laid before him, fast asleep with your legs spread and cunt out in the open. That was more than enough for him, fuck was it more than enough for him. Satoru’s fist wrapped around his shaft ,giving it a hard squeeze, whining lowly as his pretty eyes locked on your cunt.

Carefully, he tugged at himself, collecting spit in his mouth to drool down over his length. “You’d be such a fucking tease right now, huh?” he spoke to you, hand moving faster now that his saliva was acting as lubricant. “Bet you’d be telling me how bad you want my dick, huh?” he groaned out, his free hand reaching down to fondle his balls as he watched arousal leak from your cunt.

“Fuck you’re so cute… even your fucking cunt is cute…” his lips twitched, cheeks flushing pink as he spoke those words to you. Dirty talk was never his forte… unless he was alone… or in this case, the other party was sleeping. He could never say the things he imagined when the other person was present. He could only fantasize about the things he would like to do.

“I wanna eat your pussy so bad… you’re so mean for falling asleep on me…”

Satoru whimpered as he thumbed his slit, collecting the precum and massaging it around his sensitive tip. “Fuck it looks so good… wanna bury my face down there and eat you out…” he gasped, squeezing his balls so tight he nearly doubled over from the wave of pleasure that passed through him. “My fist is nothing compared to your pussy…” he drawled out now… cheeks flushed red as his pleasure only grew with his words.

“Bet you’d feel so good, your nails digging in my hair and keeping me there…” he could feel his mouth water, the thought of going down on you was going to have him blowing his load before he was ready too. “You probably taste so good, fuck I want to eat you out so bad…” he whined, brows creasing as he repeated his desires, his fist gliding up and down his shaft in fluid motions.

Your thighs twitched in your sleep, threatening to close but Satoru’s hand shot out and stopped you. “A-almost done… please let me keep looking at your pretty pussy… almost done I swear…” but you had long since relaxed again, and his fingers had found their way back to his cock head. Satoru massaged himself, his tip flushed a pretty pink and leaking desperately as he pleased himself to the sight of your cunt. “So good… but your hands would be so much better than mine.”

He was going to cum, he knew he was, he could feel his cock twitching in his grasp as he whimpered about how badly he needed you. “So cruel to tease me and then leave me hanging, especially when your cunt is so pretty and wet for me…” He kept moving, his pleasure building deep in his gut and making his balls tighten. He was going to cum at any second. “You wanted to play with me and now I’m just playing by myself…” Satoru huffed, chest rising and falling faster.

“You wanted me to play with your pretty cunt and now you’re sleeping… your punishment is not getting off like I’m about to… but still.” He whimpered as he thumbed his slit again, head falling back momentarily to let out a guttural moan, he certainly knew how to get himself off… but it wasn’t you. Fuck it wasn’t you, your hands, your cunt… “So mean…” he gasped out again.

Satoru could feel sweat dripping down his brow as his fist pumped along his length over and over, he’d cum soon, so soon, but he didn’t quite want this to end yet. Your cunt looked so inviting, but he wouldn’t dare touch you while you were sleeping. He needed to see your sweet face contort in pleasure when he impaled you on his dick.

“Fuck I want your pussy so bad…"

He could really feel it now, especially with the way his cock was twitching. One glance downward and he knew he wouldn’t last much longer. Blue eyes focused back on your cunt, the idea creeping up his spine and reminding him just how perverted this whole thing was. “You’ll let me cum on your pussy, right? I mean it’s the least you could do…” He wanted to cover your cunt in his release, he wanted to see sticky globs of cum coating your pretty pussy.

“Y-yeah… no better place…” He mumbled, tugging his fist faster as his cock felt heavy in his own grasp, twitching and aching to spill his release. So he scooted closer, pulling your body closer to him as he did so. His cock was hovering just above your cunt now, the heat teasing him as he pumped himself closer and closer to his end. “Gonna cum…fuck I’m gonna cum all over this pretty pussy… so fucking mean.. You’re so mean… so fucking mean…”

He whimpered out, over and over as his eyes squeezed shut. Thick ropes of cum spurted from his head, covering your cunt in sticky white. Satoru didn’t stop, hand moving up and down his length over and over even as the pleasure turned into overstimulation. Whimpers and moans fell from his pretty lips as he watched his cum leak down your cunt and pool just under your ass.

“Ruined your sheets…” Satoru spoke to himself, still incredibly turned on by the sight of your cunt covered in his release. “A-again.. You wouldn’t mind if I did it again…” His cock hadn’t softened after all, still stiff and aching in his palm despite dumping a load on you. “You just drive me crazy… you and that cunt…” He whined, fist already moving again while you slept

#banner from @cafekitsune #jujutsu kaisen #jjk #jujutsu kaisen smut #jjk smut #jujutsu kaisen imagines #jujutsu kaisen gojo #jujutsu kaisen satoru #jujutsu kaisen fanfic #jujutsu kaisen x reader #gojo satoru #gojo x reader #gojo x you #gojo x y/n #gojo satoru x reader #satoru x you #satoru x reader

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badbtssmut · 2 months ago

Text

5. Silent watch | Kinktober

Your bodyguard Jimin is standing right outside your bedroom door when you moan his name as you play with yourself.

Contains: riding, yn knows Jimin can hear her mastrubate, pillow riding

—

It was only natural that you would be attracted to Jimin. He had been guaranteeing your safety for years and was always around, 24/7. Jimin always stayed professional around you, and you’d dare to even say it was impressive how he didn’t take the bait for days in a row.

A soft moan escaped your lips as you rocked your hips back and forth on the pillow, the grinding feeling good against your clit. You could feel your wetness spreading onto the fabric, your mind wandering to how good it would feel if it was his hands on your body.

“Jimin…” you whimpered out, the thought of him underneath you making you even wetter.

Why was he not coming out? It was driving you mad. You needed him.

“Jimin, Jimin…” You tried again, a bit louder, there was no chance he wouldn’t hear that, right?

But unfortunately, there was still no answer from the other side of the door. It made you pause, wondering if Jimin must not be in to you so much. You had thought that his reactions to you were signs, but maybe it was just your imagination. Maybe you had been wrong this entire time.

You felt yourself grow a bit disheartened, stopping the motions of your hips.

Maybe—

The door clicked open, the creaking sound echoing through the silent room.

You froze, eyes wide as the familiar figure of the guard you wanted so badly came into view.

“Why did you stop? I liked hearing your voice call for me.” Jimin slowly approached you, a small smirk forming on his face. He stood before you now, looking down at your naked figure. Before you could say anything, he climbed onto the bed and pulled you closer, pressing his lips against yours.

Your arms wrapped around his neck, pulling him in even more to deepen the kiss. The feeling was everything you wanted, and you didn't want it to end. His hands roamed your body, one gripping onto your ass while the other caressed your breast.

—

It was finally happening.

You didn’t need to fantasize about riding him anymore. Your dirty thoughts came true.

“Fuck, there you go princess, you have been fantasizing about this cock, haven’t you? So take it, you have it now. Fuck yourself on my cock. I will give you everything you have been craving for all these nights.”

Jimin's thrusts were slow and deep, every time he moved you felt the room spin around you. You moved in tandem with him, resting your hands on his chest as you moved your body up and down his cock. His hands were on your waist, guiding you back down every time you raised your body, pulling you closer and closer with each thrust.

“Is it as good as you imagined?” Jimin whispered as he looked up at you. You whimpered, unable to speak properly. It was everything you imagined and more, so much more. Your breathing picked up as you got greedier, your head arched back as you forced yourself to bounce faster, harder, more desperate.

“Yes!” You weren’t sure if you were answering his question or if you were responding to the way how good you felt.

Jimin’s hands moved to your ass, gripping and squeezing as he guided you down. He pushed your ass down, his own hips snapping up to meet your thrusts, forcing himself deep inside you.

“Jimin…” You whimpered, your hips rocking back and forth. “Can’t, too much, too good…”

His response was a grunt and he pushed his hips up, wanting to feel every inch that you could give him.

“Then let go, don’t hold back.” He whispered, his thumb rubbing against your clit, helping you get off.

His cock hit deep inside, and his touch made you tremble. Your legs shook, your breath hitched, and your muscles tightened. You felt like you were going to burst, the sensation almost overwhelming.

Then, it came. You felt it in every inch of your body, your orgasm surged through your body and you collapsed into his arms, breathing heavily as you came down from your high.

Jimin wrapped his arms around you, his pace slowing down as he chased his own high, not stopping until he filled you up.

#bts smut #bts x reader #bts requests #bts smut requests #bts fanfic #bts smut fanfic #jimin smut request #jimin smut #Jimin x female reader #Jimin x reader #Jimin x yn

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fleming-o · 1 month ago

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Embarrassing, right? - Jessie Fleming X Reader

jessie catches you doing a hobby you dont normally share..

request

You sat on the couch, controller in hand, completely lost in your game. It was a quiet afternoon—Jessie was still at training, or so you thought. The familiar sounds of the game filled the room, and for a while, you forgot everything else. This was your way to decompress after a long day, something you never really shared with anyone.

But then the front door clicked open.

Your heart dropped as you froze, hearing Jessie’s footsteps enter the apartment. You quickly fumbled for the remote, your fingers hitting pause just as she walked into the living room. But the screen was still lit up, the colorful game world paused mid-action.

“Hey,” she said, sounding surprised to see you. “I didn’t know you’d be home so early.”

“I could say the same,” you replied quickly, feeling the warmth rise to your face. You tried to play it cool, but Jessie’s gaze had already flicked to the TV.

“What’s this?” she asked, a curious smile tugging at her lips as she sat down next to you. She wasn’t judging you—at least, she didn’t look like she was—but your stomach twisted anyway.

“Uh, it’s just a game I play sometimes,” you mumbled, awkwardly shifting the controller in your lap. You couldn’t meet her eyes. “It’s nothing special.”

Jessie tilted her head, watching you more closely now. “Why didn’t you ever tell me you were into gaming?”

You shrugged, trying to keep it casual even though your nerves were buzzing. “I don’t know. It’s just something small. You’ve got all these important things going on, like soccer and everything, and I guess I didn’t think this mattered much.”

She was quiet for a moment, processing your words, before leaning back against the couch. “You don’t think it matters?”

“Not really,” you said, biting your lip. “I mean, it’s just for fun. It’s not serious like your training or matches.”

Jessie’s eyebrows furrowed, and she turned fully toward you, her expression soft. “But fun matters. Relaxing matters. Why wouldn’t this be important if it’s something you enjoy?”

You blinked, caught off guard by how genuine she sounded. “I don’t know… I just thought you’d think it’s kind of childish. Or that it’s not worth talking about.”

Jessie’s eyes widened slightly, like the thought had never crossed her mind. “Why would I ever think that?” she asked softly. She reached out and gently took the controller from your hands, studying it. “Just because I’m busy with soccer doesn’t mean I don’t care about the things you like.”

You felt a lump in your throat as you finally met her gaze. “I guess I didn’t want to look… silly.”

Her face softened even more, and she set the controller down before pulling you closer. “You never look silly to me,” she said quietly. “I love hearing about what makes you happy. If this is something you enjoy, I want to know about it.”

You blinked back the slight sting of tears, suddenly feeling exposed in a way you hadn’t expected. You hadn’t realized how much you’d been holding back, keeping this small part of yourself hidden because you thought it didn’t matter. But Jessie’s words made it clear that it did—at least to her.

“Really?” you asked, your voice a little shaky.

Jessie nodded, her thumb gently rubbing the back of your hand. “Of course. You don’t have to hide this stuff from me. I love that there’s more to you than I even knew.”

You smiled a little, the tension in your chest loosening. “I guess I just didn’t want you to think less of me.”

Jessie frowned lightly. “I could never think less of you. If anything, this makes me love you more. It shows me a different side of you. I want to know all of you, even the parts you think are small.”

Her words hit you harder than you expected, and suddenly you felt silly for keeping this hidden for so long. “Okay,” you whispered, leaning into her. “I’ll try to share more. No more hiding.”

Jessie smiled warmly, brushing a strand of hair away from your face. “Good. Now, show me how to play this thing.”

You laughed, the weight of the moment lifting as you handed her the controller. “Alright, but don’t say I didn’t warn you—it’s not as easy as it looks.”

She grinned, settling into the couch beside you as you walked her through the game. And as she fumbled her way through the controls, laughing at her own mistakes, you realized just how much lighter you felt. Sharing this part of yourself with her wasn’t so scary after all. In fact, it felt good.

Really good.

#woso soccer #woso community #wsl #canwnt imagines #jflem #portland thorns #ucla woso #jessie fleming x reader #woso x reader

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soap-ify · 10 months ago

Note

ruru!! i hope you are doing well, i'm sending hugs ♡(˶˃ᆺ˂˶)

my brain is currently filled to the brim with the idea of gaz being such a lil shit!! he has you on his lap in a crowded bar, all of task141 piled into a tiny booth. it starts off relatively normal, an average pub night for the five of you but then he get's playful, touching you teasingly and soap is the first to catch on, watching with googly eyes that makes you flustered and shy!!

gaz acts like you aren't even there, just a stress toy for him to play with while his team watches and talks about you :((

LAURY HELLO! sending you lots of hugs too this is so filthy... he's such a little shit! (this is unedited btw so like... yeah.)

cw — f!reader, pre-established gaz x reader, majorly suggestive.

gaz couldn’t care less about the fact that his whole team was simply watching you while you squirmed on his lap, his hands wandering over your body.

it was supposed to be a sweet, innocent, hangout — just relaxing after all the stress and catching up with each other. though you snuggling up into your boyfriend’s side was clearly a mistake since he was so quick to pull you on his lap, catching you off guard. all you could do was giggle sheepishly and try to ignore the heat rising up on your cheeks, doing your best to focus on the conversation.

though gaz made it harder for you to properly concentrate, his hands lazily fondled the plush of your thighs, sometimes moving up to your stomach.

“kyle-” you tried to warn him by whispering softly. you realised that you weren’t being discreet once you looked over at soap, catching him staring at you with an amused gaze, lips curled up into a cheeky grin. ghost was staring at you too, his eyes observing you intently while he took slow sips of his drink,

you were too afraid to look over at price, knowing that he was most probably staring at you as well. your eyes instead looked around the cramped bar, making sure no one was looking over at the booth you five were sitting in.

“teasin’ her too much eh, sergeant?” price chuckled gruffly, taking a puff of his cigar, the scent seeming even more stronger than before. you could swear that your senses were getting even more aware due to all of this attention, gaz’s fondling doing nothing but making your head all blurry.

“ye showin’ her off tae us!” soap feigned offense and pouted grumpily, crossing his arms. ghost didn’t bother to say anything, though his intense gaze spoke louder than anything.

“am i?” gaz pretended to be oblivious, ignoring the soft whimper that left your lips once his fingers slipped inside your shirt, the contact with your skin making you shiver. “you don’t mind it, do you lovie?” he cooed into your ear, his lips grazing against the side of your jaw. you dumbly nodded, your hands clenching into the corner of the table.

“no i don’t…” your whisper made soap shuffle closer to you and gaz, his hand reaching over to cup the side of your face, tilting your head over to him.

“bonnie lass…” his tone made your insides warm up even more. gaz leaned back a bit so soap could touch you a bit more, his hands eagerly beginning to paw onto your thighs. you shifted on gaz’s lap, squeaking quietly once you felt his boner pressing against the back of your ass, your subtle shifting causing you to unintentionally grind against him

“careful there, johnny. you’re acting like a starved dog.” ghost clicked his tongue, scooting over to price so they both could watch the two sergeants grabbing you like their personal stress toy, eager to devour you up.

price knew that he was taking you all home once your eyes met him briefly, flipping some switch on inside him.

“i’ll pay the bills, you go and start the car. alright?” he whispered over to his lieutenant.

#you're soon becoming the whole 141's partner #just their sweet thing!#gaz x reader #kyle gaz garrick x reader #soap x reader #john soap mactavish x reader #price x reader #john price x reader #ghost x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #141 x reader #cod x reader #call of duty #rurufic #ruru mail

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beah388love · 4 months ago

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Fight or Flight

Full Masterlist Lando Masterlist

Pairing: Lando Norris x Fem!F1 Driver

Summary: You have an anxiety attack before a race and Lando comforts you

Warnings: Anxiety,reader has an anxiety attack, mentions of trauma,swearing,bad language!!! (Please tell me if I missed any!!!)

This wasn’t your first race. So you didn’t know why you felt so…Anxious?

It’s not like you was scared to go against your boyfriend Lando, you always go against each other and made a promise to each other that no matter who wins or loses it won’t interfere with your relationship after all it’s just a race.

But today you felt so scared, like you wanted to just run anywhere literally anywhere.

You woke up and felt landos soft fingertips stroking up and down your arm and you could feel him staring at you.

“you awake?” He asked and you nuzzled your face into his chest deeper before looking up at him with a smile “yeah” you breathed out tiredly.

As soon as you woke up you could feel that pressure on your chest. And the feeling like your hearts in your stomach.

But you tried to ignore the feeling hoping it would go away, maybe it was just pre-race nerves…

yeah it’s just pre-race nerves!

Nothing to worry about….its not like before.

“We better get up soon baby….i can hear my phone pinging with messages” Lando joked making you giggle, you sat up and lando pulled you back down on top of him, giving you a kiss on the forehead making you squeal “lan!”

“What? Can I not give my girlfriend a kiss?” He laughed and you rolled your eyes playfully

“You don’t have to yank my arm down to give me one” you sassed back making him laugh.

As you and lando walked in, you felt your heart fall down into your stomach and your breathing go and that pressure on your chest tighten and hit you ten times harder as you saw the huge crowd and the sound of everyone talking echoed through your head.

Lando could feel you holding onto his hand tighter than usual but he assumed it was probably because you didn’t want to lose him in the crowds, you both managed to get through the crowd and lando was about to head over to max but you stopped him “Lan I’m gonna go to my drivers room Kay?” You said loudly so he could hear you and he nodded before you left walking away.

“Where’s y/n going?” Max asked “oh- her room she’s fine don’t worry” Lando answered but it was more directed to himself, he could tell you was hiding how you felt from him.

You shut your door and locked it before sitting down on the chair and you could feel your breath going, like you couldn’t get any more in just enough that you could live with. It felt like you was suffocating.

And you could feel the pressure on your chest like your heart was going to explode.

You held a hand on your chest and tried to slower your breath in but it didn’t work.

“Fuck…shit please don’t not now.” You muttered to yourself as you felt tears brimming your eyes.

You managed to pull yourself together and wiped your eyes. You put one of landos caps on that you stole and held it down as you left your room.

You sat in the garage on a spare chair in the corner flicking through your phone and you shouldn’t have done it but you clicked onto landos instagram comments on his latest post.

UserA: She literally sucks! She can’t even race! And she obviously doesn’t treat Lando right! Their relationship is probably a social media stunt or a bet or something.

UserB: totally agree with the racing part - I know she got P1 and P2 for her last two races but she got lucky! If you watch her she doesn’t actually know what she’s doing! She’s awful.

That was only two comments at the top and you continued to read the other ones which were way worse…You frowned switching off your phone and tucking it in your hoodie pocket until, you overheard two guys walk past you and say your name.

“Nah she won’t be in the top three, she’s not that good” “yeah bro I agree”

It hurt reading people’s comments and it hurt even worse hearing them in person. You pursed your lips as you tried to hold in your tears.

You quickly walked back to your drivers room and locked the door.

You could feel the pressure in your chest tighten and ball up and it hurt so bad. It was like someone knocked the breath out of you and you could feel your brain going into fight or flight mode and you choose flight. You definitely choose flight-

You sobbed against the wall holding your legs to your chest tightly.

“why isn’t she answering my calls?” Lando huffed worriedly to max and he patted him on the arm reassuringly “I’m sure she’s fine Lando..she said she was going to her drivers room no?” Max reminded him and he instantly turned his heel to find you. Max rolled his eyes before heading to go talk to someone else.

“Y/n? Baby? Are you in there?” Lando said loudly so you could hear him “baby open the door it’s me” lando said but froze when he heard that familiar cry…

“Y/n, baby? Open the door” lando said as he kept jiggling the door handle until it unlocked and he saw your tear stained face.

“Baby what happened? Are you okay?” He asked you but you just threw yourself into his arms and sobbed “I- I can’t it hurts s-so bad-“ you cried into his neck and he frowned when he felt your hot tears on his skin.

“Baby…sh whats wrong? What hurts?” Lando hushed softly as he rubbed your back and gently swayed you both as he sat you down on his lap, on the sofa.

“I- I can’t! I can’t go out there- I- I can’t-“ you panicked through broken sobs and he had no idea where this came from.

He could tell you was nervous but he didn’t think you was going to have a full blown anxiety attack. He knew you usually had anxiety attacks over the crowds and people so he always made sure to keep check of you but he thought you was okay today…but he was wrong

Fuck.

“Baby! Hey hey! It’s okay. Just calm down breathe.” He said and held you face to make you look at him. his heart broke when he saw tears coming down your wet puffy cheeks and your now wet eyelashes.

You panicked and could feel your heart beating faster and faster “Lan- I can’t do it! I can’t! I’m gonna mess up! Im gonna embarrass myself! The-there are so many people! I can’t do it-“ you shook your head with broken whimpers and Lando could feel the anxiety coming from you.

“It’s okay” Lando whispered softly repeatedly as he swayed you in his lap. He knew this would help you calm down and it did.

“Baby. Listen to me. You listening?” He asked you and you nodded.

“Breathe with me okay?” Lando said and you nodded softly, he held your hand gently and held it on his chest and breathed with you and eventually it worked and your breathing evened out with his.

“Better?” He asked you and you nodded with a hum “good. Can I tell you something?” He said and you paused for a moment before humming a yes into his chest

“You are one of the best drivers I know. Except for me of course-“ lando said making you giggle. He smiled feeling like he just achieved a life goal, “I’m just kidding but on a serious note. You are going to be amazing. Don’t panic okay. Anxiety is a dickhead.” He said making you giggle again.

“You can do this. You’re an excellent driver and so many people know that, and I know there are dick heads online who say shit but it’s not true.” Lando said and you smiled sadly at him.

“But I know that you’re going to do amazing out there no matter what position you get as long as you try then I don’t care. - a wise person told me that once.” Lando said making you laugh as you thought back to the memory.

- flashback:

Lando had finished P6 and he felt like he failed not only himself but everyone else too. But like he just said.

You had told him those exact words.

You wiped two tears off his cheek and said “lan, I mean this when I say to you. I don’t care no matter what position you get as long as you tried. Then I’m proud of you.” You said softly and he smiled at you and gave you a kiss which you obviously returned.

-back to present:

“Thank you baby, I love you so much.” You said hugging him tightly and nuzzling your face into his neck.

“1. Don’t thank me it’s what I’m here for, and 2. I love you too….even more” he smiled giving you a kiss on the temple.

“Are you ready to go? Or do you want to stay here for a bit longer?” Lando asked you and you shook your head “I’m ready. Let’s go” you said resting your head on his chest.

He nodded as he held your hand rubbing circles on it.

You finished at P1 and lando finished at P2 in qualifying - he said he didn’t let you win but you know he did.

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chaotic-birds · 1 year ago

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strong for you || j.pt

Jason comes home injured, prepared to patch up and rest with you, but he soon realizes something isn't right.

❤️‍🩹 Pairing: Jason Todd x Reader

❤️‍🩹 Genres/AUs: Action, some angst & fluff, established relationship

❤️‍🩹 Warnings: Use of guns, mentions of killing, hostage situation, blood, injuries, reader referred to as girl

❤️‍🩹 Word Count: 2.3k

❤️‍🩹 Author's Note: Just felt like writing more Jason 🥰

masterlist

Jason uses the rest of his strength to lift open the window. His panting grows louder after he tumbles inside, feeling a bit safer in his home. He doesn’t have to worry about people hearing him in pain and taking advantage of his weakened state.

He knows you’ll be by his side in a matter of seconds. He hates how he came home injured since it always worries you, but he rather be hurt here than anywhere else.

His eyes shut tightly as he tries to calm down. It’s becoming harder to breathe under his helmet. He feels suffocated. He needs fresh air.

With a shaky hand, he begins to raise it to unlatch his helmet. However, an all too familiar click makes him halt; his eyes open wide and he forces his breathing to slow so he can hear better.

It’s then he realizes you should’ve been tending to him by now. You should be easing him out of his suit as you comfort and scold him simultaneously.

He lowers his arm as slowly as he can, worried whoever it is will act irrationally if he moves too quickly. Maybe if he was somewhere else and not injured, he would’ve leaped up and snatched the weapon from their hand.

But he can’t.

He’s home. He can’t put you in any more danger.

In slow motion, he turns his head to assess the scene.

There are five men in total. Each has a rifle in their hands, accompanied by a handgun on their hips. You’re seated on one of the dining table chairs that’s been moved, hands and feet tied together. You’re staring at him with big eyes—a mix of worry and panic.

Jason curses to himself mentally.

You’re already fearful of being held captive, but now you’re fearful of his wound too.

He already knows what questions are floating in your head: How deep is it? How much blood has he lost already? Are there any more injuries?

Jason hates that he was stupid tonight. He hates how out of all the nights to have fucked up, he fucked up tonight. But that doesn’t stop his determination. He’ll power through the pain if it means you’ll be safe in the end.

You turn your head to the man on your right. He holds himself to a different status than the others. The amount of confidence this man must have makes Jason want to gag.

“I’ll give you the files if you let me tend to his wounds,” you bargain.

Macho Boss smirks down at you before moving his sight to Jason.

“Well, you’re surely an unexpected guest. Didn’t think one of the bats would come to rescue a mere civilian when there are bigger crimes out on the streets,” he observes, then glances at you. “I guess this one’s special, huh?”

Jason suspects that this guy thought he could get away with his act since he’s not committing a big crime, compared to others in Gotham. Illegal activities happen all the time here, right? Jason almost snorts at his bad luck.

Macho Boss nudges your shoulder with the barrel of his gun. The cold metal touches your bare skin exposed by your cardigan, making you shiver. It must’ve fallen in your scuffle earlier.

Jason narrows his eyes at him even though his glare is hidden by his helmet. He’s grateful he etched a permanent scowl on it now. He wants your captors to know that despite being injured, he’s still got enough strength to incapacitate them.

“Please,” you grab the captor’s attention again. “Let me help him.”

“Why should I let you? His injury means he’s weak. I can’t let him stop us, now can I?” he questions, slightly mockingly.

“You can tie him up after I’m done.”

“Like hell you will,” Jason gruffs and the other person holding a gun to his head jabs him with it.

You send him a glare—signaling it isn’t the time to be snarky. Jason rolls his eyes but doesn’t say anything more.

“Do you want the files?” you ask Macho Boss.

“You’re going to give us them whether we let you play nurse or not.”

“Perhaps, but you’re wasting time. Why take the hard way when I’m offering to give them up so easily?”

The man hums in thought. Finally, he nods at the man to your left.

Within seconds, your ropes have been cut. You gesture to the bathroom.

“First aid is in there,” you inform and carefully make your way to the room.

One of the men follows you, gun pointed to your head. You expect nothing less.

If they weren’t here, you’d be rushing to the kit, but any sudden movements will get them trigger-happy.

Your movements are slow as you retrieve the first aid along with a wet washcloth. You make your way to kneel beside Jason. Blood continues to seep through his fingertips, creating a pool of red beneath him. You fight back the worry consuming you.

You gently guide his hand from the wound so you can begin cleaning it.

Jason watches you for a second before shifting his gaze to the others. They’re staring at you both, weapons aimed. They seem impatient and ready to fire.

“You should be making a run for it,” Jason says to you lowly. Though it doesn’t matter the volume of his voice, it’s so quiet that everyone will hear him regardless.

“And get shot in the back? No thanks,” you argue, setting the bloodied rag to the side to start patching him up.

Jason wants to reply he wouldn’t let that happen. He’d have his hands on his guns, shooting everyone before you could get hurt. But he doesn’t want them to know how much he cares about you. Perhaps that’s a fruitless wish since they’ve probably already gauged their affection from their body language.

Jason grunts when you touch a certain area. He’s been trying to keep his cool—for the sake of seeming stronger than he appears to his captors, and for the sake of your sanity.

Your eyes move to his helmet, and there’s a silent “sorry” in your expression. He can tell you’re trying to appear strong, too.

All Jason wants to do is fill these guys’ heads with lead, then snuggle you in bed.

As you continue attending to his wound, he asses his options. He could quickly shield you with his body while he took out the men, but even then, he wouldn’t be able to move and risk the potential of you getting shot. The thought about tossing you out of the window since there’s a fire escape there is strong—get you out of harm’s way so he doesn’t have to worry about you in the crossfire.

Jason’s thoughts get interrupted when you lean in. He watches quietly as you kiss his helmet softly. His lips twitch in an immediate response, but then he feels something slip into his palm.

Clever girl.

With one hand, he slips the small knife you gave him up his sleeve; with the other, he caresses your back. He hopes his action distracts the men from the quick exchange.

You pull away carefully as Macho Boss grits out, “Touching. You done now?”

“Yes,” you reply.

The second the word leaves your lips, a pair of hands are pulling you from Jason roughly.

Jason quickly begins to stand but a heavy boot stomps on his fresh wound, forcing him down again. He breathes in a sharp inhale at the impact, head tilting back and fists clenching.

“Red!” you gasp, struggling against your captor’s hold. More so for his health and safety than yours.

“Relax, love,” Macho Boss coos, but it’s nothing close to soothing. “You can’t expect us to trust your buddy here.”

Then, he turns to the person who’s pinning him down. “Tie him up.”

“You better be treating me to dinner after,” Jason huffs.

Suddenly, Jason’s hauled up and shoved into a nearby chair. His arms get pulled back, forcing a grunt out of him because of his injury. His feet are then secured.

“What a charmer,” Macho Boss scoffs. “Now, the files.”

Your gaze lingers on Jason to make sure he’ll be okay before walking to your bedroom where your laptop is.

“Put me in that room,” Jason demands as he watches you leave.

“Not a chance. You can sit pretty with me right here,” the man behind him says.

Jason clenches his fists as you disappear from view. There are only three of them in the room now. Two went with you.

Easy.

Jason shimmies the blade low enough to reach the rope around his wrists. He waits a few minutes for everyone’s focus to dim before beginning to slice at the material.

“So what’s Red Hood doing in some rando’s apartment, hm?” Capture Two says.

Jason shrugs, subtly cutting the rope as he speaks, “Would you believe me if I said I have a magical power that lets me sense trouble? Because wow… My inner crime detector was blaring.”

Captor Two huffs in annoyance. “Yeah right. You probably got cameras set up around here.”

Jason catches on to the man’s agenda: Find the location of the cameras so they can take them out next time.

“There’s even one over there,” Jason says with a nod to the left.

“There is?” the guy questions and turns.

The second he does, Jason breaks through the rope and disarms and knocks out the man behind him. Gunfire erupts and Jason quickly takes cover in the kitchen nearby.

“Fucking liar,” Captor Two growls.

Jason laughs. “Sorry, man. Let me make it up to you.”

Jason peeps around the cabinets and aims with proficient precision. Two down, one to go.

Upon hearing the scuffling in the living room, you quickly retrieve the gun that’s taped under the desk. For once, you’re grateful for Jason hiding guns around the apartment.

Before you can second guess your actions, you shoot Macho Boss in the kneecap before ducking and shooting the second man in the same place. Once they’re both down, you take away their guns in case they try anything on the ground.

Jason rushes into the room hearing the gunshots, both pistols raised. He pauses in his trek when he sees you—seemingly unharmed—standing between the two men on the ground.

The men are groaning, blood soaking the carpet he vacuumed yesterday.

“Next time come when the carpet is already dirty,” he says before slamming the heel of his gun onto his head—knocking him out. He walks to the second guy and does the same. It’s tough for him to do so since he really just wants to shoot them instead, but he told Bruce he’d attempt his no-killing rule. It’s day four, and he already feels like giving up.

“Nice teamwork,” you comment and place the guns on the desk.

Jason stuffs his pistols in his holsters before he unlatches his helmet. He tosses the item on the bed, then pulls you close until his mouth captures yours in a heated kiss.

You yelp in surprise into his mouth. Jason smiles at the sound and squeezes your body tightly against his armored one.

When you pull back, you’re looking at him with a silly smile.

“Don’t tell me all this is what gets you hot and bothered?” you tease, fingertips gliding down his chest gradually.

Jason grins and pecks your lips with a proud grin. “Can’t help it. You’re sexy when you’re in action.”

You laugh, pushing at his chest until he’s loosening his grip reluctantly. “You’re sexy too.”

Jason can’t resist but lean in again, although this kiss is shorter.

“You okay?” he asks, mood turning serious. He holds you at arm’s length to examine your body.

“I’m okay, don’t worry about me. Are you okay?”

“Nothing but a flesh wound,” he beams.

You shake your head and glance around the untidy room.

“Can you call Dick or someone to clean this up while we go to a safe house?” you plead, too lazy to help with the cleanup. You just want to sleep with Jason next to you.

“We don’t need him. I’ll take care of it,” Jason informs and bends to pick up one of the men.

“I don’t want you to hurt yourself more, Jay,” you sigh, words meaningless as he throws the second body over his shoulder like a sack of rice.

“I’ll be fine, babe. Give me ten then we can cuddle. I know that’s what you want.” He smiles knowingly.

You roll your eyes playfully at his light tone. He isn’t wrong, but you wish he wouldn’t exert all his energy now when he’s injured.

But this is Jason.

Stubborn ass.

Jason takes two trips to carry the men out. You rest your elbows on the window seal, watching him drag the unconscious men in a small circle with their backs to each other. He takes a chain and secures it tightly around them. You think he’s done but he pulls out a paper. You squint, leaning a little out the window.

Sprawled in black ink is:

BAD GUYS FOR PICK UP

Jason steps back to admire his work, then turns to look at you. Although you can’t see his expression due to his helmet, the two thumbs up he gives you indicate there's a smile adorning his handsome features beneath.

Chuckling, you shake your head playfully and return the thumbs up before nodding to come back inside.

Your gaze follows the tall man as he struts back toward the building. You tuck yourself inside, shutting and locking the window as you stare at the silly paper with his handwriting.

He wouldn’t be your Jason if he wasn’t mischievous. After all, it’s one of his many talents.

©️chaotic-birds // DO NOT REPOST OR MODIFY Please consider reblogging if you liked this work to show your support. Feedback/commentary is always welcomed.

#jason todd #jason todd angst #jason todd fanfic #jason todd action #jason todd x reader #jason todd x you

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nvuy · 2 months ago

Text

dulcet — sunday

summary. it is within the safest parts of the world that sunday loses himself, and it seems that only you can provide him the salvation he desperately searches for.

notes. i wrote this for mags :)))) hiiiiiiiiiii!!!!!!!!! confiteor part three THATS IT. DONT ASK ME FOR ANOTHER ONE. you can read part one and two here or on tumblr if you want. i'd recommend because this series is mind boggling. i wish you all an open mind, because if this confuses you, that's the point.

warnings. mdni, 18+, gn reader with fem anatomy, you are implied to do street work, crazy freaky shit, long ass 11k post, whatever form of body worship this counts as, sunday needs to be medicated asap and needs therapy, angst if you look at it with your eyes open, religious guilt & themes, and again its literally just a dirty smashing session. nobody is surprised.

Sunday laid and simply waited for sleep to come. It was dark now, and the clock on the other side of his room was ticking and ticking with each minute that passed. Something twitched with every noise; a finger, his eye, his lips.

Exhaustion crept behind his eyes, and yet they refused to remain shut. Every tick of the clock, every creak of the bed, every single noise he heard put him on edge. He stiffened like a corpse when the sheets moved.

It’s just him.

It was just him and nobody else. It had become harder and harder to convince himself that he was alone. This was his bedroom; the same four walls he surrendered himself to every night and prayed to see tomorrow morning. A home such as his didn’t warrant nor promise his safety when he laid his head to rest.

And that was what had scared him. The window to his bedroom was cracked open just a tad; he had his rhythm. All the windows shut and the door locked tight from the inside. Any draft of wind from outside would stir him awake in an instant, as well as the fact that anyone would contort through the gap and come forth and touch him and–

Sunday only clutched at the neckline of his shirt to calm himself. Usually, he’d twist his hand into the pendant he wore around his throat, but that was stowed away in its jewellery box — and Robin had highly discouraged the bad habit because he was growing ghastly scars on his palm from repeatedly splitting the skin open on the white gold charm.

He swallowed hard, and the lump in his throat remained. He gritted his teeth and shut his eyes tight in frustration. He tried to relax, loosening the tension in his shoulders and stiffness in his legs, but he locked up again almost immediately.

Like a corpse.

He could hear tapping outside of his room again. Clicking of heels, footsteps trailing back and forth down the hall. There was no light bleeding beneath the door, but shadows passed beneath as if someone was standing outside. Waiting.

Sunday turned over and faced the window. It’s open. He stiffened up even more and swallowed even harder. It shouldn’t be open. He found no courage to stand up and close it himself; the floor would be too cold. His feet are bare. The wind picked up hastily and the silk curtains drifted lazily like the breeze did not freeze him to his bones.

At the same time, he felt hot in his skin. Burning like the sun, like hot wax and sweat glittering down his skin. Like rain and sand and molten metal mixed into his chest, ready to burst through the flesh and leave him without a heart. The pathetic muscle beat frantically despite having to convince himself there was nobody here.

He knew there was nobody in the room with him. He knows this. There’s never anyone with him.

And yet, he felt as if one thousand different eyes were peering down from the shadowed corners and staring and peeling back every layer of his skin and delving into his very being. And it hurt. Like lead weighed down his bones. Like he couldn’t move a single muscle in his body.

So he laid there and hurt.

He tried to breathe as the feeling entrenched through his veins and twisted against the walls of his organs until he was swallowed whole by whatever this was. Stabbing and burning and bruising blossomed in his legs. Breathe. Just breathe.

He tried to think of birds. The old small doves outside of the window that used to visit him when he was very, very small. Small enough that he remembered being accompanied by his mother, and too little that Robin wasn’t even in the picture yet. He would lean over the windowsill and reach out a small hand to one of them. Usually, they’d run away, but he found if he remained still for long enough, they’d curiously come close and use his hand as a branch.

That was years ago.

He shook harder and pressed his lips together. He couldn’t tell if he could see something in the corner of the bedroom, but he couldn’t move his head to affirm it. He felt eyes. Eyes and mouths and hands and they reach lower and lower and beneath his clothes and he can’t breathe.

He felt claws.

The pointed ends of them sank deep into his stomach, the flesh denting and daring to tear beneath the tips. He swallowed hard, hard enough that the lump in his throat cut into his jugular.

And that familiar sensation of heat began to return. Again. He finally found the strength to let a finger by his side twitch, and he realised then the hand delving towards his navel was his own. His nails tap at the skin again and again as if waiting, as if his hand had its own mind. He felt it did.

He felt it was yours.

He finally turned over to face away from the window and tucked his hands beneath the pillow underneath his head. The clock in his room ticked away. His heart beat in tune.

Why does it hurt?

Paranoia set its teeth into his neck, and he had the love bites to show for it. He remembered the feeling of sharp canines digging into his flesh and ruining his throat. And he remembered crying out, not from fear as he did now, but from the pain, the rushing of blood through his veins, and the hot press of skin against skin. And that feeling.

Alive.

That’s what it was. His blood boiled, and he was afraid, but he felt alive. Above this plain, and the next, and in your arms instead.

The paranoia persisted.

He finally sat up and stared at the back wall of his room. The walls were barren, stripped of character, and his room was something of the same. There isn’t much on display. That’s too much clutter. There’s a jewellery box for his earrings in front of the mirror he refuses to look into. He doesn’t own a lot of things — and what is there to own? Other than a few books he has at his disposal, they tell nothing of his character.

If he had it his way, the bookshelf would be filled with romance novels. The terrible kind. The ones that were so over the top that he simply had to put them down and stare at nothing for five minutes before turning to the next page.

And then he’d think of you.

Idiot.

He pushed the blankets aside and swung his legs over the bed, careful to readjust his shirt. A light sheen of sweat stuck to his skin like hot glue as he stood up. The floor was freezing, and he promptly made it over to shut his window and lock it tight. He did it quietly, tip-toeing across the floorboards with shaking fingers.

He ignored the pain in his limbs, tugging on the window until he was sure the lock wouldn’t slip free. He did this hours ago before he tried to sleep. His mind was muddied.

He closed the curtains swiftly before trudging towards the bathroom. He locked that door, too, and tried to cool his face with water. It seemed to work for only a second before the burning returned. That sweltering heat lingered again and again, and the bruise on his neck was only growing darker.

The only thing on the bench is his toothbrush and a pair of scissors. There were bits of leftover blue feather tufts on the sharp ends.

He doesn’t look at his reflection, afraid of the silhouette forming behind him.

And then there was a creak from outside the door.

He choked on his breath before he held it silently. The window. He recognised that sound; the dry hard rubbing of the sill against the joints. His teeth gritted hard, and he swore the shells cracked in his mouth. And that is pain. Pain and pain and pain and fear and it swallows him whole and he feels small still. Like he’s little. Like he’s that little boy who cried with a scraped knee for his mother.

And that hurt.

His heart ached and his stomach dropped. He held onto the bench, leaning his weight against it, afraid he’d double over and dry heave — when’s the last time he ate anything?

Breathe.

It’s nothing. This has happened before. Many times.

He stood up straighter and pushed off of the bench. He ignored the pain shooting up his legs, and he grew lightheaded as he tried to move towards the door. The blood rushed to his head and his vision dimmed into nothing for a moment.

His hand rested against the door handle, and his fingers wrapped tight around the cold steel. It bit at his fingers like ice and he fought the urge to retreat and stay locked inside of the bathroom. It was too cold here. He was already shaking just staying in here for three minutes.

He swallowed hard and tried to control his breathing.

And then, and only then, did Sunday swing open the door as quick as he could and shut it briskly behind him. He rested his back against the hardwood of the door and held his breath. Hold. Hold. Breathe.

The window was open.

He could’ve sworn he closed it.

He could’ve sworn he–

He could still feel the cold wood of the sill on his fingers. He did. He can’t do this again because he knew he closed it and he remembered closing it and why is it so hard to breathe–

He barreled toward the window sill and shut it again. His stomach twisted and his lips parted to try and suck in more air. He only succeeded in accelerating his heartbeat.

He stepped away. Closed. It’s closed. It’s closed it’s closed. He closed it. He knew it now. He breathed out again, this time slower, trying to calm himself down. The back of his heels hit the foot of his bed and he sat down on top of the blankets. It’s cold.

It’s cold but the window was closed. He knew it. He knew it, he knew it.

He heard a knock from the wardrobe.

The inside.

His breathing stuttered and stirred in his chest, and it felt like small animals crawling through his lungs and clogging his throat. Like rats. Creeping rodents clawing into the weak muscle tissue and tearing through his bronchi. Violating.

It was dark. So dark he couldn’t see the figures in the corners of the bedroom. His feet were cold from the floorboards. The acid in his stomach churned and burned, and feared the worst. He scanned over the room once, twice, before he slowly took a step towards the wardrobe.

It knocked again, and this time the door jolted on its hinges as if something were trying to break out.

Another step.

He hurt.

Just go back to sleep.

He opened the closet.

Two shadowy figures, one hunching over the other, too close for comfort, and ants wedged themselves through every pore and blemish in his skin. It’s him, and you. You’re half undressed, and he looks worse for wear, covered in stains and spit and taking it all in stride. His clothes were a mess; pants ruffled and loose, his hair was wild from being tugged on, and despite your hands roaming dangerously low around his hips, his own hands drew around your face and pulled your lips onto his again and again.

One blink, and he was there. In the church again, in the back in a storage cupboard, and he was startled. He’s dreaming. He had to be. His clothes were different; his usual attire, though he’s shedded his overcoat and you were busying yourself undoing the buttons of his shirt.

“I told you not to come back,” he remembered whispering defeatedly.

Your hands dipped lower down his navel.

“Getting cold feet, priest?”

And, yes. His feet were cold, because now the closet was empty, and he was standing in his bedroom again with his hand on the knob. The bruises on his neck ached with the memory.

He shut the door.

Then, he turned, almost like less of a person and more of a shell, and stumbled back to bed. The sheets were still warm from the imprint of him, and he held the blankets to his chest defensively as his eyes searched around the bedroom again.

Nothing to see. All empty and dark and neat.

His eyes flitted toward the window.

It’s open again.

His heart skipped a beat, but he made no move. The draft froze him stiff. He contemplated leaving and searching for Robin’s room; he was sure she’d understand — and she would. She’d make room on her bed instantly for him.

But he’s not a child anymore. Humiliation stirred in his stomach like acid, and he swallowed the fear rising in his throat. It’s closed, he reminded himself. He has closed it. Twice now. It’s just all tricks of the light, or his own mind, or you.

There was the familiar rhythmic tapping of heeled shoes from outside his door. They sounded louder than before, but he knew they weren’t really there. He had heard the same footsteps for weeks now, bordering close to months. He had purple rings beneath his eyes to show the constant dreams he’d been forced to endure.

Ignore it. He laid down again, curling beneath the blankets. Pain withered and whittled his bones like frostbite, and the wind that blew through the gap in the window made him shiver.

The blankets were still warm, at least. It must have been only just past midnight. He still had hours to hold onto and toss and turn.

“What have you done?” he asked you one day, the only soul remaining on the podium in the church. “What did you do?”

You stood quickly. “Nothing, sire,” you answered. “What are you talking about?”

“You play dumb when the sun is out and crawl on your knees at night.”

You stood, stiffening like a corpse. “What are you–” You cut yourself off, frantically searching around the room for some sort of answer to your question.

He stepped forward, finding a somewhat semblance of strength to face you fully. He wanted to scream, or fight, or flee, or do something other than gape like a fish.

Lying. Bearing false witness. It’s all the same cardinal treachery he knows too well. He saw it now on your face like you were carved permanently in the stone of the statue behind him on the podium.

“It’s my job, sir,” you responded meekly. “I didn’t willingly–”

“I don’t care whether this is a job. You don’t understand,” he snapped quickly. “I am not paying you to torment me.”

“‘Paying me?’” you repeated. “Sire, you have not asked me for my service.” You took a step back, closer to the entrance of the church, but the aisle was long, and you had an even longer way to go until you reached the exit. “I only attend here because I am guilty of where my life has led me.”

“I did not ask for your service, nor did I ask you to lead me down your path of destruction.”

“We have not slept together, Reverend.”

Sunday stirred again. The same thing. His pendant being discarded left him only to clutch the neckline of his shirt and breathe harder. He’d already torn his palm to shreds. The cut through the bandage around his hand still stung, but it was no longer bleeding.

Maybe he is losing his mind. Maybe he’d be locked away again and forced into confinement until he was finally let out. Maybe he’d be brought to his death; he’d wake up standing on a chair with his hands tied and a rope around his neck.

And you’d be the one standing by his side with your foot ready to nudge the chair out beneath his feet.

He swallowed hard, and his hand moved to soothe the ache around his neck. Like rope burn. He’d already been shunned from church today for an inadequate morning service. One of the priests had commented on his behaviour.

Sunday had thought nothing of it at first. He hadn’t been sleeping properly for weeks, and any sleep he did achieve was plagued with you, your scent, and your legs, and his fingers twisted into the soft and warm flesh of your breasts. And he’d woken up without failure after every single one with his hands clammy, sweat pouring down his neck, and a flaming ache between his legs.

Liar. It’s just shame and guilt that wracked your rotten guts. He wanted to rip your organs from you and tie your neck with them. And the fear ate at him again, and again, and again until his bones were gnawed to their limits.

“Y’know, Rev,” he started slowly. “You’ve been… distant.”

Sunday’s eyes flitted away from you quietly chatting to another attendee on the pew. He said nothing but only gave the priest a strange look.

“Are you feeling okay?” The priest placed a hand on his shoulder after a moment. “If you need to talk, or… confess…”

“‘Confess,’” Sunday echoed quietly. “I’ve done nothing wrong.” His eyes searched for you again, and you were still attentively listening to the other person with your hands laced together in your lap.

Beautiful.

You glanced up and found his eyes as if you’d impeded through his head and gotten to his mind.

He sneered.

Your face twisted with confusion for a moment, maybe even guilt, before you offered a small nod of your head and an awkward smile before you turned back to continue your conversation.

“I am only looking out for you.” The priest’s eyes followed Sunday’s gaze. He grimaced. “Perhaps you should go home and rest. You look tired.”

Robin thought the same, that poor girl. She’d sit by him before service and try to coax him with some encouraging words, maybe even singing if he allowed it. She couldn’t get through. She couldn’t understand what was going on. She tried with all her might, and all the care in her small frail little heart to find the strength to make his beat again, but nothing would work.

Because nothing was going on.

It’s just him.

There was another creak from the window. He stiffened up harder to the point where his limbs threatened to snap from their tendons.

He doesn’t understand what it is. Attraction, fear, interest, connection, loneliness. If this is love, he doesn’t want it. It hurt, like a rope around his neck, like being pelted with stones until his skin and bone caved, like being tied and burned, like being nailed through the hands and feet and left for dead.

Just him. Just him.

“Are you lonely?”

He lost his breath.

There were arms wrapped around his middle from behind, and there was hot breath running down his neck. And it’s so familiar, and it’s so warm, and he startled a gasp from his throat.

Sunday tried not to throw his head back as he’d done so many times before. Instead, his hands almost immediately found yours, as they had so many times before.

His tongue failed him.

There were lips on his neck. Gentle, warm, and so so familiar he grew breathless within an instant. The bed was soft, and he melted into the mattress, and the warmth. He swallowed hard, and he was so exhausted he must have been dreaming. He mumbled under his breath, and his hands instinctively moved to yours.

They’re yours, right?

“‘Lonely?’” he murmured.

You hummed in acknowledgement. “You look lonely.”

He’s just tired.

His hands wrapped securely around yours, holding tight. Let this be okay. He dreamed it for so long. This is what he wants. He wants your warmth, and you, and your devotion. To use whatever faith he has in the church, in THEM, and everything you’ve ever worshipped, and spin all these twisted lies into him. Him and only him.

Just love him.

That’s all.

He couldn’t admit it then. “Your concerns are appreciated,” he mumbled. “I’m just tired.”

“I can help you sleep,” you promised. Your hands grazed over his hips.

“I beg your pardon?” His teeth dug into his lips hard enough to draw blood. But he knew what you meant because it is what he meant. It’s just him. He refused to turn around and face you, and thus found content with the disillusion of your warmth draped over his back. It was comfortable, as two lovers should be, but it was all the more wicked when, through your body, he felt the breeze from the window.

His breathing shook when your lips returned to his neck.

Vile, this is. He had admitted it so many times before. All of this was vile and disgusting, and wretched and wrong.

And he loved it. He loved the traitorous words that spilled from your lips, and the trembling of your fingers, unsure — just as his were — as they delved beneath his clothes as they had done so many times before. He remembered every other second he’d spent with you.

Where he’d met you, where you’d returned again and again before you’d pulled open the confessional door and had taken him in the booth, and where you’d pried and delved deep into his head, up when you sat innocently during service and refused to look at him.

Where you’d forced his head down between your legs and ordered his tongue, or he’d stood frozen stiff as your hands delved over his thighs, or when you’d touched him in all the places he never used to dare venture.

Because it is real.

He found himself unable to ask if it was, much too afraid of the answer.

“Tire you out,” you explained softly. “Make you dizzy.”

He already was. He was grateful he was already lying down, for he was sure he’d have fallen to the floor by now.

He hummed lightly and your teeth set softly below his jaw. He hoped in some twisted part of him that you’d leave scars upon his flesh.

Then, he mewled when your teeth grazed over the joint where his wing protruded below his ear. Sensitive things, the feathers. The bones were brittle too, and thin enough to snap with one wrong move.

This wasn’t right.

It wasn’t right to convince himself he’d be fine if you cracked every bone in his body and left if you’d touched him all over and kept him yours to do as you pleased, or if you did nothing but bite and tear into his skin until he was nothing but shredded flesh and bone. And still yours. That’s what mattered.

He had been raised to climb above personal desires, much less his own carnal ones. This shouldn’t be what he wants — he should want nothing. It’s selfish of him to think of you like this, and to feel your hands on him every night, and to indulge in your touch. It was sin like hot wax dripping down his stomach, and it tasted like warm sugar.

He hummed lightly, heart fluttering as you kissed another bruise onto his throat. His thighs ached to part and to grab your hand and move your fingers between his legs. He was already throbbing with need and it made his stomach churn.

Your lips were warm, and they served well to block off the wind blowing in from the cracked window.

Your lips grazed down over his shoulder before your hands slowly slid over his throat and reached from behind to begin unbuttoning his shirt. He let it happen. Because he wanted it to. Anxiety jittered in his limbs and his throat, but he helped you in undoing his buttons. He was much too afraid to shed the item off entirely, terrified of judgment and his willing vulnerability.

Terrified of his own skin, he shut his eyes tight and turned his head to kiss you properly.

His stomach exploded, he felt. Warm lips and an even hotter tongue that slid past his mouth. He wanted to choke and swallow your spit, and as disgusting as it felt to realise all of these thoughts, it only made him dizzier.

And he fell in love.

He felt warmth burst in his chest. His hands trembled before they wandered. They settled hesitantly on your hips, and he was pushed roughly onto his back. His chest pressed against yours, and he felt your heart race against his skin. The familiar pulse put his mind at ease and his head pounded with the scent of your flesh.

He grew dizzier as the time passed. His lips refused to part from yours, spit stuck like glue. His face grew hot, and his cheeks flushed a gorgeous pink. Sweat pooled down his throat and his hands and he gripped harder at your hips and felt the world spin. Vertigo grabbed at the chains clasped around his wrists and ankles and pulled, and he spun around again and again with you until he pressed you into his mattress, and one of your knees lifted to rub between his legs.

His breathing stuttered and he gasped out your name, as ridiculous as it was.

This was pathetic. He knew it so. His stomach twisted with pleasure and panic and the dizziness surged so hard in his head he had to stop for a moment and bury his lips into your shoulder.

Your hands were busy pushing past the waistband of his pants and venturing low between his legs. Your hands were hot, palms tracing the smooth skin of his hips before your thumbs brushed over the side of his cock. He shuddered, already hard and growing worse with every second.

He moaned. Moaned. Him. The Head of the Oak Family. That simple touch made his knees buckle, and he almost toppled on top of you.

Instead, you shoved him over, and you weighed him down onto the mattress. He let out a startled noise when your hand abandoned his cock. Instead, your nails trailed upwards. Up and up and up until your fingers grasped at his neckline and pulled him up from the bed.

“You seek reverence,” he murmured against your lips. “At a time like this.”

“Surely you can fight it this time?” you asked.

He tried to kiss you again, but your grip held strong and your other hand twisted into his face, holding him still.

He swallowed hard. Anxiety bubbled in his veins like boiling water. “This happens every night.”

“And you’re still pining?”

He’s sick. That’s what this is. Sick and in love.

His father had told him that to love is to give in. Giving in was not a part of him; he wasn’t supposed to cut open his chest and offer you his beating heart on a silver platter. That was the consequence of obsession.

“This is your fault,” he tried.

“Is that what you tell yourself while you fuck your own hand every night?”

The humiliation stirred deep within his chest. He hadn’t even realised his hand had snuck beneath his pants to tease the head of his cock, flushed a furious red and weeping. He wanted you to ruin him and scar him and make him yours and–

“I’m in love,” he admitted to nobody. His words were muffled as you grabbed his face harder. He looked to the left. The window was closed. “And I’m a heretic.”

His heart leapt through his throat.

He understood it now. He knew then a nightingale was watching from the window. He knew it. This would taint him if whatever was left of his purity was not already stained the shade of your skin.

His wings fluttered. Fear. It crawled back up his spine.

He fought through your grip and kissed you again, this time with that newfound anger that had been boiling in his blood. His nerves and fury mixed to create some sort of poison that fueled him forward, grabbing your face and ignoring his twitching cock with a frustrated sound. He ended up sprawled on top of you, desperately trying to smother you with his lips, and pressing his hips to yours slowly. So slowly.

His kisses were frantic, uncertain. He wasn’t sure where to touch, what to do, how to respond when you nipped at his lip or your tongue crawled to press against his teeth teasingly. He found you tasted of nothing, but that was to be expected. Because it’s not–

His hands found the buttons of your shirt. That same shirt you wore when he first laid his eyes on you. All buttons and silk, and that awful embroidered stocking pattern ran up your legs.

Sunday slotted himself between your thighs, and his bedroom spun in a circle. The mattress dipped as he leaned against you, his hand sprawling across your chest to feel the rhythmic muscle beat frantically. He was sure he was in a worse condition; he felt as though the pathetic heart beneath his ribs would give out any second.

His cock twitched in his pants.

But he was a patient, patient man. He’d been drilled with this mindset, this front since he was little. So little he couldn’t think for himself. Now, he could, and he was distracted and losing sleep every night touching himself to the curve of your legs. Gopher Wood would be laughing in his grave, he’s sure. Laughing and jeering and shaming.

“What do you want, Reverend?”

He didn’t know.

He couldn’t answer.

Instead, he chose to kiss downwards from your throat, following the intricate lines of the bones and trying to remember what the scent of your skin was like. And it hurt to try because it was a reminder.

He decided to ignore it. Ignore everything entirely and focus on you, and solely you, and nothing else. It helped, if only a little.

Reverend Sunday worshipped like no other. It was instilled in him for so long that it was second nature, but never in his life had he been at the mercy of something much more important than a God. He’d never believed it to be true, but the way your breath hitched and you squirmed when his thumbs brushed over your nipples riled him further than he would have thought. He sighed, overwhelmed, and his teeth ran over the expanse of your breast, desperately coaxing that same noise from you again and again.

His heart spiked once, twice, and when he was convinced the muscle was truly about to stop, his lips continued downwards, centring lower to your navel. You squirmed, but his heart fluttered at the feeling.

“I want this to be–” He stopped himself, lips and nose squashed against the soft skin between your hips. “I’m–”

His father would be laughing at him.

Misery plagued his bones, and his halo flickered quickly the lower his lips dragged. Devotion. In and out. Pure, unbridled devotion. Taste and touch and blood and sweat. He breathed out finally, and his teeth came forth to pull at the waistband of your skirt. His canines caught on your stockings, and the fabric was dry on his tongue. He tugged downwards, snagging the wiring between his teeth.

He wanted to tear through the rose pattern, but he decided otherwise.

Instead, he pulled them down past your thighs, to your knees, and then your ankles, careful with the thin and delicate material. You kicked what remained off.

He grinned, but it was shaky and uncertain. It was suddenly cold. Another draft he felt from the window. He couldn’t undo the button of your skirt with his mouth, so his trembling fingers pulled their weight and decided to just shuck it upwards to your hips. Your bones splayed so nicely all for him, and his mind ventured elsewhere for a moment.

How many others have seen you like this? All pliant and pretty, covered in sweat and his spit and the marks from his teeth. His thumb pressed to the sensitive skin of your stomach.

Maybe it was twisted, the image of you both. A poor pining priest and the object of his desires. A scared little boy looming over the image of an Aeon. The scent of your skin and the touch of your hands. He pulled back for a moment, simply leaning over to admire you.

You reached up towards him and grabbed the bottom of his shirt. You tugged once, twice, before you said, “come, Reverend. Make this one real.”

“You cannot tempt me like this,” he argued weakly. Still, his hands splayed over your thighs, soothing over them. He couldn’t bear to look down past your hips.

“Scared?” you asked him.

And he was. Very, very scared.

When he glanced down at his hands, he noticed his fingers warped.

He ignored it.

He followed his hands then to your hips again, careful with his movements, slow and unsure. He moved between your thighs, watching closely for any twitches. His cock throbbed when he brushed his hips against the mattress.

He wasn’t sure what to do. He wasn’t sure about anything, really. But your thighs parted wide to accommodate his shoulders, then his head and his heart almost burst when you swung a leg over his shoulder. It pinned him further into the mattress, and a soft pull at his left wing closer to your hips made his cock twitch.

Devotion.

His unsteady hands held on tight to your hips, and one of yours found solace in interlacing your fingers with his.

Hesitantly, he brought himself forward to taste.

The mind plays funny tricks on its victims. Sunday knows he’s no stranger to disillusions, illusions, and the like. To the decayed mind, all things seem real. His tongue tasted, his hands felt, and he heard your breathing and your quiet mewls, and yet his eyes couldn’t seem to stay open for more than seconds at a time.

Funny.

Sunday lost his breath at the noise you made. It was a stir in his stomach like fine wine, and your hips encouragingly ground back on his lips when he reeled back for a moment. His mind grew foggy, and his eyes fluttered shut again.

Oh, is he a man in love.

His tongue moved slowly over your cunt, languidly stroking up and down with wet passes to test the waters. The tip of the muscle inched upwards slightly, curling over the small bump of nerves. That managed a sharp inhale, to which he curiously tried again. Any noise that escaped your lips, he chased it, over and over again like an addict.

The taste was, again, nothing.

Because it’s–

He shut his eyes tight.

Your hand found the back of his head, fingers curling in soft locks before you pulled him forward, closer, until his nose bumped against your clit and his lips were smushed against you.

His wings fluttered again, and the feathers tickled your thighs. His hands wanted to wander and touch himself, and he could have sobbed out at the relief he sought when his hips ground up against the mattress, but he couldn’t. Selfishness wasn’t a part of him. It never truly had been. He’d have much rathered to feel your legs wind tight around his face before anything else.

His tongue tried again, the flat of the muscle grazing along your clit until you twitched at the sensitivity and pulled his head back for a moment.

Sunday’s hand splayed on your hip moved to your cunt, and his thumb pulled back the wet plush skin until your hole stretched wide. He swallowed and his lips pulled taut and he kissed at the entrance once, twice, until you were giggling like an idiot, and a newfound delirium grew haze in his brain.

Your free hand pushed the hair from his face when he delved in again, tonguing at your clit before he decided to kiss there as well. Devotion. It is worship. It is the sight of you writhing—it’s everything.

His mouth followed you as your hips twisted and squirmed, teeth lightly sinking in around your clit in warning. He was still in control, for the most part. Maybe not of himself, but for how he kept you on his bed. He sucked lightly, feeling you jolt and squirm, and a smile grew on his lips at the sight.

He wanted to burn the imprint of his lips on your thighs, and he tried. He abandoned your cunt, now slick with his saliva, to try and mark your legs as his. He hummed to try and release the pressure of his nerves gathering inside of him, but it didn’t do much to help. Your thighs bruised easily. He could bite and tear if he wanted to.

He pressed his lips to the new bruise before his nose pressed against your clit again and he mouthed at your entrance. He held you firmly, enough to scar with his nails, and tasted again and again and found nothing and everything in all of the wrong places. Perhaps he was too enamoured, for when you grew too sensitive and attempted to push him away, he held stronger and tilted his head to push harder with his tongue.

Your clit swelled, and he felt it all the way. His hips stuttered against the mattress. His eyes remained screwed tight, even when your fingers petted his head gently.

He was being good. He knew it, and his heart thrummed at the idea. That was his job, his entire life. To be good, and to understand, and to please. He fell in love with every mumble and moan that left your lips. Every babble of praise, or every time you pushed his hair behind his ears. His cock grew harder somehow, despite his resistance.

His skin was growing cold again.

You were growing wetter with every pass of his tongue, and every flit of his lashes against your thighs when he tilted his head downwards to taste. His longing had grown into overdrive. He never should have been tempted like this. He was beyond temptations and desires and wants. He did not want anything. He had no need for things and love and music and art.

And yet, what’s it to a man of the church who falls in love with something as wretchedly beautiful as you?

All ruined and sweaty and mangled and all his to enjoy. That’s what you were — all his.

His mouth was slow, lips wrapping delicately around your clit to suck hard. It made you shiver without fail, and your hips bucked upwards at the feeling over and over again. The entire premise that it was him, and nobody else, that had you as you were now, almost made him cry out at that very moment.

It hurt to breathe and think and feel, but his fingers pulled at your skin to ground himself and press his tongue into your entrance. You clenched instinctively around him, and he tried again and again, forcing his tongue as deep as it would go. Your legs squeezed around his head and the warmth of your pulse and your blood beneath your skin only aided further in making his head spin.

He was sure his face was red to match.

Your legs wrapped tighter around him, enough to keep him still and his tongue on you as he returned his attention to your clit. You mumbled a spiel of praise he barely picked up on, and it went straight to his cock.

It would stay and remain devotion the more he ruined your cunt with his lips, but he couldn’t think straight. The world spun on its irregular axes, his hips winded quicker into the mattress, and your breathing was slowly growing into something heavier and harder.

He couldn’t hear your thoughts — he needn’t try. He was sure he’d be able to see pink and white and stars and nothing but the vile image of his head between your legs and your slick coating his face. Some priest. Lowly and unserving. He did not deserve any praise, nor nothing he received. If anything, he was born to remain here, by your side, and grabbed at the throat and the hips until he could think of nothing but your hand twisting around his cock again and again.

Complete pain and humiliation climbed up his spine when he pressed his cock hard into the mattress. It was instinctive at this point. His mind wasn’t working, and his hips moved of their own accord again and again until he came and still tortured himself with it. The fabric of his pants only made everything seem hotter and tighter, and as his hips twitched with every brush against the mattress, he moaned or whimpered, or made whatever other pathetic noise he didn’t realise he could.

You said nothing comprehensible, murmuring whispers of pleasure that only served to make him hard again. And so quickly, too, that he throbbed and outwardly cried out at the feeling, though it was muffled.

Curse his stupid tongue that was so smart and silver for tiring when he needed it working more than ever. Never could he exhaust himself of words, but he pushed and pushed now with whatever fleeting strength he had, and the blood rushed to his face when you stirred and pulled on his hair to lessen the distance. Grateful for some sort of grounding, Sunday nosed at your clit while his lips kept busy teasing more slick from your hole.

In love.

Funny how it works. It torments and shames and lusts and ruins.

He lost his mind.

The want to taste your cum grew stronger, as did the press of his tongue against your clit until you were mewling and squirming at the pressure. A finger brushed up against your thigh before it sank deep into your cunt. You clenched instinctively, and he rubbed at that sweet little spot that made you writhe around him.

He ached and ached and felt you twitch and tremble and he could have cum again if he wasn’t so distracted by the feeling of your legs squeezing around his head.

This isn’t how this was supposed to happen. He should be resting and trying to get better. He’s sick. He hasn’t taken his medication in so long. He shouldn’t be trapped in a confessional booth with a whore, or locked away in the wine cellar and brought to his knees, or–

You came, then, and his heart fluttered and stammered and stopped and started anew. You coated his tongue with slick, and his heart raced so quickly he was worried it would burst from his chest and run.

He was so enamoured and frazzled with how his mind could do this to him. How he’d been trapped in his own head for so long and curled in his blankets with all the doors in his room shut and the window closed and blinds pulled over.

A terrible blush painted his face when you weakly reached down to pet his hair again. His halo shimmered. He’s so well behaved. So, so good to you, and good for you, and he can be your everything if you’d let him.

Your thigh rubbed against his cheek, warm and trembling.

He reeled back after overstaying, and your clit throbbed when his lips kissed the poor bud one last time. Your hole clenched desperately for more of him, and his heart jolted.

His hands remained between your legs as you found the strength to grab his shirt and pull him upwards and over you. His heart pressed to yours and he kissed you again, this time intent on making his lips bruise. Eyes wound shut, he ground his hips up against yours.

You kissed at his jaw.

“Wretch,” he mumbled. His halo flickered again. His blood burned beneath his skin. He hummed, pleased at the warmth of your flesh. His hands wandered to yours and gripped your fingers tight. Another shove and his legs were entangled with yours in his side.

“You’re in love,” you whispered.

And he kissed you, again and again and again until he was breathless. Until his heart warmed and burst, until he was sure he could taste and smell nothing but you, and feel only you.

His lips were still unsure. His teeth clicked against yours, and perhaps his heart was thrumming so loudly in his chest it deafened him, but he pulled you harder against him. His hips were rough against yours, dragging his cock through his pants against your cunt in languid strokes. It hurt. The friction was too much for him, and yet he couldn’t stop himself.

And he was moaning and moaning and it was disgusting what terrible sounds ripped from his throat. He mewled and flustered and breathed so heavily that his lungs were about to combust.

That feeling was slowly returning. That guilt and fury and humiliation burned horribly in his stomach. You did this. All of you. He was not at fault for this. For the way you sat pretty in the church and kept your gaze locked onto the floor. How your hands would hesitantly touch the donation baskets as if you were unsure if it was worth the precious pennies you had left.

And he would watch silently. As he always did.

He’d watch silently, and then he’d go home that night and cum on his own hands with his eyes shut tight, trying to imagine they’re your fingers instead.

His hand rested in its rightful place between your legs, and his fingers returned wet. Soaked, even. And he realised then he’s brought upon much more than a twisted version of romance; this is desolate, and this is Hell. He is home in all of the Nine Circles, blown about in an endless storm with no hope of rest, a heretic victim to the clutches of flames, and he burns and burns and burns and burns but the pain never dulls, nor ends.

His pants were ruined with his cum and your own, and as vile as it was, he desperately clawed until he found leverage to finally be selfish and free the stupid awful thing and grind his cock up against you. The skin was already wet, and yet grew wetter and warmer with the friction. Slippery and grotesque, and yet he felt you clench every time the tip slipped around your hole, enticing him.

A fog grew heavy in his mind, and he went blind for a moment. He witnessed pure white and burning. And it was Hell.

Despite the incessant grinding, his fingers slid and slipped over your clit, desperate to hear your voice again. His free hand searched for the pendant that was usually strung around his neck. He found nothing.

Still, his eyes were shut.

He felt as though he was somewhere else. In the church again, where you’d ridiculed him as if this was his fault, and then you’d fucked him over the altar. Or maybe back in the confessional booth where you both had barely fit inside, and you bounced on his lap until he grew dizzy. Or maybe when you’d mouthed at his cock in the bathroom at a dinner to celebrate his sister’s success. Or maybe when you’d thrown him in the backseat of his own car and made him see stars.

Maybe, maybe, maybe.

But this was different. This was his bed, his four walls, his private quarters, his everything, and you were his, and this was the intimacy he’d been craving since he was a child. He’d been denied the closeness of another person, anyone, for so long he had forgotten the feeling of skin. Even his own skin, which he’d hidden away each day beneath layers of clothing.

Because he wasn’t a person, really. He did not think his own thoughts. He did not have the passion and desires others had; he had no interest in the mundane—not anymore, at least—like art and music and literature. He had no end goal that was his and his alone. The money he used to purchase things was not his. Nothing he had in his bedroom was really his.

But you.

He held tight onto your thighs and stopped.

His heart melted into mush when he realised you were still lazily grinding upon his cock, and the veins throbbed desperately.

You. Imperfect and terrible and everything he shouldn’t have loved in another person. And so disastrously awful for him, and all of the subtle changes of this face, and your real one. He can’t truly remember everything—there’s a small glint in your eyes when you’re perplexed, and there are few patches of colour across your features, and perhaps your eyes are a tad too light, but this is what he remembered.

And as imperfect as it was, and as unsatisfying as it was, and ignoring the fact that it gnawed at his insides, he was okay with this. He was okay, somewhat, with what he felt.

His palms were embarrassingly wet when he held you open, and guided the tip of his cock towards your hole. He swallowed hard before he softly canted his hips forward and drowned. He held tight, anxiety shooting up his veins and bursting at the seams.

He felt you tighten instinctively, trying to swallow him whole while he panted like a hellhound and pushed his hips deeper until the bones were pressed to yours. He stuttered, heat encircling his cock like a vice, and then swallowed as hard as he could to mask his voice.

He should be used to this feeling now. He’s done this before — has he really? Everything felt so familiar, yet so so strange, and so so foreign he held his breath and wished it all to be real. He held on so tightly he grew breathless.

His forehead pressed to yours.

You hummed.

He felt his lips twitch. “This is wrong.”

“But you keep doing it.”

He had no excuse then, and he still had no excuse now.

He’s just like his father.

He gritted his teeth. “I’m in love.”

You laughed, and it was the most beautiful sound he’d ever heard. “There it is.” His hips twitched forward and he buried himself deep inside of you. “You’re doing so well.”

Oh. The wings below his ears fluttered. His face burned hot like the sun, and a hand dropped low to grasp yours tight. You squeezed his fingers in affirmation, maybe even encouragement to move. He was stuck, frozen, twitching, and he swallowed the lump in his throat.

He simply nodded along like an idiot.

Warm. So disgusting and warm and his breath grew staggered and uneven with every twitch of his hips. His stomach felt odd, but maybe that was the sickness that warped in his guts. Something so extremely nauseating that he felt alive. He swallowed hard and his fingers moved to your arms to steady himself. He buried his face in your neck. Pear and jasmine and vanilla. He recognised that scent every time he was given that sacramental wine. It was almost the same, yet so so different.

He laughed, then, right into your shoulder. It was much more of a huff of hot air against your skin. Because this was insanity. His knees sank further into the mattress, and his pillows were tossed askew. Hurt and pain and heat. It was all the same, for he knew no better.

It was so good. Cardinal sin and blood and skin. Good. Great, even. Greater than anything he'd ever tried before. You tasted amazing, better than the flesh of an Aeon. So soft and warm and all his.

Something to call his.

His stomach turned.

He couldn’t get enough. His hips bucked slow, so excruciatingly slow, as if to savour. He wasn’t sure when he’d ever feel like this again, if he ever would. If his body would ever want him to do this again.

His arms shook with his own weight, and he tried not to double over. Good. So, so good. His hips twitched impossibly closer to you and he breathed upon your lips. He melted when you kissed him, as chaste as it was. He hadn’t felt this way ever in his measly, putrid existence.

All for you.

He pulled away slowly, attempting to forget the feeling of you, only to stuff himself back inside, rocking his hips hard until his own met your bone.

His heart warmed. How twisted. Your tongue prodded out to poke at the corner of his lip and he buried his nose into your shoulder afterwards, trying to muffle the disgusting noises that snuck from his mouth. He wanted to cry; that familiar prickling behind his eyes teased him.

His stomach jolted when he rocked his hips softly. He was sure a tear slipped down his cheek, and it dropped silently on the marred sheets of his bed. He’d have to clean it later.

Slowly taking what he needed. He continued, slowly, slowly, slowly, because he was a thief,

and he did not deserve to force his pleasure upon you. Not like this. Not with you pressed down onto his bed and waiting.

He understood the addiction of scent, and blood, and skin, and why he would hear the same telltale stories through the mesh of the confessional booth. He used to scrunch his nose up at the topic—how could someone be so insistent that carnal cravings were a cure to anger, and hate, and treachery, and violence, and everything?

Your lip pressed to his ear gently.

It can’t be a cure. It’s not. He certainly didn’t feel fixed, or any better. For the moment, maybe, he felt as though he was in Heaven, but it was much more warped than that. Heaven was not a feeling; Heaven is not a place, or a person, or cardinal sin.

Truly, he’s not sure what it is. It can’t be you. You’re different, maybe even the opposite. You didn’t make him feel beyond the clouds. You made him feel… terrible.

Infatuated, but terrible.

You were whispering something in his ear, and he laughed softly, but he wasn’t quite sure what he heard. If anything, he’s relieved for the attention. You could have blatantly insulted him, and his skin would’ve melted like hot wax.

“You’re overthinking again,” you reminded him. Your voice was strangely steady.

His hand tightened around his sleeves. “You come for…”

“Salvation, I suppose.” That was you. You came here. To see him. Or hear him. And seek his guidance and better judgement. He wasn’t sure if he could offer you much of himself, seeing that his brain had short circuited the moment he’d heard your voice through the booth.

He had imagined this all before. If anything, he remained silent to see if he could listen to anything vulgar.

Seconds passed and Sunday swallowed hard.

“Reverend?”

“Of course,” he forced out. You’re not going to do anything—it’s all in his head. You’re not going to plead for him to open the booth and let you have his way with him. You don’t even know him, and he doesn’t even know you.

It’s all in his head.

“Just try to enjoy it,” you told him.

His hips thrusted harder and he could hear the awful noises that escaped from your throat, and he wanted to tear the vocal cords free so you would never sing again, and also kiss you until you were breathless and bruised. Just try to enjoy it. Just stay in your head. It’s better that way.

He could feel himself snapping at the seams.

You were probably in your own home, wherever you lived, sleeping soundly. Maybe you were doing the same as him, or maybe you were fucking another man and enjoying him rather than—

He had a headache. A blazing pounding behind his eyes.

Yet, he persisted. He held you tight against his chest, hoisting you upwards from his bed so your heart could press against his. He fell in love with how he felt around you, even if it made him ill and horrible. Even if it disfigured his mind; even if you killed him.

He kissed you again, this time harder. He tried to ground himself firmer to remain on this terrible planet with you, but his mind continued to wander. Overworking, overthinking.

Sunday couldn’t find himself to care about it anymore. He strangely welcomed the feeling of you attempting to suck on his tongue. He held onto your throat now, only gently, and his finger pressed to your jaw to keep you still.

He panted once, twice, and then his breath hitched when he managed to move into you with an increased pace. He tried to keep his rocking even, but he was quickly losing his strength again.

How vile. One of your legs was slotted nicely around his own, calf rubbing against his hip as he slammed his own against you. Hard enough to burn and bleed, and his cock twitched and twitched and twitched and twitched.

“What…” He leaned against the side of the booth. “What troubles you?”

He heard you laugh, though it wasn’t at all mirthful. Still, it may have been the most beautiful sound he’d ever been blessed to hear. “Everything.” You paused to take a breath. “My job… my life… my everything.”

He said nothing. He didn’t have to. He knew exactly how you felt.

“I don’t think I was made to live in a world like this.”

You’re the same. Maybe that’s why he had developed this estranged one-sided affection; this sickening obsession that’s torn through every working cell in his brain. That’s left him a horrible, shaken mess of a person.

The sounds are abhorrent. The way you wriggled in his grasp to force him deeper inside of you, and the sighs and whispers that left your lips are somehow worse.

Sunday lost his strength in one of his wrists, and he almost toppled over you. That only stirred him harder, and his hips winded and jolted when you squeezed tight around him. He could certainly get used to this. One day. With you.

“Enjoying yourself?” you asked.

He was enjoying you, but he refused to voice it. He understood. He understood the need to escape, to run to somebody else’s bedroom, to fix everything this way.

He kissed you impossibly harder, his lips purpling at the pressure, and that mere feeling brought him so close to the edge he stammered on his own breath. His thrusts grew sloppier by the second, and he cared less about how you felt, and more of that edge he was chasing and trying to grab by the reins.

So good. He could feel his cock bubbling at the tip, squishing up against your walls and the skin stretched and ached and warmth burst through his stomach. He wanted to fill you up again, and eventually, one day. He’d imagined this so many times before; the way you’d sound, or beg, or do whatever you really did. Whatever you did, he’d embrace it, and he’d thank you for a thousand years.

He’d cum again and again and he’d let you use him as your own personal toy to play with if it satisfied you. Even if you tossed him aside when you grew bored—he was used to that.

He’d feel this terrible feeling forever if you would just love him.

He hoped.

His stomach burned, and his cock was throbbing.

His bones grew tired, but he persisted, in and out and in and out until nothing left his lips but babbles of worship as he swung his arms around your neck and traced his lips along your ear. You’re so good to him. So good.

You would sit there all pliant and pretty and he’d take and take and take until the only thing left of you was the part that only cared for him, and nothing else. And then you’d watch as he was dragged down below the ground, while you would rise above the clouds. Because that’s what he deserved, and you and him did not share the same fate.

The clutches of a Sinner’s hands rest on his face, and they’re yours, just for a moment.

His hips stuttered.

“C’mon,” you whispered. His nose was cold against yours.

“I–”

“–Close?” you finished.

He frantically nodded his head like an idiot.

His lips twitched in some sort of pathetic smile.

You reciprocated. “I know.”

He couldn’t handle the teasing. If anything, it only made the headache worse. He wanted to cum. That was the only thing that mattered at this point. He wanted to ruin you, as you did to him.

He couldn’t afford to choke in the air as his cock twitched. He was right there, and his hip bones were aching as they smacked against your skin.

“I’ll be all yours, Priest,” you told him. “One day.”

Sunday’s eyes shot open in horror as he came, and he clutched desperately onto some semblance of skin—whatever his brain could attempt to conjure in a last-ditch effort to make this nightmare real.

His hand was twisted tight around his cock, covered in spit and sweat and his own filth, and he wretched the treacherous limb away as if it had developed a mind of his own.

He was trembling, layered in cold sweat as he shivered, his stomach convulsing as his cock slid against the mattress, an angry red flush enveloping the tip.

He couldn’t develop a coherent thought, nor movement, for when he felt around blindly for you, you were nowhere, and he was alive and awake again.

He choked on his own saliva as he tried to sit up. His pillows were soaked with drool, and his clothes were askew. He rested his back against his head and tried to breathe.

He glanced at the window. Closed.

Because he had closed it. He’d locked the bedroom door, too, and the bathroom. How would he have forgotten? That had been his routine for almost sixteen years. He wouldn’t have forgotten. Not ever. If anything, he’d have grown well aware of the old habit being missed that he’d scratch at his skin until he’d forced himself to get up and fix the window.

He heaved at what he had done.

He swallowed hard as if there were rocks stuck in his throat. His lungs refused to take in air. He kicked off the tangled blankets and they fell in a pathetic heap onto the floor. Dizziness surged in his mind, and the back of his eyes pounded and pounded the longer he sat there staring blankly at the wall.

His heart swelled horribly.

Oh.

His eyes slowly dragged over to the bedroom door.

Closed. No light bleeding beneath the door. No footsteps in the hall. Not Robin’s, certainly not yours. He faintly heard the echo of your heels, but that was drowned out by the aching in his head.

“Your services…” the priest started quietly. The booth creaked. “What do they entail?”

You didn’t answer for the moment. Perhaps you were nervous, or apprehensive, or a strange string of both. Maybe, even, your hands were busying themselves around the waistband of your pants, slowly unbuckling the belt and then–

“Men, sire,” you responded quickly, honestly. You tapped the mesh wiring of the confessional window in a strange rhythm. “I’ve never been proud. It’s dirty work.”

Sunday blinked awake. His hands were pulled tight at his sleeves.

“But you don’t have a choice?”

You made a noise. “Did you have a choice to be in the position you are now?”

“My position is very different from yours,” Sunday reminded lightly.

“Is it? We both serve to please the worst of people.”

And, in some sort of twisted way, you were right.

Just as if he was made to please you. That is his sole purpose; to be yours. It is why he felt this way. It’s why he was put in this terrible position; to meet you, and be yours, and nobody else’s, and escape off this treacherous planet and kiss you until he couldn’t bear to breathe the air that wasn’t yours.

That’s love, right?

Devotion.

He found it in himself to peel away from his bed and trudge to the bathroom.

He couldn’t bear to see his reflection.

He was afraid he’d see you standing behind him.

*ೃ༄

The next evening was like every other. He leaned against the confessional booth, eyelids slowly drooping shut as he listened and listened until his feathers shrivelled and his ears picked up on nothing but static.

Please the public.

He nodded along mindlessly to whoever was speaking to him through the wiring. He was grateful the booth was dark, and cold, for he was forming a sweat. His mind was running in circles, and though he responded to the lone soul through the window, he felt as though what he said was automated, and not at all a production from his heart.

That being said, he was thanked anyway, and they left.

That must have been the final one, for when he called for the next churchgoer, he was met with silence. There were no hushed shuffles of feet against the floor, nor the rustle of clothing, or breathing.

Nothing.

Alone again.

Sunday unlocked the door to the booth and stepped out, grateful he could stretch his limbs properly. He’d been cramped inside for what felt like days, but was only a few hours. Still, he felt his bones pop and crack as he exited.

He took the keys from his pocket and locked the small door.

Another day.

He could endure. It was what he was made for. He knew no better.

To breathe and feel for others.

That was all.

Now what?

Now, he’d go home. He’d go home, do the same mundane routine in order as he had always done for every day of his life—get changed, maybe have dinner, fill out forms until he was almost asleep at his desk, and then he’d try and sleep. And the same as always, he’d toss and turn and whine that it was too hot and then it was too cold, and all the while you’d mouth at his neck and strip him of his clothes.

He inwardly shuddered at the thought.

He grew sick with worry as he stared helplessly at the confessional.

“Room for one more?”

His heart leapt out of his throat, and he froze. His fingers tightened around the window of the booth and the material of his gloves stretched and squeaked.

He swallowed, unable to turn around. He pulled out the keys again. “Of course.” His hands were shaking.

He heard you let out a troubled hum. “You don’t have to–”

Sunday stopped you short, perhaps too quickly. “Nonsense. This is my job.”

“–We can talk face to face,” you finished. “If… if that’s easier.”

Right. He certainly could. It wasn’t so much easier for him, but if it pleased you. If that’s what you wanted.

Truly, you didn’t care too much about his final decision. But he was pretty in the face, and it was nice to speak to him properly for a change.

Sunday stepped away from the booth finally and turned to look at you.

He lost his breath almost instantly.

You grinned. “Hi.”

His lips managed to twitch into a smile. “Hi.”

Your feet shuffled against the tiled floor. He recognised the sound of your heels clicking quietly. The same noise he heard in his hallway, and he still heard it every night.

He held the keys tight in his clenched fist. The jagged ends punctured a hole through the palm of his glove. The scar that remained from his incessant habit would be opened soon.

Your eyes were slightly lighter than he’d imagined, and you wore your clothes neater, and you didn’t run your tongue rampant with terrible sullied words. That wasn’t you. That was his idea of you.

And now, reality sets itself upon him, and he still cannot grasp what is untrue.

“You haven’t visited the confessional in a while,” he started softly.

You shook your head. “No.” You glanced back towards the door, perhaps wondering whether it was locked, or maybe even contemplating running for it. “But I do sometimes attend service.”

He knows this because he’s searched and waited for you every morning.

Sunday was simply staring at you. “And what has prompted your change of heart?”

A laugh bubbled from your throat, and the sun bled through the stained-glass windows of the church, and flashes of green and yellow and pink and blue dotted along your face.

“You do generous and kind work, Reverend,” you whispered to him. “I hope it makes you happy.”

The offer of praise made him sit up slightly in the seat in the booth. Nothing made him quite as happy as your voice, and he’d hear you sing again and again until he grew deaf. Even then, he was sure he could remember the way your lips formed every syllable that spilled from your throat.

If anything, he remembered your sound, because your words were what mattered.

If anything, he hopes he can make you happy.

“I fell in love with a man.”

And he’d never let go of that hope for as long as he lived.

#✦ ( after hours. )#✦ ( the macrocosmos. )#sunday x reader #sunday x you #honkai star rail x reader

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you-have-a-metal-arm · 10 months ago

Text

Don’t You Ever Leave Me, Don’t You Ever Go.

Pairing: Bestfriend!Bucky x Bestfriend!Reader, Bucky x Reader

Word Count: 0.7k (723 words)

Trope: Best friends to lovers, hurt and comfort

Warnings: Toothrotting amount of fluff, nightmares and insecurities, mentions of Steve, and… I think that’s it?

Summary: Bucky wakes up from a nightmare, and you are there to comfort him.

Author’s Note: Please do not copy or translate my work. I appreciate every feedbacks! Thank you for reading!

**gif not mine

“Please… Please leave me alone...”

You heard a soft murmur followed by multiple screams from your room. It was coming from the other side of the hallway, exactly where Bucky’s room was.

‘I thought he was getting better…’

You thought to yourself because your best friend’s night terror hadn’t woken you up for over a week by now. But, oh boy, how wrong you were. As soon as you heard him starting to hyperventilate, you ran to his room.

“Bucky, hey, wake up.”

You shook him to wake him up, but it was no use. He was in deep sleep even though all the monsters were messing with his head.

“Bucky!! Please, I need you to wake up.”

You said with a more demanding tone while shaking him harder than usual. He woke up, sweat dripping down all over his face and his hands frantically shaking as he tried to touch you with his hands.

“Another nightmare, huh?”  You asked him with a gentle tone, hoping it wouldn’t startle him.

He just nodded in reply and looked away from your face. He was too scared to look at you and see the hurt in your eyes from seeing him so messed up. But you took Bucky’s face with two tiny hands and gently tugged him to look at you.

“Buckaroo, what’s wrong?”

You asked, knowing he wouldn’t open up.

“Nothing”

He replied, as you expected.

“We promised Bucky, remember? We promised each other that we’d tell each other whatever was happening in our heads. And I promise you I will never judge or leave you for anything. I promise.”

You whispered, keeping eye contact, hoping he could feel your honesty. He just nodded and smiled to assure you he was okay. But you could see it from his eyes that he wasn’t. After all, you two have been each other’s soulmates for the past three years. So you quietly hugged Bucky’s torso, and to your surprise, Bucky gently laid his head on your chest, feeling your embrace with every nerve of his body.

“You aren’t going to leave me, are you?”

He whispered so quietly yet rapidly that you almost couldn’t hear it.

“What do you mean?”

You asked in confusion.

“You’re not going to leave me… Right?”

“Why would I ever leave you, Buck?”

“‘Cause you will someday find a true love, and you’ll leave me for them, just like Steve did.”

You knew Steve’s absence made Bucky fall into his dark thoughts again, but you didn’t realize he was suffering this much. You felt so bad for him that you left him with his mind running all over the place, spiraling with all kinds of scenarios that would never even happen.

“Bucky… I love you.”

You told him while you were massaging his scalp.

“Don’t say that. You’re saying that to make me feel good.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You’re only saying that to make me feel better, right?”

“Buck… we’ve been telling each other ‘I love you’s for about two years. What are you talking about?”

“I love you, but it’s- it’s different.”

“What do you mean it’s different?”

“I- I- I love you Y/N, and it’s a feeling I’ve never felt before- it’s like butterflies- it’s like someone is drawing inside my stomach when I look into your eyes, my heart flutters, and I can feel my face turn red, and I know that’s not what you should feel to your best friend, and I’m sorry- I’m sorry that I’m ruining this whole thing up with the stupid little feelings… God… I’m so sorry.”

Your brain instantly clicked as you heard him sob in your arms. You gently cupped his face, and you softly kissed his lips. You felt Bucky getting all tense, but a while later, you could feel Bucky kissing you back, pulling your hair fondly. To you, he smelled like peppermint and salt, probably from sweating from the nightmare, and to him, you smelled like strawberry.

After you broke the kiss, you two started grinning as if you were a child again.

“That was… good.”

The both of you stated together.

You held Bucky into a warm embrace, hugging him from behind. Playing with his hair and whispering sweet nothings. That night was the best sleep you two have ever had in your entire lives.

—————————————🦾—————————————

Thank you for reading 🖤🖤

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vanteguccir · 3 months ago

Note

hii, i was wondering if you could write something about doctor gf! reader x bf! matt/chris where she comes home super down after she looses a patient and had to break the news to their loved ones and when matt/chris ask her what happens she breaks into tears telling him and it ends like super fluffy

── ୨୧ !　BLURB

matt sturniolo x reader

where you are a nurse and face the death of a patient, and only Matt can calm you down ;(

　　　༻✦༺ 　༻✧༺　༻✦༺

Y/N walked through the door of her house shared with her boyfriend, the weight of the day heavy on her shoulders, more so than usual. The soft click of the door as she closed it behind her echoed through the quiet space, but it did little to calm her racing thoughts. Her heart was still pounding, a hollow ache lodged in her chest, and her hands were trembling slightly, memories of the day flashing like lightning behind her eyes.

She slipped off her shoes mechanically, her body moving on autopilot as she hung her coat by the door. The house was bathed in a warm, golden light, the sun setting just beyond the city skyline, casting long shadows across the floor.

Normally, this sight brought her some semblance of peace; a small reminder that the world continued to turn, even after the hardest days. But today, nothing could soothe the turmoil inside her.

Matt was in the living room, sprawled out on the couch with a game controller in hand, playing after a day of filming with his brothers.

He glanced up when he heard the door close, a smile tugging at his lips as he saw her. But his smile faltered the moment he noticed the look on her face. She didn’t have to say a word; he could tell something was wrong.

"Hey, babe." He called out softly, putting the controller aside and sitting up. "You okay?"

Y/N tried to muster a smile, but it was shaky at best, and her eyes were already welling up with tears. She hadn’t cried all day; not at the hospital, not when she delivered the news, and not even when she stepped outside into the fresh air, hoping it would cleanse the darkness inside her. But now, here, in the safety of her home, the dam she had so carefully constructed was starting to break.

Matt stood up abruptly, his concern deepening as he crossed the room to her. He gently took her hand, pulling her into his arms without hesitation. The moment she felt his familiar warmth, the tears she had been holding back all day spilled over, and a broken sob escaped her lips.

"Hey, hey." Matt murmured, his voice laced with worry as he held her tighter. "What happened, Y/N?"

She couldn’t speak for a moment, the sobs wracking her body as she clung to him. He rubbed soothing circles on her back, whispering reassurances that only made her cry harder. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, she found her voice, though it was shaky and raw.

"I-I lost a patient today." She choked out, her fingers gripping the fabric of his shirt as if it were the only thing keeping her grounded. "And I had to tell their family… I had to look into their eyes and tell them they were gone. It was so sudden, Matt… I did everything I could, but it wasn’t enough. It wasn’t enough."

Her words came out in a rush, each one more painful than the last, and with them came a fresh wave of guilt that she couldn’t suppress. The image of the grieving family flashed in her mind, their tears, their pleas for some miracle she couldn’t give. She had been trained to handle these situations, to remain composed and professional, but no amount of training could prepare her for the reality of it.

Matt listened, his heart aching for her as she poured out her grief. He knew how seriously she took her job and how much she cared for her patients. It was one of the things he admired most about her; her unwavering compassion and dedication. But he also knew how much of a toll it took on her, especially on days like this.

"It’s not your fault, Y/N." He whispered, cupping her face in his hands and tilting her head up to meet his gaze. "You did everything you could. You gave them the best care possible. It’s not your fault."

"But it feels like it is." She whispered back, her voice breaking. "I should have done more… I should have been able to save them."

"No." Matt said firmly, shaking his head. "You did everything you could. Sometimes… sometimes, things are out of our control, no matter how much we want to change them. You did your best, and that’s all anyone can ask for."

Y/N closed her eyes, letting his words sink in, though the guilt still gnawed at her insides. She knew he was right, logically, but it didn’t make the pain any less real. She had faced death before, but it never got easier. Every loss felt like a personal failure, a reminder that she couldn’t save everyone, no matter how hard she tried.

Matt wiped away her tears with his thumbs, his touch gentle and full of love. He kissed her forehead softly, his lips lingering there as if he could somehow kiss away her pain.

"I’m so sorry you had to go through that." He whispered, his voice thick with emotion. "But you don’t have to carry this alone, okay? I’m here for you. Always."

His words broke through the fog of her despair, and she finally allowed herself to lean into his comfort fully. She buried her face in his chest, her sobs quieting as she felt the steady beat of his heart beneath her ear. The warmth of his embrace, the sound of his heartbeat; it was all so familiar, so safe. It was the only thing that made her feel like she wasn’t drowning in her own sorrow.

For a long while, they stood there in the middle of their living room, wrapped in each other’s arms as the sun continued its descent. The room grew dimmer as the golden light faded, but neither of them moved. Matt held her as if he were afraid she might shatter if he let go, and Y/N clung to him as if he were the only thing keeping her from falling apart.

Eventually, her sobs subsided, and she was left with a hollow exhaustion that seeped into her bones. But there was also a sense of relief; a small, fragile peace that came from sharing her burden with the person she loved most.

"Thank you." She whispered into his chest, her voice hoarse from crying.

"You don’t have to thank me." Matt replied, his voice soft as he pressed another kiss to her hair. "I’m just glad I can be here for you. Now, why don't you sit down while I make you a tea?"

　　　༻✦༺ 　༻✧༺　༻✦༺

#⋆౨ৎ˚ 𝒍𝒆𝒍𝒆 𝒂𝒔𝒌𝒔 #chris sturniolo #sturniolo x reader #matt sturniolo #sturniolo triplets #nick sturniolo #matt sturniolo x reader #x reader #matt sturniolo angst #matt sturniolo fluff #matt sturniolo x reader angst #matt sturniolo x reader fluff #nurse!reader #doctor!reader #angst #sad #fluff #matt sturniolo blurb #matt sturniolo fanfic

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maybe-moonchild · 3 months ago

Text

5/29/2014

WC: 5.3k

Strawberry vodka lemonade was your liquid courage.

It was what drove you to excuse yourself from under Trent Warren's arm that was thrown over your shoulders. Your friends boo’d you from across the pong table, but you were already slipping away.

Flash’s living room was stuffy, the entirety of Midtown High’s senior class packed inside, bodies spilling into the backyard. It had been your requirement that all seniors be invited to the party. No one left out, no hurt feelings, or unwelcome to the celebration.

After all, you had all graduated today.

Peter’s head was easy to spot as he pushed through the crowd and towards the back door. He’d always been tall and lanky but, sometime during high school, he’d filled out. It wasn’t weird that you’d noticed. Everyone had noticed. Come on… how could you not?

Your grip on your solo cup tightened as you maneuvered through party goers that were too drunk to notice where you were going. Maybe no one cared anymore. Now that everyone was graduating and moving on to what was hoped to be bigger and better.

Who peaked in high school wouldn’t matter. Who dated who, slept behind their friends' ex was no longer important. Who punched who in the face over a rumor that someone started would be forgotten and replaced with newer and shinier memories.

You just knew that you would never be able to forget Peter Parker.

Thinking was easier once you’d stepped outside. Without the overwhelming stimulation, your eyes and ears adjusted to the quiet and lack of flashing lights. You searched every face, standing on your toes and straining to catch him before he was gone for good. You managed to get a glimpse of the back of his head before he disappeared around the side of the house.

You called out, “Hey!”

Grass tickled the soles of your feet as you jogged to catch up. Your sandals had been forgotten somewhere in Flash’s room from when you’d helped set up his place to host the party. What was more important was that you managed to catch him.

Peter was right at your fingertips.

At the sound of your voice, Peter hesitated. Like he was debating whether he should stop and turn around or just keep going all the way home. But he stopped.

It took him even longer to actually turn around.

Neither of you said anything for a few long seconds. You were nervous- the most nervous you had felt in a long time now that you were standing closer to him than you had in longer than you could remember. More nervous than cheerleading tryouts freshman year when Nancy Lewis, the captain, had it out for you but you made the team anyway. More nervous than when you clicked submit on your NYU application 7 months ago.

You gave him a timid smile, “Hey.” That one word dripped with everything and nothing all at the same time. Years of dependency and avoidance all rolled into one.

His teeth chewed at the inside of his lip and he paused long enough to make your smile falter.

“Hi.”

It was awkward; the kind of quiet that no one is sure how to fill. Clearing your throat and squaring your shoulders, you relied on the strawberry vodka to carry you through.

“I didn’t know you were coming tonight. I mean, I didn’t think you would.” you practically blurted the words out just so you wouldn’t lose your nerve. Shaking your head, you try to relax. “Not in a bad way. Just… you usually don’t, but I’m glad you did-”

“I didn’t plan on coming.

That time, your smile really faltered. His eyes were hard but the second he saw your expression, he felt guilty and quickly looked away. It was harder for you to recover this time.

“I’m glad you did.” The strawberry vodka coated the words and stung your tongue. At least taking a sip of your drink gave you something to do as you thought.

You took a breath and tried again.

“We haven’t… Well, we haven’t really talked in a while. So… I was- well I was hoping to run into you again. Since we graduated and all,” you stumbled through. Even if you sounded awkward, you couldn’t bring yourself to care.

You just wanted to try.

Peter didn’t know what to say to that. He was trying really hard to be nice but, god, it was harder than he’d thought it would be. It wasn’t like he was a mean person. It wasn’t even that he wanted to be mean to you but something about your unsure smile made him want to tear it down.

He can’t exactly say, ‘I don’t want to look at you’ or ‘I was hoping to have evaded you entirely, gone off to school and tried to forget your existence that always seems to be pressing on the back of my skull even when you’re nowhere near’.

So he settled for something neutral, a little vague.

“Yeah.”

He swallowed, nodding slowly before tearing his eyes from the ground and finally meeting your gaze. A nervous tic took hold of his forehead and he rubbed it idly like he could somehow rub away the scowl threatening to slip through. He fought the urge to run by shifting his weight from foot to foot.

“I didn’t know you wanted to run into me,” he muttered and you just shrugged lamely. If you talked right now, your voice might’ve cracked. Yet again, you focussed your tipsy brain on keeping the smile up.

Peter couldn’t help it. He just couldn’t help but shove his hands into his front pockets and add, “Considering you didn’t want anything to do with me for the past four years.”

The smile fell off your face. It didn’t come back.

His words did what he intended: hurt you.

You pressed your lips together to keep down the scoff burning in your throat.

“That’s not true and you know it,” you argued. “I never replaced you. I might have made other friends but that didn’t mean I just cut you out.”

“Don’t give me that bullshit,” he muttered, an edge creeping into his tone as he stared at you intensely. He wanted to see you hurt but the only reaction you gave was the twitch of a muscle in your neck.

Peter was pissed off. He was pissed off that he wasn’t good enough. That you chose others over him. That he’d never been enough. That maybe he never would be.

Peter did a bad job at feigning indifference. The jerky movements and harshness of his voice gave away that he wasn’t all that detached like he was trying to seem. You could tell considering you still knew his mannerisms like you had four years ago.

When you said nothing, he couldn’t help but keep going. Alcohol didn’t have the same effect on him ever since he got bit by that spider two years ago. Not like he’d been a big drinker before then anyway; Peter wasn’t exactly making it to the top of the guest lists. Booze metabolized too quickly in his system for it to do anything besides give him a brief buzz and a three minute hangover.

But when Ned had begged and pleaded (like literally on his knees and gripping the bottom of Peter’s shirt because ‘it was the last high school party he could attend to try and woo Katie into elopement), Peter couldn't say no. So he really tried to keep as heavy a buzz going as humanly possible.

It worked. Maybe a bit too well.

Which was why he was drunk and wouldn’t shut up.

“You always had plans with other people, always busy with cheerleading or making rounds to different tables at lunch after sitting with me for five minutes. I’d be lucky if I got to walk to a class with you.”

“That’s not how it went and you know it,” you countered with a step forward.

“Just admit you traded up. That you got exactly what you wanted.”

You stopped short, the close proximity between you two feeling like two opposite ends of magnets.Your breathing was a little rapid, pink flushing your cheeks from the alcohol. Or it could just be the blood rushing to your face from anger because, yeah… you were mad.

“And what would that be? What exactly was it that I wanted, Peter?”

It was the booze, that’s what you both told yourselves. That the bottle of rum you’d giggled into with Flash and Katie as people started arriving was finally hitting you full force. That the beers he’d choked down just so he had something to occupy his mouth with instead of talking during the party had him chatty now.

Alcohol seeped beneath the hard exterior of everything you’d been sitting on for the past four years as it all bubbled to the surface.

“Really?” He leaned in closer, the citrusy vodka strong on his breath. Peter's eyes flickered around your face like he was looking for the truth. “Who was the one that always said it would be you and I against the world? How many nights did I crawl in your window when you were too scared to be home alone and your parents were at a conference?”

When you didn’t have the answer, Peter leaned a little closer.

“How many times did you show up late to the movies an hour late because practice ran long? How many times did you invite a new friend along to our plans that only acknowledged my existence because you made them? How many times did I help you with your homework because you let some moron quarterback keep you up all night and you forgot?”

“Are you serious right now?” It was the most you’d raised your voice the entire conversation.

“I’m just saying,” Peter shrugged. He raised his hands in surrender, nothing sincere about the action.

“Just saying what? That I’m a whore?”

Peter's eyebrows shot up towards his hairline. His scowl dropped to shock. “No!” That was certainly not what he was saying. Not ever!

“Well, that’s kinda what it’s sounding like,” you snapped.

“Well, that's not what I- I’m not saying that. I’d never say that-” he cuts himself off with a huff. “I’m just saying that- I was there. For you. I was there for you.”

The hole he was digging himself in just kept getting bigger and bigger. If he was lucky, he could crawl inside and bury himself in it like a grave. Lay to rest all the thoughts of you that had been sitting in his head so long they’d practically atrophied into his brain tissue.

The statement made you feel defensive, arms folding over your chest like you could protect yourself from his words. Scowling, your fingers flexed on the half filled solo cup, the plastic crinkling under your fingers. Even though it was late May

“What has that even got to do with anything,” you cried out in frustration. Even though it was just the two of you out in the open yard, it felt harder to breathe out there compared to the cramped party inside.

You still didn’t get it. The realization was agonizing, that you just didn’t understand what that had to do with everything.

He stopped thinking entirely.

So without thought, he stepped forward, cupping your face in his hands and towering over you.

“Because I was jealous, you idiot.”

There's a deafening quiet once those words are out into the world. He could never take them back. You could never truly pretend you’d never heard them.

His eyes bored into yours, big and brown as their intensity slipped to distress, his breath rushing over your mouth. You were so still that you weren’t sure your heart was beating. If you really thought about it, you would easily be able to put together why he would be jealous of some football player having your attention for a week or two before you got bored.

If you actually thought it through, you would have to accept that he didn’t just feel resentment for you.

Suddenly, the hum of anger that had been buzzing in your body is replaced by something else entirely. Something you cant quite place or name or- fuck, you dont even know if you want to know what it is.

Peter's whole body wanted to sag, to sink down into your touch and just give himself a moment to simply be. To just be with you without the entire weight of the world weighing down his shoulders, without having an explosion hanging between you two like a cloud.

His heart was racing in his chest, thudding so hard it hurts as it slams against his ribs. Peter stared at you with disbelief, the booze having stunted his own thinking.

You were so beautiful, so damn beautiful with your cheeks flushed pink and your parted lips. Your eyes wide and bright as they remain locked with his own because neither of you could seem to look at anything else. Maybe there was nothing else worth looking at.

His thumb stroked your cheek, his voice faltering as he leaned closer,

“This,” he says and pulls your face closer.

You went rigid for barely a second when his lips pressed against yours. It wasn’t like it was the first time you’d ever kissed him either; in fact, it was the third time.

You had just never thought you would do it again. It was why you didn’t think, you just moved.

Kissing Peter was almost instinctive.

Your eyes fell shut but it didn’t make you any less aware of every single detail about him. The solidness of his forearms that your fingers were curled around as you leaned into him. How

Strawberry vodka and Peter Parker had to be the best thing you’d ever tasted.

If you thought you were drunk before, you might as well have blacked out now. You were even drunker on the feel of his hands moving to tangle in your hair, the swipe of his tongue on your lips. When he deepened the kiss, it made you stumble back in the grass. He kept you upright, going until he had your back pressed against the siding Flash’s house.

If you were able to think, you’d think this was stupid.

Not thinking sounded a fuck lot better than acknowledging that.

A sound of protest died in the back of your throat when he removed his hands before they’re back on you. They found their way under your thighs in an instant, hiking them around his waist like you weighed nothing. It surprised you enough that you gasped into his mouth. You looped your arms around his neck for both support- but also so your fingers can twist and tangle in the hair at the nape of his neck.

How long had Peter wanted this?

When he was nine, he wanted to hold your hand, to sit pressed up against you when you watched cartoons or link arms as he pulled you around the street on his skateboard. After he kissed you the summer before sixth grade, he wanted to do it again. Nothing more than pressing his lips to yours and pulling away after a second. At fourteen, he still didn’t really get the whole kissing thing.

Then he dated Gwen Stacy all of junior year and half of senior year. Gwen was amazing. She was kind and brilliant, her spot at the top of the class securing her spot in Oxford which meant she would be moving to another country at the start of fall. When he acceptance letter came, Gwen and Peter’s breakup was amicable and they’d spent the last few months easily falling into friendship.

So maybe it was around then that he was able to put a name to what he thought about when you crossed his mind. Of kissing you with everything in him, burying his face into your neck, holding you the same way you held him when Ben died.

You deepened the kiss when he groaned, fingers pressing harder into the flesh of your thighs and you nipped at his bottom lip in response. It was hard to focus once he’d moved his hands when they were touching anywhere they could.

Cupping your face, gripping your waist, tangling in your hair, resting on your neck. You could barely keep up but he didn’t care when he finally got to feel you.

It was a stupid night, a stupid moment, a stupid everything. Neither of you cared.

The two of you pulled each other close and closer, the heat of the moment drowning out the voices of reason in your head.

It felt so right. Nothing but your lips on his in the night and the sound of the party a million miles away.

Over your high school career, you’d been on some dates, had some flings with different variances of the same kind of asshole. The ones you’d kiss, or more, were nothing like this.

Not even kissing Trent Warren felt like this- Fuck.

Why did you have to think?

“Oh my god,” you breathed out once you managed to pull away. Your hands flew to cover your swollen lips, eyes wide and frantic. Peter let you pull away even if it hurt him.

Confused, he gently set you on the ground once you unlocked your legs from around his middle. Your shaky hands shoved the hair out of your face, pressing a palm against your forehead in shock.

It wasn’t like you were dating Trent. That was never going to happen, you were satisfied with the little fling the two of you were likely going to carry out for some of the summer before he left for college.

You didn’t even freaking like him that much so it didn’t even have anything to do with the star of the soccer team at all.

But this? It felt like you were taking advantage of Peter- not because of your mutual intoxication but because…

You weren’t sure, okay? All you knew was that there was a reason, so deep down into your brain, that you couldn’t grasp it.

This was all wrong. You were both drunk. Tensions were high. Neither of you were thinking clearly. Both of you made mistakes that you will regret the moment your hangover hits in the morning.

Just like that. His heart fell to his stomach as he watched you look around, searching for anyone that might’ve seen the two of you tangled together. He didn’t know what to say, what to do. Everything was happening so fast.

Swallowing, he said your name so softly it was almost hidden by the loud shriek and splash in the pool around the side of the house. Neither you or Peter even flinched at the sound. When you didn’t speak, the backs of his fingers found your chin, gently lifting your eyes to his.

“Leave him.”

“What?” You practically blurted the word out. If you didn’t think your eyes could get wider, you’d be wrong. Your hands fell to your sides to hang limply and useless and the abruptness almost made you reel back. It feels like he’s just said something absolutely preposterous, like he’s Spiderman or something.

"Leave him," Peter repeats. Pleading, his eyes searching yours. “you’re too good for him. You always have been.”

It’s so stupid but Peter’s heart had always known. He had always wanted you. He has just never been dumb enough to do anything about.

Until now, he guessed.

You leaned away from his hand to make space as you slipped around him. His body turned with yours but you weren’t doing it to get away. You just couldn’t stand being stuck between him and the wall you’d just been pressed up against. You paced, shaky hands pressing against the heat on your face.

“We’re drunk,” you tried to rationalize with a wave of your hands. “Neither of us knows what we’re doing… or saying.”

His heart sank even further with each word.

Peter nodded curtly in agreement, “We are drunk.”

But deep down he knows better.

He wanted this. Always.

He wanted you. Always.

“But I still mean it.”

You halted to a stop so fast that you nearly tripped on your own feet. Peter knows he's pushing the line, doing something they can't come back from but he has to know. There was no sign that this was all a joke.

“Peter,” your voice was thick with desperation. “You can’t mean it.”

“Yeah, I can.”

“No. You can’t.”

His eyes met yours, determination unwavering. He wanted you too much for his own sanity. “You can’t kiss me like that and say it doesn’t mean anything.” Because it did. It meant something to him.

The only reason you bit down on your lip was because he was right. You couldn’t say it didn’t mean anything. Not when you kissed him back the way you did. You twisted your shaky hands into the fabric of your dress like it would somehow give you some semblance of control over the way your head feels like it was going to explode.

“Pete.” The nickname fell from your lips like it had millions of times. You don’t know what to tell him. You didn’t think there was anything you could say to fix things like you’d hoped to when you chased him down. Not when his expression was so desperate to hear what he wanted.

“You were my best friend-” you started in the hopes of explaining but just shook his head and laughed. The sharp and bitter sound was enough for you to cut yourself off.

“Right, right, of course.” He looked away, staring off into the dark yard. You looked as hopeless as you felt.

"Can you just..." you stepped forward, barely moving closer but trying nonetheless. "I didn't... I wanted to fix things. I wanted to make things better."

The sound of your voice cracking at the end made his heart lurch. Peter actually managed to peeked up at you from the corner of his eyes because. Looking at you directly would burn like looking directly at the sun. The sound of your voice broke at the end, the crack making his heart lurch.

“Make what better? I thought you were perfect,” Peter snapped quietly. His head turned away from you again so he didn’t have to see the damage of his words.

That hurt, cut through your chest and forced you to inhale sharply. It just made the lump in your throat so much worse.

You focused on anything else as you blinked hard. Fresh cut grass, the sugary vodka still clouding your senses, and whatever floral Bath&BodyWorks perfume Katie had doused you both in earlier. All too overwhelming and not overwhelming enough.

"You know it's never been like that." Squaring your shoulders, you triked again. "It's never... You know I never wanted you out of my life. That it was never about picking you or them. I tried to do both. You're the one that pulled away."

Peter just scoffed again, shaking his head like it’s the most ridiculous thing he’d ever heard. Your mouth snapped shut in, trembling lips pressed tightly together.

“Maybe I was sick of waiting for you to remember the loser across the street that used to be your friend.”

Your jaw practically dropped at the implication that you would ever think that. Something about the way he said it made it feel like it had come from your own mouth. You clenched your hands into fists at your sides.

“I never thought that,” you shot back, mouth still hung open in disbelief. “You were the one that pulled away when I had more than just you in my life.”

Peter scoffed but you keep going.

“I invited you to games so that you would watch me cheer and you made it clear you would rather die than go. If I tried to stop by at your place after practice, you would tell May to pretend you weren’t home.”

Peter had never been all that great at sharing you.

Before you moved in across the street, he’d started approaching that age where he realized that he didn’t have all that many friends. Aunt May was always hinting at him to invite kids in his grade over after school and Uncle Ben didn’t understand why Peter wouldn’t, at the very least, try a sport for a single week.

Then you moved in across the street and he had a best friend that he could do everything with. Even when you played with other kids, you always came skipping back over to his house the second you got home. Sometimes you even dragged him along with you.

When high school approached, he’d been more concerned with getting lost or failing his classes.

You were more concerned with being singled out as a target or being lost on the outside.

Everything was fine between you two until the second week of school. Wait, that wasn’t true. You hadn’t actually done anything wrong but when he walked into school that morning, expecting you to be waiting at his locker for his arrival, you weren’t. Instead, you were on the other side of the hall, chatting excitedly with two girls on your cheer team.

Deep down, he had known you were talking to them to pass the time while you waited for him to arrive.

But when you didn’t notice his presence the entire time it took for Peter to open his locker, exchange his things, and walk towards his class, he’d held it against you. Just like he held it against you when asked if your weekly movie night could be rescheduled to Thursdays because Fridays were gamedays. Or how, you were okay when some of your other friends joined the two of you at lunch.

Peter just couldn’t stop.

Anytime you apologetically told him you had plans, it was another tally accumulating how many times he’d been scorned. Even if the next words out of your mouth were asking if he was free the day after, it didn’t change anything. The cycle didn’t stop until November of freshman year.

That was when you’d stopped trying to chase him down. Decided to not call him on the phone just to hear it ring twice before he sent you to voicemail.

“So I was supposed to sit alone on the bleachers while you cheered for a bunch of assholes that shoved my face into a locker freshman year?” His head cocked to the side but, hey, at least he’s actually looking at you. “Drag me around behind you like some kind of pet?”

“No!”

“So I could’ve stood alone in the corner at a party? Still making sure you got home safe? Wait on the sidelines until all the cool people were busy and I got called off the bench? Be there to comfort you when you picked, yet another, asshole that broke your heart just to break mine again and again?”

You couldn’t blink because if you do, the tears that had welled up in your eyes were going to start to fall. Those words make the lump in your throat so big that you can barely swallow it down.

“That what you wanted?” He asks and throws up his hands.

You told yourself you were both just drunk. Peter didn’t actually mean it. You told yourself that over and over again, the tension in the air was so heavy that it practically crushed you from the weight. He didn’t mean it, he didn’t mean it, he didn’t mean it… The mantra repeated in your head like a prayer in the hope you’d believe it.

You couldn’t convince yourself that it wasn’t the truth.

When you didn't answer, he stepped closer. Your voice cracked but you managed to force out, “No.” Peter couldn’t help it, a cold and bitter chuckle slipped past his lips. He was pissed off, that much was clear.

“No?” he asked. He was close now, his chest brushed yours with every breath. It was so far from what you ever wanted but you could barely shake your head no, your hair shifting along your shoulders. “I think you did, whether you realize it or not.”

Even though his voice has dropped, he might as well have screamed it at you. It didn’t make it any less deafening to hear.

“Anything else you want to say?” You were quiet too, the words felt like glass in your throat. So you swallowed down the shards, finding that glass would hurt a lot less than having to stand here and listen to him much longer.

He ran his hands through his hair and paced a few steps away from you while wiped at your face. It only took him a few moments to turn back a second later and step back up to you. There was barely an arm's length between you two but it still felt like you were on opposite sides of the solar system.

"You want to know what I think? What I really think?"

You had to grit your teeth just to keep your bottom lip from trembling.

“Yeah,” you breathe out. “I really do.”

He stared down at you, his breathing still ragged. He wanted to say things, terrible, awful things. He wanted to cut you deep - to hurt you like you hurt him.

Instead, he stepped closer. Close enough that he was in your space, his chest practically brushing against yours.

And then he was talking, the words falling from his lips before he could stop himself.

"I think,” he murmured, wetting his lips before continuing. “I think that letting you patch me up when I fell off my skateboard nine years ago was the biggest mistake of my life."

For a long moment, you said nothing. You didn’t move, you didn't blink, you didn't breathe. If you didn’t take a few seconds to calm yourself, you were going to start bawling before you could make it to the safety of Flash’s bathroom.

With a shaky breath, you stepped back, forcing your trembling lips into a tightlipped smile. A part of you wanted to mean it, like it could somehow reassure him. So you sniffled, wiping your eyes with the back of your hands. Peter just frowned and waited because he couldn’t do anything more.

Your laugh was pathetic and watery. Nothing was funny.

Aside from you because you just felt like a joke.

You gave him a curt nod and stood straightened. “Okay.” It’s all you could get out.

So, with one last look, you bent down to pick up the discarded solo cup. You’d never be able to drink strawberry lemonade vodka again after tonight. All you’d ever taste is him.

He watched you carefully, the anger leaving his body in waves and dissipating into the night. Every time you took a step away from him, he felt more and more like a jerk.

You don’t turn back around as you slip back around the side of the house.

It was that look on your face, like he broke you with his words. The look on your face that cut through every last bit of anger and resentment to get at what lay underneath.

Love.

And it kills him.

It kills you too.

The next time you see him again, you’ve both graduated from college; celebrating in some divey bar where you accidentally spill your drink on him.

#peter parker tasm #marvel #peter parker tasm x reader #the amazing spider man #peter parker x reader #spiderman #peter parker #tasm #tasm peter x reader #tasm!peter x you #tasm peter parker #tasm!peter x reader #tasm 2 #spider man #spidey #andrew garfield #fanfiction #peter parker fanfiction #fanfic

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sacrednova · 6 days ago

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Drive me home | Simon "Ghost" Riley | 7

fem!reader | In this story, a young woman mistakenly texts Simon "Ghost" Riley, thinking he's her Uber driver after a wild night out. Despite his gruff, reserved nature, Simon shows up. Contains fake screenshots with texts messages and calls!!!! Start reading from the beginning: Part 1

It wasn’t hard to talk to Simon—it was just… hard. But not in a bad way. It was the kind of hard that made her pause, choose her words, and really think about what she wanted to say. And honestly? That was kind of terrifying.

She had figured out one crucial detail, though: Simon Riley was a really good listener.

Not the kind of listening where someone just nodded along and threw in a polite “oh, really?” No, Simon listened like every word she said mattered. Like he was gathering pieces of her story, stitching them together in that quiet, focused way of his.

His brow would furrow when something didn’t quite click for him, and she’d catch herself explaining things in more detail just to smooth out that little wrinkle between his eyes. Other times, he’d give her a small, almost shy smile, lips pressed tight as though he was holding back. And when he did decide to speak—rare as it was—his sense of humor was… well, awful.

Dry, sarcastic, and so poorly timed that it made her laugh harder than it should have.

But the most important thing? His eyes.

They had never left hers.

It wasn’t just polite eye contact. It was deep, unwavering, intentional. Those warm, brown irises seemed to pull her in, like magnets designed to drag her under his surface. Every time she tried to look away—to collect herself, to focus on something less overwhelming—she’d find herself drawn back to him.

And in those moments, the noise of the bar, the clinking of glasses, the hum of conversation… all of it faded. It was just her and Simon, his gaze anchoring her to the spot, making her feel seen in a way she hadn’t realized she needed.

It wasn’t just attraction. It wasn’t just curiosity about the man behind the mask. It was something quieter, something deeper.

It was connection.

It had been a long time since she’d felt like this—so long, in fact, that she didn’t even know how to articulate it to herself.

Was there even a word for it? This warm, jittery, completely maddening sensation in her chest?

She didn’t know, but damn, she was into him.

Into every little thing about him—the way his voice wrapped around words like they were secrets meant only for her ears, the way he moved, so calculated yet effortless, as though every step was planned without trying to be. Even the way he drank his bourbon, the subtle way his lips pressed against the glass.

And that… that was terrifying.

Because the truth was, she didn’t know much about him. Not really.

God knows she’d tried. She had peppered him with questions earlier—little things about his day, what he liked, if he’d always been this serious—and he? He was as cold as a stone wall when anything remotely personal came up. It wasn’t rude, exactly, just… unyielding.

And there was no way in hell she’d push him. No. That wasn’t her. She wouldn’t pry, wouldn’t force him to share.

But it didn’t make it any less frustrating.

Because damn it, she wanted to keep him around.

Not just as the guy who drove me home that one crazy night. She wanted a second date. A third. A fourth. She wanted…

Shit.

She wanted him.

“What you thinkin’ so much?” His low, rumbling voice cut through her spiraling thoughts.

“What—huh? Me? Thinking? No, I mean—yes! I think, like, most people do, but—”

“Careful,” he murmured, his eyes sparking with amusement, “might bite ya tongue.”

The grin tugging at his lips was slight but devastating, sending heat straight to her cheeks.

And just like that, he had her spinning all over again.

She leaned back slightly in her seat, trying to steady the breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding. Her nerves were rattling inside her like a thousand tiny earthquakes, but hell, she wasn’t about to let that show. She needed to feel confident—wanted to feel confident—not this shy, not this flustered. Not this… undone.

"I want a wine," she blurted, scanning the room for a waiter like her life depended on it.

Simon didn’t respond immediately, and the silence was deafening. She shifted in her seat, suddenly hyperaware of his stillness. "Everything's fine?" she asked, hesitantly.

His response came low and even, carrying a strange weight. "Not a big fan."

"Of wine?"

"…Can’t handle it well."

Her lips parted in a silent gasp, her mind racing. Oh. My. God. Was it bad that her immediate thought—her absolutely terrible thought—was to see him a little tipsy? Just a little? She could practically feel the wicked urge tugging at her. It was irresponsible. Immature.

And, apparently, irresistible.

"Maybe a cup won't hurt you, Simon," she said, trying to keep her tone light, teasing.

His eyes—those unrelenting, burning brown eyes—locked onto hers, and her heart stuttered. He didn’t move, didn’t shift. Just looked. And in that moment, she was sure of two things:

1: He knew exactly what she was doing. 2: He was going to make her pay for it.

"Hm. Really?"

The words were a challenge, laced with that unmistakable edge of his.

She swallowed, feeling her resolve waver. "…We can share a cup."

"Can we?"

"Yes?"

His head tilted slightly, assessing her like a predator deciding whether the hunt was worth it. Then he leaned back in his seat, the tiniest smirk pulling at his lips.

"Fine."

Fuck.

Her pulse raced, and she could already feel her cheeks burning again. What had she just done?

Simon wasn’t an impulsive man. He never let his feelings dictate his actions. Discipline was his armor; control was his weapon.

Until now.

Until her.

Her laugh still echoed faintly in his head, soft and teasing, like it had been etched there. And now this—this moment, this glass of wine—was tipping him over some edge he hadn’t realized he was standing on.

What the hell are you thinking, Riley?

The question circled his mind as he took another sip, the rich red liquid burning less than he remembered. Or maybe it was the heat in her gaze that dulled everything else. Her eyes stayed on him, shining like they held secrets he wanted to pry out. And her lips—soft, slightly parted, tinted just right—were driving him mad.

She pushed a strand of hair behind her ear, a small, almost absent-minded gesture, and yet, it had him utterly fixated. Every move she made seemed calculated to undo him, and worse, he wasn’t sure if she even knew it.

Fuck, he wanted her.

He wanted her to want him, too.

"What time is it?" she asked, her voice dipping slightly, pulling his attention back to her lips.

"Late," he answered, the word coming out rougher than he intended. He didn’t bother looking at his watch; the time didn’t matter.

Her eyebrow arched, playful, daring him. "…Really, late?"

Sarcasm. Teasing. She was testing him, pulling at the string between them to see how tight it could stretch.

"Really late," he repeated, his voice quieter this time, like it wasn’t meant for anyone else but her.

And then it was just… there. That thick, invisible tension wrapping around them like a cord, pulling tighter with every shared glance, every stolen breath.

The air felt heavy, charged, like it could ignite if one of them moved an inch closer. Their bodies stayed still, a careful distance apart, but their eyes… their eyes refused to let go.

He didn’t blink, didn’t look away.

What’s next?

The question clawed at him, louder than his heartbeat, louder than reason.

His hands twitched, the slightest movement, as if they were ready to reach for her. To break the distance. To shatter the moment.

What do you want from her, Riley?

The thought settled in the pit of his stomach like a weight he wasn’t ready to carry.

Where do you want this to go?

The answer was right there, coiled in his chest, hot and undeniable.

Fuckin’ hell.

Simon had never been in this situation before. Well, not exactly this situation. Sure, he'd had his fair share of nights where things spiraled a little too far out of control, but this? Sitting across from her, her lips flushed from the wine, her laughter soft and too sweet, her hands resting on the table like an invitation? This was new.

He wasn’t in any condition to drive, and he knew it. The wine had gone straight to his head, his pulse pounding louder than reason. He was good at hiding it—so damn good at keeping his composure—but not tonight.

She caught it. Of course, she caught it.

His eyes betrayed him, breaking from her face to linger on her hands, tracing the curve of her knuckles as she fidgeted with her glass. They dipped lower, to her shoulders, her neck, the line of her collarbone disappearing beneath the fabric of her dress.

He cleared his throat, trying to reset, but she was staring back now, wide-eyed and flushed, and that damn tension was snapping tighter by the second.

"So… how are we getting home, huh?" Her voice wavered, but her smile stayed steady, teasing.

He blinked, his brain working slower than usual. Drive? Right. He wasn’t driving. Absolutely not. He wasn’t stupid enough to risk that, but… he also wasn’t ready to let this night end.

He pulled out his phone, fumbling slightly as he swiped at the screen. "Uber," he muttered, voice gravelly.

She laughed, a soft, almost nervous sound. "Oh, a real Uber this time? Not the personal one?"

He glanced up, catching her grin, and something in his chest tightened. "Don’t push it," he muttered, but his lips twitched just enough to betray him.

The Uber arrived quickly, and they stumbled out into the cool night air. Simon opened the door for her—always, always—his hand brushing her lower back as she climbed in.

She didn’t notice, not at first. She was busy pulling out her phone, probably texting Lottie or someone equally amused about the fact she was heading home with him. But then…

The driver’s voice broke the silence. "So, your address is…?"

Simon leaned forward, his voice steady but quieter now. "Hers."

Her head snapped up, her heart lurching so fast it hurt. "Wait, what?"

He didn’t even look at her, just leaned back against the seat, his arms crossed over his chest like it was the most natural thing in the world.

"My house?" Her voice cracked, disbelief flooding her chest.

"You got a problem with tha'?"

Oh, her brain was short-circuiting now. "I—uh, no, it’s just…" Fucking shit, is he STAYING? Is he STAYING at my place?

Her heart hammered harder, racing into the kind of panic that wasn’t fear, but anticipation.

Shit, shit, shit. Did I shave?

Her eyes darted to him again, her cheeks flaming. He looked so calm, but she knew better. She could see the way his hands twitched, the way his gaze dipped to her legs for a fraction too long before darting back to the window.

She felt the warmth rise in her throat, a blend of nerves and something deeper, darker.

And then it hit her.

This wasn’t just about him staying. It wasn’t about whether she shaved, or whether she had fresh sheets, or if she had leftover takeout in the fridge to awkwardly offer him.

This was about the fact that he chose her.

And hell, if she wasn’t ready for it… but maybe that was the point.

Her house.

Her rules.

Her Simon.

She bit her lip, her mind spiraling, her pulse racing, and as the Uber sped down the empty streets, she decided… whatever happened next, she wasn’t holding back.

Her thumbs moved faster than her brain, texting Millie in a frenzy. The Uber wasn’t even halfway to her place, and already her head was spinning.

Her breathing quickened as she stared at her phone, waiting for Millie’s reply. A second felt like an eternity.

She glanced at Simon, who was sitting completely still, staring out the window like the world outside held all the answers. His shoulders were so broad, his jaw set, his hands resting on his thighs.

Oh fuck.

Cool? COOL? She wasn’t sure she knew what “cool” was anymore.

She stared at the screen, Millie’s rare display of actual best-friend-mode sincerity grounding her, if only slightly.

She sucked in a deep breath, clutching the phone like it was a lifeline.

She glanced at Simon again, and her pulse fluttered. He turned his head slightly, catching her in his peripheral. His eyes flicked down to her phone.

“You alright?”

Oh god. His voice. Deep and low, like he knew she was spiraling.

“Y-yeah! Just… texting Millie.”

“About me?”

Her face burned. “No!”

A ghost of a smirk tugged at his lips. He didn’t press further, but she saw the flicker of amusement in his eyes.

And just like that, her nerves flared again, but this time… she kind of liked it.

Tags ♥: @sleep101 @all-by-myself98 @h0ney-mushroom

Omg, next chapter.... next chapter.... (evil laugh)

#simon riley #simon ghost riley #call of duty #cod modern warfare #ghost fanfiction #cod headcanons #fanfic #my writing #ao3 #ghost cod #simon ghost x reader #simon riley x reader #ghost x reader #fem reader

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